Then President Allington went on to assure us that, bad publicity aside, New York One would also be within their rights to sue if the game were stopped, claiming they stood to lose a million dollars in advertising if the game didn’t continue.

I honestly never suspected those Bowflex commercials brought in so much revenue, but apparently Division III college basketball is considered must-see TV by those folks most likely to be interested in purchasing exercise equipment for the home.

“One thing I want to be sure everyone understands,” President Allington also said to Detective Canavan, unfortunately (for him) within my earshot, though he was speaking softly so that no lurking reporters might overhear, “is that New York College is in no way responsible for either the death of that girl or the injuries sustained by Mr. Juarez this evening. And if he did give her a key with which she might have accessed the cafeteria, we are in no way responsible for that, either. Legally, that’s still trespassing.”

Which caused Detective Canavan to remark, “So what you’re saying, Mr. Allington, is that if Lindsay used Manuel’s key to gain access to the cafeteria, she damn well deserved to get her head chopped off?”

President Allington looked understandably flustered by this statement, and one of his flunkies stepped in to say, “That is not what the president meant at all. What he meant was, the college cannot be held responsible for the fact that someone in our employ gave his keys to a student who later got herself killed on college property….”

Detective Canavan didn’t stick around to hear more. And, to my everlasting relief, he took me away with him.

Or at least it was a relief at first. Because it meant I could put off having to talk to Cooper about my dad for that much longer.

Unfortunately, it meant I had to talk to Detective Canavan instead.

“And that’s it? That’s all you can remember? Jeans, flannel shirts, basketballs on their heads. What about their shoes? Were they wearing tennis shoes? Loafers?”

“Sneakers,” I say, remembering the squeaking on the floor.

“Well.” He blinks at me. It’s late, and he’s probably been at the precinct all day. The number of Styrofoam cups littering the floor by his desk indicates how he’s managed to sustain his energy level for so long. “That narrows it down.”

“I’m sorry. What do you want me to say? They were—”

“Wearing basketballs on their heads. Yes. You mentioned that.”

“Are we done here?” I want to know.

“We’re done,” Detective Canavan says. “Except for the usual warning.”

“Warning?”

“Not to involve yourself in the investigation into Lindsay Combs’s murder.”

“Right,” I say. I can be just as sarcastic as he can. “Because I so stumbled across poor Manuel getting stabbed by her killers on purpose.”

“We don’t know the attack on Mr. Juarez and Lindsay’s murder are connected,” Detective Canavan points out. Seeing my raised eyebrows, he adds, “Yet.”

“Whatever,” I say. “Can I go?”

He nods, and I’m out of there like a shot. I’m tired. All I want to do is go home. And change my pants, which are stiff with Manuel’s blood.

I go out into the lobby of the Sixth Precinct, expecting to see Cooper there, sitting in the same seat he always takes when he’s waiting for me to come out of one of my many visits with Detective Canavan (today is a new record, twice in less than twelve hours).

But the seat is empty. In fact, the lobby is empty.

That’s when I notice it’s snowing really hard outside. I mean, really hard. I can barely make out the shape of the Range Rover parked in front of the station. But when I go outside and peer through the driver’s-side window, I recognize Patty’s husband Frank. He starts when I tap on the window, and puts it down.

“Heather!” Patty leans over from the passenger seat. “There you are! Sorry, we didn’t see you, we’re listening to a book on tape. One about parenting that the new nanny recommended.”

“The nanny who terrifies you?” I ask.

“Yes, that’s the one. God, you should have seen her face when we told her we were coming here. She nearly…Well, never mind. Get in, you must be freezing!”

I hop into the backseat. The interior is warm and smells faintly of Indian food. That’s because Frank and Patty had been enjoying some samosas as they waited for me.

“How’d you know where I was?” I ask, as they pass me one, loaded with tamarind sauce. Yum.

“Cooper called,” Frank explains. “Said he had to run and could we pick you up. Off on one of his cases, I guess. What’s he working on, anyway?”

“How should I know?” I ask, with my mouth full. “Like he’s going to tell me.”

“Did you really see someone get stabbed?” Patty asks, turning around in her seat. “Weren’t you scared? What is that all over your jeans?”

“I didn’t have time to be scared,” I say, chewing. “And that’s blood.”

“Oh, God!” Patty turns quickly around to face the windshield again. “Heather!”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I can just get new ones.” Although, with my luck, I’ll have gone up a size, thanks to all the holiday cheer in which I imbibed.

Size 14 is still average for an American woman. Still, you don’t want to have to buy all new jeans to accommodate your new size. That can be hard on the wallet. What you want to do instead is maybe reduce intake on the bodega fried chicken. Maybe.

Although it depends on how you look in the new jeans.

“It’s really coming down hard,” Frank observes, as he pulls out of his primo parking space. In ordinary circumstances, that space would be instantly taken by some waiting vehicle. But it’s a blizzard, and no one is out on the streets. The flakes are falling thick and fast, already coating the street and sidewalks with an inch of fluffy white stuff. “I can’t imagine Cooper’s going to be able to do any real detecting in this weather.”

Frank is just slightly obsessed with the fact that Cooper is a private detective. Most people fantasize about being rock stars. Well, it turns out rock stars fantasize about being private detectives. Or, in my case, being a nonvanity size 8 and still able to eat anything I want again.