One
Logan
"And what does she get from your office, Stone, if she hypothetically knows what's been going on?"
Ben Stone stared back at the scrubby little lawyer in front of him and leaned forward, hands clasped on his desk. He'd seen lots of crappy lawyers in his time, and this one was up there with the grungiest, but the client sitting quietly next to him, she was important. "That will depend, of course, on what your client can give us," he told the lawyer, then addressed her. "You realize, Ms. Page, that if you don't tell us what you know you'll be facing multiple charges of accessory to murder."
"You can't prove what she did or did not know," the lawyer snapped.
"Doesn't matter, sir," Stone told him matter-of-factly in his best clipped Executive Assistant District Attorney voice. "Did or didn't know, she hindered a police investigation. And, I suspect at least one time she knew exactly what she was doing."
"Circumstantial," muttered the lawyer, though with less bite.
"Ms. Page?" Stone leaned forward again. "Do you have something to tell us?"
Page glanced quickly at her lawyer, who nodded just enough to disturb the late-afternoon dust motes streaming in from the window, and then she swallowed. "I -- I -- know this makes me an idiot," she started, "but I really had no idea anything was wrong."
"The police asked you in for questioning three times and you never caught on to something being wrong?"
She started, and even from behind his desk, Stone could see her eyes fill, but not to the point of actual spillover. She was frustrated, and frightened, and he knew he wasn't going to get anything by playing the heavy any more. Standing up and walking around his desk, past the other assistant D.A. present, Claire Kincaid, Stone pulled up a seat at the table next to the young woman -- Amelia, was that it? -- and tried to relax the muscles in his face. Can't let her know what's riding here, he thought, because I'm not even sure what's riding here.
"No," she said finally. "I didn't. Where should I start?"
Ben nodded, and let out a sigh. They had her; she wanted to tell, though why he wasn't sure. Whys could come later. "Start wherever you think everything starts for you. We can work back if we need to later."

"First," she told him, a stenographer typing the transcript in the background, "I'm not Amelia, and I'm not a Page. My name, for the past twenty-four years, has been Alexa Radin." When no one flinched, she went on.
She'd known she was adopted for as long as she could remember anything. Growing up in a small suburban town in upstate New York, her parents had never hidden that from her. She'd been adopted from a private agency at three days, taken home, raised as one of their own. When she went to college, however, she read some articles in her science classes on genetics study, and decided that while tracking down her birth parents wasn't important to her, she did want medical records -- breast cancer, heart disease. Problem was, the courts of the jurisdiction in which she was adopted didn't have any kind of medical information, just sent her some cut and paste Xerox detailing small bits and pieces about the mother and the circumstances surrounding the adoption. Things Alexa hadn't wanted to know, but once they were in her hands, read anyway. And one bit of information stuck out like no other -- that she was one of a set of twins.

At this, Ben Stone straightened in his seat and shot a glance at Claire, who abruptly stood and left the room. "A twin?" he asked, incredulous. "So you're saying you had a twin and never knew it?"
Alexa shook her head. "You sense things, you think you're only half of a whole, but what kid doesn't? Once I knew, that changed everything. Because -- knowing that not only is someone out there who moves the way you do, or waves her arms like you do, or maybe even has the same interests as you, but who actually looks just like you, that just changes everything."
"You assumed she was identical."
Alexa said she knew instinctively that the twin was a girl, and identical. She decided to do a full out search, which led her to find some very startling facts about her adoption -- after all, what mother would give up half a set of twins?
It turned out her mother never knew both babies lived. The birth had been excruciating and she had passed out before both babies emerged, and was later told that one had died. It had been close -- Alexa, the second to be born, was a blue baby, nearly strangled in the womb by the umbilical cord. When it appeared the second baby would survive, however, she was smuggled out of the hospital and sold to a private adoption agency. "I don't know who was involved with what," said Alexa, seemingly unaffected by the circumstances she was describing. "The doctor who delivered me died five years ago, and the agency has long been out of business. No one who was at fault is still around to blame. I've had a lot of time to think this through, work it out. And I don't blame anyone."
Then, four months ago, her search narrowed to the Pages', a wealthy Gramercy Park socialite family of old money, a world far removed from the lower class suburban homes she'd lived in with her adopted family. Alexa's sleuthing brought her first to Amelia Page's address in Gramercy Park. Amelia, her twin, worked in some form of public relations, and Alexa tried to set up a meeting, hedging on the exact purpose. After a week, Amelia found room for her and agreed to meet over lunch. "She asked me what I looked like so she'd know who to look for," Alexa recalled, and smiled a little. "I told her she'd recognize me, without a doubt."
The meeting was a shock for both, seeing each other in a Mark Twain context of princess and near-pauper. Alexa, currently working as a musician in a band around Manhattan, had dressed up but could hardly approach the designer flair of Amelia. Amelia, with her sharp edges and defined nails, styled hair and pointed heels could hardly be farther away than Alexa in her leather jacket, skirt, and sweater. But they recognized one another instantly -- same five-foot eight, same shade of blonde hair, though Alexa's was much longer and looser, same slope of the nose and wide pale blue eyes. Far flung family may come to claim wealthy so-called relatives' money, but it is hard to deny your own face in someone else's. Even still, Alexa had brought along documentation, in case proving was necessary. Besides, she told Stone, she didn't care for the money, she merely wanted to make the connection.
Amelia was everything Alexa was not -- sophisticated, worldly-wise, a college graduate from Wellesley, vocal, brilliantly cynical. Alexa saw her as a Dorothy Parker figure, and instantly bonded. She was lucky: Amelia took to her naivete and rough edges and finally, at the end of their meal, declared, "Well, you simply have to move in right with me! We've got far too much room for any one person, and I couldn't imagine you continuing to live down in the Village. Not one more second!"
Alexa felt adopted for the second time in her life, and moved her few bags of items and one guitar into Amelia's spacious two-floor Gramercy Park apartment within a few days. It was perfect. The next step, was naturally to meet her birth parents, and share the good news.
At the first mention of the idea, Amelia grew cold. "No, Alexa, certainly not. Not yet, anyway."
"Why not?"
"Well," said Amelia, and spent the next fifteen minutes delineating why. Didn't Alexa want to seem to fit in right away? As though she had never been away from the Pages'? Well, to do that, didn't she have to learn what to say and how to say it? "Let me be your Pygmalion!" cried Amelia. "Then, when we go to Mummy and Daddy, they won't be able to tell us apart!"
"Is that how she said it, Ms. Page?" Ben asked. "That they wouldn't be able to tell you apart?"
Alexa nodded. "The way she said it, it was like she was...having a revelation. It made me remember. And I knew she had some truth to it, I was a wreck, I didn't fit in her crowd, I could tell that right off. She really did need to show me the ropes. So I let her."
Amelia had a day job, doing promotions for various firms, and it kept her out at odd hours, meeting clients and schmoozing, attending parties, so she wasn't home very often, which left Alexa lots of time to roam the apartment and try on her clothes, play with expensive makeup, get more accustomed to the family she was preparing herself to join. She made herself known to Amelia's three dogs, too, Buster, Swoozie, and Clark, all various breeds Amelia never could recall, all, as Amelia put it, "over pedigreed and under friendly." When Amelia was home she scrutinized her behavior, began to imitate a more restrained, refined look. "I knew I was doing okay," said Alexa, "when I smiled a lot less. Amelia doesn't smile much."
A few weeks after she started staying with Amelia, Alexa found herself seeing her sister less and less frequently. At first, Amelia had been overwhelmed, then enthused, at her sudden doubling, and Alexa believed she had opened her heart to her sister and been accepted from the beginning...rough edges and all. It was something Alexa tried to believe, but was never fully convinced of. Amelia had a sheen to her, like a glass that could slide down almost imperceptibly, until she had locked a person out, and Alexa felt from the beginning she was on the other side of that pane. She might never have known it existed but for the one or two times Amelia let her guard down and they were able to laugh out loud together. It turned out Amelia was a big fan of ER, and they took every Thursday night off to watch it. Amelia would make faces at the women actors, and sit riveted whenever George Clooney took the screen, and they would both turn away when the operating room scenes grew too harrowing. "It's only corn syrup," Alexa would point out, but Amelia didn't care, shadowing her eyes at the sight of even fake blood. They did have fun, occasionally, but gradually Alexa became aware of Amelia's formal posturing, her way of being secretive, the locked cabinets around the apartment.
She didn't fully grasp that any overt deception might be going on until one night while cutting a loaf of French bread Amelia cut herself and yelped. Alexa hurried into the kitchen to see if everything was all right and found her sister staring at her hand, sliced across the ring finger, dripping on to the white loaf. Amelia had been staring as if transfixed, and didn't run it under water until Alexa spoke up. "It was," Alexa said to Stone, "the little lies like that...things you really wouldn't face someone with and which felt almost too small to even count as lies, but were untrue all the same. Like she would say she didn't eat meat, she was some long time vegetarian. But one night I made hamburgers and she leaped right in with me. I began to wonder if it was compulsive with her."
And then, Amelia wasn't around very much any more. She claimed she was getting very involved with one of her assistants in the office, and was out late nights even when there were no parties, or wingdings to attend to, and Alexa was left alone most of the time. And then even Thursday nights weren't theirs any more. They didn't go out together. Amelia came home late most nights, and on the odd evening when she was in, she claimed being tired, or if she had any energy, worked at improving Alexa's diction and poise. "She wanted us to be real twins," Alexa told Ben. "Real two of a kind."
"But you never went out as a pair?"
Alexa shook her head. "She said she knew too many people and if they saw us together it would get back to mom and dad -- sorry, mummy and daddy -- and we didn't want to be premature. That was her word, premature. I didn't really resent it -- I guess I put all my faith in her. She was like another me, my mirror telling me what I should and shouldn't do. I still haven't gotten used to it."
"So you were being trained," Ben nudged. "Did anything significant happen during that time?"
Alexa averted her eyes. Until this point, she had been fairly straightforward, telling these things as if she were relating a story to a friend. And here, she hesitated. Staring out Ben's large window into the early twilight, she said, "Then, one morning, the police came."
"You mean Detectives Logan and Briscoe, Ms. Page," Ben clarified.
She nodded. Here was where things got sticky.


 

Alexa had been getting bolder about her new strata in life, and had taken to dressing in Amelia's lesser designerwear and going for short walks around the immediate area. Without Amelia around, she felt as if she had to take charge of things. If she ran into a neighbor, Alexa decided early on that she would simply claim she was Amelia, home for a day because she felt under the weather. Or some such thing. Mostly, she dressed to take the dogs on their morning constitutional around and in the Park, to pick up a few items at the shop down the street, or to get a paper. On the glorious blue early September day in question, she was walking all three dogs and reading the paper at the same time, her hair done up in a chiffon just as Amelia would have, eyes hidden behind Amelia's four hundred dollar spare Armani sunglasses, in a two-piece skirt outfit more suited to the office than dog walking, and four inch high heels, the one article of dress she had yet to master. Alexa hated heels -- she'd waited too long in life to try to accustom herself to them, and habitually found her ankle twisting around, so she had to step carefully, and slowly. This day she had walked the dogs and was heading home when two men, one in his fifties or sixties, one nearing the far edge of his thirties, approached her.
The older one asked, "Ms. Amelia Page?"
Here we go, thought Alexa, and slid into the part of her sister. "Yes, I am. What can I do for you?"
The elder slid a glance to the man next to him and withdrew a badge from his pocket, introducing himself as Detective Briscoe, and his partner as Detective Logan. "We'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."
Alexa didn't know what to think, but knowing Amelia it was probably something like unpaid parking tickets, so she didn't see any harm in continuing the charade. "What about?"
"Do you know someone by the name of Frederick Martinio?" Detective Logan asked.
She thought, and shook her head. "No, I don't think so. The last name sounds familiar, but I don't know the man. Why?"
Logan and Briscoe looked at each other. "He lives right in this neighborhood. You sure you've never seen him around? You know, the grocery, the laundromat?" Logan asked.
She turned Amelia-haughty, the thought of her sister doing laundry making her smile. "Detective Logan, I hardly concern myself with laundry. Most of my clothes are dry-clean."
Logan sniffed derisively and rolled his eyes skyward, letting Briscoe pick things up.
"I take it that's a no. You've never seen this person." Briscoe held up a black and white photo and let Alexa peer into it a moment. "Take a good look."
She shook her head.
Said Logan, "Can you tell us where you were last night around 11:30?"
Alexa frowned. Normally she would have said "dancing at the Limelight," because Wednesday nights were Limelight nights for her, each night her band wasn't playing she hit a different place, but she knew Amelia hadn't been there. And at this moment, she was being Amelia. "I went to a party on the Upper East Side," she said slowly, it beginning to dawn on her that this wasn't about parking tickets.
Briscoe nodded, "And you didn't see this man at the party? You didn't see anyone with this man?"
Alexa folded the newspaper under one arm and leaned back on her hip. "Just what is this about, anyway?"
They didn't answer a moment, and then Logan said, "Do you mind coming with us to talk a little more?"
"Certainly," she said, clipped and efficient like Amelia. "My apartment is just a few blocks down the street."
Logan, who impressed Alexa first as wearing a bad suit with a loud tie -- noticing these small things was how she realized she was fully in character -- took a step toward her and said, "Actually, I was thinking that the 27th precinct is right around the corner. We could talk there."
She didn't like him at all, this Detective Logan. Briscoe at least had a fatherly attitude -- grandfatherly almost, under a carefully brushed, graying at the temples head of hair his wrinkled face had experience in it -- but Logan had too much hair on his head, smoky hazel eyes and a hawklike nose that made him appear tough, and intimidating. Alexa refused to be bullied, and standing her ground, pushed back. "If you haven't noticed, Detective Logan, I have three dogs to take care of. Do you need them for questioning, too?"
Her snottiness got to him and he bit back, "Then how about we take the dogs with us, lady?"
"Mike --" his partner started but Logan waved his hand.
"She wants the dogs, we take the dogs," he told Briscoe. "Here, I'll take the mutts to the car for you."
And as if the dogs were listening to the whole exchange, as soon as Alexa handed the leashes over, all three dogs took off at a full bolt, barreling down the midway of Gramercy Park. Alexa gasped and threw her hands to her face, nearly falling over from the idiotic high heels. NowÊshe knew why she hated heels, and hated feeling this helpless. "The dogs! My dogs!" she cried out lamely, sounding exactly like Amelia, and loathing it.
Logan gave her a disgusted look and took off after the animals, Briscoe following after one animal branched off from the other two. And suddenly, both policemen were gone, their long overcoats flying like capes behind them. Alexa giggled, thinking, There they go to save the day. But Alexa felt instantly bad for thinking that way; the condescension was obviously Amelia's doing. Her adopted uncle had been a cop for fifteen years and she knew the kind of money they didn't make and how tough their jobs could be. So, repentant at her giddiness, Alexa decided to get to the precinct on her own, where obviously someone was expecting her. Eventually, all of this would straighten out. Flagging a cab down, Alexa slid inside and asked for the 27th precinct station.

She was waiting there for them, amidst the subdued lunchtime lull of the station, when the two detectives stomped in about a half hour later with all three dogs in tow. Cries of "What'd you arrest em for, Mikey?" and "Dog pound's uptown, Logan!" followed their noisy entrance into the main room. Momentarily relieved that none of the dogs had been mashed under a truck, Alexa worked on slowing her heart down, rebuilt her composure and leaned against what had been pointed out as their desks by their Captain, sipping her thick coffee.
Across the room she watched as the bald Captain approached Logan and proceeded to chew him out for bringing dogs in the office. She saw him point, and heard him say "put em in the holding cell," then watched Logan thrust Swoozie, who he had been carrying, and the leashes attached to the other dogs at the Captain.
"You do it," he snapped. Alexa smiled across the room, watching everything intently.
"Watch it, detective. What the hell are you doing with them anyway?" the Captain demanded.
"We were talking to this witness and they ran off. She ditched us when we went after them." Logan put his hands on his hips and glared.
"Oh, really."
"Yeah, really. So what're we supposed to be doin' with them anyhow?"
"She ditched you."
"Just wandered off." Logan waved his hand. "Amelia Page. Wasn't answering her doorbell, either."
The conversation was growing more audible as Logan and his Captain, Briscoe somewhere behind, approached their neighboring desks. "She didn't wander far."
"What?"
The bald policeman pointed as they arrived at the desks. "Your hosts are here," he told Alexa, and she let the smile grow a little bigger as the detectives realized she was waiting for them. Their superior officer led the dogs to a waiting assistant, who walked them to the back of the room.
Standing straighter, she put her coffee down on the desk. "Thank you, Detective Mike, for retrieving my dogs for me." She turned to Briscoe. "Will they be all right until we're done?"
"I think so, Ms. Page."
Logan rolled his eyes. "Let's get this over with."
"Wait, Mike," Briscoe told him, pointing at a calendar on the desk. "We're already late for that lunch thing with Stone and all them."
That pissed Logan off but good. "Great. We spend a half hour chasing these mutts and now we can't even take the time to talk to --"
Briscoe led him off to the side. Alexa wasn't entirely sure what they were discussing, but it wasn't what they were about to have for lunch. After some behind-the-hand discussion, they came over to her. "Ms. Page, would you mind waiting for us for a few minutes?" Briscoe asked kindly. "We have to make an appearance."
"And we'll come right back for you," said Logan, still sarcastic.
She feigned impatience, when in fact she was fascinated to see what would happen next. Spending all her time indoors had made any new event worthy of investigation. "Well," she finally decided. "Only if you promise to bring me a sandwich."
Logan smiled strainedly. "I think we can manage that."
Ben stopped her here, putting a hand on her forearm. "Wait a minute. So this lunch, they just left you sitting around while they left?"
She nodded vigorously. "I don't think they meant to be gone all that long, but it did get longer and longer....and I got bored. It wasn't that formal, really, but you remember, don't you?" When Ben didn't show any signs of recognition, she stumbled on, "You were there, and so was, um, Claire and one or two other people I don't know. It was in that big cafeteria room. I showed up after about a half hour -- it was easy, I just asked somebody where they'd gone and they pointed me there. Mike -- Detective Logan -- jumped up and came over to me and said a few things, and then I sat at the table, him on one side of me, and you were there," she indicated on the wood table in front of her, "and Detective Briscoe was at the far end. You'd just had, um, salads and fish I think, because there were leftovers on the table. And a few beers."
"I was there?" Ben couldn't believe the breach in protocol plus his inability to recall the event. He began to think he understood why the officers had done what they did -- make her stay around at all costs, without ever making her think she had to stay. She wasn't officially in custody, and if they let her go they risked her being a lot harder to find the next time. Then, "Wait, I think I do remember it now." Claire returned to the office just then, and handed him a file. He opened it, slid on his reading glasses, and scanned it briefly. "Yes," he began again. "You didn't keep entirely quiet, if I remember right."
"No." Alexa remembered a political and legal debate she had engaged Ben and one of the unknowns at the table with, a long libertarian argument that had encompassed gun control, the death penalty, and, improbably enough, cheesecake.
"That was you," he exhaled. "I must say I'm surprised."
"I can tell."

She was bored. Sitting in the same wooden chair for a half hour -- which was supposed to be only a few minutes -- had worn down her patience and she was on the verge of just walking out, trouble or no. They couldn't hold her, could they? Not without charging her, she didn't think. During that half hour, she had time to ponder, and think about how it was she had come to be sitting in a police station, waiting to be questioned, and the imposition began to wear on her better nature. But she couldn't just walk out -- not without the dogs.
She wasn't certain when or why it started happening, but like a glass of wine Alexa felt a rush in her head at the day's events, and she slid further into Amelia, beginning to feel reckless, safe in her disguise, and as she did her thoughts continued back to Detective Logan -- or, as she began to think of him, Detective Mike. Her instant dislike had actually been something else, only she'd been acting at the time and hadn't let herself realize it. Something about his bullying, macho attitude she found humorous, yet appealing, and his round eyes, with a hint of strong line under them, made her feel giddy. And in her giddiness, she turned to a nearby desk cop and asked where the big lunch was being held. Without even looking up he said "the Cafeteria, third floor," so she took her purse and left the room. Finding the place wasn't hard -- she followed food odors, and strolled into the cafeteria like she belonged there, cool and confident as Amelia.
She did not tell this to Ben, though. There was too much risk. But a lot had happened over one lunch time, and she remembered it clearly, though as in a dream.
Immediately, Logan had left the table and in a few strides was standing next to her, taking her wrist and leaning over close to her ear. "You're not supposed to be here."
She frowned. "I got bored. A girl has to have something to do," she told him, pouting like Amelia did.
She loved the fact that she practically made him grind his teeth in annoyance. "Fine. So stay. We're almost done. But don't say a word."
Alexa had laid a finger over her lips, a long, manicured, pink nail, thanks to a few months' of Amelia's attentions. "You won't even know I'm there, Detective Mike," she'd whispered back, and for a moment he looked bemused, like a spell had been blown in his face. His grip on her wrist slackened, and they took their seats at the table. Just as she was about to fully sit, her skirt pulled up to reveal the tops of her garters, and she smoothed it back over, knowing only one person had seen that. It had been accidental, in a way, and she nearly blushed at it -- and the silliness of it; it felt like she was in a cheap porno movie for a second -- then at the pleasure she got from knowing he'd seen it. What was she trying to accomplish? She had no idea. Perhaps this was her own way of bullying back the bully from earlier. But quite suddenly, because she could remember his breath in her ear, it became more than that.
Ben heard only the bones of this.
During the wrap up of the meal, she began to steal glimpses of Logan from the side of her vision, and once or twice caught him doing the same thing. When their eyes met, both quickly looked away. A thrill ran up her spine, and she grew bolder, finally taking part in the table debate, and making her own valid points. Showing off, certainly. Getting a rise out of her seat partner? She was hoping so. It was gloriously fun.
After an hour or so, however, Alexa began to feel anxious about getting back before Amelia, who occasionally came home early only to leave again later in the evening. She didn't want to have to explain why she had been out with the dogs, and dressed in Amelia's outfits. So as everyone else was beginning to pull away, Alexa stood and walked around the table to shake Ben Stone's hand. "Thanks for the lunch," she told him. "And the conversation."
Ben had shrugged. "You held your own. Wouldn't want to go up against you in court."
She had smiled. "Hopefully, you won't have to."
Logan, hearing everything, had reached her just as she told him that, and brusquely pulled her back. "I think we have to go."
She backed into him for a second, caught off balance, and for a moment she felt him across her back, and felt how sturdy he was, warm and solid, and she knew she'd done what she'd been trying to do all afternoon. They hadn't said a civil word to one another in their lives, yet they'd managed to turn each other on. Without backing away she half turned and their noses nearly touched. "Am I free to go, then?" she asked softly. "I thought I was still in custody."
Catching himself, Logan took a step back. "You never were in custody."
She raised an eyebrow, another gift from Amelia. "Our little talk, I'm afraid, will have to wait. I still need to get my dogs and get home. Detective Mike, will you see me out?"
"Dogs?" asked Claire, still sitting at the table. "You have dogs in your office?"
"Don't ask," Logan told her. "Long story."

She only recalled to Ben what he had obviously seen for himself. "And then, as he walked me out to the cell where the dogs were being held, we stopped for a minute in the hallway, and he asked me what I did in the evenings. I told him I went dancing, at this club called the Cantina on 43rd Street. In fact, I told him, I was going that evening. He said he might have to stop by there sometime."
"So you asked him on a date?" Ben asked, his eyes wider. "You'd nearly been arrested, but a date was on your mind?"
Alexa frowned. "Come on, Mr. Stone, I hadn't even been questioned, much less arrested. Besides, from what I heard later, they weren't even after Amelia then. They thought she might have seen something, but not that she'd actually killed anyone. I didn't see anything wrong with it."
She could afford to be indignant, because that highly edited version of the hallway scene was very little like what really occurred. The hallway had been dim, some bulbs out, and it was really only a service way to another bank of elevators. Alexa never saw where Detective Briscoe went; it was just Detective Logan and herself, him gripping her upper forearm as though to keep her in check. About halfway down the dim hall, he let go and cornered her up against the wall, leaning toward her with one arm propping him up. "What was lunch all about?"
"Is that what you've wanted to ask me, Detective Mike?" Alexa had raised one knee up off the wall, pressing herself into the concrete. He was very close to her face, and she could smell the lunch and the beer they had both just had mixed with his cologne. It was like wine, she felt drunk with her adopted persona, and fearless.
"It's Detective Logan," he told her, not too emphatically, his eyes scanning her face.
"Logan makes me think of an airport in Boston," she told him. "I like Detective Mike better."
And then he had leaned in and they had kissed, not soft and tentative, but deep and hungrily, instinctive and wet. She remembered his tongue feeling smooth and soft inside her mouth, and they kissed without touching anywhere else or moving from their positions at the wall. When he pulled back, he still hovered within inches of her face. "What do you do at night, Ms. Page, when you're not slumming at cop lunches?"
"I go dancing," she told him, and named the club. It was true -- it was the one true Alexa thing he now knew about her. "I like to dance. Tonight, I dance."
"I think I might have to stop by there sometime," he said back, slowly, and there was a bit of silence between them a moment or two. "You did that on purpose at lunch, didn't you."
"Did what, Detective Mike?"
He ran the back of his hand down her cheek. "I think you know." And leaned in again for another of those death-defying, life drawing kisses. When they pulled back this time, though, she darted under his arm.
"Are you a good cop, Detective Mike?" she asked him, and he blinked.
"Of course," he told her, completely sincere in his surprise at the question.
They didn't say another word until she was outside with her dogs, in the sunshine, and things felt real again. "The Cantina," he repeated to her, and she nodded, doubting he'd ever set foot in it.
"Thank you, Detective Mike, for a most educational afternoon," she told him, and slid into a cab with her dogs.
Ben didn't hear beyond the sanitized version, and when Alexa paused, she saw him look over his shoulder at his assistant, Claire. What Alexa didn't know was that Claire, chasing after Logan that afternoon to ask about a deposition, had seen them from the far end of the hallway. But Claire had not said a word to Ben -- the ethics of what she had seen were dodgy, but not worth bringing up. Until now.
Ben caught the slight shake of his assistant's head and interpreted it correctly. "Ms. Page. Alexa. If you lie about the small things, we can't possibly expect to believe you on the big things."
Alexa paused, stunned at what they had chosen to point out as a lie -- the one event she had glossed over. Her throat welled up and through the knot she said, "That's the only story you'll hear from me. Maybe there is more. But you won't hear it from me."
Stone decided to ask his assistant for more details later. He could decide then what was worth pursuing. "Fine, then. So you went home. Then what."

She got back to the apartment and quickly showered and changed, stepping out just as Amelia was getting home. Wrapped in a robe, she emerged from her bedroom and greeted her sister, asking about her day.
"Crazed, as usual." Amelia sighed dramatically. "And naturally, more tonight."
"Tonight?"
She nodded. "There's a do upstate and Staffan's picking me up in about two hours. Another client. You know how it is."
"Oh." Alexa was dying to tell her sister what had transpired between her and the strange policeman, but couldn't figure out a way to do so without giving away her disguise, so she said, "I walked your dogs this afternoon."
"Don't you always?"
Alexa paused. "Well, yeah."
"Yes, Alexa, say 'yes.' 'Yeah' is for children."
"Yes," Alexa pressed her lips together. "I did. Only, today, I ran into some people who knew you."
Amelia sat up straight. "Really?"
"They thought I was you."
"And you...."
"I let them think it," Alexa said.
Amelia smiled. "Who were they?"
Alexa folded her arms. "They said they were policemen, Amelia."
Amelia paled visibly. "Oh? And...what did you tell them, Alexa?"
"Nothing. I thought it was about parking tickets, and then the dogs ran away, and they chased after them. We never got a chance to talk."
Amelia stood very close to Alexa and held her shoulders. It wasn't quite threatening, but Alexa felt very uneasy. She could never lie to Amelia...how could she stare at herself and tell an untruth? "You said nothing to them, Alexa?"
"That's what I said," Alexa told her. "Why do you seem so concerned? I thought it was about parking tickets."
Amelia stood up and walked around, and for a moment Alexa wasn't sure what her reaction would be. When she turned, and her eyes were alight, Alexa let out a breath of relief. "Alexa, darling, you're wonderful!" And Amelia hugged her sister. "I'm so pleased."
Alexa didn't know what had caused her sister so much pleasure, but she let it ride. "But it isn't about parking tickets, is it, Amelia."
The joy she had just emoted disappeared in a second. "If parking tickets was good enough for the police, my dear sister, it is good enough for you."
"They asked me where you were last night. I told them you were at that party."
"And I was, Alexa, I was."
She didn't know what to say after that, and hated the sudden tension between them. "All right," she said, letting it fall there. "So am I almost ready?" she asked, trying to change the subject.
Amelia cocked an eyebrow. "Just about, my dear, just about." She paused and looked Alexa up and down. "You're not going back to that awful club again, are you?"
"What's wrong with it?"
Her sister rolled her eyes. "Nothing, my dear, just a bad habit, I suppose. We all have them. I just like to know what you're up to."
Staffan came right on time at six, and Alexa hid in her room so not to spring any surprises on Amelia's assistant/date. When she heard the door latch behind them, she put the conversation she'd had with Amelia out of her head and got dressed for some serious dancing that evening.

"What day was that, Ms. Page?" Ben asked her.
"September. September eighth, I think, Mr. Stone. It was a Thursday night, I'm sure of that."
"Why are you so sure?"
"They do an all-70s music night. Real cheesy, but it's one of my favorites."
"Go ahead, Ms. Page. Did anything happen at the Cantina?"

In fact, it had.
Freddy greeted her with open arms as she slid onto the dance floor, amidst all of the Thursday night regulars. Disco balls sent fragmented light snowing around the room while green and blue spotlights turned the floor into pulsating, colorful mayhem. "Darling," he embraced her lightly. "You look splendid tonight!"
"Freddy, you always look swell yourself," she told him and pecked him on the cheek.
"What's the occasion?" he shouted over the song.
"I might have a visitor tonight," she winked at him.
"Ooh, is he cute?" cooed Gretchen behind them.
Alexa grinned. "See for yourself. He'll stick out like the original sore thumb in here." Of that Alexa was certain. She hadn't told either Logan or Ben Stone something about Thursdays at Cantina -- that it was an openly gay evening, albeit with a healthy sprinkling of heterosexual anomaly. The mix of disco music had always drawn a large gay crowd, but at the Cantina, there was safety in numbers, and as the night stayed fixed in the week, the regulars knew where they could congregate. Alexa knew Freddy from a bar her band had once played at, and Gretchen was a roommate from her old apartment in the Village. Gretchen swung both ways. Once she'd flirted with Alexa, telling her her long blonde hair was the biggest turn-on, but Alexa carefully put her off. Still, they remained friends, and saw each other at least once a week, thanks to the Cantina. They joined hands and bumped back and forth to "The Hustle" as the music picked up, and were soon joined by other scene regulars, from Perry, who worked in a local record store, to Sylvia, who used to be Sylvian, to Tweak, who was their main contact for any illegal substances that might be required. He wove his way through the bunched dancers, asking if they were feeling fine, and if not, could he help. Tonight, Alexa decided to stick to alcohol -- no telling if Logan was the kind of cop who wouldn't take that sort of behavior lightly. That is, of course, if he showed, which she couldn't quite imagine.
"Ooh, luscious!" she heard a familiar voice behind her, and turned to give Tweak a hug. "You are looking absolutely edible!"
"Tweak, you just think I'm gonna treat my friends tonight."
"Well, honey, since you moved uptown you sure can afford it..."
Gretchen pinched Alexa's earlobe. "Is this your sugar daddy you're bringing to meet us?"
Alexa winked, and let the lie she had used before slide. "Not exactly, my dear. But he is unique."
"Ooh, guests!" exclaimed Tweak. "Well, honey, with that little number you've got on, I give you even money he's gonna think you pretty unique, too."
After she'd been there about an hour or so, it was getting around ten-thirty or eleven, and she was giving up on seeing Logan. Alexa really wanted to let loose, get some sweat worked up, but if she did and he showed up, she sincerely doubted he'd think she was the same rich bitch he'd known at the station. Still, by eleven she was quickly losing interest. Of course it was too soon to expect him to show...maybe in a day or two...surely he had more interesting things...or people...to be doing. After the eleven o'clock hour their little group took a break by the bar, slurping down rum and cokes, and Freddy said he figured her guest wasn't coming. "Too bad, baby," he said and pulled her head to his chest and stroked it. "Next time better."
She stood up straight. "Oh, Freddy, it didn't mean that much." She took an ice cube from her cup and sucked on it, trying to cool down, then when that one disappeared rubbed another one over her neck and chest. "I'm trying to stay cool, and it just isn't working."
Freddy was staring in the distance. "It sure ain't, honey, but keep doin' it cause there's some big hunk coming over your way."
She stopped moving the ice cube and turned in the direction Freddy was looking to see Detective Logan heading her way. Only the bad suit was gone, replaced with a soft-looking blue shirt and jeans. He had his coat hung over his arms, and he was walking deliberately, but unrushed. Alexa flushed deep. "Freddy," she turned to him, suddenly realizing a big problem. "Freddy, that's him!"
"You sure were right, honey," he told her. "If only I was his type."
"Freddy, do me a favor," she said.
"What, Alexa?"
"Don't call me that," she urged. "Just...call me 'A' tonight, okay? He thinks my name is something else -- tell the others, just call me 'A'."
Freddy raised an eyebrow. "Whatever you say, sugar....only when Tweak comes around, I want my reward, gotcha?"
She nodded furiously. "Of course. Anything."
Freddy zipped off into the crowd, leaving her with a melting ice cube in her hand, leaning up against the bar. "Look," she crooned as Logan approached, just loud enough for him to hear, "it's Detective Mike."
He leaned against the bar next to her. "So this is Cantina."
"I see you found the time to make it."
"If it's worth it, I find the time."
She threw the ice cube back in her cup.
"Oh, don't stop on my account," he told her. "I liked watching that from across the room. So did about any other guy with his eye on you, no doubt."
She grinned a little. "I'd doubt it, Detective Mike."
"Oh," he grinned back and nodded his head a little. "And why would that be?"
On the dance floor, Freddy waved at her and Gretchen blew a kiss as "The Hustle" started up. Alexa stood up straight, leaving her cup on the bar, and took a step to the dance floor. "'Cause they all prefer boys to girls, Detective Mike!" she cried at him before being pulled into the dance.
"What did you say to him, girlfriend?" Gretchen insisted. "You missed quite a look on that mug of his."
Alexa giggled. "Come on, girl, hustle. Don't ask questions."
While they danced, Alexa kept an eye on him, half having expected him to leave once he found out where he was. She knew her uncle was as homophobic as they came, and wondered if they bred them the same here in the city. Apparently not, though she could tell Logan's casualness had bit the dust. But at least he stayed, for that she gave him credit. And she watched him, flipping around suddenly to catch a glimpse of his face through the crowd, wondering if he was keeping tabs on her or not, then not caring. She liked looking at his face; it made her feel safe somehow in a way someone like Amelia's Staffan would not. Staffan seemed nice enough, and quite handsome in his own way, but delicate and frail behind his round glasses and polished nails. Logan was familiar in his brusque way, something she could relate to, and his instinctive archness at her alleged privileged bitchiness made her admire him, like watching an enemy protect his territory. And yet, there was something underneath it; he wasn't another working-class moron like the ones she'd gone to school with --she would never assume him to be anything less than intelligent. The more she thought about it, the more she wanted him out there with her, dancing, making a fool out of himself in a place he never imagined he'd visit.
Three or four songs later she couldn't wait for him to make the move, and with each passing minute he began to look more and more uncomfortable. Rushing over to him in a blur, she ripped the coat from his hands and threw it over the bar. "Watch that, Roger, willya?" she called to the bartender, who waved assent. Then, snatching up the first of Logan's hands she could reach, she tugged him to the dance floor. Thankfully, the song slowed into some obscure track from Saturday Night Fever. "Come on," she grinned at him. "At a dance club, you dance!"
He said nothing, just smiled back at her and wrapped an arm around her waist and her opposite hand in his, pulling her tight to him like a taut thread. "Why, Detective Mike," she told him, "you do dance."
"You never know what little surprises are out there," he said. "You seem to have a few up your sleeve."
"Would you have come if I told you Thursday nights were mixed couples night?" she cocked an eyebrow at him.
"Probably not. Or maybe I would anyway. I just wanted to see if you'd be here, see if you'd been pulling my leg."
She flushed and hoped in the dim dancefloor light he didn't see. "Weren't you sure?"
"I don't know. I still don't know. It's not like that sort of thing happens on the job every day. Mostly, we're dealing with dead bodies, not live women coming on to us."
She raised an eyebrow at him. "And yet, somehow, I think that's not true for you."
He didn't answer, just smiled a little bit, and spun her around.
Dizzy for a moment, she stopped moving and pulled back a little. "I don't know what came over me at lunch. I'm -- I'm really not like that, not in real life. I think I just had a little too much to drink."
"All the better for me," he said. "I'll just have to get you drunk a lot. Hey, don't worry. That whole scene was strange for me, too. I don't exactly go around kissing suspects, they'd have my badge like that."
The words dead bodies and suspects rattled in her brain a minute. "I thought it was about parking tickets."
He chuckled. "Hardly. You think they send out two detectives to pick up a parking ticket violator? I work in homicide."
Her brain raced. Surely he didn't think -- or couldn't think -- she had something to do with murder? Why would he have come, if he did? "You think I killed somebody?" Fear was making her voice stiff, and she shook a little.
"Do you think I'd be here now if I did?"
"Then what ---"
He shushed her by putting his hand over her lips. "No work. Don't worry, really."
"Mike, how can I not think about it? What's going on?"
He grinned. "Hey, you called me Mike."
She pushed the palm of her hand into his chest. "Hey nothing. Is this some kind of bizarro undercover thing you're pulling on me? Is that why you're here?"
He gave her a long look and turned down the charm. "Look, Amelia, all we wanted to do this afternoon was ask you a few questions. Nothing you'd even need a lawyer for. Personally, I thought we were on the wrong track, and after the whole dog thing, where you came by yourself to the station, I figured why bother. So no, I'm not spying on you. I'm here because I want to dance. And surprise, surprise, so are you."
She began to believe him. If he really thought something was up he wouldn't be there. They wouldn't let him, she figured. She let him pull her close again and said, "Then lunch -- I didn't have to wait for you to finish lunch."
"My fault," he said, "I wasted your time."
"Well," she said, "not entirely."
A moment of silence broke out between them and she found herself unable to stop staring at him, and he at her as they danced, as if trying to communicate something they weren't able to form words for. As the stare lasted she was once aware of his closeness to her, their hips moving together, his warm presence like a soft afghan she wanted to wrap herself in. There was something incredibly solid, and honest about him, and all this time she realized he thought she was her sister. Which made her feel guilty, and at the same time, wonder just what Amelia was up to that the police needed her for questioning.
But then the music switched tempos again, sliding into "Rubberband Man" and the floor began to fill with craziness again, their moment broken. She smiled and he laughed just a bit, like exhaling, and as they took a step away from each other for more rigorous dancing Gretchen and Freddy flounced over. "Aaaaaaaaay," they announced. "We found you!"
"Gretchen and Freddy, this is Mike, Mike, my friends."
Mike looked at Alexa a minute and then stuck out his hand. "Hiya."
"Ooh, girlfriend, so is this who you were telling us about?" Gretchen crowed.
Alexa blushed.
"Yeah, you'll do!" she told Mike. "How about a dance, then, sweetcakes?"
"Sorry, Gretch," Alexa broke in. "Get your own." And she winked at Mike.
"Well, if you change your mind...." Gretchen trailed off and melted back into the crowd.
Freddy held out his hand. "Payup time, lovely, Tweak is on his way."
Alexa slapped a twenty into his hand. "That'll have to do...now scootch!" And she waved him off.
"Darling!" he crooned. "Thank you!"
"Payup time?" Mike raised his eyebrows, and his face looked longer than usual. "Should I know what that is?"
"You don't want to know," she told him. "Work or no work."
So they danced. About a half hour before the club closed, around two-thirty, they stumbled, sweaty and more than a little tipsy, out into the early morning cool, and jumped in a cab. The alcohol and workout began to overwhelm Alexa, and she yawned. "Oh, boy."
"You too tired to have me over for a few minutes?" he teased.
Her eyes widened. By two-thirty Amelia wasn't likely to be up, she'd have been home ages ago. Or did she say she was staying out all night? Alexa wasn't sure. Bringing Mike over was a bad idea, but so was going to his place -- she didn't know if she had enough cash to get home by cab from wherever he might live. And she also didn't know if she was ready to actually sleep with him. Sure, playing Amelia, in her garters and high heels was fun, but underneath it the real person, Alexa, hadn't slept with anyone and sure as hell didn't think her first would be with a cop -- oops, detective -- she barely knew. At the same exact instant that those thoughts ran through her brain, her instinct began to growl at the thought of Mike's just disappearing. They'd been dancing all night, talking crazy talk, pressed up against each other, holding hands -- constant contact of one form or the other, and at some point Alexa had gotten addicted to him. So against her better judgment, Alexa heard herself saying, "I think a few minutes would be all right."
"So you danced, you talked, you went back to your place," Ben interrupted, still not sure whether he was going to send internal affairs after Logan. "And then?"
"I checked to see if Amelia was in, and she wasn't. We had decaf, and after that I don't remember," she told him. "I was tired anyway, and I passed out on my couch. When I woke up, I was on my bed and he'd left."
"Around what time would you say you passed out, Ms. Page?"
She shrugged. "I have no idea. We left the club around 2:30, and took a cab, so maybe we were home by 3:00, and I probably didn't last more than twenty minutes after that. So I guess he left around 3:30 or something. That's what I told you before, remember?"
Stone thought. Yes, that jived with what he had already been told. Only he knew Logan hadn't actually left until nearly nine, but that didn't come out until much later. "Go on."

She decided that full disclosure wasn't really necessary, and what really was a half hour more or less? It was true, she did pass out on the couch, but not right after getting in the door. She'd checked Amelia's room, saying her roommate might be in or might not be in, and when she saw it was empty offered to make coffee. If Amelia had been in -- she would have had to try something different. She was pouring the beans in the grinder when he came up behind her in the kitchen and wrapped his arms around her, under her arms , and buried his face in her hair.
She dropped the beans, which went scattering and wrapped her arms around his, then turned to face him, curling her hair behind her ears. They stared at each other a minute more, like they had on the dance floor, and then he bent down to her and they started kissing. It was slower this time, but the urgency was still there. On hers his lips soft and wet pushed into her until she bent back on the counter. Her stomach began to quiver and she tried to imagine what Amelia would have done, and doing so led him out to the living room sofa, where without a beat they continued their kissing. Her hands reached up to his hair, something she thought at first he'd had too much of, but now it felt thick and beautiful under her hands. He laid her back against the pillows on the couch and she pulled his shirt out from his pants, running her hands against his back. They kept manipulating their positions, more or less clothed the whole time, until they were both seated, her with her legs across his lap, folded into the crook of his arm, taking long, deep breaths. He was brushing her hair down with his hand as she nuzzled against his chest.
"What was that," she said quietly, a little shaken by the instantaneousness of her reaction.
He didn't answer at first, then, "Maybe more of what we were wanting to do in the hallway."
She looked up at him and he half smiled, and she ran her finger over his lips, then cupped his jaw, and they kissed once, twice, sanely. "You can't stay," she said, and then surprised herself by yawning. It was back.
He nodded. "I had a feeling that was coming."
She shook her head and stifled another yawn. She was good for maybe ten minutes more, and then she knew, from experience, she'd be out like a light. She'd have to be brief. "I'm not going to be just a quick fuck for you to laugh to your partner about, Detective Mike," she said quietly. "I might not even be a fuck at all for you."
He sighed, a big long breath. "Oh, really. And how do you figure that."
"I mean that I don't sleep with anyone, not yet anyway, and I hardly think I'm going to throw it all away on someone else's idea of a one night stand."
"You haven't done this before?" it rushed out, all at once, and he stared at her.
It was the truth, it was some other part of Alexa he now knew. "I've done this," she told him, and thumped him on the chest. "I just haven't done that, if you know what I mean."
"So what if I was planning on just sleeping with you and never calling you again?"
She felt her eyes droop. "Then....you should probably go now."
Later on, Mike told her how he hadn't really been thinking on it one way or the other, that the idea of sleeping with someone who had more money than he would make in his lifetime was actually the reason he had come to the dance, but there had always been more, that x factor, the feeling that all wasn't as it seemed, a danger to the liaison, that really spurred him on. It was that x factor that made him pause right there. It made her more appealing in ways he couldn't describe. Suddenly he hugged her fiercely and kissed the top of her head, and sat quietly like that until she fell asleep, which wasn't long. When her breathing grew warm and regular on his chest he lifted her up and carried her to the bedroom she hadn't checked for roommate presence in earlier, and laid her down gently on the bed, removing her shoes, and pulling a light sheet over her legs. By then it was already four in the morning, and he knew he was skunked for work, so he laid next to her and propped his head up on his hand, watching her sleep, and curled up, watching her until he himself fell asleep.
When he woke up the clock told him it was already 9:10, and he peeled himself back from her carefully, splashing some water on his face in the bathroom, and left a note on her pillow with his number. Let's go dancing again, he'd written, and signed it Detective Mike. She'd like that, women liked that stuff. Then he'd let himself out and downed four cups of coffee before he made it to his desk forty minutes late.


Part One, continued