I thought of him standing there in his shorts and smiled in the darkness. I didn’t know if Frank and I would be able to be more than good friends, but I did know that something more than dependence and guilt was involved.

“I like the guy,” I said aloud, and Cody looked up at me. I scratched him between the ears. Before long I was fast asleep. Morning came so quickly, I’m not sure I had time to dream.

IWOKE UP with the lousy awareness that exactly one week ago, my whole world had blown apart. O’Connor dead a week. I lay in bed, feeling the spike of painful, hopeless longing for his company run through me. I wanted so much to hear his voice, his laugh, his lousy Irish jokes. I wanted him to come back, to be alive again. I knew I wasn’t going to get what I wanted, but I wanted it anyway.

I made myself get up and get dressed. It didn’t help. Lydia was scheduled to work a half-day at the paper; I asked if I could ride in with her.

“Sure,” she said, studying me. “What’s wrong?”

I shrugged, not wanting to open a Pandora’s box of emotion by talking about how much I missed O’Connor. I was afraid I’d spend the morning blubbering into my breakfast cereal. I tried to make an effort at light conversation; when I failed to carry that off, I settled for being quiet.

Throughout breakfast and the drive to work, Lydia didn’t try to force me to confess my mood or the cause of it. If I had been on better emotional footing, I would have been grateful for it; as it was, I felt bad about not talking to her. I wondered if she regretted taking in such a brooding boarder.

“Lydia,” I said as she pulled into a parking space at the newspaper, “I don’t know how long all of this will go on. Maybe I should try to figure out some long-term arrangements.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t want to put a strain on our friendship. Maybe I should look for a place of my own.”

“Irene,” she said, giving me the exact same look that Sister Joseph used to give me when I had misbehaved in third grade, “relax. We’ve been friends over a long period of time. We survived both Catholic school and being roommates in college, and we’re still friends. So we’ll be okay. Not another word on the subject.”

“But if I start to bother you-”

“Irene.”

Even Sister Joseph was never so exasperated with me. “Yes?” I asked meekly.

“I know what’s wrong with you this morning. I don’t like thinking back on it either. But there are fifty-two Sundays every year and we can’t just fall apart on every one of them. So let’s deal with it like good little workaholics. Get out of the car.”

So I shut up and we walked into the building together. Once there, we went our separate ways; Lydia went to work at the City Desk, I went to the morgue. I checked out the same roll I had looked over before, and threaded it through the machine.

A little bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, I tried to concentrate on the microfilm images on the small screen before me. I found the June 18, 1955, issue again, with its story of Jennifer Owens’s murder. It struck me that I was reading the article on the thirty-fifth anniversary of the night she was murdered.

The June 21, 1955, issue had the story of Blanche Woolsey’s accident. Finally I came to the June 26 issue, with its coverage of the Sheffield-Hollingsworth wedding.

I paid closer attention to it now. Elinor wore an ornate wedding gown; the young woman in the photos looked as self-assured at twenty-two as she did today. The years had not done much to change her. Was it my imagination, or did Andrew Hollingsworth look nervous? Of course, many bridegrooms do.

The article talked of family, friends, and attendees. The guest list read like the blue book of Las Piernas. The groom’s family had arrived from Boston, Massachusetts. So Andrew had merely chosen a warm climate for his undergraduate work, and returned to his local neighborhood for his law degree.

Suddenly, I came across a paragraph that riveted my attention. It told of how the bride and groom had met. “Richard Longren, Las Piernas City Councilman, proudly took credit for introducing the happy couple to one another.” Apparently, Longren and Hollingsworth had been fraternity brothers at ASU. Longren was three years ahead of Hollingsworth, but they had been good friends. Hollingsworth came out to visit Longren in Las Piernas one summer vacation before law school.

I combined what I read on the microfilm with stories I had heard from O’Connor over the years, or knew from growing up in Las Piernas. The Longrens were in the same social circles as the Sheffields, at least on the outer orbits, since the Sheffields were a circle of their own. I remembered hearing that Richard Longren had all but ruined his father’s once very successful lumber business. Evidently his political ambitions had taken precedence.

The gist of the microfilm story was that Longren had taken his old pal Andrew Hollingsworth out to some fancy to-do at the Sheffield place. Andrew met Elinor, and, as they say, the rest is history. She waited for his graduation from Harvard, but persuaded Daddy Sheffield to make sure Andrew could clerk wherever he wanted to during summer breaks. Andrew knew a good deal when he saw one.

I returned the microfilm. I walked upstairs to the newsroom and sat at O’Connor’s desk. I needed time to think.

Both Richard Longren and Andrew Hollingsworth had gone to ASU. I wondered if Elaine Owens Tannehill had attended ASU as well. If she had, then that might provide some kind of connection between one or both of the two men and Jennifer Owens. I picked up the phone and called Arizona information. I asked for the number for the Owenses, but it was unlisted. I hung up and thought for a while. I called information again, with success this time, when I asked for the numbers of Rachel Giocopazzi and the Phoenix Police.

I tried Rachel at home first. She answered on the second ring with a terse “Giocopazzi.”

“Rachel? Irene Kelly.”

“Oh, Irene! For a minute I thought those bastards were gonna call me in on a Sunday. First day off I’ve had in the last nine days. So how are you doing, kid?”

“I’m doing a lot better than the last time you saw me. I guess you know the guy who killed Elaine Tannehill is dead.”

“Yeah, your pal Pete is coming out here again to tie up some loose ends on that one.”

I found myself grinning into the phone. So old wily Pete had finagled at least one more trip to see Rachel. Good for him.

“You still there?”

“Yeah, sorry-got distracted here for a minute. I’m at the paper. I was looking at some old microfilm and started wondering about something, and I thought you might be willing to help me out.”

“Sure, if I can.”

“Any chance I could talk to Elaine Tannehill’s mother? There are a couple of people here who might have known Elaine when she was younger.”

“You have some idea on who hired Hawkeyes?”

“Too early to call it an idea. Just some pretty loose speculation.”

“Hmm. Will you let me know if you turn up anything solid?”

“No problem. I just don’t want to open a can of worms by guessing aloud at this point.”

“Well, I tell you what. Even though it is a Sunday and my day off, I’ll call in and get a number for old lady Owens. I’ll ask her if she’s willing to talk to you; if she is, I’ll have her call you. I couldn’t get much out of her this week-she’s been pretty upset-so no guarantees. But I’ll try. That good enough?”

“That would be great. I really appreciate it, Rachel, and I’m sorry to bother you on your day off.”

“Ah, I make noise about it, but what else do I have to do?”

“Well, I still appreciate it.” I gave her the numbers for the paper and Lydia’s house.

I hung up and sat there brooding over the bits and pieces of information I had. I reached over and turned the computer terminal on, and went back to the sections of O’Connor’s notes on the mayor’s race. The election would be held in November. The primary had just been held during the first week of June, and for the first time in years, Longren had failed to take enough of a majority to avoid a runoff.