"Wendy used a firm by that name as a job reference when she signed her apartment lease. The firm doesn't seem to exist."

"Why did you think I would have heard of it?"

"Just a shot in the dark. I've been taking a lot of them lately, Mr. Hanniford. Was Wendy a good cook?"

"Wendy? Not as far as I know. Of course she may have developed an interest in cooking at college. I wouldn't know about that. When she was living at home, I don't think she ever made anything more ambitious than a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. Why?"

"No reason."

His other phone rang, and he asked if there was anything else. I started to say that there wasn't and then thought of what I should have thought of at the beginning. "The postcards," I said.

"What about them?"

"What's on the other side?"

"The other side?"

"They're picture postcards, aren't they? Turn them over. I want to know what's on the other side."

"I'll see. Grant's Tomb. Is that an important piece of the puzzle, Scudder?"

I ignored the sarcasm. "That's New York," I said. "I'm more interested in the Miami one."

"It's a hotel."

"What hotel?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake. I didn't even think of it that way. It could mean something, couldn't it?"

"What hotel, Mr. Hanniford?"

"The Eden Roc. Does that give you an important lead?"

IT didn't.

I got the manager at the Eden Roc and told him I was a New York City police officer investigating a fraud case. I had him dig out his registration cards for the month of September 1970. I was on the phone for half an hour while he located the cards and went through them, looking for a registration in the name of either Hanniford or Cottrell. He came up empty.

I wasn't too surprised. Cottrell didn't have to be the man who took her to Miami. Even if he was, that didn't mean he would necessarily sign his real name on a registration card. It would have made life simpler if he had, but nothing about Wendy Hanniford's life and death had been simple so far, and I couldn't expect a sudden rush of simplicity now.

I poured another drink and decided to let the rest of the day spin itself out. I was trying to do too much, trying to sift all the sand in the desert. Pointless, because I was looking for answers to questions my client hadn't even asked. It didn't much matter who Richie Vanderpoel was, or why he had drawn red lines on Wendy. All Hanniford wanted was a hint of the life that late she led. Mrs. Gerald Thal, the former Miss Marcia Maisel, would provide as much tomorrow.

So until then I could take it easy. Look at the paper, drink my drink, wander over to Armstrong's when the walls of my room moved too close to one another.

Except that I couldn't. I made the drink last almost half an hour, then rinsed out the glass and put my coat on and caught the A train downtown.

WHEN you hit a gay bar in the middle of a weekday afternoon you wonder why they don't call it something else. In the evenings, with a good crowd drinking and cruising, there is a very real gaiety in the air. It may seem forced, and you may sense an undercurrent of insufficiently quiet desperation, but gay then is about as good a word as any. But not around three or four on a Thursday afternoon, when the place is down to a handful of serious drinkers with no place else to go and a bartender whose face says he knows how bad things are and that he's stopped waiting for them to get better.

I made the rounds. A basement club on Bank Street where a man with long white hair and a waxed moustache played the bowling machine all by himself while his beer went flat. A big room on West Tenth, its ambience pitched for the old college athlete crowd, sawdust on the floor and Greek-letter pennants on the exposed brick walls. In all, half a dozen gay bars within a four-block radius of 194 Bethune Street.

I got stared at a lot. Was I a cop? Or a potential sexual partner? Or both?

I had the newspaper photo of Richie, and I showed it around a lot to whoever was willing to look at it. Almost everyone recognized the photo because they had seen it in the paper. The murder was recent, and it had happened right in the neighborhood, and heterosexuals have no monopoly on morbid curiosity. So most of them recognized the picture, and quite a few had seen him in the neighborhood, or said they had, but nobody recalled seeing him around the bars.

"Of course I don't come here all that often," I heard more than once. "Just drop in now and then for a beer when the throat gets scratchy."

In a place called Sinthia's the bartender recognized me and did an elaborate double take. "Do my eyes deceive me? Or is it really the one and only Matthew Scudder?"

"Hello, Ken."

"Now don't tell me you've finally converted, Matt. It was enough of a shock when I heard you left the pigpen. If Matthew Scudder's come around to the belief that Gay is Good, why, I'd be properly devastated."

He still looked twenty-eight, and he must have been almost twice that. The blond hair was his own, even if the color came out of a bottle. When you got up close you could see the face-lift lines, but from a couple of yards away he didn't look a day older than when I'd booked him fifteen years ago for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. I hadn't taken much pride in the collar; the minor had been seventeen, and had already been more delinquent than Ken had ever hoped to be, but the minor had a father and the father filed a complaint and I had had to pick Kenny up. He got himself a decent lawyer, and the charges were dropped.

"You're looking good," I told him.

"Booze and tobacco and lots of sex. It keeps a lad young."

"Ever see this young lad?" I dropped the news photo on top of the bar. He looked at it, then gave it back.

"Interesting."

"You recognize him?"

"It's the young chap who was so nasty last week, isn't it? Ghastly story."

"Yes."

"Where do you come in?"

"It's hard to say. Ever see him in here, Kenny?"

He planted his elbows on the bar and made a V of his hands, then tucked his chin between them. "The reason I said it was interesting," he said, "is that I thought I recognized that picture when the Post ran it. I have an extraordinary memory for faces. Among other anatomical areas."

"You've seen him before."

"I thought so, and now I find myself certain of it. Why don't you buy us each a drink while I comb my memory?"

I put a bill on the bar. He poured bourbon for me and mixed something orange for himself. He said, "I'm not stalling, Matthew. I am trying to recall what went with the face. I know I haven't seen it in a long time."

"How long?"

"At least a year." He sipped at his drink, straightened up, clasped his hands behind his neck, closed his eyes. "A year at the very least. I remember him now. Very attractive. And very young. I asked him for ID the first time he came in, and he didn't seem surprised, as if he always got asked for proof of age."

"He was only nineteen then."

"Well, he could have passed for a ripe sixteen. There was a period of a couple of weeks when he was in here almost every night. Then I never saw him again."

"I gather he was gay."

"Well, he wouldn't have come here to pick up girls, would he?"

"He could have been window shopping."

"Too true. We do get our fair share of those, don't we? Not Richie, though. He wasn't much of a drinker, you know. He'd order a vodka Collins and make it last until all the ice had melted."

"Not a very profitable customer."

"Oh, when they're young and gorgeous you don't care whether they spend much. They're window dressing, you know. They bring others in. From window shopping to window dressing, and no, our lad was not just looking, thank you. I don't think there was a night he came here that he didn't let someone take him home."

He moved to the other end of the bar to replenish someone's drink. When he returned I asked him if he had ever taken Vanderpoel home himself.

"Matthew, honey, if I had, I wouldn't have had that much trouble remembering him, would I now?"

"You might."

"Bitch! No, I was going through a very monogamous period at the time. Don't raise your brows so skeptically, luv. It doesn't become you. I suppose I might have been tempted, but cute as he was, he was not my type."

"I would have thought he'd be just your type."

"Oh, you don't know me as well as you think you do, do you, Matthew? I like a bit of chicken now and then, I'll admit it. God knows it's not the world's best-kept secret in the first place. But it's not just youth that does it for me, you know. It's corrupt youth."

"Oh?"

"That luscious air of immature decadence. Young fruit rotting on the vines."

"You have a lovely way of putting things."

"Don't I? But Richard was not like that at all. He had this untouchable innocence. You could be his eighth trick of the night, and you would still feel that you were seducing a virgin. And that, dear boy, is not my scene at all, as the children say."

He made himself a fresh drink and collected for it out of my change. I still had enough bourbon left. I said, "You said something about the eighth trick of the night. Was he selling himself?"

"No way. He didn't get the chance to pay for his own drinks, but if he had one drink a night, it was a lot. He wasn't hustling a buck."

"Was he running the numbers?"

"No, one partner a night was all he seemed to want. As far as I could tell."

"And then he stopped coming in here. I wonder why."

"Maybe he got allergic to the decor."

"Was there anyone in particular he tended to go home with?"

Ken shook his head. "Never the same friend twice. I would guess that he came around over a period of three weeks, and maybe he paid us fifteen or eighteen visits in all, and I never saw him repeat. That's not terribly unusual, you know. A lot of people are hung up on variety. Especially the young ones."

"He started living with Wendy Hanniford around the time he stopped coming here."

"I gathered he was living with her. I wouldn't know about the time element."

"Why would he live with a woman, Ken?"

"I didn't really know him, Matt. And I'm not a psychiatrist. I had a psychiatrist, but that wasn't one of the topics we got around to discussing."

"Why would any homosexual live with a woman?"

"God knows."

"Seriously, Kenny."

He drummed the bar with his fingers. "Seriously? All right. He could be bisexual, you know. It's not exactly unheard of, especially in this day and age. Everybody's doing it, I understand. Straight types are trying the gay scene on for size. Gay types are making tentative experiments with heterosexuality." He yawned elaborately. "I'm afraid I'm a hopelessly reactionary old thing myself. One sex is complicated enough for me. Two would be disastrous."

"Any other ideas?"

"Not really. If I'd known him, Matt. But he was just another pretty face to me."

"Who knew him?"

"Does anyone know anyone? I suppose whoever took him to bed came closest to knowing him."

"Who took him to bed?"