James Driscoll gripped his heavy flashlight in one hand, the steering wheel in the other. It was a balmy spring night, just cool enough to make a long-sleeved shirt feel comfortable. But, God, it was dark, the police officer thought; the darkest part of the lunar cycle with a quarter moon not due for another four days. It didn't help, either, that he was off the main streets, deep into a dimly lit residential neighborhood where the house markers were not the most readable, where everyone except him and the person who had called the emergency number minutes before was sound asleep. Straining to penetrate the deep shadows, Driscoll searched for a number, a sign, any indication that someone was awake. Rounding a curve on aptly named Winding Way, he almost passed it: a bright rectangle of light blazing through the darkness. Sweeping his beam across the neatly trimmed lawn he picked out the numbers. 526. It was the house he was looking for. Gunning the squad car forward into the empty driveway, he screeched to a halt. The vehicle was still moving slightly when he leaped out, grabbing the portable oxygen tank as he went.

"Hello!" he called loudly, banging on the frame. "Police! Hello! Is anybody here?"

 "I'm upstairs," a male voice called weakly.

 Driscoll yanked the screen door open and took the stairs two at a time. At the top, on his right, was a tiny room containing a bathtub, a vanity, and a commode. A man, wearing cut-off jeans, a blue polo shirt, and white sweat socks, was kneeling in the tub, water to the middle of his thighs. In his arms was a naked woman, her head lolling limply to one side. The man's face, Driscoll noted, was as white as his socks. The woman's was blue.

 "She went to take a bath," the man wailed. "I guess she fell and hit her head. I can't revive her."

 The 911 call had gone to an ambulance service in nearby Narberth. "My wife!" a panicky man had screamed. "Sheæs in the tub. I can't get her to respond. Please come."

 "Do you know CPR?" the dispatcher asked calmly.

 "Yes!"

 "Then start using it. An ambulance is on its way."

 As a matter of course in Lower Merion Township, a normally placid suburban area just north and west of Philadelphia, police officers also answer such calls, which was why Driscoll was there. Since the LMPD was closer than the ambulance service, Driscoll had beaten the paramedics to the scene.

 "She was so heavy .. ., " the man moaned, staring wide-eyed at the policeman.

 "Help me get her out," commanded Driscoll.

 Together, they muscled the woman from the tub and stretched her on the floor. In one smooth motion, Driscoll clamped the oxygen mask over her face and flipped the switch, starting the flow of gas. Water poured out of her nose and mouth.

 "She's not breathing," the man sobbed.

 Driscoll began applying CPR.

 "Please help her," the man begged.

 Driscoll stopped, looking up. What's that noise?" he asked sharply.

 "The baby! It's the baby," the man said, his voice rising. "We've waked her up!"

 "You go see to the baby," Driscoll commanded. "I'll keep trying with the CPR." He was still trying three minutes later when the paramedics arrived.

 Jostling the officer aside, the paramedics carried the woman out into the hall where there was more room.

 "She's not coming around," one of the men said.

 "Let's get her to the hospital," said the other. Turning to Driscoll, he added: "We're taking her to Lankenau."

 The EMT's lifted the woman onto a gurney and hurried down the stairs.

 As the paramedics were going out he door, the man reappeared carrying a screaming baby. "What are they doing?" he asked shrilly, trying to calm the crying toddler. "Where are they taking her?"

 "To the hospital," Officer Driscoll said. "They haven't been able to revive her. You should go, too."

 "I can't!" the man wailed. "What about the baby?"

 He had hardly spoken the words when a man and a woman, drawn by the noise and flashing lights, pounded up the stairs.

 "I'll take Haley," Jane Rothstein said, holding out her arms. "You go to the hospital."

 "You'd better change clothes," Driscoll told the man, pointing at his sopping shorts and shirt. "But answer a few quick questions first," he said, whipping out a pad and pen.             "What's your name?"

 The man looked confused. "Cr...Cr...Craig. Craig Rabinowitz."

 "And the woman's your wife?"

 "Yeah. Her name is Steffi. Stefanie. We call her Steffi."

 "What happened tonight?"

 "Steffi ... my wife .. was having trouble sleeping. She went to take a bath ..."

 "Where were you?" Driscoll asked.

 "I was in the master bedroom, watching a hockey game. When she didn't come out I went to check on her and found her in the tub. Her head was under water. I don't know how it happened."

 "You didn't see anything? Hear anything?"

 "I heard a thump. I though it was the shampoo bottle falling. It always does that. I should have gone to help her when I heard the thump ..."

 "Was there anyone else in the house?" Driscoll asked.

 "No," he said, shaking his head. "Just me and Stef and the baby. I had closed up for the night, like I usually do. I locked the doors and then I went upstairs."

 "You'd better get changed and go to the hospital," the officer prompted.

 The man covered his face with his hands. "I was trying to hold and comfort her ... I'm so sorry" he sobbed. "What are me and the baby going to do without her?"

 While the man was changing, Driscoll walked back into the bathroom where the woman had been found, he was surprised to see the water still slowly draining from the tub. Reflexively, responding to training that told him everything was evidence and therefore valuable until it was determined otherwise, he quickly replaced the rubber plug which must have come dislodged when they took her out. As he did, he remembered there had been no water on the floor when he had entered; until he and the man had removed the woman and thoroughly splashed the area the floor had been as dry as the Sahara. He scribbled a note on his pad.

 Driscoll looked around. In a neat pile on the floor, just inside the door, were a pair of dark sweatpants, a tee shirt with GAP on the front, and a pair of off-white printed panties with a feminine napkin resting on top. Driscoll wrote it down.

 Pausing, he stared at the wall, struggling with his memory. There had been something unusual, he recalled. Something about the woman. Of course, he said half aloud, remembering. Hurriedly, he jotted something else in his notebook. When he and the man had pulled the woman from the tub Driscoll noted she had been wearing several pieces of jewelry. He wanted to make a note of it before he forgot: an inexpensive gold-colored watch, a gold wedding ring, and a couple of bracelets, one on each wrist..

 In the master bedroom, Rabinowitz slipped into a fresh polo shirt and neatly pressed jeans, then wiggled his sockless feet into a pair of loafers. As he ran out the door, he turned to his neighbors. "Call Elaine," he pleaded. "She'll need to know."

    Elaine Miller was asleep. Her husband, Todd, was still getting ready for bed after a long, late day at the office. When the phone jangled, Elaine, rolled over and glanced at the clock. It was 12:52.

 "I've got it," Todd said, snatching the receiver off the hook.

 "Who is it?" Elaine asked groggily.

 Todd covered the mouthpiece. "It's Joe Rothstein," he said.

 "Joe! Craig's neighbor?" Elaine said, popping up in bed. "What's wrong?"

 Again Todd covered the mouthpiece. "He says there's been an accident and Steffi has been hurt. She hit her head in the bathtub. He wants to know if I can come over."

 Elaine was angry. Craig had done the same thing once before, roused all his friends to respond to an alleged emergency only to discover there was nothing to it. Friend or no friend, someone could cry wolf only so many times.

 "You go," Elaine said grumpily. "They probably need someone to house-sit for a couple of hours."

 "Okay," Todd said, starting to put his clothes back on.

 "Wait a minute!" Elaine said, throwing back the light blanket and jumping to her feet. "Why didn't Craig call instead of Joe? I'd better call over there."

 Her hands shaking, she dialed the Rabinowitzes number. Joe Rothstein answered.

 "They've taken Stef away," he said calmly. "I think you need to talk to my wife."

 Jane came on the line. In contrast to her husband, she sounded half hysterical. "Oh, my God," she screamed. "I think she's dead."

 Elaine slammed down the phone. Sleep forgotten, she pulled on a pair of sweats and ran into the garage, catching Todd just as he was starting the car. "I'll go," she said, pulling him by the arm. "You stay with the kids. I'll call you when I know something."

 During the six minutes it took her to drive to Merion, Elaine chewed her lip and prayed. When she arrived, she found the scene chaotic. There were several police cars there, their lights flashing. Inside, Haley still was screaming, upset by the commotion and unhappy with being held by Jane rather than her mother or father.

 "What happened?" Elaine barked.

 Jane told her that Stefanie apparently had slipped in the bathtub, striking her head. "They couldn't revive her. I think she's dead," she repeated.

 Elaine yelled at her. "How can you say that! Don't say that! Don't you dare say that! Where's Craig?"

 "He just left."

 "Left? For where?"

 "Lankenau," Jane said, bouncing the screaming Haley on her arm.

 Elaine jumped back in her car and headed it south, toward the busy hospital in Overbrook, a community that straddled the border between Philadelphia and Montgomery counties. On the five-minute drive, she tried to calm herself by remembering that Lankenau, because of its close proximity to some of Philadelphia's rougher neighborhoods, had an excellent emergency room and a top-flight, experienced staff that was accustomed to handling all sorts of trauma. Still she worried. Could Jane be right? She asked herself over and over. Could Stefanie really be dead?

Ardmore, Pennsylvania
1:13 a.m.

 While middle-of-the-night calls are thankfully rare for most people, they are all too commonplace for Mark Keenan. When the phone jarred him awake early Wednesday morning he was neither surprised nor alarmed, just resigned. "Sergeant Keenan!" he growled into the mouthpiece.

 "This is the night patrol supervisor," the voice on the other end said. "You need to know that a 29-year-old woman was found unresponsive in her bathtub a little more than a half hour ago."

 Just as it was SOP for an LMPD uniformed officer to respond to 911 calls, it was the duty of the patrol supervisor to keep the man in charge of detectives advised of unusual developments like major accidents, suicides, and murders. Often this was during the hours when Keenan was sleeping. But that was immaterial. When such incidents occurred, Keenan demanded that he be one of the first to know.

 The sergeant ran his fingers through his bushy moustache. "Woman dead in the bathtub, huh?" he asked.

 "Not dead yet. At least not officially. She's enroute to Lankenau."

 Although the witching hours are a prime time for crime and misfortune, the detective bureau at the Lower Merion Police Department shuts down for eight hours after midnight on the theory that common emergencies can be handled by the uniformed division. When something unusual occurs, the drill is for the night patrol supervisor to call Keenan, who then decides if it's necessary to roust a detective and ask him to go to the scene.

 Keenan yawned. "Where was it?"

 "Merion."

 That got Keenan's attention. The department didn't answer many calls from residents of the tony neighborhood. When they did, the sergeant was wary since almost everyone who lived there was rich and many had political pull. In such cases, Keenan reckoned, it was better to err on the side of caution and send a man, even if it meant extra work for the investigator. "Who's available?" he asked.

 "Craig just went home," the supervisor said. "You want me to call him?"

 "No," Keenan replied. "I'll do it."

 Breaking off the connection, Keenan quickly punched in a number. "Charlie," he said when the investigator picked up, "this is Keenan."

 "Hi, Mark," Detective Charles Craig sighed, knowing what was coming. "I was about to brush my teeth."

 "You can brush æem if you want," Keenan commented dryly, smiling to himself, "but you're going to have to go back out." He told the detective everything he knew, which was very little.

 "I'll get right on it," Detective Craig promised, scribbling notes on a pad he always kept by the phone. Wearily, he descended the stairs that led to his second floor bedroom, got in his car, and returned to the police headquarters building in Ardmore. There he transferred to an unmarked department car and cruised down the nearly empty streets to Merion, a 10-minute drive away.

    A small community which, in the city, would be called a neighborhood, Merion is the heart of Lower Merion Township, an affluent suburban enclave that spreads over twenty-four square miles in Montgomery County, west of Philadelphia. The township has been a magnet for those wishing to escape the woes of the city since the turn of the century when the Philadelphia Railroad opened a rail link to Pittsburgh. Once the forested, rolling country of the Piedmont Plateau ù formerly prime farm land settled initially by Welsh immigrants on acreage purchased from William Penn ù was made readily accessible, the rich and influential began snapping up large parcels on which they built sumptuous estates. Since the rich could not survive without an army of support personnel, tradesmen, domestics, and craftsmen quickly followed. The dividing line between the classes was the railroad right-of-way. Workers settled on the south side of the tracks, in Upper Merion Township; the prosperous on the other side, in Lower Merion.

 By the 1990s, the differences still were as apparent as they had been a century earlier. Lower Merion's 58,000 residents were mainly professionals ù doctors, lawyers, dentists, bankers, entrepreneurs, and corporate executives ù while the 26,000 people who lived in Upper Merion were predominantly blue-collar workers. The per capita income in Lower Merion was $42,000 a year, which was 42 percent higher than that in Upper Merion. And the median value of a house in Lower Merion was $282,000, half again as much as one in Upper Merion.

 But there is another distinction setting the townships apart that perhaps is as important as money. And that is religion. Upper Merion is largely Christian, a mixture of Protestant and Catholic. Lower Merion, on the other hand, is heavily Jewish. And one of the most Jewish sections in all of Lower Merion Township is Merion.

 In addition to being recognized as a haven for Jewish professionals on the rise, there was something else that made Merion different. It was a Main Line community. In the early 1800s, when Montgomery County was still being settled, the legislature, recognizing that the area was ripe for development, authorized a series of improvement projects that included feeder roads, canals and short-line railroads. The project formally was designated a "main line of public works." This, in turn, led to the coining of a term which would endure for the next two hundred years.

 Originally, "Main Line" referred to settlements that sprouted in the legislature-mandated improvement area. Later, it shifted to the north and was used to designate communities along the Philadelphia-to-Pittsburgh route of the Pennsylvania Railroad. Then, it began being applied to other communities as well. What is and what is not "Main Line" can be confusing to outsiders. Merion, which is not along the Pennsylvania Railroad, is considered a Main Line Community. Ardmore, only a few miles away and is on the railroad line, is not. Part of the reason may be that Ardmore, which is much larger, also has a large working-class population.

 While the term had long been used by Philadelphians to signify wealth and social status, it sprang into national consciousness just before World War Two with the release of the movie "The Philadelphia Story," featuring Jimmy Stewart, Katherine Hepburn, and Carey Grant. It, and a subsequent stage play, proved enormously popular although both did nothing but glorify the fatuous lives of a small group of extremely wealthy people who lived on an estate in what is presumed to be Montgomery County.

 By 1997, "Main Line" was still a very active term in a Pennsylvanian's vocabulary. Many, especially those in the media, regarded Main Liners with something akin to envy and awe, not dissimilar to the way Los Angelinos view those who live in Brentwood, or how New Yorkers look upon those who reside in Greenwich, Connecticut. An event, like maybe a murder, would be reported much differently if it occurred in a Main Line Community than it would if it happened in North Philadelphia, a poor, crime-ridden section of the city. No police officer or public official in Montgomery County ever forgot that.
 

Overbrook, Pennsylvania
Lankenau Hospital
1:18 a.m.

 As soon as he got to the hospital, Craig Rabinowitz went straight to a telephone.

 Betty and Brian Schwartz's 5-year-old daughter had slipped into their bed after they dozed off, so when the phone rang, Betty had to reach awkwardly over her to answer it. Still dazed, she couldn't understand what or why Craig was shouting. Craig never shouted; he was always calm and cool. What could be so bad that he would be this upset? It was something about Stefanie.

 "Calm down," she told him, using her crispest nurse's tone. "Take it easy. Take three deep breaths and then tell me what's going on."

 "There's been a terrible accident," Craig blurted. To Betty, he sounded as if he were losing it. "I don't think Steffi's going to make it." He paused, then sobbed: "Please come quickly."

 Her nursing training forgotten, Betty began screaming. This set off her daughter, who also started bellowing. Realizing what she was doing, Betty forced herself to be calm. Holding her daughter tightly, she turned to her husband, who was staring at them both as if they were crazy. Smoothing her daughter's hair, urging her to stop crying, Betty sobbingly told Brian what Craig had said.

 As Brian hurriedly pulled on whatever clothing he could find, Betty called her mother and succinctly explained the situation. "Can you please come over and watch the kids while I go to the hospital?"

 She listened for a moment. "Good," she sighed. "I'll be ready to go by the time you get here."

    As soon as Betty Schwartz hung up, Craig dialed another number.

 "It was an accident," he exclaimed when a woman answered. "Steffi's been hurt bad."

 "What!" Jennifer Hirtz gasped, trying to clear the cobwebs from her brain. Was she having a nightmare? "Is this Craig? What, for God's sake, are talking about?"

 "It was an accident," Craig repeated. "An accident!"

 A car accident? Craig and Stefanie?

 "It's Steffi," Craig continued, his voice rising. "I don't think she's going to make it."

 The words hit Jennifer like a bucket of ice water. She began shaking violently from head to toe, like a person with malaria. "Mark," she gulped through chattering teeth, "wake up. Wake up!"

 Mark Hirtz was throwing on some clothes when the phone rang a second time. It was Betty. "Get dressed," she said brusquely. "Brian is going to be coming by to get you."

 While Betty was getting dressed, she called Asha, the young woman who worked as Haley's nanny. Again, Betty explained the situation and said she'd call back as soon as she knew something. When she saw her mother pulling into her driveway, Betty jumped in her car and headed for the hospital. She knew it would be at least a 20-minute drive.

Merion
1:40 a.m.

 Detective Craig strode across the lawn at 526 Winding Way, heading for a group of uniformed officers huddled outside the house. Who had been the first on the scene? he asked. One of them pointed to Driscoll.

 "Not much I can tell you," the policeman said. It took him less than five minutes to explain how he had found Craig Rabinowitz kneeling in the tub, cradling his wife. Driscoll told the detective about the unsuccessful attempts to resuscitate her, what the man had told him about the circumstances surrounding the incident, and how his preliminary check of the premises turned up nothing suspicious.

 Detective Craig nodded solemnly, jotting a few notes. Thanking Driscoll, the investigator began prowling around the house on his own. He was surprised at how small it was ù roughly 1,600 feet, he estimated ù considering how much the owners probably had paid, it being in Merion and all. Although it was a two-story dwelling, it lacked any intrinsic charm and, as far as he could tell, had very little to recommend it. Unimaginatively laid out in rigid squares, there were only four rooms on the first floor: a kitchen and a family room in the back in what at one time had been a garage; a living room and a dining room in the front. The most attractive characteristic, as far as the investigator could tell, was the picture window in the dining room. It faced the tree- shaded street, overlooking the neatly kept lawn and the flowerbeds that lined the front porch. Between the living room and dining room was a small foyer that opened onto the stairs to the second floor. Upstairs there were only three rooms: a master bedroom which was over the living room; An "office" situated at the rear of the house above the family room, and a guest room, now a nursery, which was above the dining room. Off the baby's room, opening onto the narrow top- of-the-stairs hall, was a bathroom so small that he was sure he could touch both walls if he were standing in the tub. This was the room, he knew, were the woman had been found. It was easy to tell by looking at the floor. It was a mess. There were puddles of water all over and large, muddy footprints made by police and paramedics who had tromped in and out.

 The investigator made a few more notes, then began a second, more thorough inspection, looking this time for anything that might indicate the incident was something more than an unfortunate accident. He found nothing. Although there were some toys scattered about downstairs that was hardly unusual in a house with a toddler in residence. There were no signs of disarray that may have evidenced a struggle. The back door was closed and bolted. All the windows were locked and none had been broken or forced. He could not find a suicide note or anything that resembled one, nor were there any pill bottles, empty or otherwise. No indication at all that anyone in the house had been using drugs or drinking.

 Shoving his notebook in his pocket, Detective Craig got back in the unmarked car and drove to Lankenau. He needed to talk to the husband, and the woman if she had survived, before he could wind things up.

Lankenau Hospital
1:42 a.m.

 When Elaine arrived at the hospital, she found Craig pacing in a small area between two sets of double doors.

 "What's going on?" she asked breathlessly, running up and throwing her arms around him.

 "It's bad," Craig said, panic evident in his face. "It's really bad."

 "What are you talking about?" Elaine asked impatiently. "What's happening."

 Before Craig could answer three people dressed like doctors ù two women and a man ù walked through the back set of doors and headed straight toward Craig. "I'm afraid I don't have good news to tell you," said one of the women.

 "Oh, my God!" Craig bawled, staggering. "I knew it! I knew it!"

 "Why don't we go over here," the female doctor said gently, placing a hand on Craig's arm and leading him to a small office off a long corridor. Elaine followed, standing behind her friend, massaging his neck and shoulders.

 "We couldn't revive her,' the doctor said, her eyes filled with empathy. "There was nothing we could do."

 Craig started rocking and rubbing his head. His lips were moving, but Elaine couldn't unravel the sentences. After a few minutes, he put his head down on the desk and started mumbling about his father, who had died of cancer three years previously. "I can't go through this again," he whispered. "I just can't."

 Elaine looked up to see Brian and Mark hurry into the building. Craig, spotting them as well, jumped up and ran to greet them.

 Feeling exhausted, Elaine sagged in the chair. She looked at her watch. It was not yet 2 o'clock. Barely an hour had passed since Joe Rothstein had called. Making herself get up, she prowled the hall until she found a telephone, then dialed home to tell Todd that Stefanie was dead. "You'd better ask your mother to come stay with the kids, "she added. "We need you over here."

 While Craig was talking to Brian and Mark, Elaine went into the room where Stefanie's body had been moved. Bowing her head, she began reciting the shema, the all-purpose prayer that all observant Jews say before going to sleep and upon awakening. It also is a deathbed prayer, the last one a Jew is supposed to utter.
  "Shema Yisrael," Elaine said softly, beginning the familiar phrases. "Hear, Oh Israel ... Adonai elohaynu, Adonai echod ... The Lord our God, the Lord is One!"

 When she finished, she sat next to Stefanie, taking her hand, noticing as she did her friend's nails. As always, they were perfectly manicured; flawlessly shaped and buffed. There were so many things I wish I would have told you, Elaine thought, staring at Stefanie as if she could will her to listen. How much I admired you ... how I envied your beautiful, expressive eyes ... and how much I'm going to miss your laugh, which was full and rich and crammed with mirth...

 She still was sitting there when, Betty came in. After hugging Elaine, Betty reached out and caressed Stefanie's cheek. "Oh!" she exclaimed, drawing back her hand as if it had been slapped.

 "What is it?" Elaine asked, alarmed.

 Betty blushed. "Nothing! It's just me. I didn't expect her to be so cold. I thought she just died. I wasn't expecting her to be cold already."

 When the two women returned to the waiting room a few minutes later, Craig was slumped in a chair, noticeably calmer but still breaking into fits of uncontrolled, tearless sobbing. "I can't believe this happened," he said again and again. "I can't believe this happened."

 "Aren't you going to go see her?" Elaine asked, puzzled and for some reason perturbed.

 Craig shook his head. "I can't," he wailed. "I'm so sorry. How can I ever face her parents again. They trusted me to take care of her and I didn't."

 He had hardly spoken the words before Anne and Lou Newman rushed in. When Anne heard that her daughter was dead, she threw herself into her husband's arms and began shrieking. Craig grimaced and buried his face in his hands.

Ardmore
2:05 a.m.

 Keenan flopped grumpily on his side. In almost all instances in which he was awakened by the patrol supervisor, he had no difficulty in getting back to sleep. Normally, those calls had no more effect on his ability to drop off again than if he had been awakened by a slamming car door on the street outside. But now he was having problems. Wide awake and staring at the wall, he thought about what the patrol supervisor had told him.

 While 29-year-old women were regularly banged up in car crashes, got beaten up by jealous husbands or boyfriends, or overdosed on drugs, there were not many who were found unconscious in their own bathtubs, especially not in a neighborhood like Merion. What if this is not an accident at all, he wondered? What if it turns out to be a murder, or an attempted murder? Despite its proximity to Philadelphia, Lower Merion was a quiet community; only one or two homicides a year on average. So why should he think this apparent bathtub accident was something special? Was his imagination working overtime? He sat up and pounded his pillow. "Dammit!" he swore, "this is stupid."

 But sleep continued to elude him. His instincts, honed from twenty-five years experience as a policeman, told him to be careful. Lying in the darkness, his curiosity blanketing him like a November fog, Keenan wished he could have gone on the call. Now he had no choice but to wait until he heard from Charlie Craig. Until then, he knew, he would not be able to sleep.

Lankenau Hospital
2:45 a.m.

 Detective Craig was not surprised to find that Stefanie Rabinowitz had been declared dead on arrival. From what Officer Driscoll had told him about the lack of response to the resuscitation efforts he would have been more amazed to learn that emergency room personnel had been able to revive her. The physician who had pronounced her dead told the investigator that he had seen nothing to indicate the woman had not died accidentally.

 Nodding his thanks, Detective Craig wended his way to the room where Stefanie's body was being kept. Pulling back the sheet, he stared at the young woman, who looked as if she were peacefully sleeping. He quickly examined the body. By then all her jewelry had been removed so he did not know that she had been wearing any when she was wheeled in. He saw no signs of violence: no bullet holes; no knife wounds; no needle punctures. Shaking his head sadly, he went in search of the family.

 Lou Newman was polite but obviously grief-stricken. He had not seen his daughter since he and his wife, Anne, had left the Rabinowitzes at about 8 the previous night so there was little he could add to what the investigator already knew.

 Craig Rabinowitz, not surprisingly, was visibly upset but dry-eyed and coherent when Detective Craig found him sitting silent and brooding in an uncomfortable-looking waiting room chair. In a subdued but steady voice, he gave the detective a longer, more lucid version of the incident than he had given Officer Driscoll, but essentially it was the same.

 Looking over his notes, the 40-year-old detective pondered for a moment about all the grief he had seen in his almost twenty years with the LMPD, beginning when he was in college with a job as a dispatcher, then seven years in uniform and, finally, the last ten, in the detective bureau where he investigated everything from theft to homicide. An average-sized man with doleful eyes and a neatly clipped moustache ù a passable double for the actor Sean Connery ù Detective Craig reckoned he had seen a little of just about everything in his career. But there was nothing he had seen that morning that led him to suspect that Stefanie Rabinowitz's death was not an accident.

 "I'm sorry for your loss," he told Craig gently. "I know this is tough for you, but at some point later today I'll need to get a formal statement from you."

 "What do you mean æa formal statement?'" Craig asked.

 "Just a for-the-record account of what happened. We write it down. You sign it. It won't take long. It's something we have to do in all accidental deaths."

 "All right," Rabinowitz mumbled, nodding.

3:15 a.m.

 It was a bedraggled-looking group that huddled in the Lankenau waiting room, unsure about what to do next. Should they go home? they asked each other. Or should they continue to wait?

 "I'll see if I can find out something," Mark Hirtz volunteered, leaving to find someone in authority. Fifteen minutes later, he was back.

 "We may as well go home," he said.

 Lou and Anne protested. "We have to make plans for the funeral," said Anne. Conservative Jews such as Anne and her husband tried to observe the tradition of burying the dead the dead as quickly as possible, almost always within twenty-four hours. This was facilitated, in part, because the bodies of conservative and orthodox Jews rarely were embalmed, a process that ran counter to religious belief.

 Hirtz shook his head slowly. "It won't do any good to wait. The nurse told me they're probably going to have to do an autopsy."

 "What?" Anne asked sharply. "What do you mean, an autopsy?" Many Jews, especially the more traditional ones, were vehemently opposed to post mortems, claiming they violated the body and God's law. In some places, such as Israel, autopsies were not infrequently a political issue. On one side were scientists, who claimed they helped determine potentially inheritable fatal diseases and conditions, and law enforcement authorities, who said they were necessary to help track down and prosecute a killer. On the opposing side were the religious traditionalists.

 "This was an unusual death," Hirtz explained as gently as he could. "The nurse said when a 29-year-old healthy woman dies unexpectedly they want to know why."

 Craig stared at the floor as if he had not heard.

    The Newmans were not happy with the situation, but they realized there was nothing they could do about it until later in the day. Resignedly, the group began to break up. Hirtz said he was going home to talk to his wife, who had not been able to come to the hospital because there was no one to sit with the kids. The others said they were going to Winding Way to help get ready for the start of shivah, the traditional week-long Jewish period of mourning.

 Exhausted, unkempt, and dispirited, they left as they had come, individually or in pairs. Elaine and Betty volunteered to detour to pick up Haley's nanny, Asha. "We'll meet you back at the house," Elaine said tiredly.

 As they walked out the swinging doors and crossed the parking lot, Elaine turned to Betty. "How come Craig looked so neat?" she asked, unaware that he had the opportunity to change before coming to the hospital. She looked down at her baggy sweats. "We look like hell."

 Betty, who still was wearing remnants of the previous day's makeup, smiled weakly. "You know Craig," she said. "The original Dapper Dan."

 As dejected as they were, however, they had one thought foremost in their minds: The worst was over. Stefanie was dead and their duty now was to rally around Craig and the Newmans; support them through shivah and do their best to honor Stefanie's memory. They had no idea, though, that the situation was going to get much worse before it got better; that before they could mentally lay Stefanie to rest they would have to face days and weeks of revelations they could not possibly have anticipated. Ultimately, their loyalties would be tested in ways they could not have imagined.

    Detective Craig looked at his watch. It was three minutes before 4; twelve and a half hours since he had started his shift the previous afternoon. Kneading the back of his neck, he hunted up a telephone to call Keenan.

 "Sorry to wake you again," he said when the sergeant answered.

 "You didn't wake me," Keenan replied gruffly. "I haven't been able to get to sleep all night. What'd you find out?"

 "Not much. She was pronounced dead at 1:35. Never regained consciousness. Everything seems pretty straightforward. It appears to have been some kind of natural death. Maybe a heart attack; maybe a stroke. Maybe she just slipped and conked her head. In any case, the examining physician didn't see any contusion or anything else to indicate it was not an accident. I didn't see anything unusual at the house. If you don't object, I'm going home. It's been a long day. I'll file a report later."

 "That's fine with me," Keenan said. "Go to bed. I'll see you this afternoon."

 After Detective Craig hung up, Keenan continued to stare at the phone. "I wish I knew what's bothering me about this," he said irritably.

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