Murphy thought about that. Thought about the expose Sherilee expected on Paul Landry, who wasn't really bad, just hungry. Thought about Alex Raymond, with his bright eyes and devoted following and indisputable good cause, and found himself itching with a faint flutter of old prejudices. A reporter's prejudices.

It must have been all that perfect hair. Murphy didn't trust perfect hair. Or it could have been that middle-class-looking guy going postal on a perfect afternoon and nobody having the decency to at least ask why. When the phone rang, Murphy was sitting there wishing he could wash away his tedium with a couple of fingers of something neat and wondering what the hell he was supposed to get out of all this.

"Mr. Murphy?" The voice was hushed, urgent.

"Oh, no, you don't," Murphy automatically protested, recognizing with deadly certainty just what the tone of voice meant. "I'm not doing exposes anymore. I don't care what company is polluting what river or who the mayor's sleeping with. Call somebody who cares."

"Then you don't want to know what's going on at Memorial?"

"Memorial?" He looked at his computer screen, where his words about Memorial should already have been glowing, both literally and figuratively. "No, I'm sure I don't."

He should have hung up. Curiosity was a hell of a lot tougher to cure than altruism, though. Not to mention the inexhaustible urge to knock down white knights, which had gotten him into this profession in the first place.

"Nobody wants to know what they're doing. Nobody cares."

He shook his head. Lit a cigarette one-handed. "Add me to the list."

"You're not from here. You can tell the truth."

"I don't want to tell the truth."

"They're killing people, Mr. Murphy. Ask Timmie Leary. And hurry. She doesn't know it, but she's in danger, too."

"What do you mean?" Murphy demanded.

But his caller had already hung up.

Son of a bitch. Son of a goddamn bitch. His palms were itching. He hated it when his palms itched. It meant he was about to do something stupid. And he couldn't think of anything that would be more stupid than figuring out what was behind that phone call, or what Timothy Leary-Parker had to do with it.

He was still cursing five minutes later when he picked the phone back up and dialed.

Chapter 3

"You really don't want to know why he did it?" Timmie asked. Leaning against the railing on Timmie's porch, Cindy shook her head emphatically. "I don't even want to know who he was."

Timmy made it all the way down the steps onto her sidewalk before faltering to a stop. Cindy remained behind on the porch, a wooden baseball bat balanced on her right shoulder.

"You' re kidding," Timmie said, squinting up at her. "Right?"

Cindy assumed a look that reminded Timmie of Mary Lincoln thinking of the theater. "I didn't sleep all night," she said in a small voice. "I'm not going to sleep again tonight. It's one of the reasons I came over. I just can't... after being that close to a shooting, I can't sit home and think about Johnny."

Timmie did her level best not to scowl. She should have expected this. She could always tell Cindy's state of mind by how high her hair was teased, and today it was no more than an inch off her scalp. A sure predictor of gloom.

Well, Timmie just wasn't in the mood for it. It was too nice an afternoon, and she already had enough on her plate to begin with. Behind her on the lawn, Meghan sat crouched over the corpses of summer flowers, and beyond the front door of the house Timmie could hear the muted notes of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." She was out of money and out of time and out of baby-sitting recommendations, and now it was somehow her fault that some idiot had decided to shoot up a horse show and remind Cindy that her husband was dead. Just the way to set off to work.

"I'm sorry," Timmie inevitably said. "I didn't mean to hurt you. But for God's sake, Billy's dead and Alex almost got shot. Shouldn't at least one person in this town ask why?"

"So you've volunteered for the job."

Timmie blinked, bemused. "Well, why not?"

"You're not in Los Angeles anymore. I mean, you escaped."

Timmie took a second to consider the tidy riot of mums ringing the tall redbrick Victorian house that now belonged to her. She noted the last green of her grass, the translucent strawberry blonde of the sugar maple tree to her right, the deepening garnet of the oak to her left. She saw the streets that transected close by, quiet, tree-laden lanes with graciously preserved homes lined up like prim aunts in dated finery.

This one had been her grandfather's, and his mother's before him. Great-grandmother Leary, an immigrant who'd stepped off the boat the day before her seventeenth birthday to find a better place in a new world. From what Timmie could see from where she stood, it certainly looked as if she'd succeeded.

"I guess it's a matter of semantics," Timmie finally admitted. "I don't think of it as escaping."

Cindy shook her head. "The difference between the two of us, I guess. Johnny was killed in the Chicago Loop, and I never want to see a big city again as long as I live."

"And I think this town needs a serious dose of big city."

Cindy sighed. "Which means you're going to play Cagney and Lacey."

"Nah. Quincy. If Alex won't talk to me, maybe I'll get Billy to talk to me. I can at least check his file when I'm at work."

"I don't baby-sit for free," Cindy reminded her. "Not even if you're kicked out of your job for a worthy cause."

Timmie tried a big "what the hell" smile. "Aw, heck, what's life without a little challenge?"

"I'll keep my calendar open just in case."

Timmie looked up to see that Cindy wasn't joking. Immature she might be. A less-than-stellar ER nurse. But she did try so hard. "Thanks, Cindy. I mean it. You're a lifesaver."

"I'm happy to do it," she said. "But only if you call Alex."

"Yeah. I will." She wouldn't. She still couldn't afford it. "And put the bat back. It's my favorite one."

Cindy pointed the Louisville slugger at Meghan. "Not until that creature's behind bars."

Timmie grinned and joined her daughter, who did, indeed, have a three-horned, goggle-eyed beast wrapped around her neck.

"Renfield isn't a creature," Timmie defended him anyway, even as he swiveled one scaly eye her way like the ball turret on the bottom of a B-24. "He's family."

"He looks like an extra from Godzilla."

"He probably was. But he won't bother you unless you're a fly." Bending over her daughter, Timmie petted the chameleon and tousled Meghan's hair. "Behave while I'm gone, both of you."

Meghan's face fell noticeably. "What about Patty's?" she asked, her voice teetering between plea and challenge.

Timmie crouched right down to eye level. "We'll go ride ponies at Patty's tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's Billy's funeral," Cindy reminded her. "You told Ellen you'd go."

Timmie kept her attention on her daughter. "We'll go the minute we get back from the funeral. I promise."

Plea sank straight into mutiny. "You promised yesterday. And the day before that. I'm getting tired of promises."