"I bet you know who it is," Murphy said suddenly.

Timmie looked over to see that avid gleam in his eye and nodded, still trying her damnedest to believe it. "I do."

"Me, too."

Finally, Timmie heard him. "I know," she said, and began to believe it.

Even so, Murphy pointed to the tenth case Conrad had copied for her. A possible angel of death stalking the halls of a VA hospital in Joliet, Illinois. "Ring a bell?" he asked.

* * *

Murphy did not want to be put on hold. Not when he had dynamite in his hand. Nitro. Plutonium. It was so damn easy. So obvious, according to his cohort in crime, who was even now finishing a call to her mother-in-law.

All Murphy could do was wait for Micklind to get his ass back out of that interrogation room that was going to prove useless, and get on the damn phone.

"What?" Micklind asked by way of greeting.

Murphy stubbed out the cigarette he'd brought in anyway and leaned over his printout. "That nurse Gladys still down there?"

"Yeah. She couldn't tell me much."

"Well, ask her this. Ask her how Ellen's husband died."

"What?"

"Ask her how Ellen's husband died. Trust me."

Micklind grunted and put Murphy back on hold. Next to him, Timmie was smiling and discussing green flies and chameleons, which Murphy figured meant she was talking to her daughter. He should call his. When this was over. When he decided what to do. After he'd had his meaningless sex with Leary and recovered his breath.

He lit another cigarette while he waited. He thought how refreshing a stiff drink would be right now. How he'd never really celebrated an exclusive story without at least a bottle of something flammable, if not combustible. He sucked hard on the cigarette and focused on winning instead.

"Murphy?" It was Micklind, and he sounded downright stunned. "Guess what I found out?"

Murphy smiled like a pirate. "Her husband was killed in the line of duty in Chicago."

It sounded like Micklind was smoking, too. Might as well. This was even better than good sex. "This Gladys apologized for the mix-up. She said she always got those two mixed up, since they were so much alike and they were both widows. How'd you figure it out?"

"Leary figured out from a phone bill that her husband had been conversing with someone at her house when she wasn't home. There's only one other person who was definitely in the house at four-thirty P.M. two days before Jason Parker's death, when he made his last call. I also got some great information for you—"

"Actually, so did I. That's what took me so long. I got the information on that Cindy's husband's death. Turns out he didn't."

"Didn't what? Die?"

"Die? He didn't even exist. There was no such cop as John Skorcezy. Hell, there wasn't even a man from Chicago named John Skorcezy. I went ahead and asked right after you left. The information just came up."

"Actually," Murphy said, "there might not have been a John Skorcezy, but there was a Stanislaus Skorcezy. He was the first patient to die in a series of fifteen murders that took place almost four years ago in Joliet, Illinois. They had a suspect, but failed to indict for lack of evidence."

"Don't tell me. Cindy Dunn."

"Not exactly. Cindy Skorcezy. Stanislaus's daughter."

Silence. "She was a nurse at her father's hospital?"

"She was a nurse. Just not there."

"Jesus." Murphy waited, but it took Micklind a minute to catch his breath. Murphy didn't blame him. "We're waiting for the AFIS results on those prints, but I bet it's a clean match. Does Timmie know where this Cindy might be?"

"Hey, Leary," Murphy said. "Can you find Cindy? Micklind wants to talk to her."

Timmie was just hanging up the phone. "Cindy told Meghan not to tell me her daddy had called. Said it was going to be a surprise for me." She shook her head, her eyes tight and troubled. "She was at work. Let me check."

She dialed, greeted, waited.

"...how long does she have left for lunch... no, I'm not going to insult her again, Ellen. I'm going to apologize. Is that okay?"

"I think the suspect is working her shift at the hospital," Murphy interpreted for the cop. "She is, however, on lunch break."

Micklind snorted. "It's damn near nine. You'd think she was a cop."

Murphy was grinning when he caught the sudden consternation in Timmie's voice. "What do you mean they can't find him?" She was suddenly on point, bristling with annoyance and impatience. "Thanks, Ellen. I'll call them right now."

"Problems?" he asked when she hung up.

"My father." She punched buttons as if they needed punishment. "He's wandered off the floor. They wonder if I wouldn't come in and help them look for him. I don't think I'm paying all this money to have them misplace him, for God's sake."

"He's not in any danger, is he?"

"No. He has an electric alert anklet that will sound like a dive Klaxon if he so much as wanders into the regular hospital. He's probably hiding in some old woman's closet pretending her husband is due home... Hello?"

That call took three minutes, four monosyllabic responses, and one promise. By the time Timmie hung up the phone, Murphy was on his feet, both phone bill and printout in hand. "Need a ride?"

She scowled. "Yes. What is Micklind going to do about Cindy?" That gave her pause. She stopped, laughed an odd, mirthless bark of surprise, shook her head. "My God. Cindy."

"He'll pick her up at work. Which probably means you should go in the back door when you go see your dad. I'll drop you off and take this over to Micklind. Call me there when you need a ride."

She kept shaking her head. "Cindy. And here we thought she was all talk."

Murphy dropped her off at the Restcrest entrance and headed back out of the campus again. It was a pretty night, if you liked winter. The sky was clear and black and brisk, with a few stars peeking past the city lights and the moon hanging parchment yellow over the hospital. Everything held still in the darkness beyond the orange glow of the parking lot lights.

Murphy had just hit his blinker to turn left off the southern exit of the hospital when he noticed the car that had stopped at the sign. Must be an out-of-towner, was his first thought. Missourians tended to consider stop signs as suggestions rather than orders. As long as they hit their lowest gear and at least pulled their foot off the gas, they considered themselves to be making a legal stop. Which was why this guy looked so odd sitting there.

Maybe he was trying to see past the stand of trees at the edge of the lane. Whatever it was, something was confusing this poor white-haired guy sitting there in his sedan.

White hair.

Throwing his car into neutral and yanking on the brake, Murphy leaned forward to get a better look. He hit his high beams and watched them glint off that singular mane. Murphy saw the guy look around, as if seeking something. He saw, to his astonishment, that he was in his pajamas.

And he knew without a doubt who it was.

Restcrest was mounting an indoor search party, and somehow Joe Leary had made a clean break as far as the nearest auto. Now that he had it, though, he had obviously forgotten what to do with it.

Murphy climbed out of the car as quickly as possible and headed for the sedan.

"Joe? Joe, you okay?"

He hadn't gotten as far as figuring out what he was going to do with him. He just knew that this poor old geezer was shaking like a malaria patient and getting alarmingly blue around the lips. And he was singing... what? It was familiar.