Besides, she hated having to wait for Micklind to chew his information before spitting it out. She was close; she could feel it. And trauma nurses were not paid for their patience. So she did one more thing.

Without bothering to ask Murphy, she grabbed the phone and dialed information for the number to the Red Roof Inn.

"Red Roof Inn, how may I direct your call?" the nasal, asthmatic operator asked in a rush.

"I'm sorry to bother you," Timmie said, greeting her in her best let's-both-solve-a-big-problem voice. "You had a guest there by the name of Jason Parker?"

Pause. "Maybe."

Timmie smiled. "I'm Mrs. Parker. His wife. I wanted to ask about his bill."

"Oh, ma'am... oh, I..."

"I know what happened," she said mournfully. "It's only been today that the police were finally able to tell me where he was staying. I... well, they gave me his effects, but I've been concerned about his bill. Jason simply never left a bill unpaid."

"Well, there was his credit card..."

"Which the company probably froze at his death. I thought if you didn't mind I'd just come by and settle it for you. For... Jason."

"Why, uh, thank you. We had to charge him till today, you know. And I'm sure... I don't mean to..."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," Timmie said.

"Those bills always list any phone number that's called and charged to the room," she explained to Murphy as she hung up the phone. When he didn't move, she frowned at him. "Somebody knew Jason was coming to my house. And Jason didn't know anybody in town but me. Don't you think that's a problem worth exploring?"

"The police are looking at the same information right now."

She stopped him with a look. "These are my friends. And once upon a time, Jason was my husband. I need to know."

Murphy just turned for the door. Grabbing the brown manila envelope that had been sitting beneath her toaster, Timmie followed. "I'll read this on the way over."

She tried her best to read by the overhead light, but Murphy's driving made her nauseated. Besides, Conrad's printer must have shared shelf space with the first Fortran computer. The information he'd sent her had been printed on what looked for all the world like disappearing ink.

By the time they pulled into the parking lot, she'd only made it through three cases, and not one of them helped. Supermen syndromes all, with possible suspects the authorities simply hadn't been able to nail yet. All men.

The motel desk clerk was fifty-five and counting on the lottery to save her. Until then, she moved as little as possible and thought even less.

"I'm not sure..." she hesitated at Timmie's repeated request, fingers twined in stringy yellow hair. "Jo talked to you before."

"I understand," Timmie commiserated, pulling out her wallet and flipping out driver's license, credit card, and the only picture she had left of the family she'd once had. She'd almost cut Jason out of the pose, leaving just her and Megs, but Meghan would have noticed. Now she was glad she hadn't. "Did you get the chance to meet my husband?" she asked in her best grief-stricken voice.

"Yeah."

Timmie nodded and pushed forward her identification. "You see?" she said. "My name is Timothy Ann Leary-Parker. Here's my ID, and my picture with my husband and daughter."

"I'm still not sure I should allow you to do this. It could be illegal... Timothy?"

Timmie came very close to grabbing the woman by the shirt. "You're not sure that your company would want their bill paid? I'm a little confused. Why not?"

That stumped her.

Murphy leaned over Timmie's shoulder and peered at the picture on her license. "Good grief, what color is that?"

Timmie squinted herself. "Uh, sunrise orange. It was all the rage at USC that summer."

He just shook his head. "Your name really is Leary-Parker."

Timmie scowled at him. "Well, yeah. If you'll remember, I did my best to introduce myself that way. But since nobody listens, I just gave up. So I'm back to just Timmie Leary."

Didn't it just figure that that was what finally brought the clerk to life. "Leary?" she asked, brightening in that all-too-familiar way. "You aren't Joe Leary's daughter, are you?"

Timmie brightened right back. "Why, yes. You know him?"

The woman laughed like a seal. "You kiddin'? I seen him down at the RiverRat Tavern all the time. He used ta sing and shit. 'I will go and I will go, and I will go now to Englishfree.'"

Well, that was an interpretation Timmie hadn't heard before.

"That's it exactly," she agreed.

Another laugh, and Timmie had the bill in her hand along with the printout of phone numbers and dirty movies Jason had rented while waiting to see his daughter.

"I don't suppose you know—"

"If there was any women here with him?" The woman shook her head. "No."

Timmie blinked. "How'd you know I was going to ask that?"

She got another seal bark. "You kiddin'? The only question I get more'n that is 'Where's the condom machine, honey?'"

Timmie was proud of herself. She at least waited until she got back to the car before she read the bill. She didn't even notice Murphy start the car and back out of the lot. She was too focused on the long list of numbers in her hand.

His parents, his parents, his accountant, his lawyer. Even after all this time, Timmie knew that damn number by heart. St. Louis old money making the link with Los Angeles greed and seeing her straight to the streets.

She knew which numbers she didn't want to see on the list. And she didn't. Ellen's wasn't there. Neither was Barb's, Mattie's, Alex's, or Cindy's. But there was one number she saw more than once.

She got to the end and read it again. It still didn't make sense.

"I need to call Meghan," she said. "Can we—?"

Then she looked up to see that they were already in the parking lot of the Puckett Independent. The car engine was off and Murphy was lighting a cigarette one-handed as he scanned Conrad's computer printout.

"We going in?" she asked.

"In a second. Sherilee doesn't like smoke in there. What'd you find?"

She looked back down at her list. "Me. I'm the culprit again."

Murphy didn't bother to look over. "No kidding. You wanna just head over to the station now, or are you going to make a run for it?"

Timmie looked back at the list. At the dates and times. "I wasn't at the house when he called. I couldn't have been. But he told his mother he'd talked to me."

"Who else could he have talked to?"

"Exactly."

And then, she began counting backward from today and tried to remember just what had been going on at about four-thirty in the afternoon.

"Oh, my..." Timmie sat up straighten Counted again so she didn't get it wrong. Laughed, because it was the only thing she could think to do. "No, that can't be right."

"What?"

Timmie stared at the corrugated metal wall of the building, with its oak and brass nameplate pulled from the original brick Victorian presses when they'd moved to escape the '93 flood. She looked over at Murphy, but he had his nose in that printout. It didn't matter. She had the answer she didn't want, and she still didn't want it.

Next to her, Murphy abruptly stiffened. "Bingo."

Timmie didn't hear him. She was trying to decide who to call first, Gladys or Barb. She was wondering how she could get information more quickly than Micklind. She was wondering how she was going to feel about this when the truth finally sank in.