Текст книги "Brain Dead"

Автор книги: Eileen Dreyer

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Barb whistled. "Pretty big stakes to forfeit just because one nurse and a reporter don't like the way she does business."

Murphy leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Bigger when you consider that she'd rather poke her eyes out with a stick than disappoint Dr. Perfect. She's been known to toss patients out and scythe through staff like the reaper if they weren't properly respectful."

Timmie was feeling sicker by the minute. "Imagine what she might do if she thought a third unit might have problems due to patient cost."

"Or a bad reputation." Barb wagged a finger at both of them. "What'd I tell you? Rabbit stew all the way."

"I'll find out when I'm there," Timmie said.

"Carefully," Murphy warned. "We're both limping already, and we don't even know what the hell it is we know."

"Don't worry. I had that impressed on me this afternoon. Barb, can you get next-of-kin addresses from those victims?"

"Sure."

Timmie nodded, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. "Then it's time we visit a few of them to see what they have to say about those sudden deaths."

"I'll do it," Murphy said.

Timmie shook her head. "I don't trust you alone. You don't know what to ask."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Leary," he said. "Ought to really help me on my road back."

Timmie snorted without opening her eyes. "You're not on the road back, Murphy. You're just on the road."

Murphy laughed. Barb climbed back to her feet. "On that note," she said, "Timmie, you need a nap. I need to get back to work, and Mr. Murphy needs a ride back to wherever he ran from."

"We need to send our kids to camp somewhere, Barb," Timmie said, still not opening her eyes. "Until this blows over."

Barb stalled at the edge of the room, a looming shadow of condensed energy. "I can take care of my kids," she said.

Timmie opened her eyes and focused hard on her friend with every truth that afternoon had left her evident in her expression. "It was pretty scary today, Barb. I don't think we want our kids to know scary like that. And if we're not giving up, then whoever we're after is going to get more serious."

Murphy nodded. "Either back out now or take them out of the equation. Your kids make you vulnerable."

It was tough for an ex-bouncer to admit she couldn't protect her own children. Barb fought the inevitable in silence, her stance at once aggressive and frustrated. Finally she sighed. "They've been through enough. Let me talk to the Rev. If nothing else, he's the biggest black man in the county. I don't think even the cops'd screw with him."

"Who's the Rev?" Murphy asked.

"Walter Wilson," Timmie said. "His wife, Mattie, works with us."

"And you trust him?"

Timmie laughed along with Barb. "The day we stop trusting Walter, we might as well just give up."

"Now then, Mr. Murphy," Barb said. "It's time to go."

Murphy got to his feet with a grin. "Caller ID on the phone, too, Leary. Before our friend phones again."

Behind them the door slammed open again, and finally, it was Meghan. Timmie wrapped her daughter in a hug and the other two showed themselves out the door.

* * *

While Cindy entertained Meghan with her shrieking response to Renfield the next night, Timmie spent a lifetime in the Restcrest advanced care unit. She gave medications and she gave tube feedings and she cleaned and rolled and cleaned and rolled again. She feasted her eyes on the empty husks that had once been active, individual persons, and listened to the dissonant music of the gomer chorus, endless ululating wails, repeated words, questions, all carried in high, fractious voices.

"Nurse! Nu-u-u-urse!"

"What'd he do? What'd he do? What'd he d-o-o-o-o-o-o-o?"

"Help me, please, oh, please, oh, please help me, they're taking me, help..."

All conspiring to freeze her brain into immobility and her sense of humor to stone.

It wasn't just an exile into the wilderness far away from trauma. It was an exercise in prognostication. An unerring view into her father's future. This was where Timmie would spend her afternoons watching her father disintegrate into vegetable matter, until he lay sprawled out on the bed like the Scarecrow after the monkeys had gotten through with him, scattered and brainless.

And alive.

Repeating over and over again, "'I will arise and go now, I will arise...'" until Timmie would want to throttle Yeats himself for finding Innisfree in the first place. Until she was tempted to stuff a blanket in her father's mouth just to get him to stop. Until she was crushed by the impulse to simply put him to sleep, like an old dog who'd gone blind.

Which made her wonder just what good she was doing tracking down the people who were doing that very thing. Putting these poor, empty shells out of their misery and saving their families the money that should have gone to their children's education and instead went to care for their parents.

Timmie doubted sincerely that this was what Barb had had in mind when she'd suggested the trip. She'd probably wanted Timmie to find empty vials of tubocurarine among the linens, or notations on charts about tripling Digoxin doses. Timmie found neither of these. She found a well-run unit that spared nothing for its patients. She found a place where the administrator came to stroke old faces, and where the patients might not be better, but at least they were clean.

She did get to meet the reclusive Dr. Davies, which was a trip to Mars in itself. She spotted him wandering into the room of one of the newer patients, a fractious little lady named Alice who had lots of money, a heart like a jackhammer, and a truly foul mouth. Since Timmie also knew that Alice had no in-state family, she tried to toss Davies's rumpled butt out of the unit until one of the other nurses introduced him. Davies pushed his wirerims up his nose, muttered something about late stage-two deterioration, and walked on into the room without even saying hello.

And then, weirdest of all, at seven o'clock on a Sunday evening, Mary Jane Arlington herself came blowing in. Clad in razor-pressed chinos and a pink silk blouse, she looked a bit frazzled when she came upon Timmie standing by the nurse server.

"Well... you're... helping?" she asked, blinking.

Timmie smiled. "You guys need more staff. I got pulled from the ER."

"Your father... uh, he's not..."

"Here? No. He's on his regular unit."

"Well, that's good. That's..." Mary Jane squinted, peered closer. "What happened to you?"

Probably the last question Timmie thought Mary Jane would be asking this evening. "I was run off the road yesterday. Why?"

Mary Jane actually blanched. "Run off the road?" she asked. "Intentionally?"

Timmie didn't know how to react. "Looked that way to me."

It seemed to take Mary Jane a few moments to process that kind of information. Timmie saw a range of reactions, from confusion to disbelief to revulsion, chase across those perfect blond features. Which meant one thing. Mary Jane was more surprised by the incident than Timmie had been.

"I didn't know," she all but stammered. "I took a holiday, you know?"

No, Timmie didn't. Timmie wasn't sure she was following any of this. Mary Jane was standing flat-footed in front of her, one hand rhythmically clicking a pen, the other rubbing against her thigh as if wiping a damp palm. Definitely upset. Definitely surprised.

"You have to understand," she said, clicking faster, "that some people might not understand... they... might feel... threatened..."

Timmie wasn't sure what Mary Jane wanted her to say She opened her mouth to at least agree when the administrator simply turned away. And then, ten feet down the hall, turned back, looking more frantic than ever. "Just remember this," she said. "Alex is your friend. He's the best hope these people have, no matter what." She paused, seemed to gather purpose. "No matter what."

And that was it. Timmie was left behind with the most unholy feeling that not only did Mary Jane know nothing about whatever that guy had been after in her car, but that she did think she knew who did. And that she thought Alex Raymond was somehow involved.

If not responsible.

* * *

"You're not helping at all," Murphy accused her when she told him about it the next morning.

Timmie shoved a cup of coffee at him and poured her own, not yet prepared to trust her own reactions. She'd managed only a few hours sleep the night before, and dreamed all night of being chased down the hall by every one of those poor old gomers she'd cared for the night before, stalking her, arms out, tubes dangling, all crying out in their individual gomer voices.

"Nurse, nurse, nurse..."

"Help me, please, oh help me, please, somebody..."

And interspersed in there somehow, Mary Jane. "He's their only hope."

It didn't take a shrink to figure that one out. It didn't help Timmie get any rest, either.

"I thought you said the golden boy couldn't be behind this," Murphy said, leaning against the kitchen doorway as he drank his coffee.

"He can't."

"But if he is—"

"It's too early for that, Murphy," she threatened. "Why don't we just go see families?"

"You want to separate these or see 'em together?" he asked, keeping a careful distance.

Timmie slammed down the rest of her coffee, hoping for a miracle of coherence, and sighed. "Together. I'm not in a careful interrogation kind of mood."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Does that mean you'd like me to drive?"

"Since Bobby's Garage is still picking soybeans out of my transmission, and I don't want to drive a Lexus, yes."

Murphy didn't say anything. He just walked into the kitchen and came back with the bottle of acetaminophen. "Here."

Timmie tried not to laugh. "Shut up."

She took the medicine. Then she grabbed the list of surviving family members Barb had handed off the night before like the plans for a nuclear sub and walked out the door.

There were ten names on the list. Timmie decided on the places to go and Murphy asked the questions. Nonthreatening general information on care given, benefits derived, family's reaction to the patient's disease, deterioration, and death.

They stuck to that plan of attack at the first three homes and learned nothing. The children and spouses of Mr. DiSalvo, Mrs. Frieberger, and Mrs. Rogers, respectively, were saddened by the deaths, but not surprised. Relieved, a few admitted, considering what their loved ones had gone through. Getting on with life, eternally grateful to Restcrest, Dr. Raymond, and Memorial Medical Center for everything they'd done for the person in question. Not one mentioned Joe Leary because Timmie had introduced herself as Annie Parker, which kept the interviews properly focused. Not one had offered any surprises, either.

Limping up the steps to the fourth door, Timmie asked Murphy to let her try her hand at the questions. She was feeling a bit more alert, and with it, a bit more patient.

Their target here was Mr. Charlie Cleveland, son of Wilhelm "Butch" Cleveland, seventy-eight, who had died of cardiac arrest the morning Billy Mayfield had come in. Mr. Cleveland lived in a nice neighborhood of two-story brick bungalows with mature trees and carefully pruned hedges. Lots of effort, little imagination. Butch had lived with him and his wife, Betty, until admission to Restcrest two years before his death.

As she waited for Mr. Cleveland to answer the bell, Timmie wondered what the poor man would think when he opened the door to catch a pair of bruised, battered creatures waiting to ask him about his father.

It was nothing to what Timmie thought when the man finally opened the door on the second ring. But Murphy said it first. "Oh, my God."

Mr. Cleveland just stood there, morning paper still clasped in his hand, a finger tucked into the page he'd been reading. He was wearing half reading glasses on a chain around his neck and a carefully pressed cotton shirt and slacks. A handsome man with dignified wings of gray hair and a ruddy complexion.

His complexion this morning was pale, though, his eyes wide. Stricken was the word that came to mind. Timmie knew how he felt.

"Mr. Cleveland," she greeted the man who had tried to shoot Alex Raymond at the horse show. "Can we talk to you?"

Chapter 17

Murphy expected just about any reaction but the one they got.

"Well, it's about time," Mr. Cleveland said. Then he laughed and shook his head. "Listen to me. I'm about to be taken in on attempted manslaughter charges, and I'm saying it's about time. Well, it is. I've been sitting in this living room for two weeks waiting for that doorbell to ring."

He looked nice. Nice. Now there was a word Murphy hadn't thought to use in connection with that guy with the gun. Standing here in his own doorway, though, Mr. Cleveland looked as if he belonged right here, reading his morning paper in his boring, predictable living room, not in a police lineup. But Murphy had done enough of these interviews to know just how many people in police lineups looked just the same.

"We're not the police," Murphy assured him. "We're from the paper. My name is Daniel Murphy, and this is—"

"Annie Parker," Leary interjected, just like the other three times. And damn if she didn't look more like Annie Parker than Timmie Leary, her short hair curled and her usual tights and long sweaters traded in for tailored blouse, vest, and slacks. "We wanted to ask you about Restcrest, if you don't mind."

They couldn't seem to surprise the guy. "Of course you do," he said. Carefully folding his paper out of the way, he pushed open the door.

As Murphy stepped in, he catalogued the house. Not much more imagination inside than outside. Solid pastel furniture, beige rugs and curtains, walls decorated in stiff family portraits and framed pastoral prints. The smell of Pine Sol, old coffee, and pipe tobacco. All well cared for, all showing wear and tear, as if the budget had been stretched to the limit a long time ago.

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."

"Landry tried to break the contract," Murphy echoed quietly.

Mr. Cleveland laughed the way all people do who outsmart the big guys. "Did everything but threaten our pensions. Lucky for us, the lawyers from the original Restcrest were old socialists and sharp as tacks. Didn't stand for old folks being taken advantage of. We paid a flat fee of eighty-five dollars a day, no matter what, till Father died. Drove that Landry guy bats."

Murphy was itching again. "I'll just bet it did."

While Murphy was still taking that one in, Leary slung her purse over her shoulder and got to her feet. "Thank you again, Mr. Cleveland. We really do appreciate the help."

She held out her hand and Mr. Cleveland took it in both of his. "Thank you," he said, his soft face disheveled with relief.

Murphy was getting to his feet, too, when Leary blindsided him yet again.

"And thank you for the phone call," she said, hand still wrapped in Cleveland's. "It helped quite a bit."

Murphy made it to his feet just in time to catch the confusion on Air. Cleveland's face. "Phone call?"

Now Leary looked tentative. "To warn us about what was happening at Restcrest?" she said. "I thought it might have been you."

Mr. Cleveland shook his gently graying head. "No. I didn't even know who you were. How could I?"

She beamed. "Of course. I'm sorry. I guess we might have another family who wasn't as relieved as they might have been. Thank you again. I hope we can visit under better circumstances."

"You give your father a hug tonight, young lady," he admonished, and Murphy saw those tears glitter briefly again.

Leary smiled, nodded, and fled.

* * *

"Landry," Leary mused, gingerly climbing back into Murphy's car fifteen minutes later with her bag of doughnuts. "That wouldn't be a huge surprise. Not if those people were costing him money."

"I don't see it," Murphy argued, slamming his own door shut and handing off a cup of coffee.

It was almost noon, and the streets around the Donut Hole were fairly crowded with traffic headed toward real food farther out toward the highway. The Hole sat in the middle zone, where used car dealerships and strip malls dominated. Almost developed, never quite successful, usually crime free, since the local constabulary didn't see fit to break the stereotype and opt for popcorn over doughnuts.

As for Leary, she was twitching like a gigged frog. Probably too much forced inactivity at the Cleveland house. Too many revelations she hadn't wanted to share with that sad, middle-aged man. Murphy watched her bounce around as she juggled coffee, doughnuts, and painkillers, and wondered if she knew how damn brittle she looked.

"What do you mean you don't see it?" Leary demanded as she threw back the acetaminophen and washed them down with a quick swig of coffee. "Landry's ruthless, he's hungry, he'll obviously do anything to make that unit fly. Why not off a couple old farts who are costing him money?"

Murphy popped the lid of his coffee and took a long slug that damn near seared his esophagus. "Not his game. He only murders on the books. Not in person."

Leary snorted. "You just want it to be Alex."

Murphy had to smile. "We do know he recognized the shooter, now, don't we?"

"No, we don't," she argued, her nose stuck in the doughnut bag in search of her cholesterol of choice. "He might not have seen his face before we broke it all up."

"Nice try. He knew him, he knew what it was about, and he won't admit it."

"Wrong. He's not that complicated."

"We could go ask him now."

"We could if we were in New York. He left for a conference this morning right after leaving the keys to his shiny new Lexus in my mailbox."

Murphy reached in the bag alongside her chin and grabbed the first doughnut he found, a cruller. "Bribery now. We'll nail him the minute he gets back."

Leary shook her head, still intent on her hunt. "We'll nail Landry as soon as I find out just how many of our early graduates were 'old-timers,'" she said, finally snagging a chocolate-covered longjohn and taking a big bite. "Then we have to decide just how to ask the rest of the relatives whether the offer was made, or if they just woke up one morning to find Grandma dead."

There was chocolate on her chin. For a minute Murphy couldn't take his eyes off it. A tattoo on her ass and chocolate on her chin. He was in lust all over again, and it was only noon. Even worse, he found himself beset by the most absurd urge to calm Leary down. Ease that stretched – thin look she was getting around the eyes. And that didn't just make him wary, it damn near made him afraid. He hadn't been compelled to do something that stupid for about twenty years now.

"If it's an exercise in cost cutting," he said instead, his focus never wavering from that daub of brown, "why bother to make an offer? Isn't that overkill?"

Leary took another bite. "Who knows? Maybe he gets off on the power. God knows he seems to at the hospital. Wouldn't you just love to know what Victor found out before he died? Although I don't think that's the way I would have handled Mr. Cleveland if I were him."

"It wasn't. Where'd you learn your interrogation techniques?"

She grinned and slid her coffee cup between her knees so she could fiddle with it. Murphy couldn't take his eyes off that, either. "Best homicide dick in L.A. Her name was Corinne Jackson, and perps dropped like flies for her honey-tongued little number."

"I bet. Tell me again you don't want to have sex."

Leary didn't miss a beat. "I don't want to have sex."

But she was grinning. At least she wouldn't be bringing him up on charges yet.

"Heavy necking," he offered, leaning back in his seat so he was actually, at least in his mind, farther away.

She finished off the doughnut with a very suggestive flourish. "No thanks."

Murphy closed his eyes, content that he'd at least gotten her to smile. "I guess this means that accident wasn't a life-altering experience."

"No," she said. "The divorce was."

He opened his eyes again and saw it. That crackle of attraction. The regret that she was going to let her head rule. Ah, well, definitely for the better. He just wished he didn't feel that that smile was a personal accomplishment.

As if just the thought of necking compelled community response, there was a brusque tapping on the window. Murphy leaned forward to see a red-headed guy in a detective suit bent over Leary's side of the car. He had coffee in his hand and white icing on his Jerry Garcia tie.

"I hope impure thoughts aren't an ordinance violation around here," Murphy said.

Leary laughed as she rolled down the window. "Nah. Detective Sergeant Micklind and I are old friends. Aren't we, Detective?"

The guy bent a little farther over to lean an elbow on the car door as he continued to sip his coffee. "Ms. Leary. How are you today?"

"Leary-Parker, Detective Sergeant," she countered brightly. "But I guess it's worthless to insist anymore."

The detective didn't so much as twitch. "Hear you did a gainer and a half over some farmer's silo."

"Yes, sir, I did. Thank you for asking after my health."

Murphy actually saw a tic of humor at the corner of the detective's mouth. "You look healthy, Ms. Leary. I was wondering if I might stop by to talk to you later today."

Leary grabbed another chocolate doughnut and took a big bite. "You heard my ex-husband is in town and decided to arrest me before he turns up dead?" she asked brightly. "Get all your paperwork out of the way before the rush?"

Another tic, minimally bigger. "You thinking of killing him, are you?"

"Ever since the day he sold all my furniture to pay off his girlfriend's boob job."

"I'll keep that in mind. What time would be good for you, Ms. Leary?"

"How's fifteen minutes after he shows up at my front door, Detective? Give me time to find my baseball bat and you time to respond."

"I think it would more of a challenge if you didn't tell me when you were going to kill your ex-husband, Ms. Leary," Micklind retorted easily. "I just need to know when to stop by today."

Leary bobbed her head briskly. "Well, if you're going to be a good sport about it, then how's two? We'll be finished by then, and you'll still have an hour or so with your thumbscrews before my daughter shows up from school."

"Finished, huh?" he asked, leaning farther over so he could give Murphy the once-over. "Something I should know about?"

Leary shot Murphy a glance of pure mischief. "Not unless assignations are against the law. We're having a hot affair, Detective. Got a problem with that?"

"Over doughnuts?"

She grinned like a kid. "I knew a cop would understand. See you later, sir." And then, with his tie still almost hanging over the door, she started rolling the window back up.

All Micklind had to do to delay her was lay a beefy hand over the top of the glass. "You, too, Mr. Murphy. I figured you wouldn't mind a little insight into that collection of bruises you have."