Marta Shane frowned at the sound of the doorbell. The singer checked her watch and the frown deepened. It was after five a.m. and she had just finished over an hour session with the Homicide men investigating the murder of Debbie Rains. She stood up, smoothed the skin-tight Capri pants over the firm roundness of her thighs, paused at a mirror on the way to the door to fluff up the thick gold hair, made sure the blouse she was wearing was unbuttoned to the proper depth, then walked to the door.
“Yes?”
“It’s me, Marta. Rocky,” a low voice assured her from the other side of the door. “Let me in.”
The singer unlocked the door, waited until the doorman was inside, then locked the door again. When she turned to him, her face was dark with anger. “What’s the matter with you? You crazy, coming
