“How could this happen? Why didn’t you tell us first?” Anna Reed’s voice sounded thin over the phone.

“We didn’t tell you because it’s only a theory at this point. Your tenant, Will Tuttle, is what’s called a known associate of a man who was found killed at the Shooting Star scene. That means-”

“I’ve seen Law & Order.”

“Okay. So you know that just because they’d been known to work together in the past, it doesn’t mean that Tuttle was involved in that case. But someone, probably someone in the medical examiner’s office, got excited and called a reporter.”

“But they used our names. How could they do that?”

“Your names are a matter of public record. It would only take a phone call to find out you own the property. And the details of how you found the body were part of the accident report.”

“So you’re saying that someone just-”

“I’m saying someone who likes attention leaked it to the press. If I find out who it was, I’ll have their head. But that’s about all I can do at this point.” He fought a sigh. It got tiring, the pose of calm assurance, the coddling. Sometimes he just wanted to scream at people to stop whining. To try a week in his job, investigating bodies three weeks dead in the heat of August, or eight-year-olds that caught stray bullets in a drive-by, and then see how heavy their little problems weighed.

There was a long pause, and then she spoke again, her voice nervous. “Do you think he was involved in that case?”

“The Shooting Star?” Halden picked up his pen, spun it between his fingers, the gold bouncing highlights. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I was thinking the people who broke in might have been looking for the money.”

“What money is that?”

“The money they stole,” she said. “Right?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay?” Halden put on the voice he used to talk to bereaved family members. “The men who committed that robbery were hard guys. They had a lot of known associates. No matter what the paper says, there’s no reason to believe that Tuttle was in on that.”

She started to say something, then stopped herself. Like she’d been about to argue but changed her mind. “Okay. You’re right.”

“Look, Mrs. Reed, if you don’t feel safe, my advice is to go somewhere for a while. Stay with family. Or buy a dog.”

“We’re having an alarm system installed now.”

“Good. That’s good.” He looked at his watch. Twenty after twelve. If he was going to get anything done today, he needed less time on the phone with high-maintenance citizens and more time on the street. “Now, unless there’s anything else I can do for you…”

“No.” Anna Reed caught the hint. “Thanks for your time. You’ll let us know if you find out anything more?”

He promised he would, and then hung up, shaking his head. For the tenth time that morning, he looked at the photo, the cabin up west of Minocqua. It’d been built for hunting, but he’d done more than enough hunting without leaving Chicago. No, when he hit his twenty-nine-and-a-day he was going to buy that sucker instead of rent it, move up with a dog, a box of books, a twenty-pound sack of coffee beans, and maybe Marie, if he could convince her that 75 percent of a detective’s salary was enough for them both.

There was a time he’d hoped he might go out at a higher grade, but that had faded as years rolled by. Lesser cops who kissed ass, worked the political angles, they moved up. Not him. It didn’t matter. One glorious day he’d pull the Chequamegon National Forest around him like a blanket on a February night and not crawl out again. Just read and hike and make love. Head into Iron River on Saturday night for a couple of Budweisers.

He closed the folder he had spread in front of him, rapped it against the desk to even the edges, and set it in the inbox, wondering idly if Will Tuttle had been part of the Shooting Star. Not caring much; the case was a mess, and he was delighted to have no part of it. Sure, if someone did close it, it’d be a golden ticket – promotion, newspaper ink, commendations, the works. But the hitters had been pros, and nobody had a lead. Dollars to doughnuts the bad guys were right now in Key West, kicking back on four hundred grand.

Wait. The money.

No information about it had been released. All the public knew was that the Star had been robbed, and that a bodyguard and a criminal had been shot. They didn’t know about the missing cash. The Star’s five-hundred-dollar-an-hour lawyer had made certain of that. But Anna Reed had said, maybe they were looking for the money.

Could be nothing. The offhand comment of a citizen with an active imagination.

Or it could be a lead.

He rubbed at his chin. The phone rang, but he ignored it. He couldn’t just start digging around. The detectives in charge would welcome the help, but if he turned out to be wrong, he’d have committed himself, tied his name to a case that showed every sign of being a loser. Not a good thing for somedays.

Besides, all he had was a gut feeling. To do it properly, he’d need a lot more than that. Halden stared up at the fluorescents. Tapped a forefinger against his lips.

There was a way to check, of course. It wasn’t precisely legal, but no one needed to know about it. Once he had what he needed, he could work backward to do it properly. He picked up the phone and dialed.

“Christopher Halden? Detective Christopher Halden? To what do I owe? You ready to lay a hundred against the Cubs?”

“Never happen, Tully. This is our year.”

“God loves an optimist.”

“That’s what they keep telling me. Listen, you still snooping through people’s private business?”

“You still playing with dead bodies?”

“Man’s gotta make a living. I need you to run a check for me.”

“Let me grab a pad.” There was the sound of a chair creaking, and then Lawrence Tully said, “Okay, go.”

“Reed, R-E-E-D, Thomas and Anna. Address is…” Halden opened his notebook, flipped pages, then read it off. “I’m curious to see if Mr. and Mrs. Reed came into any money recently.”

“Got it. You just want the easy stuff, or should I lube up?”

“Somewhere in between.”

“No problem. When should I expect the paperwork?”

“No paperwork on this one, Tully.”

There was a pause. “I know it’s been a long time since we were partners. I know I’m just a lowly information broker with a few friends here and there. But I could swear I read somewhere that unless you had a subpoena or written consent from a judge-”

“This isn’t for court.”

Another pause. “A personal matter?”

“Not exactly. Just checking a hunch. It’ll be off the books.”

There was a sigh. “You mean you won’t be paying.”

“I’ll buy you a steak and offer my eternal gratitude.”

“Lucky me.” Tully cleared his throat. “All right, fine, you’re good people. Gimme a couple of days. Freebies get slotted where I get time.”

“Owe you one.”

“Yeah, yeah. Remember me when you hit the Mega Ball.”

THEIR MAILBOX WAS EMPTY. Considering the flood of junk mail they regularly got, it was odd, but Anna didn’t worry about it. Probably just a new carrier. She climbed the stairs and pushed open the door to their unit.

The new alarm panel beeped, and she keyed the code quickly. The system freaked her out a little bit. She’d never lived anywhere with one, and while it seemed straightforward enough, she also figured it was only a matter of time before she forgot to disable it, or entered the wrong code, and ended up pinned to her own floor by a burly security guard.

Tom had called and set up the appointment the day of the break-in. Protecting her again. Of course, they could come only during business hours, and of course, he had a big meeting, so once again, she’d called in sick. Luckily, she got her boss’s voice mail, left a message there. Lauren wouldn’t be happy, but it couldn’t make much difference. After all, Anna had already scheduled the afternoon off to babysit her nephew.