"Did he tell you what he did?"

"Do you think it matters?"

That stopped her. She thought about what Christa said, about forgiving them, about them just being kids on a scavenger hunt.

"Did he tell you who is after them?" she asked.

"No. But he asked us to stay out of it. We're his friends, Wendy. Our loyalty is to him, not you. And I think he's suffered enough, don't you?"

"I don't know, Norm. I don't know who is after him and his old roommates-and now me. And more than that, I don't even know whether Dan Mercer killed Haley McWaid. Maybe her killer is still out there. Do you get what I'm saying?"

"I do."

"And?"

"And our friend asked us to stay out of it. It's not our fight anymore."

"Fine."

Fuming, she started for the door.

"Wendy?"

She turned back to him. He looked so ridiculous in that getup, the damn black cap over a red bandana, the white belt, the wrist-watch with a face the size of a satellite dish. Ten-A-Fly. For crying out loud. "What, Norm?"

"We do have that photograph."

"What photograph?"

"The still of the girl in the video. The hooker who accused Farley Parks of soliciting her. Owen was able to freeze the screen and enhance it around the shadow. It wasn't easy, but he got a pretty clear picture. We have it, if you want it."

She waited. Owen handed the eight-by-ten to Norm. Norm brought it to her. She looked down at the girl in the photograph.

Norm said, "She looks young, don't you think?"

Wendy's world, already wobbly, teetered off its axis.

Yes, the girl in the photograph did look young. Very young.

She also looked exactly like the artist sketch of Chynna, the girl Dan claimed that he was supposed to meet at the sting house.

SO NOW SHE KNEW. The photograph was the kicker. Someone had set them up.

But still no why or who.

When Wendy got home, there was only one news van still parked outside. She couldn't believe what station it belonged to. The damn nerve-it was from her own network. NTC. Sam, her cameraman, stood outside with-deep breaths-the balloon-headed Michele Feisler.

Michele was fixing her hair. The NTC microphone was jammed into the crook of her arm. Wendy was tempted to veer her car to the right and take her out, watch that big melon head splatter onto the curb. Instead she hit the automatic garage door and headed inside. The electric door slid closed behind her and she stepped out.

"Wendy?"

It was Michele. She knocked on the garage door.

"Get off my property, Michele."

"There's no camera or microphone. It's just me."

"My friend inside has a gun that he's dying to use."

"Just listen to me a second, okay?"

"No."

"You need to hear this. It's about Vic."

That made her pause. "What about Vic?"

"Open the door, Wendy."

"What about Vic?"

"He's selling you out."

Her stomach dropped. "What do you mean?"

"Open the door, Wendy. No cameras, no microphones, all off the record. I promise."

Damn. She debated what to do, but really, what was the harm? She wanted to know what Michele had to say. If it meant letting Blockhead into her house, so be it. She stepped over Charlie's bike-conveniently abandoned, as always, to block her access-and turned the knob. Unlocked. Charlie always forgot to lock it.

"Wendy?"

"Come around back."

She entered the kitchen. Pops was gone. He'd left a note that he'd picked up Charlie. Good. She opened the back door for Michele.

"Thanks for letting me in."

"So what's this about Vic?"

"The brass want blood. They came down hard on him."

"So?"

"So Vic is being pressured big-time to say you hit on him-to imply that you're somewhat obsessed with him."

Wendy didn't move.

"The station released this statement."

Michele handed her a piece of a paper.

We at NTC have no comment on the matter of Wendy Tynes though we would like to make it very clear that our news manager Victor Garrett did nothing illegal or unethical and has refused any and all advances made in his direction by any person in his employ. Stalking is a serious problem in this country today, and there are many innocent victims made to suffer.

"Stalking?" Wendy looked up. "Is this for real?"

"Nicely done, don't you think? Couched in enough vagaries so that no one can sue."

"So what do you want, Michele? You don't really think I'm going to go on air, do you?"

Michele shook her head. "You're not that stupid."

"So why are you here?"

She took back the statement and held it up. "This isn't right. We aren't good friends. I know how you feel about me…" Michele pursed her over-glossed lips and closed her eyes, as though weighing her next sentence in her mind.

"Do you believe this statement?"

The eyes snapped open. "No! I mean, come on. You? Stalking Vic? Gag me with a soup ladle."

Right then, if Wendy hadn't been so stunned and emotionally raw, she might have hugged Michele.

"I know it's corny, but I became a reporter because I wanted to find truths. And this is crap. You're being set up. So I wanted to let you know what the deal was."

Wendy said, "Wow."

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm surprised, I guess."

"I have always admired you, the way you handle yourself, the way you cover a story. I know how that sounds, but it's true."

Wendy just stood there. "I don't know what to say."

"Nothing to say. If you need any help, I'm here for you. That's all. I'm going now. We're covering that story I told you about-the perv Arthur Lemaine who had both knees shot."

"A new development?"

"Not really. The guy hopefully got what he deserved, but it's still pretty amazing-a convicted child pornographer coaching a kids' hockey team."

Wendy felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck.

Hockey?

She remembered now watching the story with Charlie and his friends. "Wait, he was shot in front of South Mountain Arena, right?"

"Right."

"But I don't get it. I remembered reading that the arena does background checks on the coaches."

Michele nodded. "Yes. But in Lemaine's case, the convictions didn't show up."

"Why not?"

"Because the background checks only turn up crimes committed on U.S. soil," Michele said. "But see, Lemaine is Canadian. From Quebec, I think."

CHAPTER 34

IT DIDN'T TAKE Wendy long to put it together.

Michele Feisler helped. She already had plenty of background on sex criminal Arthur Lemaine, including a family tree. Wendy was impressed with the work Michele had put in already. And okay, maybe Michele's head was a little on the large side, but that was probably accentuated by the fact that she had really narrow shoulders.

"What now?" Michele asked her.

"I think we should get in touch with Sheriff Walker. He's in charge of the Dan Mercer murder."

"Okay, why don't you make the call? You know him." Wendy found Walker's cell phone number and hit send. Michele sat next to her. She dutifully took out her little reporter pad, pen poised. Walker answered on the fourth ring. Wendy heard him clear his voice and say, "Sheriff Mickey Walker."

"It's Wendy."

"Oh, uh, hi. How are you?"

Oh, uh, hi? His voice sounded stiff. And now that Wendy thought of it, wouldn't he have seen it was her on his caller ID?

"I see you've heard those new stories about me," Wendy said.

"Yep."

"Super." This was not the time to go into it. It didn't matter anyway-screw him, right?-but she still felt the pang. "Have you heard about this case of Arthur Lemaine? The guy who got shot in both kneecaps?"

"Yes," he said. "But it's not my jurisdiction."

"Did you hear that Arthur Lemaine is a convicted child pornographer?"

"I think I heard that, yes."