Текст книги "Brain Dead"

Автор книги: Eileen Dreyer

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Murphy followed her across to where Cindy was helping Ellen pull on her coat.

"Ellen," Timmie greeted her friend. "I need to ask you an important question."

One sleeve still only half on, Ellen stopped dead. "Of course, honey. What is it?"

"Has anybody threatened you to keep your mouth shut about Restcrest?"

Ellen didn't so much as blink. "No, they haven't. I have to admit I've been living in mortal fear, waiting for somebody to figure out what I was doing. But nobody did."

"Me, either," Cindy said. "You don't believe me, but I did call, too. I wanted to help."

"Why do you ask that now?" Ellen asked.

Leave it to Murphy to cut through etiquette. "Nobody offered to get your ex-husband permanently out of your hair if you'd just keep quiet, did they?"

Ellen opened her mouth. She dropped her arm, dragging her coat on the ground. She paled so badly Timmie thought she was going to have to pick her up.

"What are you talking about?"

Timmie couldn't manage an answer. Neither, evidently, could anyone else. Ellen came up with it anyway. Her mouth closed, then opened again for another abortive attempt at speech. Her eyes filled with tears.

"I'm going home now," she said in a hush. "I don't think I want to hear about this anymore."

The worst part of the conversation was that when Timmie watched Ellen sweep out the door, she couldn't decide whether Ellen's reaction had been one of surprise, relief, or shame.

And then, inevitably, Cindy added her two cents' worth. "You just don't get it, do you?" she demanded, bristling and teary.

Timmie was still watching Ellen. "Get what, Cindy?"

Cindy was shaking her head, quivering with fury. "You think this is what, a game? She's your friend. She's just starting to feel better now that that asshole's dead, and you blame her for it? What's wrong with you?"

"That asshole was murdered, Cindy."

"And, so what? You think it's the same person who killed Jason? I'd say you shouldn't get mad. You should say thank you. I sure would."

And then she stalked off, too.

"Well, that was a success," Murphy said.

Timmie didn't say anything. She was too busy regretting her impulse. Thinking how it had ended.

Wondering, suddenly, about what Cindy had said.

"Murphy?"

He scowled at her. "I don't think I like that look."

Timmie didn't answer. She just walked through the thinning ranks of mourners until she reached a quiet corner back in the Florida room, where potted palms defied the frost outside.

She should have thought of it before. She might have if she wasn't still dreaming of trying to wash her husband's blood off her hands.

"Leary?" Murphy asked, close by.

Timmie kept looking out the window into a yard that had managed to maintain its elegant tailoring after the ice storm of the decade. "What if we've had it backward?" she asked.

"Backward? Is this going to make me itch?"

Timmie looked down to her glass, but she was out of water. As if that would help. "Well, think about it. If we use the theory we've been working on, Billy's murder doesn't fit."

"Not that we know of right now," he amended.

Timmie almost closed her eyes to better focus on imperfect logic. "Think about what Cindy just said, Murphy. I should be thankful. Well, if you think about it on the surface, I should. So should Ellen and Barb. And every family who buried an old relative." She opened her eyes, turned on him. "What do all those murders have in common?" she asked. "Billy Mayfield was abusive. He stopped hurting Ellen and the kids when he died. Victor was not just fooling around, he was going to try and sue Barb blind. Barb doesn't have to worry about that or his white-trash girlfriends hurting her little girls anymore. Each and every relative of those Restcrest patients was going broke trying to take care of their loved ones. They've been saved from that."

"And you have the insurance policy."

Timmie blinked. "I have what?"

Murphy squinted, as if testing her honesty. "Your ex-husband's insurance. You won't have to worry about affording your father's care anymore."

Now it was Timmie who opened her mouth without effect. Suddenly she couldn't breathe. She just kept staring at Murphy, waiting for him to laugh. "Murphy," she finally said. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Murphy's eyebrows slid up fast. "You can't tell me you don't know. I heard it from Micklind during the funeral mass. He said he heard it from one of your friends."

It took her a second to find her voice. A second or two more to have the courage to ask, "How much?"

Murphy was getting as quiet as she. "Quarter million?"

Timmie thought she was going to pass out, and not just from surprise. "He canceled that policy. I swear he did. He had to. He hated me!"

Heads were turning. Timmie barely noticed. She couldn't seem to look away from Murphy, who was, oddly, smiling. "He didn't hate his daughter."

Timmie should have said something. She couldn't quite manage it. Instead, she found herself stalking through an untidy cluster of mourners to get to Micklind, who was quietly standing with his back to the dining room wall, watching the crowd.

"Where did you hear about this fictitious life insurance policy?" Timmie demanded without preamble.

Micklind didn't react. "Not fictitious. And impressive enough to almost make me reconsider that alibi of yours. I heard about it from your friend over there."

Timmie turned to see him point at Mattie. She headed that way, trailing Murphy as she walked.

"Where did you hear about this life insurance policy?" she asked her friend, her hold on her glass tight enough to leave dents.

Mattie smiled, then frowned, then cast looks at both Murphy and Micklind. "From Barb."

Timmie repeated the pattern, now trailing Mattie behind as well. They all saved time, though, because Barb was standing by the front window with a predictably crying Cindy.

"Cindy," Barb answered when asked.

Cindy looked up, eyes red-rimmed and watery. "But his parents told me," she said. "Yesterday, at the wake."

At least they all didn't follow Timmie in when she confronted her ex-in-laws.

"But we naturally thought you knew," Betty Parker said in her perfectly modulated voice, the only hint of real grief tucked way at the back of her eyes. "Actually, we paid the premiums for him while he was... well, so uncertain of everything. He paid us back, though. Every penny. And, of course, his will was never changed. You're still executor for Meghan, who gets everything else he has." She shook her head apologetically. "But we thought you knew, dear."

Timmie couldn't do much more than shake her head. "No. And you told my friend Cindy about it yesterday?"

"We talked about it, I guess. Yes. People should know that Jason would never really desert you or Meghan, you see? I talked to Jason the night before... the night before it happened, and he wanted me to know that he'd talked to you. That he was going to see you. I thought... I hoped..."

Timmie nodded, mute with shock. She had lived a long time on self-righteous indignation. It was just too much to ingest the concept that Jason had been trying to grab her security with one hand and hand it back with the other.

"Which meant that his death really was a benefit to me," Timmie finally managed to admit to Murphy fifteen minutes later as the two of them stood with Micklind and Mattie in the Florida room. "Is it possible that this isn't about Restcrest after all?"

Mattie just kept shaking her head. "This is all way beyond this poor girl's head."

"If it's not about Restcrest, what's it about?" Murphy asked.

Timmie wished like hell she hadn't heard about the insurance policy. The will that would see her daughter safely educated and raised, when Timmie had been worried about affording peanut butter and jelly. It was confusing her, distracting her from the original question.

"We've been working on the assumption that Victor was killed to keep him quiet about Restcrest," she said. "That Jason was a threat to me. What if they were just part of the same pattern? A mercy killer who's just moving a little wider than the hospital."

"You really don't think that your husband's murder was a threat to you?" Micklind demanded.

Timmie was having trouble breathing again. "No," she said. "I think it was a gift. So, what the hell does that mean?"

* * *

Two hours later Timmie drove home with Mattie, but without Meghan. Betty and Jason, their eyes brittle with weary grief, had begged Timmie to let her daughter stay with them for a couple of days, and Timmie, seeing the matching need in Meghan, had said yes.

"Are you okay that I'm staying, Mom?" Meghan had asked, her arms around Timmie's neck.

Timmie squeezed hard, inhaling her daughter's scent. "No," she admitted. "I'm selfish. I always want you with me. But I bet Gram and Gramps would like to tell you stories about your daddy when he was little like you. And I'd really like you to hear them."

Meghan pulled back. "You mean it? You're not just being nice because Cindy blabbed about that insurance thing with Gram before Ellen said it was okay?"

"Nah. I'm being nice 'cause I'm nice. Now, I have to go, or Renfield doesn't get any flies."

"Stay with Mattie," Meghan insisted.

"I will, baby. I'll call you tonight."

Timmie stayed with Mattie. In truth, she couldn't imagine how she was going to live in her own house again after what had happened. Micklind had pointed her to a company that actually cleaned up the kind of mess they'd left in the living room, but the afterimage tended to linger a lot longer than the stains, like a bad smell caught in upholstery.

The problem was that Timmie couldn't imagine staying at Mattie's, either. Not that she didn't love Mattie and Walter and the six kids of various ages who were tucked into every nook and cranny of that tiny house. But no matter how much Mattie and Walter insisted Timmie wasn't in the way, she knew she was. So she went back to work the next afternoon and actually sighed with relief at the relative quiet.

She also had the chance to sit with her dad, who really had settled down some on the new dosage of medication.

"When are they going to come question us?" one of the nurses asked Timmie.

Timmie blinked up at her. "I'm sorry?"

"The police. We know they're going to crucify this place. Word is, the media's already preparing the skewer. It isn't fair, you know."

Timmie got to her feet. "They haven't been by yet?"

The nurse stiffened in renewed outrage. "This is a good place," she insisted. "You don't think they're dismantling it fast enough?"

Timmie straightened herself, tired of being batted back and forth like a shuttlecock between all the special interests in this town. "This isn't a good place," she said in her most quelling voice. "This is a great place. Which is why at least one person should have had the balls to stop what was going on, because you can't tell me that not one of you knew it was happening."

"Last of the idealists, my Timmie," her father suddenly said.

Both nurses glared at him for a minute. Then Timmie decided to take it outside where she couldn't rile him.

Too late. By the time she reached the middle hallway, he was singing the first words of "The Patriot Game," a lovely song about idealism gone bad. The other nurse was fortunate enough not to be familiar with it.

"You know, of course, that two of the nurses on unit five are getting pink-slipped."

All right. She had Timmie there. "Why?"

"Because they didn't report the possible problem."

"Of course they did. Nobody did anything."

Another glare, hands on hips. Nurse's sign language for "Well, no shit."

Timmie shook her head. "Doesn't it just fuckin' figure. Okay, I have contacts in the press. Let's see what we can do. In the meantime, help the police, okay? If you don't, this whole place could go up in flames."

She didn't bother to wait for an answer. Just stalked over to unit five to find Gladys finishing paperwork in her civvies.

"What happened?" Timmie demanded, grabbing a seat next to her. Another nurse, who was dressed for work in her best white polyester, made it a point to ignore Timmie as she walked by.

"What do you think happened?" Gladys asked quietly, never once raising her eyes from her task. "The shit rolled downhill, and I happened to be standing at the bottom."

Timmie almost smiled. She hadn't thought Gladys had it in her. "What reason were you given for being let go?"

"Poor performance. Lack of faith by the families. Typical bullshit. My last review, which was rated exceptional, evidently doesn't count. The next thing we probably need to address in this facility is a union."

"One thing at a time. Did they fire you before or after you talked to the police?"

That got Gladys's attention. "I haven't talked to the police."

Timmie wanted to curse. Wouldn't do either of them any good. "Guy named Micklind hasn't been by?"

Gladys shook her head. "Amazing what power in the right places can prevent."

"It can't prevent it forever. You remember that list I asked you for of anybody who could have gotten at that vial of Lasix?"

"Of course I do. I've been carrying it around ever since you asked for it, waiting for the police to take it."

Timmie decided that now wasn't the appropriate time to remind Gladys that the phone worked two ways. "You haven't said anything to Dr. Davies?"

Gladys shook her head. "I told you. It couldn't be him."

"But you said he was here."

"He was here for a half hour, from two-thirty to three, and he spent the whole time in Mr. DiAngelo's room doing a cut-down. I know, because I was the one who helped him. I hadn't clocked in yet, but the day nurse asked me if I'd give him a hand. So I did."

Timmie fought the urge to argue. "And he couldn't have gotten near Alice's nurse server without you knowing it."

"Heck, no. We had to call him in from a meeting he'd been attending. He ran in, did the job, and ran out. I saw him the whole time. Besides, he would have had to get access to a key sometime or another, and he's never involved enough to do that. Heck, I'm not even so sure he knows where a nurse server is. He's not exactly your hands-on kind of guy, you know? The only reason he came in that day was because Dr. Raymond was out of town."

"Dr. Raymond could get a key?"

"Sure. But he wasn't here. But the point is, Dr. Davies just didn't have access to that nurse server while he was here."

Timmie tried any way she could think of to make him suspect, and couldn't. "What about Ms. Arlington?"

Another shake of the head. "Nope."

Timmie's hopes died a painful death. "You're sure."

"Believe me. We know when she's around. I called her in from an all-day function when Alice coded."

Timmie wasn't going to be able to stand much more. "You have the whole list?" she asked.

Gladys reached for her purse where it sat, next to her chair. "Sure. It's not very long, though. Shorter when you think of how tough it is to get one of our keys. Maybe they're free with them in other parts of the hospital, but we're real careful of our old people. Especially since we've figured out what's been going on."

Gladys had made her list on the back of a preprinted prescription form one of the pharmaceutical companies passed out. Oddly enough, for Lasix. Timmie wondered if she'd noticed, but she'd never pegged Gladys for an irony kind of girl.

She'd been right. The list was short. Six people, including Davies and Gladys herself. Timmie noted them, then the pharmacy tech. Another nurse's name she didn't recognize. And then, two names that sucked away her breath.

"You're sure about these?" she asked.

Gladys looked. "Sure. When Mr. DiAngelo got really sick, we needed extra help. They were really sweet about it."

Timmie kept staring at the list. Kept willing the names to change. Kept waiting to feel surprised to see them in the center ring of the suspects' target.

"And they could have had access to the key."

"Yes. The only person any of us can vouch a hundred percent for is Dr. Davies. The rest of us were coming and going. Mr. DiAngelo was pretty sick, and his family was really worried about him. We ended up sending him through the ER and upstairs to the unit."

Timmie nodded, still trying to figure a way out. "Thank you."

"By the way," Gladys said, hand on Timmie's arm. "I'm sorry about your husband. That was a terrible thing."

Timmie barely heard her. "Thank you. It's harder on my daughter, of course. Jason and I really hadn't been together for about three years."

Gladys nodded, went back to her work. "Well, at least you were lucky enough to have an ex who was still thinking of you. I can't imagine my ex-husband leaving me money."

Timmie had been all ready to stand up. Gladys's words took the stuffing right out of her knees. "How'd you know that?" she asked with far more fatalism than astonishment.

Gladys literally flinched. "I'm sorry. I thought it was common knowledge."

"How'd you know?"

"One of your friends told me."

"When?"

Gladys was all set to throw off an answer. One look at Timmie's face seemed to change her mind. Timmie could actually see her considering. "Well, I don't know. I do remember that I already knew when I heard about his death, and that news was around the morning after he died."

All those old clichés were true. Time really did seem to slow when the mind suffered a shock. Timmie swore she could suddenly smell the tube feeding the other nurse had opened down the hall. She could hear half a dozen monitors blipping in syncopation. She remembered just what Meghan had said about how she'd seen the insurance information passed, and what every one of her friends had told her.

"You knew before he died," she said very carefully.

Gladys blinked. "I guess I did."

"And you don't remember which of my friends told you."

She thought about it. "Well, I'd probably have to say it was one of those two, although I couldn't tell you which, which I guess is silly. It's not like they look alike or anything, but I can't remember."

Those two.

The names on Timmie's list. Her two friends, who would have had access and availability to the nurse server where Alice Hampton's Lasix had been magically transformed into digitoxin.

Timmie took another look at Gladys's precise, schoolmarm handwriting. At the last two lines, which read:

From the ER – Dr. Adkins

From the ER – Ellen

"Barb," she said, praying for deliverance. "The—"

"Big woman," Gladys said with a nod. "The doctor. She's tough to mistake."

"And Ellen."

"Smaller, had that husband who hit her, who died."

Timmie nodded. She kept looking at those names, and all she could think of was that she'd been right. They'd been looking at it from the wrong side all along. The husbands hadn't been killed to cover up the old people. They'd been killed just like the old people.

And one of her friends had done it.

Chapter 25

What did she do now? Did she call Murphy?

Did she call Micklind? Did she confront her friends, who were almost all downstairs working the shift?

It made such terrible sense all of a sudden. Mercy killings, all of them. Even Victor, turned into ashes in the space of fifteen minutes, asleep the whole time. Polite, almost reluctant murders, which seemed to escalate as the pressure around them built.

How had the hospital murders begun, she wondered? As wish fulfillment? As a favor? As a simple failure of patience and hope?

It didn't matter now. What mattered was that they had to stop, and Timmie was probably the one who was going to have to do it. She was going to have to turn in one of her friends, because one of them was certainly killing people.

She actually managed to walk back into the ER and work another half hour before giving in to the inevitable and telling everyone she had to go home sick Everyone understood. Mattie wanted to drive her home. Timmie shook her head and called Murphy instead.

Murphy, who was safe. Murphy, who might not understand, but at least would respect her distance. Murphy, who would help her convict one of the charter members of the SSS of murder.

Tucked behind a closed lounge door, Timmie briefly told him what she'd discovered. She asked him to meet her at her house, and then collected her coat and purse.

"You're sure you're okay," Mattie said with an anxious frown when Timmie reached the front desk.

Mattie wasn't the only one there. Cindy waited, and Ellen and Barb. The inner circle of the SSS. Timmie gave her audience a chagrined smile. "I'm sorry. I misjudged my stamina."

Timmie could tell that Mattie didn't completely believe her. It didn't matter. She'd support her no matter what, which was just about what Timmie could handle right now.

Of course, Cindy was still pissed about what had happened the day before. Just as Timmie passed beyond earshot, she could be heard saying, "Stamina, my ass. When my husband died, I went back to work the next day. And I loved him."

For some reason, that was the last straw. Timmie spun on her heel and nailed Cindy with a glare. "You know it's funny you should mention John," she snapped, walking right back up to her. "We were talking about him the other day, weren't we, Mattie? He was shot, what, three years ago? In Chicago?"

"You know he was."

Cindy was beginning to look hurt. Timmie shrugged, furious enough at what she had to do that she felt like kicking dogs. And since Timmie knew she was probably going to have to admit that Cindy wasn't the one lying about making those warning phone calls, she kicked her instead.

"Well, that's the funny thing," she said, feeling like a heel and unable to stop. "See, Detective Micklind is an old Chicago cop. And he can't remember a John Dunn getting shot three years ago. His name was Dunn, wasn't it? You didn't change your name back just because he died?"

Now everybody was staring. Cindy looked as if she were going to vomit. "No. I never changed it in the first place. You think I wanted to go through life with a name like Cindy Skorcezy? It sounds like a Polish sedan." Finally, she teared up, straightening like Jackie Kennedy boarding the plane. "His name was John Skorcezy. Sergeant John Stanislaus Skorcezy, born in Chicago on July 12, 1959, badge number 23548, social security number 270-23-2122. He died in my arms of a gunshot wound to the head. Happy?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Now Murphy can look up the right name. He wanted to read the story himself."

The minute Timmie said it she wanted to take it back. It was a small, ugly thing to say, and she knew better. Forget what Mattie or Walter would have said. Her father would have blistered her butt until she couldn't sit down. Especially since the name had rung a bell. She had heard of Skorcezy. She'd probably seen the human interest story with the picture of his young wife holding his bloody body in her arms on a downtown street. But somehow, she just couldn't admit it. So she ignored Mattie's stunned silence and Ellen's wide eyes and just walked out the door.

* * *

Murphy didn't show up for close to an hour. By that time Timmie had already been inside the house and retrieved her evidence. She sat with it in a paper bag on her front porch, shivering and watching the sky darken.

It had been where Mattie had said it would be, in the kitchen cabinet next to her sink, right where anybody not familiar with her house would expect it. A half-empty quart of C and G bourbon. Choke and Gag, her dad had always called it. The cheap stuff. Exactly the brand of bourbon she'd cleaned out of the house by the shopping cartful when she'd first moved in. And now it was back, and just in time for Jason to drink it in the final moments before being shot to death.

"You look like a kid wanting to run away from home," Murphy said to her in greeting when he stepped out of his car.

Timmie was shivering where she sat, the impulse of the original idea long since dead. It would have been wiser to wait inside with her find, but there was still an obscene Rorschach splotch on the living room wall, and Timmie didn't want to spend time with it.

"I need to take this to Micklind," she said. "Do you mind?"

He didn't move from where he leaned, with one elbow on his open door and the other on his roof. "Nope. He said he'd meet us there."

Timmie just nodded her head.

"We can go any time."

She looked over at him. "You still interested in that mindless sex, Murphy?"

Timmie would have thought he'd look more enthusiastic. "I'm always interested in mindless sex, Leary. You serious, or you just looking to warm up a little?"

She sighed. "I don't know."

"Well, while I highly recommend it, I suppose I should warn you that it does nothing to ease the guilt of turning a friend in to the police."

Oddly enough, that made her grin. "Romantic."

He really did look like an old beaten rug, especially in this light. But he didn't carry any baggage with him. At least none Timmie would have to help tote if she decided to just enjoy his wry smile and sly eyes for a while.

"Did you tell Micklind what I think?" she asked, climbing to her feet with all the grace and enthusiasm of a septuagenarian.

"Nope. Figured you could do that. I did have him run your friends for wants and warrants, though. He came up empty."

Timmie shook her head. "There's got to be some kind of record. Serial killers who are this adept at murder have had practice." Hefting the bag in her arms, she walked to Murphy's car. "There's a trail somewhere."

"You sure it's one of them?"

"Nope," she lied. "I just have a sinking feeling." They both climbed in, and Murphy started the engine. "Anybody could have killed those old people, but only somebody who knew about Jason could have killed him. And only the SSS knew about Jason."

"All of the SSS?"

"The way we share information, it wouldn't have taken long. Just look how fast that insurance news made the rounds."

"But you said there were only two names on the list that nurse gave you."

Timmie stared out at the houses on her block as Murphy backed the car out and headed down the hill. "I did, didn't I?"

"Well, if it's Ellen, why would she call the murders in?"

Timmie rubbed at her eyes. "How the hell do I know? How do we know she really did call? What if it really was Cindy?"

"I don't suppose you thought to ask each of them where they made their calls from."

"I thought of it. I couldn't quite motivate myself to do it."

"You're going to have to, Leary."

She gave a sour laugh. "They're my friends, for God's sake. I still can't believe they'd be capable of mercy killing, much less first-degree arson. Any of them."

"There's something else to consider," he said. "How did Jason end up at your house with a murderer while you were at work?"

Timmie clutched more tightly to the bottle in her arms. "I didn't arrange it, if that's what you mean." She paused, sighed. "At least I don't think I did. I don't really trust my judgment anymore."

"You still don't think it could have been gold... uh, Raymond? He's pretty close with your friends, and I can damn well bet he'd have plenty of reason to make you happy."

"He couldn't have killed Alice Hampton. The more I think about this, the more I see one mind. Passive, nonconfrontational, intelligent enough to plan it and get away with it for so long."

"Those mercy killings were so tough?"

"The nurses up there knew exactly what was going on. They just couldn't manage to stop it or catch who was doing it. Which reminds me, I have an expose article for you on the administration that's firing the nurses who tried to report a series of murders on their Alzheimer's unit."

Murphy scowled. "I'll give it to Sherilee. It's just the kind of shit she's looking for."

"You don't want it? It's a natural follow-up to a Pulitzer winner like this."

"I'm not sure I'll still be around. All this action's made me realize that I haven't escaped from anything here. So what's the point of staying?"

Timmie looked over, disappointed and relieved at the same time. The passing streetlights, flickering to life in the dusk, silhouetted Murphy's sharp features. His hair was still shaggy, his chin rough from inattention. His eyes were sharper than ever, capable of ferreting out truth from the most innocuous expression. Those eyes were the only real reminder Timmie still had of the life she'd lived until a few months ago.

"I'm going to miss you," she said, and found that she meant it.

Murphy gave her a fleeting look that bordered on wistful. "You could always come along."

Timmie felt even more ambivalent. Just as melancholy, as if they were already standing at the door. "Thanks for the offer, even though I know you wouldn't have made it if I could have gone."

Murphy laughed. "Actually," he said, sounding as surprised as she, "I think I would have."

Timmie couldn't even manage a pithy comeback.

"You really want to stay here?" Murphy asked.

Timmie smiled. "Believe it or not, yeah. I kind of do. It'll be good for Dad, good for Megs, and if I need action, St. Louis isn't so far away."

He took just long enough to pull into the police station parking lot before closing the conversation. "The invitation stays open," he said, turning her way.

Close, a handsbreadth away in this little sports car. Smiling as if he meant it. Timmie smiled back the same way. "Not without that meaningless sex, it doesn't. I'm going to get something out of this relationship besides computer access if it kills me."

He laughed. She laughed. He bent over his stick shift, wrapped a calloused hand around the back of her neck, and pulled her close for a kiss. Timmie tasted tobacco on him. She smelled soap and leather and cold air. She knew for sure that sex with Murphy would be hot and fun and frivolous, and that Murphy would end up being a good friend. She missed him even before he was gone.

* * *

"I only accept gifts of alcohol at Christmas," Micklind said when they showed him what was in the bag.

Timmie wasn't in the mood for games. "If we're really lucky, we'll get at least a couple sets of prints off this. Especially if our murderer thought I wouldn't notice an extra bottle of bourbon in the house."

Micklind finally looked interested. "Anyone who'd ever spent time with your dad might make that mistake. I'll get 'em pulled. Anything else?"