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."