New York. Nancy took a deep breath of the odoriferous air and grinned as she exited the terminal, pulling her wheeled suitcase along behind her, her laptop bag and duffel slung across her other arm. She had visited the city many times, mostly to see her aunt and work on cases, but she had never grown tired of it, and was sure she never would. It was one of the most exciting places in the world, and although the circumstances weren't totally ideal—Nancy hated that a man's life hung in the balance—she still felt exhilarated.

Humphrey strode before her to the curb. The darkness was punctuated by the wall-to-wall sea of headlights and taxis' on-duty lights, and the tang of motor oil, exhaust, and hot tar was almost palpable. "Come on, Nan!"

Nancy made a face at Humphrey's back as she strode toward the taxi he had flagged down. She hated being called Nan when she hadn't said that was okay with her, but Humphrey didn't seem to mind a bit.

"Let's get a drink once we get to the hotel."

Once the cabbie had maneuvered all their luggage into the trunk and started to force his way through the traffic toward their hotel, Humphrey and Nancy had tried to settle in the backseat. The entire flight he had been making veiled innuendoes, and she had seen him toss back at least two of the airplane bottles of vodka. She was glad Humphrey wouldn't be driving while they were in the city.

"You know I'm not of legal age to drink."

"Hey, it's all good. Minibar." Humphrey wiggled his eyebrows in a way Nancy was sure he thought was attractive. It just made him look vaguely ridiculous.

His problem, Nancy reflected, was that he just tried way too hard. He wore a white-collared-and-cuffed blue and grey-striped dress shirt under his expensive suit, his shoes were shined, and he had the pocket square and the tie tack—they were just a little askew, and his hair was slicked back. If he were a different guy, the look might have worked for him—but twenty years earlier. As it was, Nancy just felt a little sorry for him.

Until he started one of his clumsy pickup attempts. Then she just felt irritated.

She had brought along a fake ID putting her above legal age, one bearing the name Ann Mallory to go along with her cover identity, but she had no intention of telling Humphrey that, or of drinking around him. He was harmless enough, and she couldn't see him actually putting anything in her drink or taking advantage of her if she were passed out, but she didn't want to see him lose even more of his inhibitions, or to get so drunk that she actually reamed him out. As she reminded herself again, she needed him.

She had taken time the night before and while waiting for the flight to do some research, but she only had brief biographical sketches on the five Bennett Group members they would be interviewing the next day. From what she understood, the shot had been close-range, so any of the other passengers could have been responsible. She was hoping that the interviews would give her some hunch or instinct for who might have done it.

At least she had a perfect excuse for not taking advantage of Humphrey's minibar. "Look, I know we both have a lot of research to do," Nancy said, trying to keep her tone even. "I have to go talk to Mark tonight, and we don't want to look hungover in the morning when we go on our interviews."

"Ahh, come on! I'm a big-shot investor; it would seem odd if I weren't hungover!"

Nancy tried as hard as she could not to roll her eyes at him. "Humor me, please?"

Once they reached the hotel and checked into their separate rooms—and she wasn't exactly thrilled that their rooms were directly across the hall from each other, but at least they weren't connecting—Nancy hastily put her hair up in a ponytail, grabbed her room key and crossbody purse, and set out.

Mark Armstruther's address was a considerable distance from the hotel, and on the way Nancy called her father to check in and let him know she had made it in safely. He told her that no further progress had been made on the case, but if she discovered anything, he would be available day or night. Then Nancy called her Aunt Eloise. While she was in the city, she couldn't pass up the opportunity to go see her, if their schedules managed to coincide.

Mark Armstruther's building had a doorman, and when Nancy gave her name, he gestured toward the elevator. The decor was beautiful and understated, and the doorman had to turn a key to even send her elevator to the penthouse, where Mark lived.

Nancy's Aunt Eloise lived in a modest, comfortable apartment in New York, and from her experience in the city, Nancy knew it was probably outrageously expensive.

She couldn't even imagine what the price of Mark's apartment must have been. Enormous plate-glass windows afforded an unparalleled view of the city, and the furniture was tasteful and minimalist. A steel and glass stairwell led to the loft level, and the flat-panel television had its own automatic recess in the wall. A man she assumed was Mark, tall and middle-aged in a button-down, sleeves rolled up and feet bare, came around the corner to greet her. He gave her a smile, but she could see the tension in his face.

"Mr. Armstruther?"

He nodded. "Miss Drew?"

Nancy nodded too. "My father said he called you..."

Mark gestured for her to sit down. "He did. Would you like something to drink?"

"Water would be great."

"Anything with it? Lemon twist?"

Nancy smiled. "Lemon twist sounds good."

She couldn't help it; she watched him put her drink together, just in case he tried anything, but she didn't detect anything amiss. He brought it over to the couch in the living room.

"Now, before we start, I'm sure he told you, but in this case I'm acting as my father's agent. Anything you tell me is considered just as confidential as it would be, were you to say it to him." That was part of why she hadn't wanted Humphrey to come along. While he was also, in a way, acting as Carson's agent, he wasn't accustomed to the level of confidentiality and secrecy needed for the client.

Plus, she was just sick of being around Humphrey. She dreaded that aspect of their interviews the next day.

Mark nodded, draping his arm casually over the back cushion of the seat between them. For a second Nancy reconsidered. If Humphrey could see the effortless confidence Mark exuded, maybe he could learn something. But then, Humphrey definitely wouldn't look anything like Mark in that outfit. Mark's brow was wide and clear, and while it looked like it had receded a little, she had to admit it wasn't a bad look on him. His shirt was open far enough for her to see a bit of his chest hair, and she didn't recognize the watch on his wrist, but she had no doubt Bess would have, and she would have been impressed. Mark was definitely five years too old for her, or Bess, but Nancy's gut told her that he was innocent.

Then again, her gut had been wrong before. She was working from the premise that Mark had not been responsible for Kate Gordon's death—but if she found any evidence to the contrary, she would definitely take it into consideration.

Nancy took a deep breath. "Who had the motivation to kill Ms. Gordon?"

Mark sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "No one," he said. "But the problem is, if no one did, then everyone equally didn't."

"Did you hear rumors? Was there possibly a romantic relationship between Kate and someone else, maybe a falling-out?"

Mark shook his head. "Not that I know. Brian and Li are each married, but that doesn't mean anything, honestly. Kate's—was—a good-looking woman."

"But you disagreed with her over the matter being discussed during that meeting."

"I disagreed with all of them," Mark said. "Carlton, all of them. I... the thing I can't understand is, if someone wanted me out of the way, why not shoot me? Why shoot Kate?"

Nancy shrugged. "Because Kate was the real target?" she suggested. "Maybe you just happened to be the most convenient patsy." Or, she added silently, maybe you did want Kate dead.

Mark grimaced. "That's a charming thought."

Nancy asked Mark to describe his responsibilities as part of the Bennett Group, and he told her that for him, it was just another on the list, another investment group, another opportunity. The other members of the group, other than the Gordons, had their own companies as well.

Next, she asked him to give her brief biographical sketches of the other suspects, taking notes and paying attention to the ways he gave himself away when he talked about them. She could tell that he didn't like Vicky—Victoria—or Brian that much, but he didn't elaborate on that, or even seem to realize he was telegraphing that emotion. He was easy to be comfortable around, engaged without being too intense, but she could still sense that underlying current of frustration. She didn't blame him at all. She couldn't imagine the stress of being prime suspect in a murder investigation.

His tells were very slight, too, and she only saw them when she was looking for them. It made her wonder if she just hadn't caught him in any other lies yet—and how likely she would be to spot the killer during the interviews tomorrow. All of them were businesspeople, professionals, and would undoubtedly have excellent poker faces.

One thing her father had taught her was that clients were likely to lie to make themselves appear better in some way, especially when they thought the lie wouldn't be detected. No matter how Carson told them that the information they passed along was confidential, and he would do everything he could to help the judge and jury see either the extenuating circumstances or the innocence of his clients, the clients were often sure that lying was the best policy, until the prosecuting attorney caught them at it.

By the time Nancy left Mark's apartment, she was beyond exhausted, but her mind wouldn't stop racing. Mark had given her a lot of good information, and she was eager to meet the suspects.

And, she had to admit, to get the charade of pretending to be Humphrey's secretary mostly over with. She would still need to play that role when around the suspects, but if she caught one of them in a lie or with the right motive, that might not necessarily take too long.

By the time noon rolled around, Nancy knew two things: she really needed to buy a new pair of heels, and the other members of the Bennett Group she had met so far were unutterably boring and arrogant.

What she didn't know was whether one of them had been the murderer.

Victoria Parker, Brian MacIntosh, and Lionel Stallings were all about the same age as Mark, and Nancy had sensed a certain ruthlessness in each of them. Humphrey had been happy to present himself as an opportunistic potential investor ready to take Mark's place, and he requested personal interviews with the other members just to present himself for inspection, and to ingratiate himself. In all honesty it didn't matter whether the suspects approved of Humphrey or not, only that they consented to the interviews. And, Nancy had to admit, she was a little impressed at the extent of Humphrey's backstory. He was honest about his name, major at college and his interests, but he presented himself as a younger son of an affluent family eager to succeed and make a name for himself. Easily a third of the terms Humphrey used in discussion were entirely unfamiliar to Nancy, but from the expressions on the faces of the suspects during the interviews, they were entirely conversant, and not at all suspicious of his authenticity. Some details of his backstory wouldn't bear close scrutiny, but, as he had told her in the cab on the way to the first meeting, a little bullshit was par for the course with these guys.

Parker, MacIntosh, and Stallings each kept them waiting, and while they waited, Humphrey kept retesting the waters, and Nancy kept steering him back toward the case. According to Humphrey, the most likely scenario that could explain the disagreement, maybe even provide the motive for the murder, was a conflict of interest. Nancy asked him to explain exactly what he meant when they were in the cab on the way to meet MacIntosh.

"It's like this," Humphrey said, holding his hands up to gesticulate. "The investors are likely to have pet projects. They're on the lookout for the next big thing, the next prospect that will give them a tremendous windfall, and part of that is speculation. But that also means that, occasionally, some project will come up that they could personally benefit from. Say that I become a member of the group, and I invest in a company designing solar-powered cars, for example."

"Wouldn't that be farfetched—"

"It's just an example," Humphrey said impatiently. "And you wouldn't believe the kind of stuff people will invest in, hoping it'll catch on. And let's be honest here; the feasibility isn't so much an issue as the perceived value of the project. If the project garners a lot of interest and the stock rises, I could sell at a high rate and make a bundle, regardless of the eventual future of the project.

"But let's just say I'm in on the solar-powered cars scheme. I present the project to my fellow investors. I advise that they invest."

"As long as you declare your connection to the project, that's not really a problem, is it?"

Humphrey shrugged. "Really depends. Many of these investment groups make up a portfolio for everyday investors, who don't have this kind of money to play around with themselves. They ride on the coattails, and the reputation of the group depends on their results. Investors lose confidence, there's less money to play with, less trust in the company as a whole. Kate Gordon's death—well, people are kind of like a flock of—birds, or whatever. If they startle, it all goes bad. So they really need to move past this as soon as they can. My expressing interest will only boost their confidence."

"So what else does the conflict of interest mean?" Nancy asked, keeping her expression open and interested, but not overly so. For as long as he was being informative, she was willing to listen. She just didn't want him to veer off into his creepy flirting again.

"If I convince the group to invest, and after six months I find out that the project is no longer viable... I'm in a rather unique situation."

Nancy nodded. "If you tell the other investors, they'll sell and the price you'll get will go down."

"And if I don't tell them, if I convince them and others to keep investing, I've been dishonest. Insider trading. The feds get involved. Things get ugly."

Nancy tapped her fingertips on her knee. "Things get ugly enough to kill someone who might want to blow the whistle," she murmured.

Humphrey nodded. "We're not talking about a hundred or a thousand dollars to be lost here."

Just then the cab pulled up in front of the office building, and Nancy put her game face back on, smoothing her skirt as she slid out of the taxi. She was still thinking hard, though. She could see a glaring hole in Humphrey's explanation.

Mark had said that he was the only dissenting vote, not Kate. So why kill Kate, if she was going along with whatever the deal being discussed was? There had to be more to it; she just wasn't sure what.

Each of the suspects they interviewed that morning expressed their sympathies over Kate's death—once they could be bothered to show up for their meetings, that was. However, their eyes all lit up with interest when Humphrey said he was interested in taking Mark's place in their group, if they were interested in his money. Nancy was glad that her hair was a few shades lighter; in the meetings she put on the persona of a mildly airheaded, gossipy blonde, and maintained that cover when she announced their arrival to secretaries. While no one they met that morning seemed entirely open and honest, laying the groundwork could never hurt.

Humphrey made an excuse to leave the room each time, as Nancy had asked, and Nancy used the opportunities to ask the suspects off-the-record questions. Victoria's eyes gleamed with interest when Nancy gushed that Kate Gordon's death sounded just like a Lifetime movie she had seen a few weeks ago, and she wondered aloud if some disgruntled ex-lover was behind the whole thing. Lionel Stallings, Nancy was pretty sure, would be open to a seduction play, and for a brief, intense moment Nancy wished that Bess had come along with her to take that bullet. Stallings wasn't bad-looking, but something about him made the hair on the back of Nancy's neck stand up. She really, really hoped it didn't come to that, especially since for all they knew Kate really had been killed by a disgruntled lover or ex-lover.

Brian MacIntosh, though, was another animal altogether. He kept them waiting longest, and his desk was clear of personal effects. He used every opportunity he could to bark at his harried secretary, and Nancy tossed as many sympathetic glances at the woman as she could. It was part of her cover, but she did feel genuinely sorry for the woman. When Humphrey left the room, MacIntosh spent the whole time on his cell phone—and the facade dropped as Nancy realized the pressing matter that had necessitated the call was a set of Lakers tickets. MacIntosh totally ignored Nancy, and focused all his attention on Humphrey.

She didn't like any of them, but their reprehensible personalities didn't necessarily translate to a murderous intent.

MacIntosh's posturing and delay in seeing them meant they ran late for their lunch appointment with the next suspect. While Nancy had a feeling that he would arrive at the same time they did, considering the way the rest of the day had gone, she was still impatient to get there and not lose their chance at the interview. When Humphrey sensed Nancy's impatience—she couldn't stop drumming her fingertips on her knee, or tapping her stockinged foot on the floorboard of the cab—he pulled out his cell phone.

"Hi. Traffic is—you too? Great. See you there." Humphrey gave Nancy a little tilt of his head as he hung up the phone. "See? Calm down. Have a drink. We're almost done."

Nancy ignored the comment, glancing back down at her heels with a grimace. The peep-toe slingback heels were gorgeous, but a little too tight, and she dreaded the prospect of putting them back on for their lunch date.

The fourth member of the group they were interviewing was Vincent Cantoni, and Humphrey had been excited when he had seen that name. Apparently he had gone to school with Cantoni's younger brother, and had nothing but admiration for him. Nancy had asked if his cover story would hold up with Cantoni, and Humphrey had shrugged it off, reminding her yet again that any discrepancies would just be chalked up to his natural desire to look good.

Cantoni was a few years younger than the members they had met in the morning, and very well dressed. He didn't bring an executive assistant along to their lunch date, so Nancy had no one to confide in and indirectly question, and Humphrey was so involved with trying to one-up the man that he never left Cantoni alone with Nancy for a personal interview. Nancy was infinitely annoyed when Humphrey sent the conversation straight into left field with a discussion of playoff chances, and she was grateful yet again that she had made her alias so similar to her real name when Humphrey slipped and addressed her as "Nan." Only if Cantoni had been listening closely would he have sensed anything wrong, and she watched him closely. He didn't even blink.

When Humphrey ordered his third drink from the bar, Nancy sucked up her revulsion at the idea of touching him in any way and nudged him with her stockinged foot under the table. He just tossed a grin back at her, and if she hadn't seen the same casual sexism with many other men, she would have been worried that it would tip off Cantoni.

"We have another meeting this afternoon," she reminded Humphrey, putting a polite smile on her face.

Humphrey just shrugged. "We'll be fine. Calm down. Hey Vince, I heard from Rico that you really had a crazy time your senior year..."

Once it became clear that Humphrey had only given lip service to the investment idea and was more interested in ingratiating himself with his old friend's brother, Nancy made a mental note to go by and see Cantoni in his office just so she could check him out further. In the absence of the personal interview, Nancy caught herself becoming irritated at the way Cantoni treated their waitress, as she scrutinized his behavior as best she could.

Okay, Drew, she chastised herself. Now you're just losing it. What have you liked about any of these people?

Nothing, she had to admit. She hadn't even liked Parker, and she found herself wondering what Mark Armstruther had seen in these people. Then again, she hadn't met Carlton Gordon yet, or the rest of the group. Maybe all that had linked them was the pursuit of wealth.

As Humphrey and Vincent shared stories of their alma mater, Nancy kept one ear tuned to their conversation and part of her attention focused on Vincent's mannerisms as she realized that was what bugged her most. Her father was well-off, and she had benefitted tremendously from his financial stability, but her father was an amazing defense attorney not because he wanted exorbitant fees or influence. In fact, many times, Nancy had seen her father take cases pro-bono when the client couldn't afford his usual fee, and only because Carson felt so strongly about the case that he couldn't turn it down, not because it offered him any prestige or political value. He did what he loved, and he was able to provide for himself and his family through it.

This world she found herself in, of high-stakes finance and risk versus reward, speculation and payoff, conspicuous consumption and arrogance and greed... even Mark Armstruther's apartment, she thought. She had been awed by it, had admired it, but part of that had been because she was seeing things through Bess's eyes.

How the hell was she going to be able to figure out which one of these people had killed Kate Gordon, when they all seemed equally despicable? She was beginning to understand what Mark had meant. None of them really had the motivation to kill Kate Gordon just to set Mark up, but that meant they all did, equally, somehow.

They had just slid into the taxi on the way to their last interview of the day when Nancy glanced over at Humphrey. "You seemed much less focused back there," she said, annoyed. "You think maybe if you sober up you can keep on topic? Maybe we should reschedule this appointment for tomorrow so you can get your head on straight."

Humphrey gaped at her. "What? What? Seriously, relax! You need a drink."

Nancy shook her head, her mouth set. "A man's life is at stake. I'm not going to relax until we have some leads, and now I have to go back and re-interview that guy because all you did was pal around with him exchanging your stupid school stories!"

"Do you honestly think Vinnie had anything to do with this? Come on. You can go ahead and strike him and the broad—what's her face—off the list."

"Why?" Nancy demanded, crossing her arms.

"Vinnie just isn't that kind of guy. And the woman, she just—wouldn't."

"Because she's a woman?" Nancy asked icily.

Humphrey bobbed his head, his eyes wide. "Look, if you're going to be so pissy about this, we'll go talk to him again. At his office." Humphrey raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "But I'd bet you that the woman isn't behind this. You just need to chill out. You're gonna spook them if you're acting like this."

Nancy just stared at him for a few wordless seconds, then rapped on the plastic divider between them and the driver. "We need to stop for a coffee on the way," she informed the man, hoping it would serve to get Humphrey through their last interview.

Once they were seated in their fourth office of the day, Nancy glanced down at her slingbacks again, vowing that she would throw them away as soon as humanly possible. One last interview. Just one more. She would buy another pair of shoes for the next round of interviews, but—

"Sorry I'm late."

Nancy was praying that the caffeine had done its job as she brought her head up. One last greedy, egocentric investor and possible murderer to interview. One last suspect for the day. She began to push herself up and out of her chair, as Humphrey did the same.

"Pleasure to meet you," Humphrey said, introducing himself and nodding in Nancy's direction as he introduced her by her alias. At least he had remembered that, Nancy thought sourly. The man shook Humphrey's hand, then looked over at Nancy just as she raised her head to look into his eyes.

And it was suddenly as though she was fully awake, alive for the first time.

The investors they had met, the secretaries, everyone had been well-dressed, but the man in front of her was a class above. He looked like he had just stepped off the pages of a magazine advertisement, and definitely not for something boring. His haircut, the sculpted shadow of his facial hair, the casual elegance of his ensemble—he looked like a model on the cover of GQ, and Nancy had no doubt that Bess could probably identify the designer of the suit and shirt he wore without even trying.

And that was just his clothes. His dark eyes were expressive and intelligent, his features chiseled, his jaw square.

Nancy had met many, many handsome men, especially on her cases. The man standing before her, extending his hand, was by far the most handsome man she had ever seen in person.

"Edmund Nickerson," he repeated, introducing himself to her as he had to Humphrey.

She couldn't take her eyes off him. She had no idea how she managed to take his hand and shake it like nothing was wrong; the instant their skin touched, that feeling of almost painful awareness, like her entire body was alight, was magnified a hundredfold. She had never in her life experienced anything like it. "Ann—Ann Mallory," she forced out. "Nice to meet you."

From the way he was studying her, Nancy was sure that everything she was feeling had to be reflected on her face, and to her horror she found herself blushing as she sat back down, following Nickerson's lead.

I'm just tired, she told herself, her gaze locked to him. It's been a long day.

How can I feel drunk if I haven't had a single thing to drink?

To her relief Humphrey stuck to the script, as he had with everyone other than Cantoni, and Nickerson expressed his sympathies over Kate's death; Nancy sensed that he was genuine about it, but she wasn't sure whether to trust herself.

Is this how Bess feels, all the time? Nancy caught herself wondering. Holy shit. Holy shit.

This man could be a murderer.

That thought sobered her immensely, but it didn't lessen the almost painful awareness she was feeling. She found herself studying him, and forcing herself to take notes every now and then just so she wouldn't be openly staring at him.

She had met incredibly handsome suspects before. That was all this was. That was all.

Nancy raised her head again and found that he was looking at her, and even the briefest glance left her almost trembling, the way it made her heart pound.

Humphrey made his excuse to leave the room, and as soon as they were alone, to her intense discomfort, Nancy found herself flushing a little. She glanced down at her notebook.

"So were you actually there, on the boat?" she said, making her voice a little breathless, and then looked up at Nickerson.

A small smile was playing with his lips, but it vanished at the reminder. "Yes," he confirmed.

"Was it really an accident?" Nancy made her eyes wide. "It just sounds so... so frightening."

Nickerson studied her. "By the time I found out what happened, the police were already on the way," he said. "They're looking into it, and I'm sure they'll get to the bottom of it."

"Did you know her very well?"

He paused again before he spoke. "Not extremely well, no. My time with the Bennett Group is a very small percentage of my ventures."

"Oh."

Nickerson smiled at her again, but before he could say anything else, Humphrey came back in. He asked a few more questions about the Bennett Group, but all too soon the interview was over, and the three of them rose. Nickerson reached for Humphrey's hand again, and Nancy felt her heart beating faster when Nickerson turned to her to shake her hand as well.

You're being an idiot, she chastised herself. You're just tired and...

He took her hand and the sensation was somehow even more intense than it had been. "If you have any more questions, please give me a call," he said, and while Nancy knew he was addressing both of them, Nickerson's gaze was locked to hers as he said it. "Here's my card."

He handed it to her, and Nancy was both relieved that she would soon be out of his presence, and strangely deflated. She followed Humphrey out, resisting the urge to glance back at him.

Anyone I met today might have killed Kate Gordon. He might have killed Kate Gordon.

Nancy found herself desperately hoping that he hadn't.