She opened the door to the box just in time to see Pembleton handing papers and a pen to Kellerman. Kellerman looked ashen.

"This is your statement. Read it over carefully, make any changes you need to, initial the bottom of each page, then sign and date the last one," Pembleton instructed.

"I know the drill," Kellerman said. It was the smallest attempt to salvage some dignity and it wasn't working. Kay felt like she was intruding on a private moment, but she walked in and closed the door behind her. Pembleton turned around and Kellerman looked up at her expectantly.

"You might not want to sign anything just yet, Kellerman," she said. "I've got a girl out here claiming to be a witness. You might want to hear what she has to say first."

At the word "witness," both men's eyes widened.

"A witness?" Pembleton roared. "How on God's green earth could there be a witness!"

Shrugging, Kay said, "I don't know. But she's here, and she's brought the binoculars she says she used to watch the shooting with."

"I see. She's got a little Rear Window thing going on," Pembleton said.

"It's your call, Detective. But if she's a nut, you'll be able to crack her and still make it to lunch on time."

"Fine. Put her in room two. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Right," Kay said, and left.

"I'm going with you," Kellerman said to Pembleton.

"You most certainly are not. After what you've just told me, you're lucky I'm not sending you down to central booking."

"But she could be a witness, an honest to goodness, impartial witness. . . ."

"Yes, all the more reason for you not to be there." Pembleton paused, studied Kellerman's hopeful face, and relented. "You can watch. But you will have no direct contact with this girl. Agreed?"

"Fine. You're the boss."

"Yes. Yes, I am," Pembleton said.

Pembleton entered interrogation room two with a neutral expression on his face. "Hi, I'm Detective Frank Pembleton," he said.

"Hi!" the girl said. "I'm glad you had time to talk to me. I remember when I saw it happen I thought for sure you'd be looking for witnesses, but you never were. And now, I've heard about all this stuff that's been happening, I figured I should just come forward."

Pembleton grinned and eased himself into a chair. He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Let's not talk about that just yet. How about you first tell me your name and a little about yourself."

"My name, right, how silly of me. I'm Rachel Fishbein. I live at 3400 Eagle Terrace, apartment 15D. I'm twenty-two years old and I graduated from the University of Baltimore last year. I majored in psychology and minored in English. At the moment I don't . . . I'm not working. Well, I am working. On a novel. But that doesn't count, obviously. I mean, I haven't decided what I want to do yet. It's stupid, I know, but I was thinking of going to graduate school then I didn't get the applications in on time, and my parents think I should get a temp job at least until I decide. They're probably right, but—"

Suddenly Frank was glad that his daughter hadn't started talking yet.