September 7th

The Adventures of Froggy March- Christopher Harris- audio podcast

SEPTEMBER 14th- SEASON 4 BEGINS WITH ALL NEW SHOWS

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While I monitored the reading of these stories during the radio broadcast I noticed that although the subject matter, content, and tone of the stories are quite different, they nonetheless share themes of loss and responsibility. After a story is complete and out of a writer's day to day life, he or she re-approaches it not as a writer,but a reader, and often sees things that weren't conscious decisions while writing. Very interesting part of the process.

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She wrote the stories in Are You a Survivor during and after her treatment for breast cancer in 2001 and 2002. The title refers to a question she was asked at a breast cancer support group the day after her diagnosis. She lives in Springfield, Massachusetts.

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Adam has been to Greenland.

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Sean's website is www.byseanferrell.com

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Pat Remick is an award-winning short story author and veteran journalist, and has co-authored two non-fiction books. She is 2010 president of Sisters in Crime New England, co-chair of the Nov. 12-14, 2010, New England Crime Bake conference for mystery writers and readers, and a member of Mystery Writers of America. Her short stories have appeared in anthologies and she is working on a novel. Pat blogs at PatRemick.blogspot.com and at workingstiffs.blogspot.com. Her web site is

www.PatRemick.com

Circulation

It was the kind ofheat that could turn deadly. Edward Philbrick traced watery trails through the condensationclouding his beer mug and wondered how long it would it be before theblistering temperatures took their toll.

His looked up ashis uninvited supper companion plopped down on the red plastic stool beside himand said, “Hot enuff fer ya?”

            “Whatthe hell do you think?” Edward grumbled. He turned his attention back to hissteaming plate of “Tonight’s Special” at the Pines Café: overcooked pot roast, yellowmashed potatoes covered with lumpy brown gravy, and washed-out green beans bathedin far too much butter.

            Eventhe coldest beer wouldn’t counteract the heat rising from his plate. But the $5.99“Special” was affordable, an important consideration given two ex-wives and fivechildren scattered across the country. They despised him, but not the money hesent faithfully each month. Edward understood obligation all too well.

Tonight he hadlittle appetite for his supper or another conversation about a sweltering NewEngland summer day. Edward had heard “Hot enuff fer ya?” too many times already.

He realized CochecoMills was no different from small towns everywhere with their citizenry connectedby endless discussion about the weather because they often had little in commonbeyond their shared geography. But what did these New Englanders expect? It wasAugust, for chrissakes. They were just too cheap to embrace air conditioning intheir belief that scorching heat was as rare a blizzard in May.

They seemed toforget that every summer brought a few days when their homes became stiflingboxes filled with the sound of whirring fans that barely circulated the heavyair. Heat shimmered off the blacktop and threatened to ignite the dry brown needlesalongside the roadways, creating a pungent combination of pine and tar. Limp clothingclung to sweaty bodies. It resulted in a common irritability aggravated byconstant complaining about the oppressive heat. Even the churches prayed for anend to the searing temperatures.

            “Areal scorcher, ain’t it? Get this hot in Texas, Eddie?”

Edward hated to becalled Eddie by anyone and especially by Bill Wykoff. It implied a familiaritythat did not exist. Sharing space at the café’s worn Formica counter didn’tmake them friends. If it had, the friendship would have been one-sided sincethe retired postal carrier generally talked nonstop, primarily about himself.Most nights, Edward found it easier to daydream than try and fight his way intoBill’s monologue. But tonight he was too irritated to keep quiet.

“Are you kidding? Backin Texas, it was hotter than this in the middle of winter, for chrissakes.That’s why there were so many murders – too frigging hot.”

 “Well, I reckon we’d rather have heatand mosquitoes than murdahs,” Bill said, his New Hampshire accent destroying the“r’s” on some words and adding them to others.

He waved over thenew part-time waitress, a perky high school student named Brittany, and askedfor a lemonade refill. “Of course, some would say the mosquitoes are murdahenough, right Brittany?” he chortled. 

The teenagerpolitely smiled. Edward was too hot to be amused.  “Hey, Missy, any chance you can find another fan to get someair circulating? It’s too damn hot in here to eat.” Brittany’s smile vanishedas she scurried off.

 “Give her a break, Eddie. The heat’s nother fault,” Bill said.
            “If you call me Eddie one more time, I just might murder you. Maybe thatway you’d get the point.”            

Come to think ofit, a murder would definitely be more exciting than what qualified as news inthis former factory town. Edward was weary of running stories about thenever-ending squabbles of the volunteer selectmen, the recurring -- and thusfar unfounded -- panic that a big-box store would move in to drive out local businesses,and the infinite number of local sports that changed only with the players’names.

Neither Bill northe general population of Cocheco Mills realized it, but the byline of “Edward T.Philbrick II” once stood tall atop scores of major news stories. In his day, Edwardhad toppled the arrogant, humbled the elected, and exposed the entrusted.

Cocheco Mills sawonly a pot-bellied, middle-aged newspaper editor who ate supper every eveningat the town’s sole year-round restaurant because there was no one at home tocook for him. In three short years, Edward had become part of the town’s dailyrhythm, someone who showed up at Rotary meetings and other local events, andmade sure their lives were chronicled.     Hehated this town.

Edward’s miserywas interrupted by the sound of angry voices coming from the small office off thecafé’s dining room. He could see its “manager,” a tall, skinny 20-year-oldnamed Jimmy Jones, arguing with his pregnant wife who had arrived minutesearlier. From the few words Edward could make out above the clatter, Tiffanywas resisting Jimmy’s demands that she go home to clean in preparation forentertaining his parents the following evening. 

            “Whatare you lookin’ at?” Bill asked.

Edward pointedtoward the office. “Looks like the new Mrs. Jones may be thinking better of herdecision to marry our esteemed manager. Wanna bet how long this marriagelasts?”

“Until he’s a bigbasketball star. Everyone’s says he’s goin’ to make it to the big time,” Billsaid.

 “Yeah, right.”

Edward didn’t likeJimmy. There were rumors the cocky young man had a history of bullying andbrushes with the law that his parents used their financial influence toconceal. Edward knew people resented that Jimmy got away with so much over theyears. But not even his family could save him from the rule that two failinggrades made him ineligible to play basketball his senior year so Jimmy droppedout of Cochecho Mills High.

After hearing somuch praise over the years, Jimmy considered it only a minor setback on theroad to a professional basketball career. He played in all the regional leaguesand supported himself with “temporary” employment at the Pines Café. In twoyears he had advanced from line cook to manager of the restaurant now decoratedwith his sports trophies. There were rumors cocaine made it easier for Jimmy tobelieve the pro scouts would come.

Brittany returnedfrom the kitchen with another box fan and plugged it in near the end of thecounter. “About time,” Edward said. 

Brittany managed aweak smile. “Another beer, Mr. Philbrick?”

“Better make it atall one. I need something to cool me down before I go back to the newsroom.It’s like a sauna.” 

“More lemonade,Mr. Wykoff?” Brittany asked.

 “Please make mine a tall one, too, mydear.” Bill removed his faded U.S. Postal Service cap and used a paper napkinto wipe his bald head. Then he launched into a lengthy series of anecdotesabout his hottest days as a mail carrier.  

Edward tried toappear interested even though he had heard all the stories before. He preferredto drink his beer in peace rather than deal with the agitation that followed ifBill realized he wasn’t listening.

He had just 15minutes of his supper break left, but Edward needed more liquid fortificationto face another frustrating evening of dealing with rookie reporters who couldn’tspell or find the lead of a news story unless it bit them in the butt. He wastired of training these ungrateful beginners only to watch them leave for higher-payingjobs and more glory than he had enjoyed in years.

He also dreadedtomorrow’s meeting with the out-of-state publisher, who arrived like clockwork twicea year to “look at ourselves on paper” and gauge the newspaper’s financialhealth. Edward avoided the advertising side of the business, but sensed thingswere not going well.  

“What in tarnationis going on?” Bill asked, nodding toward the office.

The shouting waslouder. Edward thought he saw Jimmy raise his hand to Tiffany before he slammedthe door shut. Seconds later, a sobbing Tiffany ran out of the restaurant,hands covering her pretty face.

 “Sure you don’t want to place a bet onthat marriage?” Edward asked.

Bill used hisnapkin to wipe his glasses and blot the moisture off his head again. “Everycouple has squabbles, you know that. Even me and my beautiful wife, Ann, Godrest her soul, had some doozies over the years.”

As Bill launchedinto a lengthy narrative about the many qualities of his late wife, Edward watchedBrittany place her order pad on the counter, walk quickly to the office, slipinside and close the door. Less than 10 minutes later, she and Jimmy emerged, facesflushed and clothing slightly askew. He thought Jimmy looked well-comforted.

Edward sighed andput a $10 bill and change on the counter. “Duty calls. See you tomorrow, Bill.”  

Bill nodded and,still talking about his beloved late wife, turned toward the truck drivereating silently beside him.

            Jimmyleaned against the doorframe inside the entrance, a smirk on his face. Edwardstopped and pointed at him. “Hey Mr. Manager, think maybe you could check thethermometer – and the calendar -- and find some ‘specials’ that are slightlymore appropriate for the weather?”

            “Surething, Mr. Philbrick,” Jimmy said, still grinning. “And when do you thinkyou’ll run a story on the summer league and all the points I’m scoring?”

“When it’s news,Jimmy,” Edward muttered as he walked outside. He felt the slightest hint of anevening breeze.

Maybe things wereabout to change.

He glanced towardthe river and noticed a shiny black sedan with tinted windows and Massachusettsplates approaching on Main Street. It slowed in front of the café and turneddown the narrow driveway that led to the employees’ parking lot. The vehicleresembled a limousine, but Edward doubted its mission was upscale.

            Thenext day’s meeting with the publisher went even more poorly than Edward couldhave imagined. Examining the Daily News “on paper” produced far more financialnegatives than positives. The young publisher warned Edward he had three monthsto turn things around or the newspaper would become history -- along with his job.

 “Maybe I should just fire you now andput us both out of our misery,” the publisher groaned. “But I’ve never forgottenhow you treated me like a regular reporter instead of the publisher’s son backin Texas all those years ago. You better pull this off, Edward. We can’t keepbleeding cash.”

 Edward had weathered many ups and downsduring his lengthy career. But he wasn’t sure how much lower he could go. TheDaily News was pretty much at the bottom of the other side of “over the hill.”No decent large newspaper would ever hire him as an editor if he got fired fromthis job. And he was just too old, too broke and too jaded to start over as areporter.

Maybe he shouldsell out for a public relations job. The price would be higher than anysmall-town newspaper could pay. But journalism was the only thing that ever excitedEdward. His ten years of working as a reporter in Texas were the most thrillingof his life. The adventure ended prematurely when family obligations forced hisreturn to New England. With his parents – and marriages – now dead, the DailyNews was all he had left.

This weighed onhis mind as he slid onto his regular stool at the café counter a few hoursafter the depressing meeting with the publisher. There was no reason to rushback from supper. The edition had been put to bed.  Only a tragedy of major proportions could wake it up -- like acouple of drunken teenagers wrapping their car around a telephone pole.

Jimmy and Brittanysmiled at him. “Hey, Mr. Philbrick, we got some pretty ‘cool’ specials for you tonight.”Jimmy winked as Brittany giggled and gave her boss an adoring look. “Maybe you’llbe in a better mood to discuss me and the summer league now.”

“We’ll see.” Edwardgrabbed the list of specials from Brittany. He was pleased to discover thatsomeone had figured out that cold chicken salad and gazpacho were better summerfare than steaming pot roast. Maybe cocaine hadn’t totally destroyed Jimmy’s brainyet.

“I thought youmight find these more to your liking, sir,” Jimmy said with a small bow.  “And as they say, the customer isalways right.”

“You come up withthese yourself, Jimmy?”

“Of course I did.”He grinned.

Edward saw aflicker of disappointment cross Brittany’s face before she turned and walkedaway.  Jimmy didn’t seem to notice.Instead, he turned his attention toward Bill Wykoff, who had just come throughthe front door. 

 “Hey, Mr. Mailman, what big fat lies areyou delivering this evening?” Jimmy said loudly.  “By the way, is it true you guys used to open all the packagesand take out what you wanted before you delivered them?”

“You know damnwell the Postal Service doesn’t allow that.”
            Evenfrom a distance, Edward knew Bill was seething. Everyone, including Jimmy, knewBill’s retirement had not lessened his allegiance to the United States PostalService. From his first day of employment, Bill Wykoff had put the PostalService on the same pedestal as God, country and his sainted mother.

 “Well, I do know that when mygrandmother sent me cookies, one of them had a bite taken out of it and youdelivered the box,” Jimmy said.

“Are you accusingme of violating federal law by opening your mail? If so, you better have proof,buddy,” Bill said, his voice rising.

“Chill, you oldcoot. I’m just yanking your chain. Don’t go postal on me.”

Bill glared at theyoung man. “It’s not a joke to accuse someone of a federal crime. Say somethinglike that again and I’ll give you postal with my fist.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Mailman,” Jimmysaid. “But you better cool down before you give yourself a heart attack.  Let me get you some lemonade.” Heturned away to get Bill’s drink.

“He thinks I’mkidding,” Bill said, taking the empty stool next to Edward. “I could knock thespit out of that kid in a minute. And I will, too, if he doesn’t stop harassingme.”

“What makes youthink he’s harassing you?” Edward said.

“He’s been makingcracks about the Postal Service all week. I oughta smack him around on generalprinciples. Think that would knock some sense into him, Eddie?” 

Edward grimacedand signaled Brittany to bring him a beer. “How many times do I have to tellyou to call me Edward? How would you like it if I went around calling you Billyor Billy W?”

 “Heat’s making everyone cranky, ain’tit? How about we head down to the tavern after supper and see if we can improvethat nasty mood of yours, old man?”

Edward wasn’t fondof the Corner Tavern, but it was one of the few places that might be tolerabletonight. No sunlight entered the bar and there were enough air-conditioningunits to  counteract the heat and heavyfog of cigarette smoke. Plus, the beer was cold and the music decent. He hadnothing better to do – why not?

As they left,Edward noticed the same black sedan from the day before approach and turn intothe driveway beside the Café.

“Who’s that?” Billsaid. “Looks like out-of-state plates.”
”Probably some friend of Jimmy’s. I doubt he’s here for the food.”

It was still earlyfor the regular tavern crowd. Edward and Bill took a booth in the back.  The air conditioning was such a relief itwas easy to ignore the darkness and the stale smell of alcohol and cigarettes.

 “What’ll it be, boys? And where youbeen?” asked Kathy, a rough-looking waitress who had been slinging beers aslong as anyone could remember. 

“Here and thereand back again.” Bill winked at Kathy, but she ignored him.

 “If you’ve been reading the paper,you’ve got a pretty good idea what I’ve been doing – a big fat nothing,” Edwardsaid.

Two hours andthree pitchers of beer later, Bill had pretty much run out of things to sayabout himself and his lovely (but deceased) wife. He also ranted about howJimmy Jones insulted not only him, but thousands of Postal Service employees.“Someone really needs to teach that jerk a lesson,” Bill declared more thanonce. Edward nodded and continued drinking.

Having exhaustedhis usual topics and with no new potential listeners in sight, Bill askedEdward about his time in Texas.

 “Did it all: Tornadoes, rodeos, oil andcotton. Courts and crime. But the murders were the best,” Edward said. He felta slight beer buzz.

Bill drained hisglass. “That’s sick.”

“It was great. WhenI was in West Texas, there was at least one murder a week. They were alldifferent. One time a woman went to the bathroom at this cowboy bar and cameout to find another gal in her seat. Pulled out a gun and blew thechair-stealer away. Got her seat back, though,” Edward said.

“Are you serious?”Bill slurred. “Heat make ‘em all crazy or just the wild, wild West?”

Edward laughed.“Probably both. Everyone has a gun in Texas. Back then, if a black man wasmurdered, there might be a couple paragraphs in the back of the newspaper. Butif the victim was white, always front page. That’s why I liked white murders thebest – guaranteed byline on page one above the fold. A real rush.”

Bill refilledtheir glasses while Edward continued reminiscing. “I’ll never forget this newbride was shot to death outside her apartment building in 1979 – wedding gown stillon her bed inside. The managing editor vowed there would be a front-page storyevery day until her murder was solved. Circulation went through the roof.”

 Bill was surprised the beer had loosenedmore words from Edward than three years of eating supper together. 

“I wrote so manystories about ‘beautiful blushing bride Mary-Alice Oatman’ that it got to thepoint that I cared more about finding a new angle for the next story than thefact that a 22-year-old girl was brutally murdered,” Edward said. “Sad to say, Mary-AliceOatman made my career.”

 “Did they evah find out who did it?”

“Nope. Eventuallythe readers got tired of the front-page stories. So did the cops. I went to abigger newspaper but there’s an anniversary story every year. Some people thinkthe husband did it, but no one could prove it.”

“Why the husband?”

“Turned out he hada girlfriend on the side. Cops also wondered if maybe she did it. Couldn’tprove that, either.” Edward lifted his glass: “To beautiful blushing bride Mary-AliceOatman. May she rest in peace.”

 “Where their murdahs in the other placesyou worked?” Bill asked.

“Oh, sure. Barfights, domestics, drug deals gone bad. You name it. But they were neverfront-page stories like the unsolved cases, especially if the victim was youngor attractive. Better if they were both.”

Edward tookanother swig. “We had a preschool teacher fatally shot coming home from herbachelorette party. Even the wire services picked up that story. My byline wasin newspapers all over the country. It was great.”

Bill couldn’tbelieve what he was hearing. “Great?”

“Not the murder,but the play,” Edward said.

“The play?”

“Yeah, play.That’s what you call it when a story gets into a lot of newspapers and on theTV and radio news. Murder always gets big play. ”

“Oh.” Billfrowned, obviously trying his best to understand despite increasinginebriation.

 “Anyway, another time this handsomeall-American-type was shot when he went out to get ice cream for his new wife.Got interviewed on TV for that one.”

“That’s terrible.Did they find any of the killers?”

Edward stared intohis glass. “A few years later, a whacko serial killer named Timothy Lee Zilker claimedhe killed Mary-Alice and the other two, plus about twenty others across the country.They executed him, but the families never believed he was the one. Cops didn’teither.”

Bill was quiet fora moment and then raised his mug. “To all those poor young people.” Then hepassed out, spilling his beer on Edward.

It was time to gohome.

At 3 a.m., theringing interrupted Edward’s drunken stare at the blank television screen.“What?” he grunted into the telephone, fighting to sound sober.

It was Police ChiefLen Adkins. A patrolman had discovered the battered and bloodied body of JimmyJones outside the Pines Café just after midnight. He was shot twice in the backand a shattered basketball trophy was nearby. The state attorney general’soffice was sending someone down to help with the investigation. “I thoughtmaybe you’d want to get down here before the big papers,” Adkins said.

Edward changedinto fresh clothes. The streets were clear of traffic and the crackling ofemergency radios outside the restaurant interrupted the predawn silence. Edwardwould not be the only newsman here for long.

 He joined Adkins and a group ofpoliceman near Jimmy’s bloody corpse. “Looks like Mrs. Jones was a tad unhappywith her basketball star hubby,” Edward offered.

 “What makes you think Tiffany did this?They’re newlyweds, for God’s sake,” Adkins said.

Edward hesitated.“Doesn’t mean she didn’t do it. They were fighting a couple nights ago andthings got pretty heated. He may have even hit her.”

Adkins stared atEdward. “Did you see him hit her?”

“No, but I’mpretty sure he did. She ran out with her hands over her face.”

 “Why didn’t you report it? Spousal abuseis a crime in this state.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

“Then you can’t besure now, either, can you? Jimmy was an asshole sometimes, but murdered by hisown wife? That’s crazy.”

 “I think he was fooling around with thatnew waitress, Brittany. With a baby on the way, Tiffany might have mad enoughto kill him. Even if she didn’t, there’s always the cocaine angle. I can’t bethe only one who’s seen those black sedans from Mass.”

“Jaysus. Jimmy’sbody ain’t even cold and you’re making up crap,” Adkins said. “We best justwait and see how this thing plays out.”

They didn’t haveto wait long. All of Cocheco Mills soon knew that Jimmy was not only shot, butalso bludgeoned with one of his prized trophies. They read about it in a DailyNews special edition beneath the byline of Edward T. Philbrick II.

Edward told his youngreporters that covering Jimmy’s killing required experience, preferably someonewho written about murders before. This kind of story was important to anewspaper.

In the days thatfollowed, Edward churned out page one stories with new angles and not-so-vaguereferences to unsavory activities involving Jimmy and those around him. Edwardknew the authorities had no idea who killed Jimmy or why.

Daily Newscirculation soared.  Newsubscriptions were at an all-time high. Newspaper vending boxes were emptied byeager readers. Advertising sales skyrocketed.

The heat spell hadbroken, but there was still plenty to talk about. Cocheco Mills couldn’t getenough of the murder of Jimmy Jones and the search for his killer (“or killers”as Edward speculated).

Chief Adkinsrepeatedly tried to reassure the populace, saying it was unlikely Jimmy was thevictim of random violence. (A theory unsupported by evidence, the Daily Newsnoted.)

Edward used allhis journalism skills to keep the saga twisting and turning. If there was nothingofficial to report, he posed leading questions to authorities. When theyrefused to answer, Edward used their non-responses to raise suspicions.

He asked ChiefAdkins if anyone ever investigated domestic abuse allegations against Jimmy. Asexpected, the chief declined comment. So Edward wrote “Chief Adkins refused toconfirm or deny reports of domestic abuse, or to comment on reports TiffanyJones spent the night at her parents’ home following a newlywed spat hoursbefore her husband’s murder.” It caused readers to wonder if Jimmy was killed forhitting his wife.

Another day,Edward reported authorities refused to confirm that Jimmy was having an affairwith a co-worker who reportedly worked late the night he died. Edward quoted theco-worker’s parents as saying she was home early to finish her homework, makingher identity obvious to café regulars while giving readers another suspect andmotive to consider.

When Edwardlearned police planned to question everyone in the café the night of Jimmy’sdeath, he published his own account of Jimmy’s final hours. He related inpainstaking detail Jimmy’s comments to Bill Wykoff but sanitized Bill’sreaction, for which the retired postal carrier was grateful.

Another day,Edward quoted unnamed sources who related stories about Jimmy’s bullying past.He even contacted drug authorities so he could write they refused comment ona  possible drug connection,providing the first public hint of Jimmy’s substance abuse and sparking rumorshe was the victim of a drug deal gone bad.

Edward also cited“reports that a black sedan with tinted windows and Massachusetts licenseplates was seen at the Café the day of the murder, as well as the day before.”He found “an expert” who said Massachusetts was the source of most illegaldrugs coming into New Hampshire. Chief Adkins demanded Edward provideadditional details.  Edward refusedbut used their conversation for a story the next day.

Salaciousness soldfar more newspapers than sympathy ever could. Edward did everything possible toensure the dirty linen of Jimmy Jones – and everyone around him – was ondisplay each morning.

 Although the café closed out of respect forJimmy’s funeral, it quickly reopened to serve the hungry mourners. By the nextday, Jimmy and his trophies were replaced. Brittany was said to be toodistraught to return. Other than the gossip about each morning’s Daily Newsstory, life seemed to return to normal.

But Bill Wykofffelt unsettled. There was a change in his supper routine. Most evenings, Edwardwas so involved in writing about Jimmy’s murder he didn’t eat at the café. Onthe rare occasions when he did, Edward gave only a brief greeting to Bill andthe rest of the regulars as he quickly walked to a rear booth. He ate alone,cell phone beside his plate, and left as soon as he was finished.

Chief Adkins wasnow Bill’s more frequent companion at the counter, too busy investigatingJimmy’s slaying (and dealing with the rumors sparked by Edward’s stories)to  drive home for supper with hisfamily.

 “Hey Chief, this thing ever gonna besolved?” Bill asked one evening a few weeks later.

“Sure as hell hopeso,” Adkins said. “The police databases haven’t turned up anything. I’m gettingso desperate I even tried the Internet to see if I can locate similar cases.”

“Find anything?”

“Not one case sofar where a gun and a basketball trophy were used to kill someone. I don’t havemuch time to search, though, being so busy responding to the Daily Newsstories.  I’m getting pretty tiredof seeing Edward T. Philbrick II’s name, and mine, on page one every day.”

“He really likeswritin’ about these kinds of murdahs. Told me that’s how he made his name inTexas, said they were good for business.”

The Chief put downhis coffee cup. “What do you mean by ‘these kinds of murders’?”  

“You know, youngpeople, just startin’ out, like Jimmy and Tiffany.”

 The Chief was about to respond when hesaw Edward enter the café behind a slickly dressed younger man whom Bill identifiedas the newspaper’s out-of-state publisher. Edward looked away from the counteras the duo headed for a booth by the window. He seemed happy, something thatnever happened when the publisher was in town. 

 Bill felt the hairs stand up on the backof his neck. Now he knew why he felt so uneasy.  The circumstances were too familiar. He leaned toward theChief and whispered: “Have you tried searching the Web for ‘newlywed murders’?”

 Across the café, Edward put down hismenu and looked up expectantly. The publisher smiled. “Edward, I met with the advertising side. There’sbeen a phenomenal turnaround. As usual, murder has done wonders for circulationand our profit margin.”

Edward wasrelieved. Maybe he wouldn’t lose his job after all.

The publisher playedwith his fork. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I’m keeping the Daily Newsopen, but replacing you.”

Edward felt likehe had been sucker-punched. All the effort and long hours, and this was hisreward? He had put the newspaper first, pushed things to the edge and beyond. Edwardfelt his face turning red. He didn’t know if he could control his rage, even ifhe wanted to.

The publisher laughed.  “I can see you’re surprised. Youshouldn’t be. You done good, Edward. I need you in Montpelier. The Beacon needsa new managing editor.”

Edward was stunned.

“And do you knowwhy I want you there, Edward?” the bemused publisher asked.

“Because I hatebeing here?”  

“No, Edward. It’sbecause you understand there are circumstances that can require anextraordinary commitment to boost circulation numbers.”

 Edward waited for his boss tocontinue.   

 “I was afraid you’d lost that commitment,”the publisher said. “It took a while, but you proved once again that you’re notafraid to do what it takes for the good of the newspaper. That’s the kind ofmanaging editor I need in Montpelier. What do you say?”  

Edward struggledto find the right words. Finally he said, “Have I ever let you down?”

TIME WILL TELL     

by Twist Phelan

            LaurenWinslow swept into my office a half hour after my secretary left, twentyminutes before Security came on duty downstairs. As slim as a fading hope, shewore a long sapphire sheath that was sexy but modest at the same time. She hungher wet umbrella on the coat tree next to the door and collapsed into herfavorite chair, the one closest to my desk.

            Iturned over the spreadsheet I’d been reviewing and put on a welcoming smile.“You’re looking lovely this evening, Madame Prosecutor. What’s the occasion?”

            “Annualjudges’ dinner at the Downtown Club. If I’d known the weather was going to bethis bad, I would have rented a tux.” She brushed off the raindrops thatspangled her hem, revealing a pair of satin slingbacks with vicious heels.“They’re roasting Galletti, so I have to be there. Would you please just killme now?”

            Lauren going to an event for Glamour BoyGalletti? “An evening of lawyers in white ties telling white lies—you’ll bein your element, Counselor.”

            Shechuckled, a low sound of genuine mirth. She had deep-set brown eyes, wavychestnut hair, and a dusting of freckles so fine I often wondered if I’dimagined them. “I think you’d hold your own, Tommy.”

            Laurenheaded up the Complex Crimes Unit for the regional office of the Department ofJustice. A dozen attorneys under Galletti were on a crusade against“sophisticated” criminals—corporate fraudsters, identity thieves, computerhackers, pay-for-play politicos, big-time polluters. “We’re not interested inordinary crooks,” Lauren had told me when we first met. “We go after the smartpeople who’ve gone bad, the ones who screw over widows and orphans.”

            Iheld up an almost-empty tumbler of whiskey. “Care to get a head start on the festivities?”

            Shedeclined, as she always did during her impromptu visits. Instead, she stood upand walked to the window, all fine-boned elegance and height. What began as anafternoon shower had turned into leaden rain. It was an ugly day, exactly asforecast.

            Iwondered why Lauren was here. Usually she dropped by to regale me with somecourtroom triumph—the defeat of a defendant’s motion to suppress evidence, aunanimous Guilty verdict, a plea thatsent somebody away for twenty-five years. Her stories hinted at rules she hadto bend, witnesses she had to bully into fatal admissions.

Tonight, though, she was different. There wassomething about her I hadn’t seen before; she was wired, so electric she nearlyset the air vibrating. I swallowed a mouthful of scotch, felt the warmth spreadthrough my belly, and waited.

            “HaveI ever told you what brought me to Seattle?” she asked, gazing out at the city.Her skin was pale against the darkness on the other side of the glass.

            “No.”Although Lauren was familiar with my background, she had always beenclose-mouthed about hers. I took another sip of my drink. In less than aweek, I’d be downing mojitos instead of single malt.

            Sheturned, and her dress pulled tight against her thigh. I glimpsed the outline oflace through the thin fabric and sucked in my breath. Lauren was the only womanI knew who wore a garter belt. Her legs were great, and outside the courtroomshe preferred short skirts to pants. During our first meeting she had leanedacross a table to hand a document to Nick, exposing a thin strip of smoothflesh at the top of her stocking. Nearly a minute had passed before I’d beenable to focus on her questions again.

            “Itwas four years ago,” she said, turning away from the window to reclaim herchair. I could smell her perfume. She always wore the same scent—subtle butcrisp, not too flowery. I imagined her touching the glass stopper to the hollowof her neck, dabbing it in between her breasts . . .

            Ifelt the heft of my new watch as I lifted the whiskey bottle from the deskdrawer and replenished my tumbler. Audemars Piguet—the only brand Arnold Schwarzenegger wore. Withits gold face and thirty-two diamonds rimming the bezel, the thing weighedalmost a pound. The black rubber wristband made it popular among the yachtiesin Boca.

            Laurennoticed my new hardware. “Check out the bling. I could hire another paralegalfor what that cost.”

            More like two, I didn’t say. Eightythousand dollars, no discount for cash.

            “Whathappened to the Rolex?” she asked. “Or was that aPatek Philippe in your briefcase?”

            I put the bottle back into the drawer, next to the minidigital recorder. I touched the square red button and left the drawer open.“I still can’t believe you snooped.”

            “Yourdriver shouldn’t have left the back seat door open. And briefcases come withlocks for a reason.”

            Iwas tempted to ask what part of nounreasonable searches and seizures she didn’t understand. “Next you’ll betelling me, if I carry cash, I deserve to have my pocket picked. You’re lucky Ididn’t think you were a carjacker.”

            Laurenlooked at me through her eyelashes. “What if you had, Tommy? Would you haveshot me?”

            “Jesus,how can you—”

            “Inever figured you for one of those big-watch guys,” she interrupted. “Bonusfrom a grateful client?”

            “Ifyou’re gonna keep asking questions, Madame Prosecutor, I want my lawyer.” Isaid it automatically. Not a big–watchguy. I turned my wrist so the diamonds wouldn’t show so much.

            Laurenmade a face. “Very funny, Tommy.”

            As hilarious asthe Fourth Amendment, Lauren. Bad guys aren’t the only ones who thinkthe end justifies the means. I pulled at my drink. Galletti knows it, too.

Outside, headlightswere yellow smears in the downpour, and a foghorn mooed. I knew I shouldn’tspill the beans, but I couldn’t resist.

            “Asa matter of fact, the watch is a going-away present to myself. Good-bye,perpetual rain; hello, eternal sunshine.”

            Laurentilted her head. “You’re moving? Where?”

            Ipicked up the Prada sunglasses from my desk—another recent purchase—and putthem on.

            “Nextweek I’ll be sitting on the private beach of one of the ritziest golfcommunities in Florida.” Harbour View or Vista or something like that. Harbourwith a u of course, and a gatedentrance even more pretentious than the name.

            Gated,alarmed, rent-a-copped. Drop-ins at the office were one thing, but I’venever been keen on clients—or anyone else—showing up at my house. “And I won’tbe back,” I added in my best Ahnuldimitation.

            Asmall crease appeared between Lauren’s brows. A big reaction, if you knew her.I took off the glasses, prepared to launch into my sun, beach, and golf riff.None of these things actually mattered to me, but the explanation had satisfiedeveryone else.

            Fewpeople ever surprised me like Lauren.

            “Soyou’re walking away before things are finished,” she said.

            “Whatdo you mean? The practice is all wrapped up. Not that there was much to do.After what happened to Nick, things went into the crapper pretty fast.”

            Whenmy partner got shot in our parking garage, the local news feasted on it for aweek. There was a lot of speculation—fueled by an anonymous source—that it wasa mob hit. That was enough to scare off old clients and keep away new ones. Iregarded Lauren. And with my other reason to stay in Seattle leaving, too . . .

            “I’mnot talking about your accounting firm,” she said.

            Ilooked at my watch, no longer giving a damn what she thought of it. “Aren’t yousupposed to be at Galletti’s roast?”

            Laurentossed back her prodigal curls. Usually she wore her hair in a ponytail. Idecided I preferred it loose around her face.

            “Iwant to arrive late.” Her tone turned coy. “Besides, don’t you want to hear whyI came to Seattle?”

            Itwas impossible to stay annoyed with her. Besides, this could be our lastevening together before I left. “Go ahead.”

            “Everplay Monopoly when you were a kid?”

            Youcould get whiplash trying to follow her train of thought. “Sure.”

            “Didyou know it’s the only game where going to jail is an accepted risk?”

            Iput on an Uncle Sam scowl and pointed at her. “Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.”

            Hereyes sparkled. “I used to really rub it in when my brother pulled that card.Sometimes I made him so mad, he’d kick me out of the game.”

            You’re still pissing off the other players,Lauren. “All I cared about was collecting rent,” I said.

            “Spokenlike a true accountant. So, Tommy, did Monopoly make us what we are today?”

            Iwasn’t exactly sure what she was getting at, so I sipped my whiskey and stayedquiet. The rain increased its patter on the windows. It sounded impatient, likea dealer’s fingers drumming on the felt.

            Laurenbroke the silence. “Private placement offerings put together by MerrillBache—coal mining deals. That’s what brought me here.”

            Shewas talking about PPOs. If the investment banks won’t touch you, they’re a wayto raise capital without jumping through too many government hoops. Lawyers andaccountants vet you and your numbers, then brokers sell the deal to“accredited” investors, rich people who’ve been around the financial block afew times.

            Ialways thought private placements were small-time. Give me a REIT any day. Youpool investor funds to buy commercial rental properties or mortgages—that’sserious money.

            “Idon’t remember hearing anything about coal.”

            Sincemeeting Lauren, I’d made a point of keeping up with local financial and legalnews. The deals must have gone down before I moved to Seattle.

            “Itwas a pretty standard fraud. The geology was faked—there wasn’t any coal. Theinvestors got stuck with worthless holes in the ground.”

            Ishrugged. “So a few of the privileged class spent the summer at their lawyer’soffices instead of the beach.”

“Not so privileged,” Lauren said, her voice likeice. “The brokers sold units to anyone who walked in the door, even if theyweren’t accredited. Retirement savings, college funds, cushions against medicalemergencies—they took in millions, tens of millions.”

            Althoughwe’d never talked about it, I sensed that Lauren took investors’ lossespersonally. I wondered if there was private history.

            “Themoney was gone, of course.” I tried to sound sympathetic.

            “Ifollowed the funds through three banks before the trail went cold. As usual,nothing was left stateside. Rich crooks don’t need walking-around money.”

            “Promoterdisappear, too?”

            “Assoon as the deal went south, he followed it.”

            Iswirled the scotch in my glass. “So you were left with the professionals. Iassume you picked the obvious target.”

            Shenodded. “The brokers who peddled the deal. You know how I hate white-collartypes who think the rules don’t apply to them. When these guys tried to playgames during discovery, it really ticked me off. I wasn’t going to settle for afine after that. I wanted them in prison.”

            “Anydefense?”

            “Theusual.” Her voice became singsong. “Each investor received documents describingthe risks, the brokers had no way to know the attorneys hadn’t done the duediligence or that the accountants had inflated the numbers, it wasn’t theirfault unqualified investors bought into the deal, blah blah blah blah.”

            “Didthe jury buy any of it?”

            “Notafter it took the head broker a full five minutes to locate where the lawyershad buried the risk disclosures in the offering memorandum. The printing was sosmall, he couldn’t read it without borrowing the judge’s glasses. Meanwhile,the projected returns were smack dab in the middle of the first page, intypeface as big as the top line on an eye chart.”

            “Itake it you won.”

            “Don’tI always?”

            Thathad been true for as long as I’d known her. Lauren was a real buccaneer. Shetried cases other prosecutors would have passed on, and she was willing to dowhatever it took to win, even if it meant sailing to the edge of legalboundaries, or beyond. I get the message,Lauren.

            Itook a long pull from my tumbler. “A criminal conviction makes a civil suitpractically a slam-dunk. I bet some class-action attorney had a complaint onfile the same day your jury came back.” I could feel my neck getting red.

            Sheplucked at a thread on her sleeve and looked bored. “Probably.”

            “Whatdid the investors finally end up with? Ninety, ninety-five cents on thedollar?” I heard the edge in my voice, so I gulped some of my drink. I had tochoke back a cough as the whiskey scorchedmy throat.

            Laurenhitched up her dress so she could cross her legs. “A little more than ahundred, actually. The jury was generous with punitive damages.”

            Iforced myself to look away from her slender ankles. “I bet you went after theattorneys and accountants, too.” I set the tumbler down hard on my desk. Amberliquid sloshed over my hand.

            “Thelaw allows—”

            “Tohell with the law! The investors got back morethan they put up. And they’re no less greedy than the professionals you’re sohot to put in prison. Most people wouldn’t go near these deals if they didn’tthink they’d get a big tax write-off, plus beat the market. Why not bereasonable? Dial it back after things are more or less even again, go after real bad guys.”

            “Ido! Lawyers and accountants are supposed to be the watchdogs who make sureofferings are legit. And the ones in these deals did more than look the otherway. The promoter was smart, but not that smart. He couldn’t have put the fraudtogether without professional help.”

            Imade a calming motion with my hands, I was determined not to argue with her.Besides, it was an old debate. “Okay, okay, theselawyers and these accountants weredirtbags. You have my blessing to prosecute them.”

            Shegrimaced. “Easier said than done. I barely had enough evidence for a searchwarrant. By the time it was executed, they had shredded all the documents. Ineeded the promoter’s testimony that the attorneys and accountants were in onthe scam from the get-go.”

            Irubbed a thumb against the rubberized band of my watch. “Those guys can be hardto find once they’re in the wind.”

            “Thecoal mines were in Kentucky, so I started there. I went to the town, talked tothe guy’s landlord, the people who leased him office equipment, even thewaitresses at his favorite diner. Wasn’t hard—I was raised in a place likethat. Turns out the guy’s Norwegian, grew up working on a family fishing boat.He immigrated to the States about ten years ago with plans to make it big.”

            “Let’shear it for the American dream!” I took a mouthful of scotch and let it sizzle onmy tongue. I was feeling good again. “He must have played Monopoly when he wasa kid.”

            Laurenglared at me. “I expected him to go back to Europe. But Immigration didn’t havea record of him leaving.”

            “Howabout Canada?”

            “Theysaid he wasn’t there either. So that left Seattle.”

            “Seattle?What made you think—”

            “Whenwe went through his office in Kentucky, we found a bunch of blank Seattlepostcards and some country-western CDs in the back of a desk drawer. Apparentlyhe missed them when he cleaned out the place.”
            “Youthought he came here because of some postcards?”

            “Don’tgive me a hard time, Tommy. It was all I had to go on. The databases—”

            “Iwas wondering when you’d get to those.” I heard that edge in my voice again.“Do you feds even bother with warrants anymore? Or do you just whisper the wordterrorist and wait for the sysop tohand over the master password?”

            Lauren’sexpression told me she wasn’t in the mood for my privacy-rights rant. “Oh, wegot the password all right, but the databases were a bust. There was nothing inthe computers—no driver’s license, no address, no credit cards.”

            Iwas impressed by Lauren’s quarry. Despite disposable cell phones, falseidentities for sale on the Internet, and banks that were more interested infees than references, it was harder than ever to live off the grid. “So whatdid you do?”

            Sheflashed that luminous smile. “Drove around in the rain, hyped on caffeine. Iwent to bars, hotels, used car lots—anywhere he might have gone or donebusiness. Nada. It was as though he’dnever been here.”

            Despitemyself, I was getting interested. “Why not give up?”

            “Ialmost did. I was running out of places to look. But I knew—I just knew—he was here. The local Norwegiancommunity, the climate, the fishing, the postcards”—she ticked each one off ona finger—“made Seattle the most logical place for him to go to ground.” Sheshook her head. “Thank goodness for clams.”

            “Whatdo clams have to do with this?”

            “Iwas eating lunch at this tiny joint downtown—”

            “Theone next to the bridge? You ever have the chowder?”

            “EveryTuesday. White, with extra crackers.” She ducked behind a grin. “And an ElysianFields Pale Ale, no glass.”

            A noontime beer should be the least of yourworries, Lauren. For half a second, I wondered if she would go to lunchwith me. Maybe if I called it a bonvoyage thing . . .

            “Anyway,I was eating on the patio when the ferry came in from Bainbridge Island. That’swhen it hit me.”

            “Aboat,” I said.

            “Aboat,” she repeated, clearly relishing the memory. “And I had five days to findit before I had to start working another case.”

            “TheState of Washington must have a hundred thousand registered vessels. How didyou think you were going to come up with the right one in time?”

            “Makethat three hundred thousand, plus transients.” Lauren flicked invisible lintfrom her dress. “Still, it was no problem.”

            “Okay,I’ll bite. How did you find the needle in a third of a million boats?”

            “Didyou know the DMV is in charge of maritime registrations? It handlesthem just like cars. I sat in a back office and scrolled through the listingsfor vessels over thirty feet—the DMV guy said that would be the minimum sizefor someone to live on. I found it the second day.” Her tone was only slightlysmug.

            “Hecouldn’t have been stupid enough to put his name down as the owner.”

            Laurenlooked offended. “Of course not. Besides, I didn’t look at the owner registry.I figured title would be held by some offshore corporation. I went through thelist of boat names instead.”

            “Boat names? Why would you do that?”

            “Becausemen aren’t sentimental, except when they are.” She looked at my watch. “Theycan’t hide the things that matter to them.”

            Itugged my cuff over the gold dial. “So did he go for a name from the oldcountry? Or something dumb, like OtherPeople’s Money or Sucker Bet?”

            “Wrong,and wrong. But I knew I’d found the right one as soon as I saw it.” Shegrinned, and I half-expected to see canary feathers sticking out of her mouth.“The Loretta Lynn.”

            “Isn’tthat a country-western singer?”

            “Yougot it. Born and raised in Butcher Hollow, Kentucky.”

            “Whywould this guy name his boat after her? He’s Swedish.”

            “Norwegian.”Lauren hugged herself happily. “Remember when I told you the coal mines were inKentucky? Well, guess what town they’re in.”

            “You’vegot to be kidding. I still don’t seehow the hell you made the connection with Loretta Lynn. I didn’t think you werea country-western buff.”

            “I’mnot. But the CDs he’d left in his office were all hers, except for—here’s thegood part—the soundtrack from CoalMiner’s Daughter, the movie they made about her life.”

            Thepride in her voice was beginning to grate. “So then what did you do?”

            “Therecords said the Loretta Lynn was aconverted trawler. The DMV guy said that meant it ran on diesel. I calledaround to the fuel docks until I found the one that knew the boat. The gasjockey ID’d an email photo of my guy, and the Harbor Patrol took me out there.Two days later, I was waiting when he showed up with empty tanks and a grocerylist.”

            “Isuppose you called the media for the perp walk,” I said into my glass. Thetumbler was almost empty again, and I considered refilling it.

            “Ofcourse.” She almost purred the words. “You know I love the look of a man in amonogrammed shirt and handcuffs.”

            “Yeah,those initials come in real handy when it’s time to sort prison laundry.”

            Thecorner of her mouth twitched. “Always the clever one, Tommy.”

            Lookingout the window, I could see the interior of my office reflected endlesslyacross the skyline, illuminated boxes filled with bland furniture,screen-savered computers, and generic wall art. As I scanned the warren ofother buildings, I half-expected to see someone like me looking back. It mademe uncomfortable, and I pulled my gaze back to Lauren.

            “Sowhy did you stay?” I fiddled with the thick clasp on my watch—opening it,snapping it shut, opening it again. The diamonds winked at me. “In Seattle, Imean.”

            Herreply was quiet, measured. “I met you, Tommy.”

            Istopped playing with my watch.

            Laurengot up from her chair.

            “Assumingthat ridiculous sundial on your wrist is correct, I better get going,” shesaid. “One of the secretaries let slip that part of tonight’s program includesa small celebration in my honor.”

            Thewords jumped out before I could stop them. “A celebration?”

            Hereyes drilled into mine. Anticipation shimmered off her.

            “I’mleaving Seattle, too.”

            Ifelt something flutter in my chest, forced my eyebrows up in feigned surprise.

            “You’relooking at the new DOJ liaison with the local SEC office.” Lauren leanedforward and placed her hands flat on the desktop. Her fingers were long andtapered, the nails filed into perfect ovals. “In Boca Raton.”

            Thechange in her demeanor was subtle but unmistakable. Damn. Sooner or later, we always came to this point in theconversation.

            “Youmay be clever, Tommy, but you’re not clever enough.” Her voice was as soft ascashmere, but underneath I could feel the chill of steel. “I’m going to getyou. Three years left on the securities fraud SOL. And, of course, there’sNick. There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

            Evenwhen I held the winning hand, she still made me feel like I was chasing thepot. Had I refilled my glass twice or three times? I passed a damp palm over myface.

            “Thisisn’t one of your coal deals.” My tongue felt slightly too big for my mouth.“For starters, the REIT investors’ lawsuit was tossed.”

            Laurenblew out a dismissive breath. “Plaintiff’s lawyer jumped the gun. Doesn’taffect the criminal prosecution.”

            “Lack of evidence—that’s what the judgesaid when he granted my lawyer’s motion to dismiss. If the plaintiffs didn’thave enough proof to get past more likelythan not, how are you going to make it all the way to beyond a reasonable doubt?”

            Thedetermination was plain on her face. “I’ll find the evidence.”

            By any means necessary. I tapped mywatch. “You know as well as I do, the more time that passes, the more memoriesfade, the more documents are lost, the more people decide to put all thisbehind them and move on. As for what happened to my partner . . .” I put on thesad expression I’d used for the reporters. “Carjacking gone wrong. Realtragedy.”

            “Fourthousand investors lost everything in your REIT, Tommy. Four thousand. Already there have been two suicides, plus God knowswhat other damage—divorce, derailed retirements, ruined careers—” Laurenpaused, bit down on her lip.

            But it wasn’t my fault, I wanted to tellher. I’d been in hock up to my eyeballs to those deranged Russian bookies. They“let me” pay off my marker by washing their gambling profits through the REIT.I didn’t know they were going to rip off the investors, too.

            “Andwe both know Nick wasn’t killed by any carjacker.” Her voice had dropped to awhisper, and I had to lean forward to hear her. Our faces were so close, Icould see the pulse beating at her temple and smell her perfume. Definitely grapefruit. Maybe a littlecypress?

            “He’sdead because he decided to take the immunity offer and testify.” She nearlyspat the words. “Against you.”

            Also not my fault. Since when did mypartner the schmoozer ever bother to look into the mechanics of a deal? Nick’sjob was to bring in the business, not run it. When he stumbled onto the moneylaundering, I had no choice. Otherwise the Russians would have left me lying onthat cold concrete floor.

            Laurenpushed herself off the desk. “Run to Florida, run halfway around the world. Itwon’t make a bit of difference. You’ll never be able to put enough distance—ortime—between us. More search warrants, new witnesses—I’ll plant the damnevidence if I need to—I’ll get theproof I need. Then it’ll be like that hideous watch of yours was turned back toyesterday.”

            Herlook of distaste stung. I dropped my eyes to thedigital recorder in the drawer. I imagined I could hear its motor humming. Everybody’s onthe run from something, Lauren. Or should be.

            “I’llsee you in Florida, Tommy. Don’t get too comfortable in your new place. Beforeyou know it, you’ll be moving to another gated community—the kind where Securitycarries pump shotguns instead of cell phones, and the bars on the windowsaren’t just for show.”

            Witha rustle of blue silk, she was gone.

            I’ll see you in Florida, Tommy.

            Theblack October rain beat against the window. I checked my watch, drained thelast of the scotch, and pushed back my chair. Ipicked up the recorder from the drawer, turned it off, and dropped itinto my pocket.

            Theirony of where I was headed hit me in the hallway, and kept me laughing all theway to the elevator. I punched the Downbutton.

            Gallettiwouldn’t have offered a talk-and-walk on the Russian thing if he suspectedanything about Nick. Lauren must have been keeping her cards close. Made itsweet for me. Once her overeager—or dumb—boss put blanket immunity on thetable, I had my Get Out of Jail Freecard. If I took his deal, I’d be untouchable for the murder.

            Asthe elevator doors slid open on the parking garage, I thought back to thatnight. I hadn’t expected Nick to struggle, let alone rip the watch from mywrist. The Rolex had fallen into a crack in the cement floor beside one of thesupport beams, wedged out of reach. I averted my eyes as I walked past thespot. What the hell had possessed me to engrave the damn thing?

            MyDNA, Nick’s blood . . . The feds had already been over the scene. But Laurenwas talking about a new search warrant. If she found the watch before Idisappeared into witness protection, my deal with her boss would evaporate. I’dbe facing the needle instead of twenty years.

            The gray Buick was parked next to the exit ramp, its enginerunning, in one of the spaces with a good view of the main entrance. Theair was thick with the stink of exhaust. I could heartires swishing through the puddles at street level.

            Islid into the back seat and rested my head against the plump leather. Gallettieagerly twisted around in the driver’s seat. No doubt he’d seen Lauren leave.Jesus, the guy had it in for her so bad, he was going to be late to his ownroast.

            Ourlast meeting had not gone well. He’d moaned about my coming up empty-handedagain. I’d dropped the bomb about my Florida move.

            “Weboth know witness protection is gonna stick me in some place like Oshfart,North Dakota,” I’d told him when he finished squawking.“I want to see sun and beach and girls in bikinis one last time. Besides, isn’tthis all moot, like you lawyers say? If Lauren’s moving to Florida, she’s notyour problem anymore, right?”

            Hehadn’t been able to hide the ambition and spite in his hooded eyes. Gallettiwasn’t gunning for Lauren because she crossed theline. He wanted to take her down because every month she won more cases,more headlines, more fans. She wouldn’t be the first prosecutor to parlay thoseinto a glory ride. But it was a trip her boss wanted to take himself.

I let my eyelids closeas his voice once again bore into my skull, more excruciating than thehangover I knew I’d have in the morning.

            Heasked me the question.

            Howmany had it been this time? Two—no, three—counts of prosecutorial misconduct,any one of which was enough to deliver Lauren’s head—and career—to Galletti ona silver platter.

“Nothing.” I shifted inthe seat. The recorder jabbed me in the rib. “Didn’t even get a chance to turnit on.”

            Igot out of the car and went back to my office. I sat down at my desk, took thewhiskey bottle out of the drawer, and poured slowly until my glass was fullagain. I thumbed the Rewind button onthe recorder and turned up the volume so I could hear her voice over the rain.

I’ll see youin Florida, Tommy.

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