Probably the crux of the problem. It was just what he wanted to do.

Nothing.

No struggle for the masses, no deciphering the deeper truths for the great unwashed. No harried deadlines or living out of a duffel bag or coming to grips with the fact that most people didn't want or deserve the truth anyway.

The problem was, of course, that the minute his new editor had recognized his name, she had decided that with him as their brand-new reporter, the revamped Puckett Independent would, like, seek truth and justice in the far suburbs of St. Louis. Murphy kept telling her that it was the duty of junior woodchucks fresh out of journalism school to seek truth and justice. He just wanted a paycheck to fund his well-deserved wallow in oblivion. Sherilee Carter listened with predictable skepticism.

Which was why Sherilee had sent him to the Neurological Research Center Charity Horse Show. She didn't want him to just collect names of attendees for the features page. She wanted him to meet the new Memorial CEO, who would be attending to cheer on his shiny new medical stars. His name was Paul Landry, and Sherilee didn't trust him. It was up to Murphy to find out why.

The site was nice anyway. A wide, protected meadow spread across the bluffs above the Missouri River, out at the western edge of Puckett. Sweeping, manicured lawns, mature trees, and impressive vistas of the huge river that swept by below.

Today the lawns had been transformed into an outdoor ring bristling with flags and edged by rows of imported cars. A huge yellow-and-white-striped tent along one side kept the sun off linen-covered tables and a well-stocked bar, and back by the trees pampered horses were being led in tight circles by pampered humans. Even more overindulged patricians gathered by tent and rail to watch a new horse and rider enter the ring.

As for Paul Landry, he was right where Murphy expected him to be. Comfortably situated by the thousand-dollar tables, smile firmly in place, hand out to the rich and comfortable, who had become fair donation game when they'd decided to develop Puckett as the newest white-flight alternative to St. Louis.

Murphy already knew what was wrong with the new CEO. He'd caught it the minute Landry had compared the running of a small community hospital with an evac unit in Chu Lai.

"Good grief, no," Landry had said in his professionally cultured tenor. "I didn't work there. I was treated there. What they did really made an impression on this underage marine back in seventy-two. It made me want to do the same with my life. Give a little back, you know?"

Landry was small, tight, precise, and professional, with meticulously trimmed hair and a tailor-perfect Hart Schaffner & Marx suit. He was also black. And not light black. Deep, shiny, almost blue-black, standing out in the sleekly white crowd like a raisin in a bowl of milk.

Murphy didn't think that was what had inspired Sherilee's mistrust, though. It was the fact that Landry was a hired gun in a small town. Landry had also just fired Sherilee's best friend's father from the hospital board of directors.

"Great people here," Landry continued, sipping at something amber over rocks. "But we still have a lot of work to do before the hospital can effectively compete in this market."

Already trying to decide what he'd end up bartering from his editor for the information, Murphy turned his attention to the much more agreeable task of watching women ride horses.

"Have you met our Dr. Raymond yet, Mr. Murphy?" an aggressively cultured voice asked beside him.

Murphy didn't turn from where he was contemplating the smooth, sleek haunches of the jumper... the one on top. Murphy took a swig of tap water and lusted for Jack Black and sighed. Nice form. He'd give her an eight on the Murphy Scale.

"No, I haven't," he admitted to the overefficient hospital vice president and public relations maven who had her hand poised just above his jacket sleeve.

"Well, we're in luck," Mary Jane Arlington chirped, now tapping with nothing but the tips of her perfectly manicured nails, her blond pageboy stirring not a hair in the afternoon breeze. "He's right here by the bar. Wouldn't you like a quote?"

No, Murphy wanted to say. I want to stand behind the fence and fantasize about sleek, athletic women with tight little asses and powerful thighs. But the lithe brunette on the big gray trotted out of the ring to be replaced by a guy who looked like he bathed in cologne and held his fork upside down. Murphy finished off his water as if it were a chaser and balanced the glass on top of the cigarette butt he'd already left in the flowers.

"Sure. Let's go see Dr. Raymond."

Mary Jane Arlington made it a point to ignore the flowerpot. She also didn't touch Murphy's elbow again as she led the way through the crowd. Probably afraid to come that close to tweed old enough to have grandfathered the pattern she was wearing. Not to mention the fact that Murphy's jeans weren't stone-washed or boot-cut. Just old, like his jacket. Like him.

Dr. Raymond, it transpired, was standing by the fence alternately watching the latest horse and giving ear to a passing stream of well-wishers. A tall, slim man with great posture and the kind of hair that glowed in the sun, he was in standard jodhpurs and boots, black velvet helmet dangling from the hand that wasn't holding the champagne. Dr. Raymond had been the third person over the jumps, the first with a no-fault round.

"Dr. Raymond," Mary Jane trilled, one hand skimming an inch from Murphy's jacket sleeve. "This is Dan Murphy. He's here to cover the horse show and very much wanted to meet you."

The perfectly golden head turned, eyes crinkled with genial goodwill, long-fingered hand out for a shake.

"Daniel Murphy," Mary Jane finished, "Dr. Alex Raymond, the administrator of Restcrest Place Retirement Center, and cofounder of the Neurological Research Group."

Murphy took hold of the hand, surprised by the quick strength and calluses.

"The Daniel Murphy?" the doctor was asking, eyes all wide.

Murphy did his best to not walk away. "The only one I know."

The doctor shook his haloed head. "No, really. This is a real treat for me. I've been reading your stuff since I was in grade school. You've been wounded in three wars and spit on by a First Lady."

Murphy should have felt more gracious. It was just that he'd been vaguely hoping that Puckett was enough of a backwater that his name wouldn't mean anything. He also could have lived a long time without that coy little reference to grade school.

"She didn't really spit," he said. "It was more an overzealous show of contempt. Besides, I couldn't blame her. Her husband was a nice guy."

"He was a crook."

Murphy shrugged. "What's your point?"

The handsome doctor laughed. Murphy thought he should have at least waited until one of them had said something original.

"But what are you doing here?" the doctor asked, making the day perfect.

"Trying my damnedest to retire."

The doctor laughed again. "Well, we're thrilled to have you here. You like horses?"

"Nope. I like old ladies."

A nod, a quick look to the far end of the tent, where the organizers had thought to exhibit some of the victims who benefited from all this largesse. Crumpled, confused, wheelchair-bound forms with bright bows in their sparse gray hair, they looked like the specters of what everyone could expect for their futures if they didn't contribute generously to Dr. Raymond's worthy cause.

As for Dr. Raymond himself, he smiled. "Me, too." And damn if he didn't sound sincere. "My mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's at fifty-two. She never even got the chance to recognize her grandchildren."