Murphy scowled. "I'll give it to Sherilee. It's just the kind of shit she's looking for."

"You don't want it? It's a natural follow-up to a Pulitzer winner like this."

"I'm not sure I'll still be around. All this action's made me realize that I haven't escaped from anything here. So what's the point of staying?"

Timmie looked over, disappointed and relieved at the same time. The passing streetlights, flickering to life in the dusk, silhouetted Murphy's sharp features. His hair was still shaggy, his chin rough from inattention. His eyes were sharper than ever, capable of ferreting out truth from the most innocuous expression. Those eyes were the only real reminder Timmie still had of the life she'd lived until a few months ago.

"I'm going to miss you," she said, and found that she meant it.

Murphy gave her a fleeting look that bordered on wistful. "You could always come along."

Timmie felt even more ambivalent. Just as melancholy, as if they were already standing at the door. "Thanks for the offer, even though I know you wouldn't have made it if I could have gone."

Murphy laughed. "Actually," he said, sounding as surprised as she, "I think I would have."

Timmie couldn't even manage a pithy comeback.

"You really want to stay here?" Murphy asked.

Timmie smiled. "Believe it or not, yeah. I kind of do. It'll be good for Dad, good for Megs, and if I need action, St. Louis isn't so far away."

He took just long enough to pull into the police station parking lot before closing the conversation. "The invitation stays open," he said, turning her way.

Close, a handsbreadth away in this little sports car. Smiling as if he meant it. Timmie smiled back the same way. "Not without that meaningless sex, it doesn't. I'm going to get something out of this relationship besides computer access if it kills me."

He laughed. She laughed. He bent over his stick shift, wrapped a calloused hand around the back of her neck, and pulled her close for a kiss. Timmie tasted tobacco on him. She smelled soap and leather and cold air. She knew for sure that sex with Murphy would be hot and fun and frivolous, and that Murphy would end up being a good friend. She missed him even before he was gone.

* * *

"I only accept gifts of alcohol at Christmas," Micklind said when they showed him what was in the bag.

Timmie wasn't in the mood for games. "If we're really lucky, we'll get at least a couple sets of prints off this. Especially if our murderer thought I wouldn't notice an extra bottle of bourbon in the house."

Micklind finally looked interested. "Anyone who'd ever spent time with your dad might make that mistake. I'll get 'em pulled. Anything else?"

Timmie sucked in a steadying breath. "Yeah. Sit down."

Twenty minutes later Micklind had all the information Timmie had, and Timmie learned that Alex hadn't been at the funeral because he'd been in interrogation, the cops had just searched Jason's motel room and come up with nothing of import but Timmie's phone number, and they were still waiting for phone records to see who else he might have called while he'd been in town. Timmie had also suggested they carry certain pictures to the motel and see if Jason had been seen in the company of any of the SSS. They'd been right. Jason's death had been no chance.

"And you're sure there wasn't any kind of history on the names I gave you?" she asked Micklind.

"Nothing more than traffic violations and the disorderly conduct we hit Dr. Adkins with when she tried to run over Vic's girlfriend once. One suspicious loitering, but that wasn't much."

"Suspicious loitering?" Timmie echoed. "Who, Cindy?"

"No. Ellen Mayfield."

"Ellen? Against who? Why the hell would Ellen loiter, suspiciously or otherwise?"

Micklind threw his hands up. "It didn't rate a big note in the file. I don't see it as practice for the big one, you know?"

"But you'll check."

"I'll check," he assured her. "Give us more time and we might be able to pull down work histories and stuff, but not tonight."

Murphy resettled in his chair, as antsy as Timmie. "Ms. Leary believes that whoever's doing this probably has a pattern already, or they wouldn't be this effective. Any way we could fire up VICAP or NCIC to see if there's a matching pattern anywhere?"

VICAP. Timmie almost leaped straight to her feet. "Oh, shit."

Micklind damn near reached for his gun. "Problem?"

But she was grinning. "You don't need to go through the computers. Conrad already did it for me."

Now both men were paying attention. "He did?" Murphy asked. "What did he come up with?"

"Nothing that made sense when I read through it before. But I have the printout at my house. We can look at it again."

A uniform tapped on Micklind's open door and leaned in. "Sarge, that nurse is in interrogation one for you."

Micklind scowled and climbed ponderously to his feet. "We only have one interrogation room, Bradley."

Bradley didn't smile. "Yes, Sarge."

"And here," he said, lifting the brown bag. "Have this bottle dusted ASAP. Carefully, Bradley."

"Yes, Sarge." He accepted the bag as if it held the grail and proceeded with it from the room.

Micklind shook his head at the young officer and then turned back to Timmie and Murphy, who were also on their feet. "We finally got the time to interview the unit nurses. Did you know the hospital already fired two of them?"

"Something I plan to help rectify," Timmie vowed.

Another uniform leaned in. "Those phone records are coming in."

Timmie almost sat back down. Micklind gave her one of his almost visible smiles. "You were going to check patterns you might recognize better than I would. I'll call if I find anything interesting here. All right?"

She glowered. "It'll have to be, won't it?"

Micklind pulled his jacket off his chair and slipped into it. "Oh, just for curiosity's sake, didn't you say that Chicago cop's name was John Dunn? I couldn't find a record of him anywhere. You sure he was a Chicago cop?"

Oh, good. Frustration and shame. "My mistake," Timmie admitted. "Evidently it wasn't Dunn. It was Skorcezy with a 'z'. Sergeant John Stanislaus Skorcezy, born in Chicago 1959, badge number 23548. He has a social security number, too, but I can't remember it. Cindy said he died in her arms."

Out of habit, Micklind jotted as Timmie talked. "You sure he was a sergeant?" he asked. "His badge number's wrong."

Timmie shrugged. "That's what Cindy gave me. But then Cindy also said she dated my fireman."

This time both of the men stared at her.

"Probably gave me his patrol badge," Micklind finally said. "Those are the only badges with five numbers."

Timmie raised her eyes. "Which meant he was probably a patrolman."

"I don't want to keep this nurse waiting. I may dig a little more later. Thanks for coming in."

"And you'll keep me apprised," Timmie said.

Micklind did smile this time. "Yes, ma'am, I will."

* * *

The last place Timmie wanted to return to tonight was her house. That was where she went, though, Murphy in tow. This time she didn't bother to turn on the lights. Only the fluorescent in the kitchen, which was plenty of light to find her mail. She couldn't believe she'd forgotten about the list of mercy killing cases Conrad had sent. She also wasn't all that sure it would help. But any port in a storm.