I didn’t describe my crazy, terrified flight home from the Vanguard that night (it was too embarrassing for words), but I did divulge the shock and alarm I’d felt when I saw Blackie lurking in the doorway of the laundromat across the street. And then, after that, I gave Flannagan a full account of my excursion with Willy to the Keller Hotel, where I had spotted Aunt Doobie-or John Smith, or whoever-and chased him out to the street.

“But by the time I got outside,” I recounted, “the man had disappeared. I ran over to the waterfront to look for him, but so many screaming people were dashing around and so many fireworks were exploding, I couldn’t continue the search. I retreated to a secluded spot under the highway and hid behind a support beam, hoping he would reappear. That’s when I got hit.”

“And you never saw who did it?” Flannagan probed.

“Nope, but I’d bet my last banana it was Aunt Doobie. He has dark hair and he was wearing dark clothing, just like your caller said. And he was definitely in the vicnity.” I flicked my burnt-out cigarette stub through the open car window. “But it could have been Blackie, too, I guess. He wears black and has dark hair, and he may have been following me. Or maybe it was Baldy. He has no hair at all, but he has a black limousine. And he could have a wig… Oh, god! I don’t know who the hell it was! I only know who it wasn’t. And you can take my word on this, Detective Flannagan, it

wasn’t Willy!”

Flannagan chuckled. “I know that,” he said. “I made that accusation just to get your reaction. Mr. Sinclair is a raving queer, and it’s likely he murdered Gray Gordon, but he didn’t attack you. He doesn’t come anywhere close to fitting the caller’s description. He probably doesn’t even know the whole thing happened.”

Now it was my turn to get suspicious. Why was Flannagan so darn sure on this particular point? Why had he adopted, without question, an unverified account given to him by an anonymous caller? Smelled kind of fishy to me.

“You can’t be certain of that,” I declared, sneering and smirking, giving him what I hoped was a taste of his own cocky medicine. “How do you know Willy didn’t knock me out and then call the station himself and give you a phony description of a phony attacker?” I crossed my arms over my chest, leaned against the car door, and shot him a look that said,

harrumph!

Flannagan wasn’t chuckling anymore.

Now he was laughing out loud.

“If you really think Mr. Sinclair would do something like that, Mrs. Turner,” he said between guffaws, “and if it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll gladly reconsider my position. As far as I’m concerned, that creepy little queer is capable of anything.”

X@#%*!!

Do I have to tell you how utterly imbecilic I felt at that moment? Not only had I planted a warped idea in Flannagan’s already warped mind, but I had, in the process, cast aspersions on the very person I was trying to protect! I was the world’s worst detective. I was a worthless piece of ca-ca. I was a danger to myself and everyone around me. I should be writing about makeup, macaroni, and mops-not murder.

Still, something was really bothering me about the anonymous caller-or, rather, Flannagan’s swift acceptance of his supposedly eyewitness tale. Shouldn’t the details have been examined more closely? Shouldn’t the informant’s story have been verified by at least one other witness before becoming a matter of police record?

My head was hurting more than ever.

“Do you think I could go home now, Detective Flannagan?” I asked. “I’ve told you everything I know, and I’m really beat. No pun intended.”

“Of course, Mrs. Turner,” he said, with a mocking smile. (At least he had stopped laughing.) “We’re finished here. One of my officers will drive you.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But before I go can I ask you one big favor?”

“What’s that?”

“If you happen to see or talk to Detective Dan Street, would you please not say anything about what happened here tonight, or tell him about my previous participation in this case? That’s all over now, and I really don’t want him to worry about me.” (Translation: stop loving me.)

“Ha!” Flannagan snorted. “For a nosy know-it-all, you sure don’t know your boyfriend very well. Street’s the smartest, most determined dick in the whole damn department. Nobody can keep a secret from him-least of all you.”

Chapter 23

I GOT HOME SHORTLY AFTER MIDNIGHT and went straight to bed. Abby and Jimmy and Otto weren’t back yet-but even if they’d been there, beckoning me next door for company, comfort, conversation, and a nightcap, I would have declined. I didn’t want to talk to anybody. Not even Dan. And to make sure I wouldn’t have to, I took my phone off the hook before lugging myself and the electric fan upstairs.

I don’t remember what happened after that. I know I must’ve set the fan on the dresser, plugged it in and turned it on, and then stripped off my clothes and flopped down on the bed naked, because that was the way I found things in the morning. The fan was blowing a hot wind over my bare skin, and my clothes were lying in a jumble on the bedroom floor.

My head felt like a volleyball full of sand, but it didn’t hurt so much anymore. The bump wasn’t as swollen as before, and I was able to pull myself up to a sitting position on the side of the bed without feeling the least bit dizzy. When I took a look at the clock on my bedside table, however, my senses went into a cyclone spin. It was a quarter to nine! I was so late for work it was sinful.

Jumping to my feet and tearing into the bathroom, I took a fast shower, dried myself off, and got dressed in a frenzy- which will explain how I wound up wearing a shocking pink blouse with a red plaid skirt and a pair of green platformed sandals. My stocking seams were twisted every which way, and I applied my makeup in such haste that my poor face looked like an abstract portrait by Picasso.

After my mad dash to the subway, my two connecting train rides (first uptown, then across), and my hot, sweaty scramble to my office building at 43rd and Third, I was a complete wreck. Flying past the lobby coffee shop where I usually bought my morning muffin, I darted into the first open elevator I came to and took it to the ninth floor.

As I exited the elevator and stumbled down the hall to the

Daring Detective office, I tried to pull myself together-i.e., straighten my clothes, smooth down my hair, act cool. But it was hopeless. (Well, it’s hard to act cool when you look like a character in a Looney Tunes cartoon.) In an effort to silence the office entry bell and slip inside unnoticed, I opened the door as slowly and quietly as I possibly could and tried to squeeze through it sideways.

My efforts were so fruitless they were foolish. The entry bell jangled as loudly as it always did, and before I was even halfway through the door, all three of my male coworkers-Mario, Mike, and Lenny-were staring up at me from their desks in the large communal workroom, watching me try to sneak inside.

“Look who’s here!” Mario crowed, making sure that his voice was loud enough to be heard by our boss, Harvey Crockett (whose private office door was, as usual, standing wide open). “It’s our own little page-turner, Paige Turner! And she’s only an hour and forty-five minutes late! Guess we’re lucky she showed up at all.” Mario Caruso, the art director of the magazine, was a short, dark, thickset (and thick-headed) man in his early thirties who liked to cause trouble. Especially for me.

“Good morning, all,” I said, squaring my shoulders, tossing my head, and stepping all the way into the office. I was trying to appear self-possessed, aloof, and indifferent to Mario’s taunting remarks, but I felt as cool and composed as the melting mannequins in the big fire scene in the 3-D thriller,