Mr. Cleveland led them both to the light-blue floral couch and reclaimed his easy chair across from the television.

"You want to know why I tried to shoot Dr. Raymond."

Murphy saw Leary actually flinch at the statement. He didn't know whether to feel sorry for her or satisfied. At least one of the questions had been answered.

"Excuse me for asking," Leary said, leaning forward. "But haven't the police been here already?"

"Nope. Not a soul. Except for the Adkins boy, of course, but he didn't come on official business. Heard Father had been in and was thinking about having to do the same for his mother. Wanted my opinions." Mr. Cleveland smiled. "I tried to tell him what I'd done, but he just wasn't interested. Typical of the boy. Always has had a one-track mind. He does so love being a policeman. Makes a lot of noise when he moves."

Present tense. Probably not the time to fill him in.

"Nobody else, though," Leary said, nudging him back on track.

A quick, decisive shake of the head. "And you'd certainly think they would have figured it out by now. It's not like I'm a complete stranger. Father played bridge with Chief Bridges's father every Tuesday for twenty years."

Which neatly explained the "keep-it-in-the-family" angle. Obviously the chief had figured that if Mr. Cleveland wasn't going to say anything, neither was the police chief, who probably knew perfectly well what had become of Mr. Cleveland's father.

"Have you talked to anybody about it?" Murphy asked.

"Just my minister. Told him how stupid I felt after it happened. Never tried anything like that before. Don't know what came over me then."

Leary gently forced the issue. "Your father..."

Cleveland's features clouded over. He seemed to deflate a little, as if the truth would take the stuffing out of him. "Was very sick," he said quietly. "For a very long time."

Leary's voice got as soft as his. "I know," she said. "My father's in Restcrest."

Cleveland exchanged a quick smile of empathy with her that betrayed what the two of them shared. What Murphy knew nothing about. He wisely kept his mouth shut and let Leary take the lead.

"Then you know," Mr. Cleveland said.

Leary just nodded.

Cleveland sighed. "Father was an exceptional man. He fought in three wars, earned the Distinguished Service Medal and the devotion of the entire Marine Corps. He raised me on Plato and Aquinas and Rousseau. By the time he died, he was incoherent."

"You weren't surprised by his death," Leary said quietly, her posture folded forward. A picture of sincere interest, concern, understanding. She sat as still as a mirror, which amazed Murphy. He'd never seen her this subdued before.

Mr. Cleveland shook his head, slipped his glasses off so he could rub at them with his fingers, his attention completely focused on his precise movements. "I told them no," he protested in a very small voice.

Leary leaned forward just a little more. Murphy didn't dare break the fragile silence to prompt her. He didn't have to. "But first," she said even more quietly, her empathy a tangible thing, "you told them yes."

When Mr. Cleveland looked up at her, there were tears in his eyes. "How could I?" he demanded. "He was my father. I loved him. I really did."

Leary's smile was sadder than those tears. "I know."

Again, for just that second, the two of them shared that odd bond of guilty children. And Murphy, wondering what mementos they'd put in that old man's memory case, sat outside, watching.

"I think you want to tell us what happened," Leary said, a hand out to that pressed and creased knee. "Who made the offer, Mr. Cleveland?"

Mr. Cleveland kept looking at his glasses, a safe place to focus his anguish. "I don't know," he admitted. "It was a phone call. Early one morning. Just an anonymous voice in the dark giving me a way out. Father was so sick and I was so stretched financially. And I wasn't even paying as much as I would be now. He was one of the last of the old ones left."

The old ones? Murphy thought, itching. He held still and waited for Leary to ask the question.

"What did the person say?" she asked instead.

"Just... didn't it hurt to see my father that way? Wouldn't it be better if he were at rest."

"A man or a woman?"

For the first time since he'd started confessing, Mr. Cleveland looked up. "I don't know. Isn't that odd? I never even thought about it until later, after I'd tried to... you know. I just assumed it was him. I mean, he is Restcrest, do you see? I'm not so sure anymore. The voice on the phone whispered, and Dr. Raymond really did seem more upset than I did when father died."

"How did they make the offer?"

"They... they asked if I wouldn't want my father at peace. I said... I said yes."

"How did you let them know you'd changed your mind?"

"They called back. I was frantic by then, realizing what I'd said. What I'd told them to do. I told them to stop, just to forget it. I wouldn't tell anybody, but don't hurt my father... but they'd just called to say it was okay now. Father was... um, at peace. I guess I went a little crazy after that."

"Did they ask for money?" Leary asked, surprising Murphy all over again. He hadn't even thought of that.

"No," Mr. Cleveland said, his hold on those poor glasses warping the frames.

"Do you think anybody else might have had a call like yours?"

For the first time, the precise, quiet man smiled. "Oh, yes. I know they did. I ran into a couple of other families in town, and they obviously thought I was as relieved as they were that it was all over. You might want to ask them if they donated money."

"Did you?" she asked. "Donate?"

A flush. A tic. A tiny nod. "A thousand dollars."

He got another pat of understanding. "What other families, Mr. Cleveland?"

He told her. One of the couples had told Murphy and Leary not an hour ago how surprised they'd been by Mother's untimely demise. Murphy could see from the tight cast of Leary's mouth that she was disappointed.

Murphy envied her those last vestiges of idealism and wondered how much longer they'd last.

"Have you heard from them again?" Leary asked, her hand still out on the middle-aged man's knee.

Mr. Cleveland shook his head, re-slung his glasses around his neck, as if putting himself back together again. "Are you going to the police?" he asked. "If you are, would you mind giving me the time to tell Betty? She doesn't know."

Leary spared Murphy a quick look. Murphy lifted his hands. Her call. She shook her head. "I don't think so, Mr. Cleveland. Would you be willing to help us investigate these deaths?"

"If you want."

Leary's smile this time was purely feminine, and Murphy was impressed. Mr. Cleveland beamed back like she'd offered him sex.

"Thank you," Leary said. "That would help a lot. You said something about your father being one of the last of the old ones. Can you tell me what you meant?"

Cleveland wagged a finger at her. "I bet you're paying through the nose to keep your father in that place, aren't you?"

Murphy saw a flush creep up Leary's neck. Even so, she smiled. "In a word, Mr. Cleveland."

He nodded, satisfied. "Father was a patient at Restcrest in the old days, before all this new rehabbing business happened. We had a lifetime contract locked in at a much lower rate. That new guy, Landry, tried to break the contract, but he couldn't. So they had to put Father right alongside the people who were paying fancy prices for all that high-tech care."