Pete laughed so loud that half the room turned. "You're lyin' like a dog. But that's okay, because I still owe you for the Growth and Commerce Association story."

"And Price?"

Pete went back to his sandwich. "Nothing. Not a whisper of distress. The university is in the top ten, which is crowding the other med schools in town, and the hospital seems solid. Too many beds, but working hard to stay a contender."

Murphy ate some more chili. He might have had lots of problems, but his stomach had never been one. It obviously still wasn't. "And Memorial?"

Pete paused, belched, and waited, as if expecting applause. "A master stroke." Waving his sandwich at Murphy like a soggy wand, Pete grinned. "Every hospital in town has been layin' odds on where the next big population shift is gonna happen. Barnes went into St. Charles, St. John's into Washington, and Price bet on Puckett. The word on the big Monopoly board is still out on who's going to win, but I'm betting on Price. Not only the population, but the population with expendable cash. Price is also giving every sign that they believe it hard, too."

"How?"

"Feasibility studies. Busy real estate lawyers. Spending the money to bring in a hotshot like Paul Landry and then stuffing him out in Memorial instead of the university hospital itself."

Murphy forgot his chili. "Landry, huh? Johnnie Cochran clone with a degree in corporatespeak?"

"The very same."

The man standing right next to Alex Raymond when the shots had been fired. The one Timmie had said made white folks nervous.

"He's hot, huh?"

"Specializes in hospital turnarounds. He just came off a big job in Dayton, where they wanted to give him the keys to the city and an armed escort out of town. Within another four months, I guarantee you'll see a solid business where a charitable hospital once stood."

"Definitely a man of the nineties."

"My own considered opinion is that Price set him up out there to lay the way for the big shift in Price services. I figure that in another ten years the only thing left of Price in the city is gonna be clinics for the med students to practice on. The real money-making services are going to be out in beautiful, bucolic Puckett."

"Like Restcrest."

Pete nodded happily. "Perfect example. I mean, they set that place up as the Temple of Aging. Did everything but cement Mother Teresa into the cornerstone. It is, my son, the way of the future, and Price is preparing itself to own the market."

Murphy was so out of practice that it took him a good few minutes to recognize his reaction. Itchy. Restless, like somebody was pumping electricity through him, right below his skin.

Instinct.

For a second he forgot the hum of conversation in the echoing room. He lost the clink of china and the almost constant whine of sirens beyond the green screen door. He was thinking of big business. Big money. Big power. Big risk.

Money and power and sex. Murphy's trinity of motivation.

The kind of motivation that could lead to murder.

He damn near smiled. "And Alex Raymond?" he asked.

Pete picked a stray shred of lettuce off his white shirtfront. "Mother Teresa's twin brother," he said. "I don't know what you want to hear, but the guy is beloved. He and his partner are really making advances in Alzheimer's research. The partner's a geek of the first order, but like a good Frankenstein, he stays in the lab. Alex Raymond pats hands and fights governments for medical breakthroughs."

Murphy did look at Pete then, and it was to see a familiar edge in the editor's eyes. A faint reflection of old reporter's lusts, which both of them had long since used up and washed away.

A perfect man in a perfect hospital doing good works. Nothing a reporter distrusted more.

"You'll keep an eye out for me?" Murphy asked.

"For like considerations."

This time Murphy gave Pete the kind of smile that would once have sent half the people in that room running for cover. "I do have a small one. Save it up for when you need it."

Pete's leaned forward. "Yes?"

"Paul Landry. Have you heard his 'poor marine wounded in a foreign war' story?"

"The beginning of his long and illustrious career as a savior of hospitals, from what I hear."

Murphy nodded as he finished the last of his chili and let his spoon clatter into the bowl. "You might want to check to be sure, but my guess is that he missed a paragraph in his military history. He put himself in Chu Lai about three years after the marines had gone."

Pete damn near held his breath. "You're sure?"

"That's what I heard him say. My guess is that he hasn't been any closer to Vietnam than the Time-Life series."

Pete wasn't glowing anymore. He was laughing. "You want some help on the rest of the story?" he asked. "Like old times?"

Murphy was touched. There hadn't been any old times. By the time Pete had signed on, Murphy's ship had been sinking fast. All Pete had been able to do was hold his coat and the door.

"Thanks, Pete," he acknowledged. "I'll let you know. Right now, though, I have somebody helping me. And, unless I'm mistaken, she is already, even as we speak, doing undercover work right inside the hospital itself."

Chapter 10

Timmie wasn't at the hospital. She was at another funeral. Victor Adkins was being laid to rest in the same cemetery as Billy Mayfield, and the sense of déjà vu was just a little too intense.

The good news was that at least Timmie didn't feel nearly as bad about it. Not that she was thrilled to be burying Victor. Victor didn't deserve to die any more than Billy had, no matter what the SSS had to say about it. But at least this time Timmie didn't have to wade through a morass of ambivalence on the way to the services.

There was no question about the cause of death. Victor had died from smoke inhalation and thermal injuries to the bronchial tree. Hot smoke and gases, just like Timmie had told Murphy out in Victor's backyard the day before. Definitely not a survivable diagnosis. ETOH level of 350 mg/dL, which meant that Victor had drunk himself into a coma and slept right through the working smoke alarm, the flames, and the searing heat that had, in effect, melted his lungs and airway. Which also meant that the murderer had at least had the decency to anesthetize him before burning him to death.

Also no question. Victor had been murdered. Timmie was sure the fire had been set, which meant that Victor had probably been deliberately... what, drunked? Tanked up? Intoxicated with intent? In any case, premeditated to death.

If Timmie could have gotten the fire puppies to pay more attention to her, she might at least have gotten them to send someone to Victor's neighborhood to ask about recent Greeks bearing beer. But her second contact with them had been as productive as her first. Fire puppies did not appreciate being told their jobs by as-yet-unknown nurses.

She'd also spent a solid twenty seconds considering a phone call to Van Adder, who had demanded primary jurisdiction as coroner on Victor's case. But if the fire puppies had trouble talking to a nurse, Timmie could well imagine Van Adder's attitude.

At least this time she wasn't out there staring into the sun all by herself. Murphy listened. Murphy believed. Murphy would at least help her solve the puzzle, which was enough right there to propel her out the door this morning with a smile on her face.