When the timers came up to me, I said, “You six are the only ones who definitely could not have killed the woman. I want you to stand at the exits.” I tapped each in turn and sent them to a post-two to the doors on the second floor at the top of the bleachers, two to the ground-floor exits, and one each to the doors leading to the men’s and women’s dressing rooms.

“Don’t let anyone, regardless of anything he or she says, leave. If they have to use the bathroom, tough-hold it until the cops get here. Anyone tries to leave, keep them here. If they want to fight, let them go but get as complete a description as you can.”

They trotted off to their stations. I gave Izod back his mike, made my way to a pay phone in the corner, and dialed the Eleventh Street homicide number.

II

Sergeant McGonnigal was not fighting sarcasm as hard as he might have. “You sent the guy to guard the upstairs exit and he waltzed away, probably taking the gun with him. He must be on his knees in some church right now thanking God for sending a pushy private investigator to this race.”

I bit my lips. He couldn’t be angrier with me than I was with myself. I sneezed and shivered in my damp, clammy clothes. “You’re right, Sergeant. I wish you’d been at the meet instead of me. You’d probably have had ten uniformed officers with you who could’ve taken charge as soon as the starting gun was fired and avoided this mess. Do any of the timers know who the man was?”

We were in an office that the school athletic department had given the police for their investigation-scene headquarters. McGonnigal had been questioning all the timers, figuring their closeness to the pool gave them the best angle on what had happened. One was missing, the man I’d sent to the upper balcony exit.

The sergeant grudgingly told me he’d been over that ground with the other timers. None of them knew who the missing man was. Each of the companies in the meet had supplied volunteers to do the timing and other odd jobs. Everyone just assumed this man was from someone else’s firm. No one had noticed him that closely; their attention was focused on the action in the pool. My brief glance at him gave the police their best description: medium height, short brown hair, wearing a pale green T-shirt and faded white denim shorts. Yes, baggy enough for a gun to fit in a pocket unnoticed.

“You know, Sergeant, I asked for the six timers at the far end of the pool because they were facing the swimmers, so none of them could have shot the dead woman in the back. This guy came forward. That means there’s a timer missing-either the person actually down at the far end was in collusion, or you’re missing a body.”

McGonnigal made an angry gesture-not at me. Himself for not having thought of it before. He detailed two uniformed cops to round up all the volunteers and find out who the errant timer was.

“Any more information on the dead woman?”

McGonnigal picked up a pad from the paper-littered desk in front of him. “Her name was Louise Carmody. You know that. She was twenty-four. She worked for the Ft. Dearborn Bank and Trust as a junior lending officer. You know that. Her boss is very shocked-you probably could guess that. And she has no enemies. No dead person ever does.”

“Was she working on anything sensitive?”

He gave me a withering glance. “What twenty-four-year-old junior loan officer works on anything sensitive?”

“Lots,” I said firmly. “No senior person ever does the grubby work. A junior officer crunches numbers or gathers basic data for crunching. Was she working on any project that someone might not want her to get data for?”

McGonnigal shrugged wearily but made a note on a second pad-the closest he would come to recognizing that I might have a good suggestion.

I sneezed again. “Do you need me for anything else? I’d like to get home and dry off.”

“No, go. I’d just as soon you weren’t around when Lieutenant Mallory arrives, anyway.”

Bobby Mallory was McGonnigal’s boss. He was also an old friend of my father, who had been a beat sergeant until his death fifteen years earlier. Bobby did not like women on the crime scene in any capacity-victim, perpetrator, or investigator-and he especially did not like his old friend Tony’s daughter on the scene. I appreciated McGonnigal’s unwillingness to witness any acrimony between his boss and me, and was getting up to leave when the uniformed cops came back.

The sixth timer had been found in a supply closet behind the men’s lockers. He was concussed and groggy from a head wound and couldn’t remember how he got to where he was. Couldn’t remember anything past lunchtime. I waited long enough to hear that and slid from the room.

Alicia was waiting for me at the far end of the hall. She had changed from her suit into jeans and a pullover and was squatting on her heels, staring fiercely at nothing. When she saw me coming, she stood up and pushed her black hair out of her eyes.

“You look a mess, V. I.”

“Thanks. I’m glad to get help and support from my friends after they’ve dragged me into a murder investigation.”

“Oh, don’t get angry-I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry I dragged you into a murder investigation. No, I’m not, actually. I’m glad you were on hand. Can we talk?”

“After I put some dry clothes on and stop looking a mess.”

She offered me her jacket. Since I’m five eight to her five four, it wasn’t much of a cover, but I draped it gratefully over my shoulders to protect myself from the chilly October evening.

At my apartment Alicia followed me into the bathroom while I turned on the hot water. “Do you know who the dead woman was? The police wouldn’t tell us.”

“Yes,” I responded irritably. “And if you’ll give me time to warm up, I’ll tell you. Bathing is not a group sport in this apartment.”

She trailed back out of the bathroom, her face set in tense lines. When I joined her in the living room some twenty minutes later, a towel around my damp hair, she was sitting in front of the television set changing channels.

“No news yet,” she said briefly. “Who was the dead girl?”

“Louise Carmody. Junior loan officer at the Ft. Dearborn. You know her?”

Alicia shook her head. “Do the police know why she was shot?”

“They’re just starting to investigate. What do you know about it?”

“Nothing. Are they going to put her name on the news?”

“Probably, if the family’s been notified. Why is this important?”

“No reason. It just seems so ghoulish, reporters hovering around her dead body and everything.”

“Could I have the truth, please?”

She sprang to her feet and glared at me. “It is the truth.”

“Screw that. You don’t know her name, you spin the TV dials to see the reports, and now you think it’s ghoulish for the reporters to hover around?… Tell you what I think, Alicia. I think you know who did the shooting. They shuffled the swimmers, nobody knew who was in which lane. You started out in lane two, and you’d be dead if the woman from Ajax hadn’t complained. Who wants to kill you?”

Her black eyes glittered in her white face. “No one. Why don’t you have a little empathy, Vic? I might have been killed. There was a madman out there who shot a woman. Why don’t you give me some sympathy?”

“I jumped into a pool to pull that woman out. I sat around in wet clothes for two hours talking to the cops. I’m beat. You want sympathy, go someplace else. The little I have is reserved for myself tonight.

“I’d really like to know why I had to be at the pool, if it wasn’t to ward off a potential attacker. And if you’d told me the real reason, Louise Carmody might still be alive.”

“Damn you, Vic, stop doubting every word I say. I told you why I needed you there-someone had to sign the card. Millie works during the day. So does Fredda. Katie has a new baby. Elene is becoming a grandmother for the first time. Get off my goddamn back.”