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12 Jagged Steps
by Louise Crawford
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Copyright (c)2001 Louise Crawford
2001 Hard Shell Word Factory

Hard Shell Word Factory
www.hardshell.com

Suspense/Thriller/Romance
[RT Reviewers Choice Nominee][RT Top Pick]

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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Duplication or distribution of this work by email, floppy disk, network, paper print out, or any other method is a violation of international copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment.
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Acknowledgements

I'd like to thank all my writing buddies, in particular, Jay MacLarty, Liz Crain, and Gene Munger for their terrific feedback. I'd also like to thank my friend, Jackie, for tagging along with me to Auburn to do research for the book and making the adventure more fun. Thanks also to all those in 12-step recovery programs who have made the commitment to live "one day at a time." And finally, I'd like to dedicate this book to my siblings, may all your dreams come true.

~ Louise Crawford
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         *Prologue*
       HE WAS FLYING, floating across the ceiling. The intensity in his groin built as he pumped the baby-faced whore harder, harder. He could see the Ecstasy, like molecular sparks racing through his veins, shooting him higher, higher.
       God, he'd found nirvana.
       The explosive rush hit as he climaxed, took him out of his skin and slammed him back into it like a gunshot of heavenly pleasure. Then he was adrift again, the lull after the storm.
       His release triggered a spasm of manufactured satisfaction in the hooker, her dark eyes older than Gomorrah in her twenty-something face. "Oh, baby, you're so good ... so good."
       His heart thundered in his ears as he rolled off, waiting for his breath to return, for the part of him on the ceiling to slide back into his hot, sweaty skin. He was tempted to go another round -- after all he was celebrating -- but he didn't have any more MDA, and he had to get to the job before someone wondered where he was.
       Going straight to hell, he thought, but he'd catch up on work over the weekend, walk the straight and narrow, until -- 
       "Time's up, sugar face." The hooker slid off the bed and crouched to retrieve her panties.
       "Nice view," he said, tossing the condom on the faded orange carpet, and grabbing his pants. He tried to remember her name as he zipped himself in. His brain was buzzing. His mouth dry.
       She stuck out her hand. He pressed a fifty into her fingers, stepped into the bathroom and turned on the water. It cooled his palms, made him feel clean. He dabbed his face and combed his hair. The hotel door slapped shut.
       He moved into the bedroom, glad she was gone. As the dizziness in his head lessened, his gaze slid across the tiny room, the sagging bed, to the cracked window. He could smell the cum and the whore's perfume. The walk back to his car would air him out. By the time he got back to work, no one would notice.
        Shrugging into his shirt, he quickly buttoned it, tied his tie and slipped on his jacket. Next, sunglasses. Set. He stepped into the hallway. Another day, another lay. One big score and he could afford to tell everyone to get fucked, do whatever he wanted.
       _Your addict's taking over, man_, a part of his brain whispered as he hit the sidewalk.
       _No shit, Sherlock. _
       Get help. Tell someone.
       _Tried that. It's too fucking late_. He craved Ecstasy. No way he was going to let go. Besides, he deserved it. Some guys ended a hard week with booze and a hangover. He had a woman, got a little high ... no big deal.
       _What if you get caught?_
       _Won't_. He glanced toward the river, smelled the diesel. West Sacramento was an armpit...
       _What if_?
       His internal voice, so like his mother's nagging, was getting to him. He pulled a cigarette, lit it, noticed his hand trembling and shoved it into his pocket.
       Damn, he had to pull himself together. He could slough through work. But he couldn't afford to get picked up by the cops -- not now.
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         *Chapter 1*
       "ANDREA? You there? Pick up."
        Irritated that my brother still called me Andrea instead of Blaize, yet pleased to hear his voice, I grabbed the receiver.
       "Hey, Ian. What's up?"
       I heard his breathing and the scuffle of a chair. Ian usually got to the point and off the phone in a nanosecond.
       I waited, amazed at the hunger welling inside, for a connection beyond "Mom's having turkey for Christmas dinner, you coming?" or "See any good movies lately?" If it hadn't happened after thirty-two years it was never going to happen, I told myself. But I pictured him -- dusty from sanding expensive cars -- leaning back behind his desk, and I missed him, or maybe I missed that closeness other siblings claimed. He'd have his boot heels propped on the phone book, a cancer stick burning in the ashtray, his reddish-blond hair curling over the collar of his coveralls which would be baggy on his tall, lean frame, and he'd look calm, controlled, and like everything was just dandy. For all I knew, it was. So why didn't I believe it?
       "Aunt Charlene called," he said.
       The unexpected name made me feel like I'd fallen off a cliff. "Charlene?" I'd been stuffing that name, along with the rest of the names on my Dad's side of the family, for most of my life.
       "Uncle Rich's wife," he added. "You know, she married Dad's step-brother."
       "I don't have Alzheimer's yet," I said, recalling the fear in my cousin's eyes every time Rich yelled at him. Everyone was frightened of Rich.
       "Guess it's kind of a shock after all these years, huh?"
       "Hey, don't everybody's relatives wait a decade or two to say howdy?"
       "Twenty-six years."
       Wow, had Dad been dead that long?
       "She offered me the flag from Dad's casket," Ian said, his voice flat as roadkill. "Wasn't interested."
       My chest felt like it was in a vise, like I was six and Dad had just died. Now at thirty-two, I closed my eyes, but couldn't come up with a face for Aunt Charlene or any of my relatives, just a vague notion of fat ... and uneasiness.
       "You want it?" he asked.
        How the heck could he sound so calm when my thoughts were racing in circles like Indy cars? "I don't know. Where does she live?"
       "Same house. Down the road from Dad's old ranch."
       I wondered if there were any ranches still standing in Auburn these days.
       "You want it?" he repeated.
       "Maybe." I felt empty. Hollow. Lost. A cold wind rushing through me. I cleared my throat. Aunt Charlene and the rest of them had stood by and watched my father's new wife take everything and leave my mother, nine-year-old Ian and little ol' six-year-old me out in the cold. They hadn't given a whit if we had a roof over our heads or food on the table. "I feel ridiculous saying this," I said, finally, "but I do want the damn thing." I jotted down Charlene's number and said good-bye. I stared at the phone, but couldn't dial those seven digits.
       Instead I started to call Zoloski, my live-in heart-throb, then hesitated. Cops have lousy hours and he was no exception; he probably wouldn't answer. Usually that didn't bother me.
       I was selling myself excuses and knew it. After two years the home front was in a downhill slide. Our "pissed-off" list had grown a foot long but we hadn't gotten around to discussing it. We were dancing around issues -- or maybe I was -- and my dad's family was an issue I ignored like the weeds sprouting up through the cracked patio cement. Finally, out of guilt, I dialed and got his voice mail. I gave it an update about Ian's call and hung up uncertain if I was relieved or disappointed.
       Time to call Lon. In college, he'd helped me through my first serious breakup, despite my then-boyfriend's threat to kick Lon's "gay ass" all the way back to San Francisco. I'd returned the favor when I'd helped him find the guy who murdered his lover.
       Lon picked up on the first ring. "Hey, girl, good to hear your voice. What's up?"
       I explained.
       "So how do you feel?" he asked in the calm voice I needed.
       "Like some giant hand just picked me up and dropped me onto another planet. Why now -- after so long?"
       "Maybe she wants to make amends." Lon had been in twelve-step programs forever. Although he was an engineer and I was a therapist, he sounded more like the counselor than I did at the moment.
       "After half a lifetime? Amends, hell -- they wouldn't know the meaning of the word. They're the type with hidden agendas, Lon. Dark, nasty ones."
       "People change, Blaize. Remember my dad? When he found out I swung both ways, he swore he'd never talk to me again -- then called last year. Maybe your aunt wants to clean the slate. Then again, maybe she's just cleaning out the garage."
       I laughed. "Sounds more likely." I could hardly believe how the reality of those words hurt. Thinking about my dad's family made me feel unwanted and abandoned all over again.
       He seemed to sense my pain. "Fuck ‘em. You've worked your whole life to leave them behind."
       My hand tightened on the phone. "It's not that easy."
       "You want me to go with you?"
       "You must have been a therapist in another life, you know that?"
       "I'm just dandy at picking up emotions and running with ‘em, sugar. It's called codependency. Detachment eludes me."
       I could feel the knot in my chest loosen a bit.
       "So, girl, you want me?"
       Despite the chess games, the lunches, the program lingo and penchant for shared sarcasm, I declined. "Stephanos might hit you instead of the racquetball next time we play cutthroat."
       A pause. "Well, if Columbo gets tied up on a case, you know who to call."
       Did I detect loneliness folded into the sarcasm? Lon had kept to himself since Ken's murder. He worked more, laughed less. Zoloski had arrested him. I'd cleared him. I wasn't sure the Z-man and I would weather that storm -- but we were still together. Strange how my mind refused to think of him as Stephanos, even though my mouth had finally gotten used to it. Lately, my big, green-eyed hunk was tossing out the M word, marriage, which brought up visions of my dad rampaging through the house, and images of the other losers my mother had wed. Even though Zoloski was nothing like them, those memories were enough to scare the bejesus out of me, and I automatically deflected his attempts to talk about our future. With his job, it wasn't that hard to do. But I knew I was screwing up big time. The relationship wouldn't last this way. Still, I couldn't seem to rewrite the script or stop the movie.
       Lon cleared his throat. "What are you going to do?"
       "Buy a big fat fudge cake with cream filling."
       "Not a good idea, sugar. You'll hate yourself."
       "Tell me something I don't know."
       "I would, but I have to go, Blaize. A client's here to check blueprints. If I were in your shoes, I'd call my sponsor."
       "I hear you," I grumbled, not even sure my old sponsor from Overeaters Anonymous was still around. She was. We talked until my desire to pig-out passed.
       When I hung up, I felt like an adult again, one who could speak to terrifying relatives in a casual, detached tone. Still, my jaw clenched as I dialed my aunt's number. I thought I'd crack a tooth when she asked in a pleasant, upbeat voice, "Well, Andrea! How are you?"
         * * * *
"FINE." Fucked up -- Insecure -- Neurotic -- Evasive. "I have some commitments tonight," I said, "but I could stop by around seven to pick up the flag." I figured that'd give me time to hit the gym with Zoloski, give him some kind of explanation, and work off the heebie-jeebies.
       She agreed and I hung up and checked my caseload -- one new client, already late, and two recovering alcoholics after lunch. Suddenly I was sick of listening to other people's problems. I'd been great at PI work, and even better at counseling addicts -- probably because I was one, but now longing for some other profession, I rummaged through my desk for a stick of gum and chomped it until my jaw ached. What I really craved was a cigarette. But like potato chips I knew I wouldn't have just one.
       The new client arrived and I listened to some bullshit as he tried to convince me of his commitment to therapy. Suspecting he wanted to say I was his therapist so he'd look good before a judge, I interrupted his routine. "Do you have a court date coming up?"
       He gave me a blank look, his eyes glassy.
       "Did you use anything before coming here?"
       "No, man! I need help!"
       "So, you admit you have a drinking problem?"
       He hemmed and hawed. I took non-paying clients if they were recommended and/or sincere in their desire to change. This guy was neither, and I had better things to do with my time.
       "So when's the court date?"
       "Next week," came out before he could stop it.
       "And you think you have a drinking problem but you're not sure."
       "Well, yeah. I mean -- it was just this cop, man, he had it in for me. The case is bullshit."
       I'd heard enough of it myself. I showed him the door, then sat behind my desk and stared at the Salvador Dali print on the wall. The clocks melting surrealistically over the landscape reminded me again of the twenty-six years since my Dad's death. And now this. Nothing good could come from my past and the McCue family tree, I knew it, but I couldn't ignore the summons.
         * * * *
ZOLOSKI THREW a concerned look my way as I climbed into his E-type Jag. He'd painted it mellow yellow and it gleamed. The inside was as clean and cared for as the outside, new leather he'd done himself, the car a work of joy. It had been awhile since I'd seen that kind of expression on his face.
       I'd been quiet at the gym, all focus and no fun. He'd given me a couple hugs, then backed off. Smart man. As we hit Highway 80, he reached over and touched my hand. "Want to talk?"
       _No_. Why did caring and loving knock the breath out of me? Man, did I need a cigarette. "What do you want to know?" I ground out, making an attempt toward the intimacy I wanted, but couldn't seem to allow. Sometimes I wondered what the Z-man saw in me that made him keep trying.
       "What's Ian think of this?"
       I shrugged. "When it comes to family and emotions, we don't talk."
       "You talk to Lon. And you talk to me -- _sometimes_."
       "Lon's different," I said. "Safe."
       "Because he never made any moves on you?"
       During his investigation into Lon, Zoloski had learned that my handsome blond "gay" friend was bisexual. I hadn't known _that_. It caused fireworks -- the Z-man's first wife had left him for somebody else and he had his own trust issues.
       "He never made any _moves_ on me because we're _friends_," I said. "I talk to Lon because I've known him for ten years and he's earned my trust over the long haul. I know his history; he knows mine. He's more family than my brother."
       Zoloski's jaw tightened. "Some people would call the two years we've lived together a long time."
       Technically, we'd been together twenty-three months, but I said, "Some people." _Not me._ "Ten years is a long time ... and Lon's in recovery."
       "And I'm not?"
       Shit. This was going places I didn't want to land -- for at least a few more years.
       He took a breath, exhaled. "Why haven't you tried to establish some connection with your Dad's family?"
       I crossed my arms, glad he'd dropped one subject, but groaning with the new one. "They said ‘get lost,' that's why." It came out harsher than I intended.
       His tone grew infuriatingly calm. "I thought you didn't care about them one way or the other."
       "Call it curiosity," I muttered, wishing it were true, irritated at his digging, yet perversely pleased he cared enough to try. I still didn't quite believe it when he said "I love you." Those words never did much good when I was a kid, and my brain remained skeptical. But I didn't want to lose him either. My heart felt stuck in my throat. "I have a ton of baggage, Stephanos, and I've shared some of it with you, but I can't share it all -- not overnight -- I'm not wired that way."
       We drove down the long stretch of freeway, passing new housing in various stages of development. "So when are you going to trust me enough?" he asked.
       Memories triggered like gunshots: my uncle's face as he raged at his kids, his belt snapping with a repetitive _thwack thwack thwack_ across Donny's back. Jesus, the sound could still make me flinch. Uncle Rich was always handy with a belt.
       I let the angry thoughts dissipate with the soft hum of the Jag's engine. Zoloski's fingers had a death grip on the wheel and his jaw looked stiff as wood. I wanted to say I'd trust him with everything_ tomorrow_, but said, "I don't know when."
       "We can't keep going this way ... I can't ..."
       "Don't you think I know that?" Our eyes met and the pain in his increased my own. "I want to be close to you -- but it just feels too ... scary," I admitted.
       "Scary? What the hell does that mean?" He glared at me. "You run around and almost get yourself killed and you don't think that scares me? That I'm in love with a woman who _likes_ danger, who _likes _ living on the edge?"
       "And you don't?" I snapped back. "I haven't met a cop yet who didn't thrill to the chase."
       His mouth tightened and neither of us said anything. Minutes of tense silence dragged by. Finally, he reached over with his free hand and gripped mine. "I don't want to argue with you or hurt you ... I want to love you. But I can't love you if you don't let me in."
       _I know._ No sound made it past my throat. I wanted to offer answers, but the only one that came to mind was that I was the biggest screw-up this side of the Sierra when it came to long-term relationships. It had taken every ounce of courage I had to get into this one and stay -- and now that wasn't enough. I scrabbled to dig up some courage.
       "You know what I remember, Stephanos? I remember praying at night for the Second Coming because, at six years old, I was sick of living in hell. I remember my cousins Donny and Art playing croquet and Art getting whacked in the head and almost killed. From then on everybody called him, Metalhead."
       "I thought you didn't have any cousins?"
       "Technically they're step-cousins, so I don't. Besides, I haven't seen them since my dad's funeral."
       "And you've never wondered about them, tried to get in contact?"
       "Would you want to get in touch with relatives that treated their kids worse than the dog? What's the point?" Dammit, why did I feel defensive?
       We continued into the foothills in silence. Auburn was a community of historic landmarks from the gold rush days, a hilly patch in Sacramento's spreading quilt. My Dad had loved ranching, living in the country. Now grocery stores, warehouses and parking lots devoured the pasture land like starved cattle.
       Did I really think getting this flag would make me feel closer to my father? Reality is seldom like the fantasy. Yet the idea lingered that if he'd lived, he might have changed -- become a man I could respect.
       A spasm of nervousness struck me as we got off the freeway. To the right, old and new government buildings collided, decades bunched together. I directed Zoloski across the overpass and down a two-lane. The houses thinned out. It was dark, few lights along the narrow rural road. We passed a poorly lit cemetery, the leaning tombstones remnants of the gold rush.
       Charlene lived on a huge corner lot where pavement met gravel and a bank of hedges sloped alongside. I vaguely remembered the weedy two-tiered lawn and the retaining walls of round, smooth river-rocks. What had seemed like a castle, with its dark halls and nooks and crannies, now looked like a simple two-story with a wide front porch. As a child I sat on the prickly grass with my legs dangling over the rock ledge, wishing I wasn't there. An old tune popped into my head, and I found myself humming as we got out.
       Zoloski came and stood beside me, silent, his comforting arm at my waist. Shadowy memories emerged like ghosts from the walls, a strange mixture of furniture trivia -- a big red leather recliner I used to curl up in loomed largest in my mind, shooting a charge of anxiety through me that I attributed to my general uneasiness. Another image flared behind my eyes, a huge dining table crowded with food and people, and flashes of angry faces just waiting for someone to say the wrong thing so they could fire verbal ammunition with both barrels.
       "What are you humming?"
        I started to say I wasn't sure, but then the words popped up to join the tune. "I'm gonna build a castle on the River Nile, and there I'll live in a heck of a style ...." A feeling of uneasiness swept over me, but I shrugged and started forward. "That's all I remember."
       The heavy, black metal screen door rattled when I knocked. Impatient to get this over with, I jabbed the doorbell. Without a thought I bent sideways to peer between the cracks of the shuttered window alongside the door. Looking for Uncle Rich just like I did when I was little, only then I had to clutch the window's ledge and roll up on my toes. My stomach knotted.
       The woman who answered was short and round, her dark Irish eyes swallowed in a massive road map of lines and framed by thick, wavy grey hair pinned in a bun. Relief flooded through me even as I straightened my spine and told myself to grow up. "Aunt Charlene?" I asked in my professional voice.
       "Andy." She gestured nervously for us to enter. She had to be in her late sixties.
       "This is a friend of mine, Stephanos Zoloski," I said, rather amazed that all I felt was a blank nothingness. The place smelled musty.
        She plucked at her housecoat, its faded print of orange and brown leaves reflecting the time of year. Ian used to say she had a housecoat for each season. "Nice to meet you," she said.
       We all stared awkwardly at one another until she added, "Won't you sit down?"
       I looked for space. Half-done needlework was piled everywhere. Most of it was so dust-covered I couldn't discern the color beneath. What the hell was I doing here? Was her offer of the flag an attempt to tidy up a loose end? "We can't stay long," I said.
       Zoloski's gaze scanned the place like he was observing a crime scene. I wondered what he made of all this _crap_. He glanced at an old chair near the door. His six-foot-two frame would crush the rickety cane in three seconds flat. Shrugging, he settled a shoulder against an overflowing bookcase as I hesitated beside an easy chair, a barely begun cross-stitch on the arm-rest, red leather beneath it. My God, she still had the old recliner. I touched it and swore I smelled aftershave. A flash of fear hit me out of nowhere and my mouth dried as something tugged at my memory, then slipped away. The chair suddenly seemed huge to me, and terribly important.
       Charlene fished a tin of butter cookies out from under a dusty green half-crocheted blanket and Zoloski about toppled the shelves when she held it out.
       "No, thank you," we both said simultaneously. My gaze returned to the chair. I'd liked curling in it as a child, but now I could hardly keep from bolting outside.
       Good old Aunt Charlene. Though she wasn't going to any great lengths at reconciliation, she was trying damn hard to be nice. Her plastic smile gave me the creeps. The red recliner captured my attention again, and I wrenched my gaze away, disturbed at the abrupt notion that the chair was bad. It was just an old recliner.
       "Your uncle's asleep upstairs."
       "Hmmm?" My ears were ringing as though I had a head cold. She repeated what she'd said and I thought, _No loss_. If she were lucky he'd stay there -- otherwise I might be tempted to kick him in the balls. The black-hearted SOB. So what did that make Charlene, who'd never interfered in what Rich did? At least my mother had left my father ....
       Charlene stepped to a card table, picked up a thick triangle of fabric. I could see the red, white, and blue.
       "You were so little the last time you were here," she said, her tone wistful.
       Yeah, now I stood two and a half feet taller, could bench press my own weight and wasn't about to be victimized by her or anyone else. I stifled the surge of antagonism. Twenty-six years was a long time.
       "Do you remember Elaine?"
       The recollection of my stepmother's face hit me out of nowhere and it took an effort to keep the word "bitch" from leaping from my mouth. Then I wondered what it must have been like to live her woebegone existence, and tasted acid in my throat.
       Charlene's tone was hopeful, as though searching for common ground. "She died a few months ago. Always said she wanted Ian to have the flag."
       _Yeah, what about the rest?_ I thought. Horses, saddles, property.
       "Her second husband gave it to me and I promised to pass it on. Ian sounded hesitant about taking it."
       "He knew I'd want it," I said, blunting the truth. _Why _was a mystery.
       I held the triangular-folded flag against my chest. I could smell cedar and mothballs, but it looked in good shape, well cared for.
       "Would you mind a hug?" My aunt's voice caught in her throat.
       We managed a stiff hug.
       "You used to sit on the front lawn," she murmured as I stepped back. "You were so young."
       I forced a smile recalling all the birthday presents and Christmas cards I never got. Now she was giving me the flag from my dad's coffin. If she expected me to kiss her feet or finish her needlework she had a surprise coming. Suddenly, all I wanted was out of there. So what if my step-cousins were a few years older and I'd wondered what they were like. Hell, they weren't really my cousins and she wasn't really my aunt -- except through marriage to my dad's step-brother. That bottle of blood-poison could stay sealed.
       Footsteps sounded upstairs, then a toilet flushed. Aunt Charlene's face tightened as she glanced toward the staircase. Tension, big-time. I'd had as much nostalgia as I could take for an evening. "We really have to go," I said.
       I stood on the front lawn long after she closed the door, clutching the flag to my chest and feeling confused. No matter what, a part of me clung to the smiling picture of Dad I kept in my library -- the hopeful dreamer who'd gone astray, turning into a hate-filled, rageful man.
       Now I had the flag from his coffin -- something of my father besides his genes and his smile.
       How was I to know that as I grabbed the cheese, I'd just stuck my hand in the mousetrap?
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         *Chapter 2*
       "AH, ANDREA, it's me, Ian. Pick up."
       I was in the office early, which translates to 7:00 a.m., my first client not due until 8:30. "Hi, Ian." I figured he was curious about Aunt Charlene and the flag.
       "Look, ah, I've got a favor to ask ..."
       I couldn't remember Ian _ever_ asking for anything. "Shoot." I heard a deep inhale and wished I was smoking too, just to be companionable, of course.
       "You're in recovery, right?"
       "You haven't noticed I no longer wear Power Mumu's at Christmas?"
       He chuckled, but it sounded forced. Anxious.
       "Something wrong?"
       "The flag -- it ... there's a lot we've never talked about. And I guess it's time."
       He had my attention. "Yeah?"
       "I'm in recovery."
       "Way to go, Ian," I said, then wondered: _recovery from what?_ I heard him inhale again.
       "Sex and love addicts."
       My mouth moved but nothing came out.
       "I've been in recovery three years." His voice cracked and when I didn't say anything, he rushed on, "Tonight's my birthday and I'd like you to come to the meeting -- maybe say something."
       Jesus. Like what? _Welcome to my Nightmare_. I could laugh at a fudge cake craving, but I couldn't laugh at voyeurism or rape -- not after I'd been on the receiving end. I floundered for something to say. "Is the meeting open?" I finally croaked.
       "You don't have to come."
       "I just asked if the meeting was open. Some AA meetings are closed ..."
       "Yeah, it's open."
       I heard the crinkle of cellophane, the strike of a match. I could damn near smell the nicotine.
       "The meeting's in Tahoe. Seven-thirty. I'll drive. We can stay overnight at a hotel. I'll pay for the rooms. Come home tomorrow morning." It came out in a rush. "I'm just asking. You don't have to come."
       I couldn't believe this was real. My brother, a sex addict. Then it hit me. This was the first time Ian had ever confided in me or asked me for any favor. I knew my friends better than my brother, and till now preferred their company. But this ... I'd always longed for his approval and love. I couldn't turn my back.
       "If you can't make it, it's okay."
       I glanced at my calendar. Two afternoon appointments. One morning appointment tomorrow. "What time you picking me up?"
       I could almost see his surprise. "Are you sure?"
       "Yeah, I'm sure."
       "Really?" He sounded eight years old instead of the other side of thirty-five.
       "I'm sure, okay?"
       Quiet. "Okay." A pause. "You want to eat dinner on the Lake?"
       "Sounds great," I said, uncertain it sounded great at all. Sex and love addict was not a label I'd ever imagined my brother wearing. What would we talk about?
       "I can pick you up around one, one-thirty. Give us time to eat, take a walk by the lake, whatever."
       _Whatever_ was what scared me. "I'll bring my snow boots."
       "No snow yet." He cleared his throat, his voice more confident, "Just bring yourself."
       He said good-bye and I sat there listening to the dial tone, half-wondering if I'd dreamed the entire conversation. I peered at the photos on my desk, Zoloski on his sailboat, his arm around me. I'd felt loved and protected and willing to adventure into any storm. I picked up the only other photo, my mother, Ian, and me -- two years ago.
       I studied Ian. A sex and love addict? I avoided clients with sex addiction issues -- they kicked up my history and made me a lousy therapist. I put the photo down.
       I canceled my appointments through the next day, then levered myself up from my chair and found _Women Who Love Too Much_, a book on co-dependency and love addiction I hadn't read in years. I scanned the pages, recalling the gist: obsession with romantic "love," mistaking love with pity, and abuse with romance. The kind of sick excitement an addict wouldn't think twice about until something clobbered him or her big time.
       After a couple deep breaths, I unearthed another book from the bottom shelf. A client had given it to me. I'd skimmed through it once and referred the guy to someone else._ Hope and Recovery,_ a twelve-step guide for healing from compulsive sexual behavior. I flipped it open, read through one woman's story which was like an excerpt from _Looking for Mr. Goodbar_.
       Then I read a man's story.
       Words leaped from the pages ...
       _Peeping through windows_; a Peeping Tom! Naw, not my brother;
       _Feelings of power and control, an escape from life;_ well, maybe -- he'd had a rotten childhood;
       _Loneliness and desperation;_ didn't sound like Ian -- but what did I know?
       _Intense risk_ -- _intense "high;"_ hell, that fit every bungee jumper -- but the kind of risk this guy described was the kind that put people behind bars;
       _Two separate lives; during the day mild and easygoing, but filled with rage and hate at night, desperately wanting to be someone else;_ Ian? I couldn't make that fit either;
       _Flashing. Cruising. Masturbating in the car, in elevators, restrooms, bars, at strip shows, in saunas, at adult bookstores; masturbating until the skin came off; masturbating until he couldn't walk._ I didn't even want to imagine my brother doing this stuff;
       _Frequenting prostitutes and unable to ask for what he really wanted_ -- _to be held_.
       Dammit, for all I knew, this guy could be Ian. Knots formed in my gut.
         * * * *
BY THE TIME I tossed my overnighter in the back of Ian's Porsche, I was praying I could handle this.
       Ian rolled the window down and lit a cigarette. We talked about dinner choices until he hit Highway 50, by that time I'd built up enough nerve to tell him I'd skimmed through a couple of books on sex and love addiction.
       "Yeah?" He tossed the butt and rolled up the window. "You have any idea what it's like, acting out, doing shit you can't stand, hating yourself?"
       I focused on his face and tried not to imagine what "risks" he'd taken. "I have an idea," I said. "Remember when I'd eat all your ice cream -- polish mine off the first day, then start in on yours?"
       "Jesus, that used to piss me off." He grinned.
       "I was a blimp, how do you think I felt?"
       "I wasn't very understanding was I?"
       The softness in his voice startled me.
       It got quiet, both of us ruminating on things neither wanted to discuss. Finally I said, "Look at how many fat people there are, Ian. Telling a food addict to stop eating is a waste of breath. Doesn't matter if they've got high cholesterol or face a bypass. Try telling a smoker who's facing lung cancer to quit cold turkey. Any sane person would. But then there's all those _feelings_ to deal with."
       "Yeah, but you don't get arrested or lose your job for over-eating."
       "No, it just kills you -- slowly." I stared at the passing pines, the hundreds of tree tops jutting up like knives into the cloudless sky.
       "I thought I'd die without sex ..." His soft voice was hoarse with emotion. "Had to have it. I'd wake up needing it and go to bed needing it, and it didn't matter how much I beat off. Had a different girlfriend every day of the week."
       I'd never met any of them. I forced myself to withhold my feelings. I knew he had to share, had to feel like he could trust me.
       "Tried to talk to a buddy about my problem ... he was envious! He just didn't understand the obsession, or the pain ... nothing was ever enough."
       I thought about how desperate I'd been when I went to my first OA meeting. _Anything _seemed better than growing into a size 24 -- again. But eating was solo self-destruction. Who did Ian hurt when he was out of control?
       "Every addict has a bottom line," he continued.
       But I knew the bottom line could be different between addicts, depending on their area of addiction. I held my breath.
       "My bottom line is abstaining from masturbation, pornography, and prostitutes."
       A part of me was relieved, no flashing, no stalking. Another part was uncertain I wanted to continue this conversation.
       He lit another cigarette and inhaled long and deep, inhaling the courage to go on. "If I get triggered by a woman or by what someone says, I call another recovering addict. Today I _choose_ not to act out." A note of accomplishment entered his tone, "I've kept my bottom line three years. I get my chip tonight." A curious glance. "How long have you kept your bottom line?"
        I found my voice. "Not bingeing?" My thoughts flew to the five years of misery before I attended meetings consistently, finally admitted powerlessness, and got a sponsor. "Ten years now," I said, with pride. Recovery meant relationships, talking, sharing, feeling -- with other addicts. The more meetings I went to, the more I realized I deserved to be a size 6, the more success stories I heard, the more I believed that a Higher Power and the support of the group could get me through -- one day at a time -- without overeating. Of course, whenever Zoloski and I had a fight, my first impulse was to shovel down 30 or 40 Sausalito cookies. Recovery meant _talking_ instead of switching into self-destruct or attack mode -- which I found easier to do with everyone but the man I lived with.
       "Ten years ..." Ian echoed in a congratulatory tone that drifted into a thoughtful silence.
       I looked at him. Light green eyes, reddish hair thick and straight, overlong in a careless, yet attractive manner. Nice build. An attractive guy, my brother. "You have a girlfriend?"
       A quirky grin. "No. I got involved last year, but she wasn't in recovery and I almost blew my program. We split, and ..." he shrugged, "here I am."
       We drove the rest of the way through the mountains listening to blues riffs. Dinner consisted of grilled Cajun salmon, green beans sauteed with shiitake mushrooms, broiled new potatoes, rolled in butter and coarse salt -- so crisp they popped in my mouth -- and Bodine's sourdough bread, straight from the wharf in San Francisco. I passed on dessert. With the anxiety I was feeling, it might trigger a chocolate obsession instead of my "being there" for Ian.
       The church where the meeting was held looked like a ski lodge in need of paint. Except for the secretary, John -- whom Ian introduced -- we were the first to arrive. We unfolded and arranged chairs in a circle big enough for thirty. Five minutes later, a hard metal chair under my butt, I sat staring at a blank white wall and the clock, just like when I was a kid in Catholic school. Tonight, however, instead of a bunch of nuns, I would face people I wasn't sure I wanted to know. I tapped my toes and heels, crossed and uncrossed my legs. My mouth felt dry as dead leaves.
       I leaned forward, staring out the open door, and glimpsed a green bough, smelled the pine scent. If I could have run out that door and down to the cerulean blue of Lake Tahoe without abandoning my brother I would have. I wasn't sure I wanted to hear what he would say, but I'd gone through thirty-two years without knowing him, and figured this was one of those "No pain, no gain" sessions. After our talk in the car, I felt hopeful for our relationship, and in some crazy way, that gave me hope for me and Zoloski.
       A garden variety of men and women, mostly men, began straggling into the room, grabbing seats in haphazard fashion. Their ages ranged from early thirties to late fifties. They nodded and greeted each other by name, some with hugs, some not. Ian surprised me by hugging several members and jovially greeting them, then adding in a proud voice that shamed my earlier judgmental attitude, "This is my sister, Andrea."
       I found it hard to look them in the eye, found it hard not to blurt _I'm just visiting_. Like they hadn't figured it out. Instead I corrected Ian. "Everyone calls me Blaize."
       After the sixth time, he gave in and introduced me as Blaize.
       "Like the fiery mark on a horse's brow?" the latest arrival, inquired with a warm smile.
       "With an "I" for individuality." He was gorgeous, but my knees were immune. I had my own heartthrob, who in best detective fashion was sure to give me the inquisition when I got home. I hadn't told him anything -- just left a note, "Gone to Tahoe with Ian. Back Friday afternoon." I realized I'd blown it again -- I should have said more. I promised myself I'd call him after the meeting.
       At 7:30 p.m. the secretary read the preamble to the twelve steps. I knew the litany -- except for the last part asking anyone to leave, who, for professional or other reasons, could not keep the rule of anonymity. As a therapist I was supposed to report all sexual abuse -- but I was not here as a therapist. I tried to tell myself this was just like any other recovery group -- but it wasn't. I was sitting in a room full of sex addicts ... My gaze skidded across the various faces, filled with camaraderie and warmth. These were real people living life one day at a time without their drug of choice. The child in me expected monsters, the adult had a mixed bag of emotions churning through her gut.
       Ian's sponsor was introducing himself. He congratulated Ian on his recovery, and gave him the small half-dollar-sized brass chip while everyone clapped and said, "Happy Birthday, Ian."
       Ian smiled. A smile that encompassed and embraced everyone in the room, a smile I'd never seen before. A smile filled with love. "I'm Ian, a recovering sex and love addict."
       Out in the real world he might have gotten hung from the nearest tree saying such a thing, but here, everyone said, "Hi, Ian," with genuine compassion.
       He grinned. "Hi." He paused and his expression turned serious, his gaze cloudy. "Most of you know my story, so I'll be brief. Where I came from was a mixed-up hell," his voice grew hoarse, "at nine my uncle molested me -- which led to my confusing sex with love ..."
       This was the first time I'd heard that, and my gut wrenched. I knew he'd had the crap beat out of him, but not this. Molested! That bastard. I'd been raped at sixteen, and except for program friends I'd never talked about it until Zoloski pried it out of me. Secrets. Shame. Fear. It had all come rushing back. I'd finally faced the man who raped me. Now I wondered how Ian felt. Had he confronted Rich? Did he have dreams of revenge? All I'd wanted was to forget the past -- but recovery had made me open the door and learn from it.
       Ian's gaze was fixed on the floor, every now and then he'd take a quick glance around the room, find whatever he needed to continue, and go on. "...I never hugged anyone after that. Pushed them away if they tried. It was a relief when my father's side of the family shunned us after his death -- hell, for awhile I thought I was free ...
       "Then I found myself escaping from my mother's neglect and my loneliness through masturbation -- I couldn't stop, no matter how painful it got. As an adult, except for sex, preferably with a prostitute -- no questions, no lies, no strings -- I never hugged either, until this program."
        Tears welled in his eyes, sparking tears in mine as I recalled all the times I'd wanted a hug from my brother, from someone, and never got it. I realized I'd never seen him cry before. Here was this big guy, surrounded by fifteen men and three women, sobbing. The sound tore me up. I wanted to do anything but cry. Anything but skate across the thin black ice of my feelings. These people knew each other's darkest secrets and reserved judgment. But they didn't know mine, nor I theirs. I rocked forward, holding my arms across my stomach, blocking the pain, telling myself I'd feel it later, alone in my room. Or share it with Zoloski. Distance felt safe -- but it was also lonely.
       Whenever the Z-man broached the subject of commitment I ran out to mow the lawn, not just ours, but half the neighborhood's. The Mexican gardener considered me his buddy.
       I forced my focus back to Ian.
       " ...I'm not going to get into my entire history tonight. You've heard it before."
       A bunch of smiles.
       "But I'm glad my sister is here. Glad my sponsor suggested I bring her, and most of all grateful to the program for giving me the courage to let her see who I am."
       Never had I seen him look more real, more vulnerable. I suddenly knew what I would say for this, his third program "birthday."
       He nodded at me with the go-ahead. Nervous bullets whizzed through my stomach, and I wondered if I could hang onto the words. I stood up, glanced at him and felt a rush of love. "I'm Blaize, a recovering food addict -- among other things," I added the last in case I was in denial, and got a few chuckles -- they all understood. "My brother honored me this morning by asking me to come to this group." Tears welled in my eyes and I swallowed them back. "I wasn't sure I wanted to come. I didn't tell him that. I grew up _not_ telling him lots of things. Emotionally I'd shut the door on our relationship. But he had the courage to reach out and knock ..."
       I took a deep breath. "I'm proud of him and I thank him for taking this step. I also thank this program and the people in it. I'm getting the chance to know Ian for the first time." I smiled at him. "I know what recovery's meant in my own life and I'm grateful to share this moment of celebration in Ian's. Thank you."
       A wave of claps and "Yay, Ian!"
       No matter what group I went to, the recovery language was the same, and as soon as I opened my mouth I always felt a part of something in a way I'd never felt growing up. Zoloski didn't understand the camaraderie of these groups. He complained I psychoanalyzed everything. But that's what I was, a psychologist, and it also answered one of my greatest needs -- to know and understand. I'd grown up in massive confusion and fear. Knowledge gave me a sense of control.
       I gave Ian a hug which he returned with more warmth than in all the previous years of our lives, no rigor mortis but a close, silent holding that gave freely, expecting nothing. Quite a change.
--------
         *Chapter 3*
       AS IAN AND I strolled toward his Porsche, I wondered if I was ready for the rigorous honesty talked about during the meeting, especially with Zoloski.
       Ian paused to talk to his sponsor and I went on ahead.
       Zoloski knew only the bare bones of my existence, and seemed to have the patience of Job when it came to our relationship. I trusted him more than anyone I'd ever lived with, which wasn't saying a whole lot since I'd only lived with one other guy -- but _rigorous_ honesty?
       "Progress, not perfection," I muttered.
       Ian came up behind me. "What?"
       "Reminding myself I'm not perfect," I said.
       He stood beside the car, shifted on his feet, but didn't open the door. "Some of the guys are going out for coffee. I said I'd go. You want to hang out?"
       I wanted alone time, and time to talk to Zoloski. "No, that's okay."
       "I'll get a ride back to the hotel," he said, handing me the keys, then squeezing my shoulder affectionately. The tears I'd held back earlier suddenly gushed.
       His brows drew together. I could see him struggling with a thousand things he might say, but all that came out was, "You okay?"
       I fumbled through my ridiculous bowling bag purse and snagged a tissue. "Why didn't we talk when we were kids?" I choked out. "Help each other?"
       He pulled me into his arms and held me like I'd always dreamed. I could hear his heartbeat and my own. "It would have made it too damn real," he rasped. "If there was one thing I wanted, it was to forget, make everything bad fade away." He sighed. "When I looked at you, I saw my own pain."
       The ache inside filled me until the tightness in my throat couldn't hold back the sobs. I clung to him, embarrassed at my lack of control, the sound alien, frightening. I'd found a brother, but the years without one hurt. I felt overwhelmed. "We grew up like cell mates," I choked out as tears dripped down my face. "We could have been friends ..."
       "It's okay, Andy," he encouraged.
       "I'm holding up your ride," I sniffed.
       "He'll live."
       I pulled myself together, wiped my eyes and took a deep breath. "Go on. I'll make a few phone calls -- be okay."
       He patted my hand. "See you for breakfast, then."
       "Not too early."
       "Ten?"
       I nodded, and watched him walk away. God, I wanted a twinkie, a grocery store full. Anything to stuff the loneliness that suddenly engulfed me like a tidal wave. A disease I shook off from time to time, loneliness kept coming back, sometimes virulent, sometimes just an ache or two that I could stave off until I reached a phone, or until Zoloski got home. As for trust, well ... if loneliness was the illness, entrusting my fears to someone I loved was the cure. Tonight Ian had earned my faith -- and now I needed to extend that same trust to Zoloski.
       Determined to be more vulnerable, to tell him more about my father's family -- the family I'd disowned just as much as they'd disowned me -- I returned to the hotel, settled into bed and picked up the phone.
       Zoloski answered on the first ring. "Where the hell are you?"
       He sounded like he'd just gotten off the phone with his Polish mother, who still thought he needed advice at age thirty-nine. "I left a note," I muttered, annoyed at his surly tone.
       He grunted. "Not much of one."
       I could see him shaking his head, the way he did when he got all-fired superior, his dark hair curling at the neck, his green, green eyes flashing in disapproval. "Damn it Blaize, all hell's broke loose since you left."
       I immediately thought of my clients -- but I had another counselor covering my calls. Then I thought, _accident?_ One of our mutual friends hurt? I dismissed that just as quickly. This sounded personal. "Is your family okay?"
       "It's not my family -- "
       "What happened?"
       "I'll get to that in a minute. Where's your brother?"
       My stomach tightened. "What's he got to do with it?"
       "Is he there?"
       "No." I frowned, caught my expression in the mirror and thought I looked too old for thirty-two. "He's out with some friends. What's wrong?" I asked, afraid and irritated at the guessing game.
       "It's your uncle."
       "Who?" I sat up.
       A sigh of exasperation. "You're newly dropped-out-of-the-sky uncle. Richard McCue, sixty-nine years old, dark hair and eyes, one-hundred ninety pounds, resided in Auburn with your aunt Charlene -- shall I go on?" His voice had that "detect" cadence, where his first syllables hardened and words took on distinct clarity.
       One thought hit me like a handful of darts thrown at a target, all in the bull's-eye. "_Resided_ as in _no longer_?"
       "Yes."
       "Dead?"
       "Yes."
        My neurotransmitters flooded my synapses like rainwater over the Sacramento levees. I felt dazed. It sure as hell hadn't been an accident or Zoloski wouldn't be upset and asking questions about Ian. Alarms were going off. I forced a calm voice. I had just found my brother and I was not going to lose him again. "Robbery?" I asked hopefully.
       "Maybe." His tone said _no way_.
       "Is Charlene okay?"
       "Yes."
       "When did Rich -- ?"
       Someone rapped on my hotel door and I jumped off the bed. "Just a minute," I said to Zoloski.
       Dressed in a flannel ankle-length nightshirt, I cracked the door, saw Ian, and unhooked the chain. "I'm on the phone," I left him to close the door, and got back on the line. "When was he killed?"
       Ian's startled gaze narrowed.
       "Sometime last night or early this morning. Auburn police contacted me when they couldn't reach you."
       "You mean like in the wee hours this morning?" I wanted to know the exact time frame.
       "Look, Blaize. We need to talk. Now. Come home."
       In other words, any more information would have to be face-to-face. The radio clock on the bed stand said ten p.m. It'd take me a good two and a half hours to get home. "Do you know what time it is?" I didn't want to drive this late down Highway 50, much of it along deep cliffs and winding ravines.
       "All right, first thing in the morning then." A pause. "Don't say anything to Ian."
       _Uh-oh_. "You can't ask me to do that." How could I explain Ian had trusted me with his darkest secrets. I couldn't lie to him now. I smiled at my brother.
       "Blaize -- "
       "Tell me why?"
       "Because he needs to answer a few questions."
       "As in suspect?" I nearly laughed. Ian was on the straight and narrow -- the meeting I'd just attended made that clear. "You've got to be kidding!"
       "He had a motive, according to your aunt. Revenge."
       Something twisted in my gut, like I'd swallowed a snake. Ian had said he wasn't interested in the flag. But was he interested in something else? No, that didn't fit with the man standing before me. I thought of our cousins. Aunt Charlene had her own kids to protect. "What else did she say?"
       Quiet. "What did your uncle do, Blaize?"
       This was certainly not the path of vulnerability on which I'd planned to leap.
       "Did he molest you?" He said it softly, carefully, like he was treading across a recently frozen lake.
       "No, the son-of-a-bitch never touched me."
       More quiet, and I knew he'd heard, _not me, but Ian_. Damn, damn, and triple damn.
       "I can't talk now." Because I didn't know what I'd say. "See you tomorrow. Stephanos."
       "Damn it, Blaize -- don't hang up!"
       I dropped the received into its cradle, hoping I hadn't hung up on our relationship, too. But I needed time to think.
       I turned to Ian and felt a frown pull at my mouth. How the hell did I tell him? "You're back early."
       He sank onto the edge of the bed, questions in his eyes. "You okay?"
       Words stuck in my throat. "I'm not sure I can talk about it -- give me a few minutes." I needed a change of subject, just to get my brain working and find some clarity in this mess. "So, everyone bail out from the coffee scene already?"
       Ian shook his head. "I felt a little guilty leaving you alone. Thought you might want to talk, or need another hug."
       "Co-ing out, bro?" I teased half-heartedly, still feeling shell-shocked.
       He laughed.
       I held out my hand and mimicked the same tone he'd used on me as a kid. "Five bucks." That's how much he'd demanded for a hug. I had been too stubborn to pay.
       Instead of a chuckle or a laugh, he grimaced, shook his head, pain flaring in his blue eyes. "We got fucked over as kids, you know. Aunt Charlene's call spooked me. Brought back memories ..."
       Oh Christ -- was he going to confess? I met his gaze. "Me too."
       He snorted. "There were times I wanted to kill that son-of-a-bitch ..."
       Jeez! I almost blew my cool until I realized he'd never have said that if he'd been guilty. Relief surged through me like much-needed sunshine.
       He studied me. "You killed one of your demons, Sis. What'd it feel like?"
       _Killed_. My mouth flapped. No words. My entire body tensed in memory of Mac the Knife, the scars on my leg, my arm, my neck. I'd had no choice -- had to kill him before he carved me like an Easter ham. Would I ever forget the horrible gurgle of blood gushing from his mouth, the bullet through his eye, the last twitch of his body? God, almost two years and my hands still shook.
       Ian touched my fingers, his skin warm. "I'm sorry. Bad question. I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that we never talked about it. Here you almost died and Zoloski told me more about it than you did." Regret laced his words. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. "Mind?"
       "God, no. I'll inhale your leftovers." Two years, three months and twelve days without a smoke -- my close second to a twinkie. I calculated the time like a true addict. The smell of sulfur made my nose twitch. Would I ever stop missing the blasted things?
       "So ... Does Zoloski's job bother you? His being a cop?"
       Did it bother Ian? I smiled. "Only when I want to smoke illegal substances."
       His eyebrows rose.
       "Kidding." I couldn't tap dance any longer. "Actually, the reason he called was because Uncle Rich is dead."
       The blood drained from his face like water running down a pipe. "Uncle Rich?" He exhaled a long stream of smoke.
       "Zoloski says you're wanted for questioning. But you shouldn't talk to the police until you get a lawyer." Zoloski wouldn't be happy with me.
       Ian stood, paced across the room, and his calm unsettled me. Had he known after all? Then I saw the way his hand shook when he took another drag on his smoke. He was as shaken as me. "You know a good criminal lawyer?"
       "Ian, isn't there someone who can vouch for you last night or this morning? Charlene's just stirring up dirt here, isn't she?" Zoloski and I had left Charlene's before 8:00 p.m. Rich must have been murdered after that. I wished I knew what time he'd been discovered dead this morning. Then I thought about my morning -- in my office, canceling clients and rescheduling -- my eight-thirty hadn't shown. There was no one to verify I was actually sitting in my desk chair. Seemed like a week ago.
       He sighed a cloud of smoke. "I rented a movie last night, then went to bed. Lifted weights at the gym this morning. Said hello to a couple of guys. Used my cell phone to call you from my car. Went for a five mile run afterwards. By myself. As for dirt, the whole family's covered in it."
       His eye contact was good, his tone convincing, but he'd stiffened. I felt a trickle of fear. "What are you saying?"
       He stubbed out his cigarette, kept grinding it into the glass although the ember had died. "I'm saying Charlene called me a couple of days before I called you. The DA could say it brought up the past and I stewed over it, and I decided to take care of Rich. End of story."
       "What about his kids -- our cousins? If he molested you, he probably molested them, too. They'd have a motive."
       "Look, I really can't talk about this."
       "Why?" I pressed, angry that he'd given so much of himself, only to hold back now.
       "There's a few things you don't know. I gave my word, Blaize."
       "Your word?" I didn't like the sound of this. "To who?"
        He shook his head.
       Doubts hit me like a flash flood. I held up my hands, dying to know what his big secret could be. "Don't have to tell me. But the cops aren't going to be as easygoing."
       A grim look stole across his face. "When they see my sheet they aren't going to be so easygoing either."
       I stared, wondering if I'd lost all the blood in my face. "You have a record?"
       A mirthless chuckle. "It's called hitting bottom." He lit another cigarette, inhaled, looked away. "Some juvenile offender stuff from high school. Then, in college, a couple of bar fights that got out of hand."
       "Was anyone seriously hurt?"
       "Cuts and bruises."
       "What else?" I couldn't help but ask.
       "Got picked up with a hooker. Had some dope on me. Got fined and probation, but it scared the hell out of me." A small smile. "Probation ends next month."
       Nothing involving a gun, I told myself, trying and failing to find the optimism I wanted. The cops would love this. "I know a good lawyer," I said. "Expensive."
       A sarcastic laugh escaped his lips. "Is there another kind?"
       I gave him the name. He stood and stepped to the door. "See ya in the morning," he said, with a grim look. "Ten o'clock. Downstairs."
       "Ten a.m." I repeated, moving to the door, watching him stroll down the hallway, trailing smoke like a coal train.
       It never occurred to me he wouldn't show.
--------
         *Chapter 4*
       HE WAS FLYING down the highway, foot pressed to the floor, zipping around cars like they were standing still. The dash clock glowed a pale green 1:15 a.m.
       He felt exhilarated. Floating. Free.
       He grinned into the rearview mirror. Soon, he could do whatever he wanted.
       Time to score and celebrate.
       _What about the cops_? his inner voice complained, always ready to ruin a good time.
       "Fuck ‘em," he said aloud, feeling good.
       _What about the funeral_?
       "I'll be there."
       He turned up the country music, and sang along to a remake of an old Dylan tune. It made him feel old.
       He slid the window down. The cold wind stung his face awake. Stung him sober.
       He eased the speed down toward seventy. Only an idiot would risk a ticket now.
       He might be a lot of things -- but he was no dummy. He'd stand there tomorrow and pretend like everybody else -- that he'd miss the sorry fuck.
       A laugh tore from his throat.
--------
         *Chapter 5*
       I SAT in the rear of the church, staring at the back of forty unfamiliar heads, zoning out the service for Uncle Rich. I heard no sounds of grief, only the fidgety impatience of children and angry whispers of "shut up and sit still." Was the murderer here? Were the cops?
       The urge to bolt nearly overwhelmed me, but I was hoping Ian might show -- if only to prove he had nothing to hide. Through Zoloski I'd learned the Auburn police were not going to arrest Ian or anyone else -- yet. But Ian had not returned my calls and didn't know that. Was he still trying to connect with the person he'd run off to meet? Could that person be here? A possibility with no evidence. I was good at making those kinds of leaps, looking only after it was too damn late to stop. This time, I vowed to keep my eyes wide open.
       What if that meant Ian was involved?
       What if that meant Ian was the murderer?
       No, not after what he'd shared. He'd refused to answer my questions, but he hadn't lied.
       He'd deserted me! Anger burned in my stomach thinking about it. Of course the drive home with Zoloski had been a disaster, and I'd left him in a stew of monosyllabic communications. He didn't have a clue as to what I was feeling -- and I wasn't so sure I did either. By the time the service ended, I was furious with Ian, which doubled my frustration because I'd blown it with Zoloski. Feeling abandoned and ready for a verbal jab-and-stab, I headed for the door.
       I was congratulating myself for making it outside unrecognized, when a voice caught me from behind.
       "You must be Andy."
       Reluctantly, I turned to face a big, ravaged hulk of a man. The broken capillaries and red Irish nose said alcoholic. The brown eyes reminded me of Rich.
       My anger collided with a zillion emotions I couldn't get a handle on. I felt nervous as a horse in the starting gate. Meeting long-lost relatives had never been my agenda, but what did I expect at a funeral? Between getting the flag, and Ian ditching me in Tahoe, here I was, Pandora's Box wide open. So, though I wanted to shake my uncle's hand and walk away, I determined to search the corners and crevices of that box, take a look at my roots, or a part of them, then dump it all into a black hole and bury it deep when this was over.
       "Uncle Tom?" I responded with a quick handshake, then stepped back from the wave of boozy breath. He'd been a mean drunk when I was young, and I figured he still was. Ancient dislike welled up and unfurled my tongue, but I bit back the nasty comment. Thinking of my step-uncle molesting Ian, I searched Tom's face and wondered if he shared the same demons. Were they hidden behind those craggy lines and glazed eyes? Trying to think of some neutral way to ask if he knew who murdered his brother -- and avoid nuclear meltdown here in the parking lot, I gestured toward my car and he followed as I started down the tree-lined walkway. I glanced behind as others trickled from the funeral home. No one seemed particularly broken up over Uncle Rich's untimely passing.
       "Where's your mother and Ian?" Tom asked, his tone a shade too casual.
       "Must not be coming," I answered with an equally casual shrug.
       We continued toward the parking lot, away from the funeral home's pristine white walls and brilliant stained-glass door, away from the lowered voices of people I didn't know. The sky was darkened by thunderclouds and the wind nipped at my bare hands and face. My wool blazer failed to keep me warm.
       My mind tangled with different ways to bring up Rich's death and who might have killed him. Three kids stampeded by, dressed in Sunday finery, the youngest probably four, the oldest ten or eleven.
       "Teddyjohnadam, _walk_!" A mid-thirties man in a navy pin-stripe started past me, tall, blonde hair, nice build, good-looking in a rugged, down-home way.
       Tom put out his arm. "Hey, Don. This is Andy McCue."
       The man stopped mid-stride, his brown eyes appraising, his kids forgotten. A slow smile lit his face and broke into a grin. "Andy." He said it like he couldn't believe it. He glanced away for a moment, at his oldest boy marching the others back in our direction, and turned his attention back to me.
       "Don?" He didn't exactly look like the grief-stricken son.
       His dark eyes snapped invitingly. "You used to call me Donny. We'd play stagecoach and I'd kidnap you and tie you up until Ian came riding to the rescue."
       Memory jolt -- a big one. At six I'd had a tremendous crush on my "older" step-cousin. At thirty-two, I found the rush of kinetic energy unnerving. Like we'd traveled back in time. I loved being kidnapped, hated being rescued. But I wasn't a kid any more and neither was he, and the energy flowing between us wasn't childish either. He had three kids, was probably married. I had a wonderful boyfriend who was handsome enough to steal my breath, but logic and reality had nothing to do with the rush of heat crawling up my face as we shook hands. I forgot that I was playing detective -- even forgot the cold.
       "Daddy?"
       Thank God for kids.
       Donny shot me an apologetic look that held a promise of something. "See you later at Mom's? She's got enough food for an army."
       I nodded and he smiled and herded his kids through the lot.
       I noted the absence of grief and told myself it would be a great opportunity to search out suspects. Unfortunately, my hormones were dancing to more elemental tunes. Tunes I was determined to squelch.
        Tom's expression softened to tolerant amusement. "Don's divorced. Francine only gets the kids every other weekend." His tone said they were a handful. He followed as I moved toward the car. "You have kids?"
       "You're supposed to ask if I'm married first." In the periphery of my vision, I could see Donny sneaking looks at me as he helped his youngest into a dark blue Minivan.
       "No wedding ring. Figured you were divorced."
       I opened the Saturn's door, wishing Tom would disappear.
       "Everybody's gonna want to know about you. You and Ian are mysteries ..." His voice dropped off.
       I felt uneasy, not liking his tone. Shutting my door, I slid down the window, turned the ignition, and flipped the heat up full blast. "Which way to the cemetery?" I was still hopeful I'd get more out of this than heartburn.
       Tom waved in a northwesterly direction. "Just follow the red corvette. That's Charlene's other step-son, Art -- Donny's younger brother, in case you don't remember."
       _Metalhead_. "Oh, it's all coming back to me," I muttered, watching the cars form a line behind the hearse. "Who's in the limo?"
       "Charlene."
       He answered the next query before I voiced it. "The boys aren't overly fond of their step-mother. Guess Rich won't be missed much either. But you wouldn't understand."
       Oh, wouldn't I? I mustered a careless shrug, as though I had no idea what he was talking about.
       He tapped the door with his palm as though to say, "Good girl."
       That pissed me off. Even drunk, the guy was rattling my cage. "I bet Donny understands .... and Art, too." Jesus, what a stupid thing to say. Tom's eyes narrowed, a mean spark in their green depths. The two-year-old in me quaked in my uncle's glare, but the adult in me mentally flipped him the bird. I gave him a tight-lipped smile, "Catch you later," and stepped on the gas. Damn, damn, and triple damn. I was having a hard time with this family shit.
       I inched my car into the procession, the red corvette in front -- Cousin Art driving. No kids. While rolling slowly down Lincoln to Maple and across the highway, I calculated his age -- thirty-two, thirty-three. I recalled sharing birthday cakes and parties. As I eyed the back of his dark head, the long hair feathered to his shoulders, pale skin, intense Brad Pitt eyes that caught mine in his rear-view mirror, I thought this was a first -- a funeral where I didn't care about the stiff, but was dying to know more about the so-called mourners -- and if one of them had murdered Uncle Rich. Family Systems Theory was about to be put to the test.
       The Auburn cemetery was the same one Zoloski and I passed on our drive to Aunt Charlene's. A gravel road ran through the yard in a wide U. The cars were pulling into the neighboring parking lot for Placer County Administration and I followed.
       It was lunch time and my stomach grumbled with displeasure as I climbed from my car. A huge oak flanked by two cypress of the same vintage loomed over the McCue family plot, whose huge central obelisk reached toward the sky, a tall, narrow shaft with MCCUE engraved on the front.
       My neck muscles tightened in the first squeezing pain of a killer headache. I fumbled through all the junk in my purse for some Advil and popped two, barely getting them down my dry throat. Wouldn't that be something, choking to death at the McCue plot?
        I stepped precariously over granite and cement markers, askew as though an earthquake had given the entire cemetery a hard shake. Names caught my eye: Lucius, Quincy, Emery. I stopped at a headstone that said Beloved Mother, wife to John... Jeeze, didn't even get her name on the old gravestone. Made me glad I was born in this century. From what I could garner, the last funeral had been in ‘95. Before that ‘91. Not a lot of action.
        Crossing the grass toward several dozen people, I tugged my wool blazer tight and hugged my ribs. Sacramento had been ten degrees warmer. My legs were freezing inside my black stirrup pants and I wished I'd worn ski-underwear.
       Although I really didn't expect him, I scanned the crowd for Ian, and felt alone and betrayed all over again. Of course, attending the funeral of someone who'd molested him might not be on his agenda. Between clusters of people, I saw smaller headstones, sprouting from the grass, the tops shaped like the end of a leaf. My gaze jumped from one to the next until I found my father's. More gunshot-type memories: an open casket, a waxy face that in no way resembled the man I had both feared and loved. The strong smell of earth. The sound of dirt hitting the casket as it was lowered into the ground. People sobbing. "JACK PATRICK MCCUE, BELOVED SON."
       I'd cried that day. No one was crying now.
       As I ambled toward Donny, a woman joined him. Donny looked unhappy with the company. His ex? The woman was small, five-four, maybe, a hundred-fifteen pounds, short dark hair and a pouty face like a punk-rocker, sans the gold nose ring. I adjusted my angle, stopping near a shade tree that offered protection from the wind.
       One of Donny's kids pulled on the woman's skirt. She ignored him. Another tug. She slapped his hand away, a loud _whack_ that traveled.
       Tears welled and rolled down his cheeks and his white-faced older brother hugged him. He looked all of ten or twelve and like he'd rather be anywhere but here. He shot a look of hate at the woman. My chest tightened. Another generation of crap. I didn't want to relive any of this.
       "Mommy ... sorry ..."
       I wasn't sure if the little boy wanted an apology or was giving one. Either way, I wanted to belt the woman, whom Donny was now addressing in a low, savage tone, the look on his face murderous. The cold November breeze carried his words. "...my kids, too, and this is _my_ time. You don't hit them, _ever_, you got that, Francine?" He spit her name like an obscenity. The kids were quiet, scared, expectant. A familiar scene.
       I inched closer, caught in the drama, wondering if their hatred could have driven one or both of them to murder. Everyone else, about thirty-five people, stayed back, as though the words were mud and they might get splattered.
       "Enjoying the spat?" A mellow, masculine voice asked from behind. I turned, feeling heat crawl up my neck. "Curious," I said, holding out my hand. "You're Art, aren't you?"
       A black eyebrow rose. "Art and Andy, born on the same day, shared the cake, candles, and misery. Remember?"
       The handsome lines of Art's face, his black hair and eyes, made up for his lack of stature and wiry frame, but his handshake didn't have the same effect on me as his fair-haired brother's. He reminded me of a slick con-artist.
       I withdrew my hand from his lingering grip and dropped my gaze. His smile was downright suggestive. I found a neutral tone. "It wasn't that bad, was it?" I eyed him again. Dressed completely in black from wool jacket to Italian boots, he looked devilish -- Mephistopheles for the Millennium.
       He shrugged. "You got out."
       "And you didn't?"
       He turned away without answering, focusing on Donny and his ex, the three kids.
       "Forgive me for the observation, but you don't seem particularly broken up over your father's death."
       He looked at me with an expression that reminded me of Tom -- tolerant amusement. "If we weren't all such hypocrites we'd be dancing and singing."
       That made everyone a suspect. I followed his gaze to Donny. "How long have they been divorced?" I asked.
       "Not long enough." His lips curled, giving him a nasty look and a dangerous edge.
       "For some people that could mean a lifetime."
       The remark earned a laugh. "Yeah. Well, they've been separated six months, but the divorce isn't final until January. Too bad he's gonna lose half his inheritance to that -- "
       The look on his face transmitted a lot. Either he thought Francine killed his father or he disliked her on his brother's behalf. He added an explanation, as though wanting to be sure I understood, "If Donny had killed Dad, he would have waited until January."
       "And you didn't do it, of course."
       A secretive smile. "You're as likely a candidate as I am."
       Was my mouth flapping with shock? "Don't look at me."
       "Why not? You're nice to look at." A self-possessed, arrogant smile spread across his face.
       On some other occasion, in some other life, I might have managed to think of a better retort than, "You know what I mean."
       He lit a cigarette, a black Sobranie with a gold filter, his affected pose a bit much for my taste. "Just testing. Can't say you look the type to blow someone's brains into the next county."
       I shivered. But I was the type. I had blown Mac's brains into the next universe. I didn't know if that made me a good person or not, but I prayed I never had to do it again. "Shot in the head?"
       He glanced around, his voice going soft. "Mother found him. Called me."
       "And where were you?"
       "I live in Loomis," he said. I was thinking of that small rural town on the fringe of the valley when he anticipated my next question. "Donny wasn't home."
       "You really think Francine might have -- ?" I returned to the way Art had said "inheritance," recalling the lawyer's request that I be present at some "meeting." Evidently Richard had stipulated that he didn't want his beneficiaries to get anything without meeting for an "old-fashioned" reading of his will. As far as I knew no one did that anymore. What Rich might have left me or Ian was baffling. I found myself asking Art, "Just how rich was good old Uncle Rich?"
       "He had some property -- bound to go to Mom. There was always talk about a big insurance policy, but I think it was more of his bullshit. Not everyone thought so, though." He paused, glancing at Donny and Francine again.
       "Did Francine believe it?"
       An unreadable shrug.
       "What about Donny?" For some reason I felt disloyal asking.
       Art's smirk proclaimed Donny a fool, but not a murderer. "Can't believe he put up with that woman for twelve years."
       I liked Donny -- the kid I remembered was gentle, kind. He had been the golden boy next to Art, so if anyone had an axe to grind, Art did. Some of the rationalizations my clients used funneled through my mind. "Maybe he wanted his kids to have two parents -- a stable home life."
       "Hey, those kids are living in Disneyland now. All those two ever did was fight ...and ...screw."
       The old F and F dysfunctional relationship. Why the hell was I suddenly thinking of Zoloski and me? We had a lot in common, enjoyed each other's company. Only lately ...
       The change in Art's expression drew my attention back to Donny and Francine. Donny's face was red, his big hands fisted. The priest interceded. Donny listened to the man, took a few deep breaths, then turned to his kids, standing near their Grandma Charlene. Francine glanced around, couldn't find any encouragement and stalked off, muttering under her breath, "Stupid Son-of-a ..."
       The gray-haired clergyman cleared his throat and the family edged toward the grave. I was so busy studying faces I hardly heard what he said. Art stayed beside me, dark eyes fixed on the ground. Several families that looked like friends, not relatives, hovered around Charlene, Donny, and his three kids. Another thirty-ish woman joined them. I couldn't see her face, but saw Donny's oldest son flinch then relax as she came to a standstill behind him.
       On the other side of the family plot, Uncle Tom and five or six men his age stood by themselves. The Drunk and Deviants Club? A few feet behind them, a fifty-ish woman with titian hair fluffed out like Dolly Parton remained aloof. I nudged Art, "Who's she?"
       He followed my gaze and his expression twisted with consternation. "Jesus. Look what blew into town. It's gotta be her."
       "Don't tell me we have a country music star in the family?"
       He shook his head, looking torn between heading for the lady and staying beside me. "Last I heard she was a Mary Kay whatever -- drove a pink Caddy."
       "When was that?" I whispered.
       "A lifetime ago."
       Annoyed at his vague answers, I prodded again, "Who is she?"
       "Everyone's been married and divorced at least once -- and she's got my fucking eyes -- or the other way around -- you figure it out."
       "Your real Mom?" I searched my brain for a name. "Calista?"
       "A-plus for Andy."
       So what was a woman who'd dumped her kids and fled back east -- at least that's the tale I remembered as a six-year-old -- doing here at her ex's funeral? A flicker of movement drew my attention toward the parking lot as the priest's voice droned on. Ian's red hair flashed in a ray of sunlight piercing through the grey-clouds. The prodigal brother had arrived. To prove he wasn't guilty? Or to apologize to the sister he'd been avoiding?
       My heartburn bubbled hotter, and I noticed others looking at Ian with sidelong glances. He offered me a tight-lipped smile, a brief hug, then stood silently, as though hanging on the priest's every word. His face looked freshly washed, but wrung out to dry.
       "What'd you do after you abandoned me?" I whispered, eyeing the expensive sports coat which failed to camouflage his rumpled shirt and pants.
       A laconic smile. "Later."
       Famous last words, I thought. "Where have you been?" I tried again, my voice a bit louder.
       "Not now."
       I wanted to yank him across the cemetery and demand an answer. Patience, I told myself. We'd garnered enough curious glances so I shut up and stared obediently at the priest.
       "Would anyone like to say some last words?" the priest asked, his gaze scanning the scattered group.
       Huge silence.
       He took a step back from the grave. "Don't be shy. Perhaps a happy moment you shared with Rich?"
       "Christ," Art muttered under his breath.
       No one spoke. The priest cleared his throat and plunged into a prayer.
       I looked around and caught Uncle Tom taking a nip from a bottle. He saw me staring and his face twisted -- with warning or embarrassment? Despite the long gulp, lines of tension still furrowed his brow. He didn't like my being there, I gleaned that much. Was it just embarrassment? Did he think Ian or I had murdered his brother? Or was he afraid I'd find out who did?
        I wondered what Zoloski would make of this. He hadn't said much on the return from Tahoe. This morning, he'd made a vague promise to try and make the funeral -- if it was important to me. I was upset at my brother and my boyfriend. Upset at life throwing this "mess" into my lap.
       "You get a phone call from the lawyer about the will?" Ian whispered into my ear, jarring me from my thoughts.
       "Yes. Reading tomorrow at ten." What Uncle Rich might have left either of us stumped me. Was it possible Rich had felt guilty in his old age and left us a bundle? I hoped not. A ton of money would just about seal the three M's: murder, money, motive -- Ian would be even more suspect. And me? Oh joy.
       A dirt clod fell onto the coffin as it was lowered into the ground. Charlene burst into tears and Donny awkwardly put an arm around her. She leaned into his shoulder and he grimaced. I glanced toward Art, but he was already on his way to his step-mother's side. Both sons wore stiff expressions, but Charlene seemed oblivious, lost in her own misery.
       Feeling like a voyeur, I watched as everyone, except me and Ian, rallied around, gently urging Charlene toward the limo, gravel crunching beneath their feet. "We'll follow you to the house, Mom ..." Donny closed the door, both sons looking relieved. Apparently, duty ended at the black door.
       Ian and I waited until everyone drifted away. "It's strange to know he's in that box." Ian's voice caught.
       I almost said, "You glad?" but asked instead, "You talk to the police?"
       "This morning. With my lawyer. They're questioning all the relatives -- said I shouldn't worry." He said it deadpan as though discussing the weather. "Almost missed this lovely occasion."
       He twisted the word "lovely" with such vehemence that doubt tickled my neck. "What'd you tell them?"
       He touched my elbow, guiding me down the gravel drive toward the street.
       "What'd you tell the police?"
       We crossed the street to the lot where he'd parked beside my Saturn. "The truth ..."
       Art was standing at the edge of the lot, waiting for us, so I bit back a comment about what the truth might be.
       "Andy." He held out his hand as his gaze shifted to Ian. "Ian." They shook hands. "It's been awhile."
       The way he said _awhile_ sounded much more recent than twenty-six years "awhile."
       Ian nodded, mouth tight. "Yeah."
       Art cleared his throat and I wondered what had passed between them. Something, that was for damn sure. "You coming over for dinner? Mom wanted me to invite you back to the house." His dark gaze flickered between us as though unsure where to settle.
       "We're coming," Ian answered firmly.
       Surprised he would go, I said nothing.
       "See you there." Art ambled over to his corvette, climbed in, put on sunglasses, waved, and roared out of the lot. For a moment my fingers itched to drive a car that handled like that -- like Zoloski's mellow yellow E-type.
       "The cousins are definitely not mourning their father's death," I offered as Ian stared after Art.
       "Andy, the cops think I shot Uncle Rich. Probably searching my place now for the gun."
       Holy shit! His too-calm voice unnerved me. "Will they find it?" My mouth felt dry as the pavement beneath my feet.
       He shot me a hurt look. "No."
       "I'm sorry -- "
       "You really think -- "
       I hugged him. "I'm sorry I asked."
       He stepped back, pulling a smoke from the pack in his shirt pocket. "Look, I know it was lousy of me to leave you in Tahoe." The cigarette flared.
       I inhaled, wanting to bum one, biting my lip. "Yeah, it was. So why'd you do it?"
       His gaze skidded away. "You haven't talked to the cops yet. If I tell you anything, you'll have to tell them."
       A chill washed over me. "I don't have to volunteer a thing."
       "Andy, you're practically married to a cop -- it doesn't feel safe talking to you about this."
       Did that mean he knew who killed Rich? "Ian, whatever you know -- whoever you're protecting -- you can't keep quiet forever."
       He looked indecisive.
       "Zoloski said there wasn't going to be an arrest -- at least not right away. Talk to me."
       He swiveled his head at my conciliatory tone. "The person I'm protecting didn't do it. This has to do with anonymity in the program, not murder."
       "Then why did you rush off when you did?"
       He sucked harder on the cigarette.
       I tried another tactic. "I'm worried about what might happen next." I didn't say _to you_. "We don't know these people -- they might as well be strangers. One of them probably shot Uncle Rich."
       He leaned against the Porsche. "Yeah. Makes you wonder why Aunt Charlene called about the flag, doesn't it?"
       "You think she -- "
       His eyebrows rose. "Damn convenient don't you think? We get a call out of the blue -- Rich gets shot -- we're suspects ..."
       "We?" I sputtered. I never seriously considered myself a suspect. But the police wanted to talk to me Monday morning. My intestines felt knotted.
        Ian closed his door, slipped on his dark glasses and cracked the window. "Almost as good as a soap opera, isn't it?"
       The glib remark didn't quite match the worry in his face. Guilty worry?
       "Ian, do you own a gun?" Lately, I was thinking or asking things I disliked myself for.
       "Andy, you're going to have to trust me."
       Something fluttered uneasily in my stomach. "Is that a yes?"
       "No, it's a _trust me_. I know what I'm doing."
       I had my doubts. "Why don't we work together, find out where everyone was when Rich was murdered?" I suggested as he started his car. "I'll work the men, you work the women."
       He hesitated, then slowly nodded.
       The thought struck me that questions about ‘where were you when ...' would be as subtle as an elephant in the living room. But people loved to gossip ... even after a funeral. All I had to do was steer the conversation around to someone and speculate on his or her whereabouts. Of course, casting suspicion wouldn't make the blood run thicker.
       No loss, I told myself as I followed Ian up the road. Hadn't missed this side of the family for twenty-six years, wouldn't miss them tomorrow. But I would miss Ian and our tenuous connection if this murder went unresolved. Like a bull dog, I'd got my teeth into something good, a brother, and I wasn't about to let go.
--------
         *Chapter 6*
       "GOING TO a funeral and we're gonna get some answers, oh-oh, going to a funeral and we're gonna get some answers, oh-oh...." The original song was about a chapel and marriage, but I sang it with a sarcastic twist that I liked better as I drove along the two-lane blacktop. Finally I saw the poorly trimmed line of hedges that marked the driveway to Charlene's. The murder site. Goosebumps rippled up my arms. I worked to dispel images of Rich in his bed, a blood-soaked pillow beneath his head. I didn't even know if he'd been in bed when he was shot. For all I knew he could have been asleep in front of the boob tube downstairs, his head resting on one of her dust-covered projects, or in the middle of breakfast, his head resting in a plate of bloody scrambled eggs.
       Everyone had parked in the field next to the gravel drive, leaving it and Charlene's two-tiered lawn uncluttered. I bumped over some ruts and killed the engine beside Ian's Porsche, leaving quick getaway space in case the relatives became too toxic.
       The front door was propped open with a ceramic terrier who had his own little spot on the gray shadowed porch. I stopped beside the terrier. Twenty or thirty men, women and children were milling about inside the house, plates of food in hand, conversations buzzing between bites. Was the bad guy present? I thought of the old show, _To Tell the Truth_.
       And now... will the real killer please stand up?
       Art, Donny, and Ian were at the other edge of the porch, smoking. They looked damned chummy, black-haired Art sucking on a Sobranie; blond-haired Donny with a Marlboro hanging from his lips; strawberry-blond Ian, a Camel between his fingers. I felt like an oddball, wrong gender and a reformed smoker. I threw an annoyed glance at Ian. He was supposed to be talking to the women. What happened to the game of ratting out the relatives? He caught the look but ignored the message. "You think the forty-niners will go all the way?" he said to Art.
       "Long as they don't have any more injuries," Art answered. He smiled at me and held out the black and gold box.
       What, did I have drool running down my chin? "I quit. Two years, three months, two weeks, and -- " I checked my watch, "two hours."
       "Still miss it?" Donny teased before grinding his filter beneath the heel of his oxford. He smiled with such down-home goodness, I felt sinful for all the thoughts about murder running through my brain. The kid in me beamed back at him.
       Ian and Art continued to talk football. Donny touched my elbow and guided me through the door. "Let me introduce you around, get you some food, then we can catch up."
       Were the sparks flying one direction or both ways? If we were real cousins I'd have squelched what was going through my head, but a step-cousin, one I had a warm place in my heart for, even after twenty-six years ...? I failed to stifle the sudden, vivid images of us in the throes of passion. Curiosity had my hormones geared up for a heat stroke. My skin tingling from Donny's touch, I mantra'd, "This too shall pass," on my way through the food line, noting that the entire downstairs had been cleared of half-finished knitting and embroideries and dust.
       Donny gave me a brief who's who as he snagged relatives scooting past. None seemed remotely intriguing as a suspect, or remotely grief-stricken either. I automatically said, "hello" between bites of salad and made polite conversation until they drifted away, leaving me none the wiser as to who the bad guy might be. I noticed they were all settling into different "camps," words like "a ton of money," and "how much?" and "who do you think?" and "he was always bullshitting ..." buzzing back and forth at levels low enough to tease my ears. Some believed Rich had money, some didn't. They tossed speculative glances my way.
       At me or Donny? I gestured toward the knitting needle society with the loudest hum, and asked, "Is murder and money the topic of the day?"
       Donny shrugged. "Everyone's pointing fingers, but no one's really accusing anyone. Truth is, I think everyone's relieved he's dead." His gaze flickered toward the stairs.
       "Where did he -- ?"
       "Upstairs." He shifted on his feet. "He and Charlene have separate bedrooms. She didn't hear anything until the gunshot. Thought it was a car backfiring. Didn't check on him until he'd missed breakfast. Found him in bed."
       I couldn't tell if he was just uncomfortable with the subject or didn't believe his mother, but the corded muscles of his neck told me he was tense.
       "You want anything else to eat?"
       I still had a plateful. I shook my head and picked up on his earlier sentence. "So, everyone's relieved he's dead. Including you?"
       A raised eyebrow, then hesitation. "Honestly? I'm not sure how I feel..." His gaze skidded away, giving me the sense he knew exactly how he felt but wasn't about to say.
       Ian appeared at my other side. "Excuse me, Donny, but I'm going to take off in a few minutes. It was good to see you." He shook Donny's hand, then drew me into a hug. It blew my mind all over again. Two hugs in two days. "I think I might have something," he whispered. Call me later?"
       I hugged him back. "What?"
       "Later, after I've checked her story."
       I held on. "Her? Who?"
       "Shhh." He disengaged.
       "Ian!" It's tough to yell and whisper at the same time, but I tried.
       He drowned me out with a "Bathroom upstairs?" directed at Donny.
       Damn it! I chomped on several tortilla chips with salsa.
       Donny glanced at me, then back to Ian. "There's one on the other side of the kitchen, and one upstairs at the end of the hall."
       What could Ian have found out talking football with the guys? She -- who? Aunt Charlene? Donny's ex, Francine? Rich's first wife, Dolly Parton? Impatience warred with my own fact-finding mission. I could go after him, but then I'd lose the opportunity to do some digging on my own.
       Donny hit me with another dizzying smile and joked about our "stagecoach" days.
       There was never a cop when you needed one. I wanted Zoloski to dampen the fire. Donny gestured toward the food-laden table and we went for seconds. I piled my plate with some tasty-looking Swedish meatballs that smelled like cardiac-heaven, telling myself I'd work it off at the gym.
       We found a small spot at an end-table where we could set our plates, and he went to fetch us both a glass of punch, his dark eyes like velvet. So much for the mental lecture. I gulped the punch -- fruit, no booze, crushed ice -- and glanced around the room, waiting for the cold to spread from my throat. Trying not to notice Donny eyeing me, I popped a meatball into my mouth, tasting real cream in the broth. Homemade and heart-attack great.
       "You involved with someone?"
       I swallowed, wondering if I was, the word, "yes," stuck in my throat. The Z-man and I had great chemistry, good communication -- well, we were working on that part -- and he had just the right mix of machismo and romantic sentimentality to bring me to a boil. But all that seemed more memory than reality at the moment. He hadn't come with me today and I felt unimportant, like the invisible woman. Feeling confused, I said, "I'm in transition with someone -- I'm not sure what's going to happen."
       Disappointment flickered, but hope followed after, and the smile quickly reappeared. He put down his glass long enough to extract a business card from his wallet. "Call me sometime?"
       _In case things don't work out._ I studied the card and raised my eyebrows. Another fud besides myself: Ph.D. in computer programming. "I always figured you to take over the ranch." I put the card in my pocket.
       The smile slid away and so did his gaze. "Long story." He touched my arm again. Someone cleared their throat behind me. I turned as Donny said, "Aunt Elizabeth, this is cousin Andy."
       Relieved at the interruption, I resisted the urge to tell him I went by Blaize -- too much explanation -- and shook the woman's hand, eyeing the timid eyes. Her hair, pulled into an unattractive bun, made me think of an anorexic farmer's wife out of the 19th century. I could picture Tom beside her all too easily, using her shoulder as a crutch, a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand, the two of them proudly portraying an American couple with a shitload of problems. Elizabeth's skin felt like stretched parchment, dry, rough, cool. Here was another _she_ -- as in suspect or witness? Darn Ian. His _she_ teaser was worse than inhaling leftover nicotine.
       Uncle Tom broke away from the Drunk Club lounging near the bar at the back of the room and joined us, booze now reeking from every pore, his green falcon eyes wary. "I see you've met my wife." His hand rested a little too heavily on Elizabeth's shoulder. Her smile froze, and I decided I would talk to her sometime later -- alone. For a moment I flashed Elizabeth as a much younger woman sporting a black eye at a family reunion, my little ears catching whispers while I tried to figure out what was wrong with having accidents. I was trying to remember if they had kids when one walked up, full-grown, with a face that hadn't changed much in twenty-six years. The woman who'd stood behind Teddy, offering a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Lillian?" I tried not to gag on the reek of roses emanating from her skin. I liked roses, but she smelled like she'd dumped the entire perfume bottle down her front. Maybe she had.
       Surprise lit Lillian's face when I said her name, but a moment later a shy mouse-like expression appeared, duplicate of her Mom's. Someone had certainly squeezed the spirit out of this wisp of a woman. With her big doe eyes, she looked like a victim with a capital V, might as well have been wearing a sign.
       She shook my hand awkwardly. It struck me that no one in this family hugged. Not in greeting or departing. On impulse, I stood up and gave her one. She jerked back as though stung, hatred flaring and dying so quickly I wasn't sure of what I'd seen. "I'm not much for touchy-feely stuff," she said, in an apologetic tone I didn't quite believe.
       "No problem." I sensed eyes watching me, both curious and apathetic. "So, what have you been up to for the past twenty-odd years?" I asked, thinking I now had five _she's_ to consider.
       This great original ice breaker earned me a shrug. "Got a degree in library science," she responded. "I work in Sacramento at the new library."
       I'd seen the showplace. Awesome marble floors, wide open spaces. And notoriety. "Were you there when that guy killed the two librarians?" Not the most sensitive thing I've ever said, but something about her bugged me. And heck, bringing up a little murder talk might lead to something.
       "Hired after that," she said. "What have you been up to?" Something flashed in her hazel eyes that didn't match the mouse demeanor. She suddenly reminded me of a ferret, small, quick, secretive.
       "Going to school. Working." I shrugged depreciatively, then took a shot in the dark. "Ian's probably told you all this -- I don't want to bore you."
       She glanced at her parents, then Donny, then tried for a blank look. "Ian?" Her inflection was manufactured. Tom and Elizabeth looked unhappily suspicious.
       Feeling shell-shocked and working to hide it, I said, "He's the one who told me about the flag and to call Charlene." Ian and Lillian had obviously been talking before today and he hadn't told me. Suddenly I was sure Lillian was the _she_ Ian referred to. What had she told Ian? Who else had he been seeing? Was he protecting someone? Ian was in deep shit with me. Under Lillian's inquisitive stare, I shrugged. "I just assumed that he'd been in touch recently. Guess I should talk to my brother more often."
       Donny shifted on his feet. No one looked pleased with my topic.
       As if to draw my attention, Lillian asked hurriedly, "So -- what do you do in your free time?"
       "You mean like hobbies?" I continued before she could answer, wanting to direct the conversation. "I weight-lift some, and I get to the range once in awhile."
       She took the bait. "Range?"
       "Target shooting. I was going to ask Donny if he'd like to go sometime -- maybe you would too?"
       Donny raised an eyebrow.
       "I've never fired a gun," she said, entirely too bland-faced. Her tone reminded me of a professional musician who said they played "a little."
       My hackles were up and I wasn't sure if it was due to the way Tom was studying his daughter or my suspicious nature. Wondering if she had something to gain by killing her uncle, I asked, "Married?"
       Her big, dark eyes briefly shifted to Donny, her lips curved slightly, then the mask was back and she shook her head. "Not yet."
       Uh-oh. I didn't see how that would give her a motive to kill his father -- unless the guy was filthy rich and she wanted a piece of the pie, but she obviously had her man picked out. A nasty ex and three kids obviously didn't bother her.
       "Excuse us." Donny said, his gaze scanning the room for an escape route. He guided me toward another food-laden table, though I'd barely touched the plate I'd left behind. I settled for a cheesecake I'd missed earlier.
       "Who's the cook?" I murmured as the chocolate and cream cheese melted on my tongue.
       "Lillian," he muttered.
       "Your admirer," I said, half-teasingly.
       His face flushed. "She's had a crush on me since puberty." He shook his head. "Thinks because we're not blood related that makes it okay." He gave me a look. "Which might be true in some cases."
       Was my face red or did it only feel hot? "But not in hers?"
       His expression said _Get real_, before his gaze shifted toward the door.
       Art was weaving towards our corner of the room, Dolly Parton beside him. He'd reconciled awfully fast to his long-lost mother. Donny's jaw tightened, and he fumbled for a cigarette. "Jesus. She's got some nerve. Ghosts are coming out of the woodwork."
       Was I one of the "ghosts" or did he mean someone else besides Mommy dearest? I half expected Rich to come gliding in rattling chains and moaning about the fires of hell. Luckily I didn't believe in hell -- except the kind we created for ourselves. "Maybe your mother's in the will?"
       His mouth frowned in disgust. "Maybe the old man's getting the last laugh after all."
       "On Charlene?"
       I think he was going to say yes -- which might mean he thought Charlene shot his dad -- but I never got the answer because Zoloski stepped through the door. Heat crawled up my neck as his green, green eyes found me, narrowed on Donny briefly, then refastened on me. Moving with the well-built grace of an athlete, he cut through the crowd, drawing attention. He appeared oblivious to the stares, but I knew he was taking everything in and recording it for playback at a later time. Had he brought the tension into the room or merely escalated it? The knitting crowd grew silent as he passed. The Drunk Club slurred the word "cop ..." between sips of whiskey. Lillian and her parents had formed their own little nucleus at the buffet table, and Lillian brushed her dark bangs off her forehead in what seemed a nervous gesture, then smoothed her black dress.
       I turned to introduce Donny, but my step-cousin had slipped out through the back of the house. Art and his newfound mother, Dolly Parton's look alike, were gone, too. Didn't like cops?
       Zoloski kissed me lightly on the lips, smelling of some kind of citrus aftershave and his own unique scent, which I inhaled with a twinge of guilt. His rescuing arms slid around my waist in a lingering hug. "Sorry I'm late," he murmured, his breath warm on my ear. "How was the funeral?"
       "Deep," I quipped, feeling irritated at Zoloski's late entrance, not wanting to describe Donny's fight with his ex, or Art's review, Ian's tardiness, and our cousins' dislike of step-mom. No one was crying over the old man's death either. I figured once the will was read, the killer might be a whole lot more obvious.
       "You look like you could use some cheering up."
       My lips tingled, responding to the glimmer in his eyes. But Ian's _she_ still ruled my brain and I was not about to be distracted from my goal of trolling for suspects.
       "Think I could drag you home for some late afternoon delight?"
       Talk about bad timing. "Thought you had to work?"
        "It can wait a couple of hours. I'll make up the time when you're at the gym."
       I reluctantly eased out of his arms. "I'm not quite ready to leave, Stephanos."
       A dark look. "Why?"
       I lowered my voice to a whisper. "Because Ian's found a clue to Rich's killer and I'm sizing up suspects." _And people clam up around cops._
       Zoloski's double greens grew even darker. "Ian's found a clue? Listen to yourself. How do you know he's not guilty?" Before I could answer, he continued, "He calls you out of the blue, puts on a show, and gets you to give him a partial alibi. It's damn convenient."
       "It wasn't a show. He's innocent." But dammit if Zoloski's words didn't kick up doubts. At Zoloski's skeptical expression, I added, "You've been around criminals too long."
       "He _has_ a criminal record."
       "How the hell did you know that?" I hadn't told him.
       "Cops talk to each other. Unlike you and me."
       The jab hurt and I had no come back.
       He shook his head. "Just once can't you trust the police do their job, Blaize?" Whatever rebellious glint he saw in my face tightened his expression. "You know how much time we've spent together the last few months? How many hours?"
       His questions threw me. Before I could shift gears, he said, "Think about it ... and us. Talk to you tonight." And without another word, he was gone.
       I hesitated, then tried to catch him, but by the time I pushed my way through the throng and got to the driveway, the red tail-lights of his Jag were a block away. I stopped at the road, where a bank of hedges blocked the gusting wind. It was 5:00 p.m., dark and getting colder by the minute, but I stood there wondering: Should I go home and talk to him now? Or should I try to save my brother? No matter what, I'd lose.
       Dejected, I turned toward the house, my hair blowing across my face. A blur of black streaked from behind the hedge. Before I could react, something hit the side of my head. Pain shot across my skull. Trees, bushes, grass and gravel veered toward me at a crazy angle, and a disembodied voice echoed in my ears, "Stay out of our lives."
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         *Chapter 7*
       HE HURRIED upstairs, stepped into the den, quietly shut the door, then moved to the corner of the room farthest from the door and window, his heart pounding in his ears. He kept seeing her face, the mischievous eyes, seductive glimmer of a smile ...
       He swallowed, excitement building as he mentally stripped away her clothes. Fumbling with the zipper of his slacks he released his cock, imagining her hand stroking him, her voice begging, "Oh, Baby, please..."
       Footsteps, vague voices, one fading, one getting closer... "Don't know where he is..."
       Oh, shit!
        He cringed as he snagged his foreskin with the zipper. He yanked his jacket closed, a groan caught halfway up his throat, pain throbbing through his groin.
        Feeling naked and vulnerable, he stepped to the bookcase and plucked a Charles Dickens volume, hand shaky as he flipped it open. He wanted to scream, tell everyone to fuckin' leave him alone. He was going to die without some relief. Just one more time, one ... as soon as the pain eased.
       The door cracked open.
        He bent his head, pretending to read.
       "There you are."
       He slid the book back in place.
       She stepped inside, looking small and soft in a black flowered dress. He inhaled the sight of her slim legs encased in shiny black stockings. "I thought you left," she said.
       "No." He smiled, wondering if she'd let him fuck her.
       "Andy's gone."
       God, if only _he_ could escape this hell. Start over again ... a new life, new rules ... His fingers curled into fists. Calm down. He couldn't afford to lose it, not here, not now. He swallowed, struggling to hold back his anger, to find a silky tone. "Still a lot of people around?"
       Her scowl relaxed. "Yes."
       He took a step, relieved it didn't hurt, took another. "You look great in black. Makes you look like that actress -- " He sounded like someone else, some caricature in a movie, someone he despised.
       She laughed. "Everyone's wearing black, we've just been to a funeral, remember?"
        "Yeah, but what you're wearing makes me wonder what you've got on underneath ..."
       "You would."
       He couldn't tell if she was reprimanding him or found the idea exciting. "So?" he breathed, kissing her earlobe, sliding his hands down her sides, across her back, cupping her backside. The pressure in his pants intensified. He knew she didn't like to be rushed, but he couldn't slow down.
       Just as he got his hands up her dress, she shoved him back with more strength than he expected and moved to the door. "You're drunk." She smoothed her dress as a snarl of frustration curled in his gut. Damn it, she'd led him on!
       "Only a couple of beers," he said, reaching for her again, thinking about how many times they'd gotten drunk together and fucked like rabbits. She slipped out through the door, pulling it closed in his face.
       He bit his lip, felt like he was losing his mind. The bastard was dead, he should be dancing on the sorry fuck's grave. Hell, they all should.
       He eyed the door. Maybe if he called someone, or cruised until he found a real babe ... Yeah, he'd take a drive, that always gave him a high ... He snuck downstairs and out the back door. What a hypocrite she was!
       He lit a cigarette, felt a tingle of expectation as he shoved through the back gate to his car.
       Twenty minutes later he was cruising T street in downtown Sacramento. Heading toward the river, he pulled up beside a Beamer and grinned over at the woman behind the wheel. An uncertain smile played back. A surge of adrenaline engulfed him. He followed her through town, speeding up beside her when he could, giving her "the look" his blood racing as she threw it back at him. There was a restaurant up ahead. A hot spot with a bar. Would she stop there? Meet him inside?
       His brain spun the fantasy into the foreplay of sharing a drink, then her apartment.
       She swerved to the curb and jumped out. He pulled up behind her. As he opened his door, she dashed into the building.
       The police department! He stared, horrified, frozen. He slid back onto the seat, slammed the car into gear and raced toward the freeway. A sense of shock squeezed at his chest. She hadn't been encouraging him to follow, she'd been afraid! Did she have his license number? Would she accuse him of stalking?
       He'd say she'd made a mistake, he was at a funeral ...
       The story replayed through his mind until it was real.
       The thought that rotten apples never fell far from the tree crept into his mind. He shoved it away, but it slithered back. No, he'd never do that. Never.
       A small part of him knew better. He was tempted to spin the steering wheel, ram the concrete divider, put an end to this obsession, because, God help him, he didn't know how else to stop.
--------
         *Chapter 8*
       I ROLLED to my side, felt rocks digging into my ribs and sat up slowly -- aware something was wrong. For one thing I was sprawled on the ground, my head pounding like someone had rammed a jackhammer through my ear.
       I vaguely recalled running after Zoloski. Did I trip? Something was trying to get past the jackhammer in my head. A black blur. Motion. Someone hit me! That made no sense and I doubted my memory as I gingerly explored the back of my scalp. One hell of a lump, but no blood.
       On shaky legs, I got to my feet, brushed the dirt off my jacket and glanced around, feeling scared and angry. No one in sight. I listened, heard a bird call, the drone of far-off highway traffic, and a conversational hum from inside the house.
       I headed to my car, my stomach roiling with a sudden spasm of nausea. Trying to ignore it, I dug beneath the seat for the flashlight, then retraced my steps to the hedge. I sucked in the cool evening air and studied the lawn beneath the cone of light while trying to clear my head. The grass was trampled. Someone had been there. Feeling like my skull was about to explode, I retrieved a gold cigarette butt. Art's brand. Not something I'd leave behind if I'd whacked someone over the head, and even Metalhead Art didn't seem that dumb. I put it in my jacket pocket, wondering what I expected to do with it -- it wasn't like I had a lab at my disposal.
       I moved the light further out, checking along both sides of the hedge. I found a tarnished penny, face up for good luck -- which I needed -- a gum wrapper that looked several seasons old, and a partially-burned porno magazine. I flipped through it. No identifying marks, just raunchiness at its worst. Did it belong to someone in the family? The police would have scoured the area -- so someone dumped both butt and magazine in the last three days -- that or the police did a lousy job. I needed a peek at the police report, but Zoloski wasn't likely to help. He'd already tried and convicted Ian.
       Clutching my abs as though that would stop the Swedish meatballs from abandoning my American stomach, I returned to my car, dropped the flashlight and magazine behind the seat, and checked my watch. 5:20. I'd been out of the house for twenty minutes, probably unconscious for less than a minute, the rest of the time playing Nancy Drew. Annoyed that no one had come looking for me, namely Donny, I headed back to the house, Ian's Porsche was still parked outside. That made no sense. Or had he left with someone else? I may have been out of touch with the family for twenty-six years but it was rapidly becoming apparent Ian hadn't.
       Confused and woozy, I decided I could use a drink, not to mention some aspirin, and went inside. The Drunk Club, including a snoring Tom, were all sagging toward the carpet in various states of oblivion. If one of them hit me, they did it sleepwalking. Or were they really asleep? Gritting my teeth against the jackhammer banging on my skull and the rebellious stomach, I dug three aspirin out of my purse and chased them down with the watery remains of the fruit punch. Steeled for action, I dropped the glass and shrieked as it thudded on the carpet. Not one of the drunks flinched or lifted an eyelid. I mentally crossed them off the bad-guy list.
       Everyone else stared. Charlene disengaged herself from the Knitting Society, snatched a couple of napkins from the buffet and held them out. "Are you all right?"
       I took the napkins, crouched and dabbed at the damp carpet. "I'm such a klutz."
       "No harm done."
       I set aside the glass and soggy napkins. "Did anyone leave in the past twenty minutes?"
       If she thought my question odd, she hid it. "After you went out?"
       "Yes." I resisted the urge to rub the back of my head.
       "Donny went out back with Calista." She spoke Calista's name with vinegar in her tone.
       "Is he still out there?"
       She nodded. "He's playing hide and seek with his boys."
       My ears were ringing and the aspirin was rising on a bilious tide at the bottom of my throat and I wanted to go home and die in peace. "Art around?"
       She frowned, her gaze inquisitive. "He left just about the time Ian did. Is something wrong?"
       "Someone hit me on the head," I said, bluntly, scrutinizing her face, wondering if Ian had gone somewhere with Art.
       Her skin paled and she looked genuinely shocked, then doubtful. "Are you sure? I mean -- why would anyone want to hurt you?"
       I shrugged, now reasonably certain Charlene hadn't slugged me. "I have no idea." I glanced over at the Knitting Society. "Lillian or Francine around?"
       "Francine was only here a few minutes. I think Lillian's upstairs ..." Her brow wrinkled. "I just can't believe anyone would -- "
       Figuring I wouldn't dig any more out of Charlene, I offered my condolences, then ambled into the backyard.
       Donny had his forehead against a huge fruitless mulberry, yelling "ready or not here I come." No Calista. His eyes widened with merriment when he saw me. He winked and held a finger to his lips. "Now where can they be?"
       He certainly wasn't acting like a mad thumper.
       I'd already spotted Donny's youngest, Adam, crouched in the shadows of the steps. The middle child, John, bent behind a gardenia bush and the oldest, Teddy, was sandwiched between the fence and half-open gate. I couldn't see Ian or Art. Off conspiring in some dark corner? I hated to think it, but that's what popped into my mind.
       Donny roared toward Adam and scooped the squealing kid into his arms, the two laughing as he put him down. Teddy dashed for the tree, beating Donny by seconds and yelling, "Safe!" After a quick glance in my direction, Donny said, "Maybe John is hiding behind Andy." He circled me, then dashed for the mulberry, John touching base a second before his father, his breathless, "Safe!" ringing loud in the quiet.
       I shivered, my hand automatically probing the back of my head. Donny's kids were safe, but was I?
       "Have you seen Art or Ian?" I asked.
       "And here I thought you might be looking for me." The kids faded into the background as though knowing a boring adult conversation was in the works.
       "You kind of disappeared earlier ..."
       He shrugged. Before I could say anything more, Charlene leaned out the door. "Donny, Francine is on the phone."
       His mouth tightened into a rueful smile. "Excuse me."
       I walked with him into the house. How was it that I knew exactly where I was heading with a client, but had no clue when it came to my personal life -- other than the unwelcome sensation of blowing it again and again. Donny glanced at me, "You hanging around for awhile?"
       I shook my head. "I really need to get going."
       "Keep in touch?"
       I nodded.
       "I'll take it upstairs, Mom." I heard his footsteps on the stairs and felt inexplicably sad. For myself and for this family.
       I retreated to my car and hit the road, wondering why Ian's car was still there, puzzling why someone would want to hurt me. Didn't make sense. What could I possibly know that would threaten anyone?
       I drove carefully, my thoughts flying faster than the car, but not in a straight line, more like connect the dots, the entire picture still a puzzle. Was the person who hit me Rich's killer? If so, the most probable suspects were Art, Donny, Francine and Lillian, and, yes, Ian. I didn't like including him or Donny on the list. And who the heck was the _she_ Ian had mentioned?
       Was he covering for one of our illustrious cousins? Lillian? Francine? Was it possible Francine's fight had been an act? I decided I should check out the facts beyond what Art had told me. Did any of the _she's_ own a gun? Would Zoloski be willing to ask the Auburn police what caliber bullet killed Rich? What about my impression that Ian and Art knew each other quite well? Was Art the black blur? Answers weren't coming, only the continuous pounding inside my skull.
       By the time I opened the front door my stomach had settled but my emotions were spinning out of control. "Stephanos?"
       Silence.
       Telling myself Zoloski's absence didn't mean anything and trying to believe it, I took two more aspirin, kicked off my boots, shrugged out of my clothes and crawled into bed. Once I lost the headache, I would figure out what to do.
       An hour later, I opened my eyes to the faint sound of a key. I was sitting up, nauseated and groggy, when Zoloski came into the bedroom. He paused in the doorway, silent for a moment. "You should show off that great bod more often."
       I looked down at my breasts, and pain rocketed behind my eyes. I bit back words about getting hit. He'd only get on my case for getting involved in another murder. Then he'd worry and want to baby-sit. No thank you. I cleared my throat. "I'm sorry about what happened -- "
       He sank onto the edge of the bed and unknotted his tie. "I'm sorry I was late."
       I wanted to lay my head on his shoulder but was afraid the pounding might jump from manageable to excruciating. "Rough day?"
       He ran his fingers through his thick black hair, brushing it back off his forehead. The dashing bit of grey at the temples only made him look better. He flashed me a smile, but his eyes were serious. "The usual crap. I arrest ‘em, the system lets ‘em go."
       He traced my jaw with his index finger, following the scar. His lips found my mouth and heat burned through my middle for a second before the jackhammer overwhelmed it. "I've got a rotten headache," I murmured, pulling away and wishing the words didn't sound so lame.
       He lowered his hand, his expression frustrated. He gave me "the look" that said no more running from what was happening between us.
       My insides turned cold. I filled my lungs with air and slowly exhaled. Once we would have teased each other with Bogie and Monroe imitations. Seemed like an eternity since I'd heard him say "sweetheart" in that swaggering tone I loved. My heart ached. "I really don't feel well, Stephanos."
       His mouth formed a skeptical line. "Every time I try to talk about a more permanent relationship, you change the subject, or run out the door. Come on, Blaize, you can't run forever."
       "I'm not," I protested. Not at the moment anyway. I knew my voice sounded defensive but couldn't stop. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't leave Charlene's when you asked, but I couldn't." God, he was gorgeous, conscientious, loving, so what was wrong with me?
       His face tensed. "You mean _wouldn't_."
       "Is that what's bothering you?" From his expression I knew it wasn't. He was going to bring up the M word again. The last time he'd tried out that word the phone had mercifully interrupted and I dashed outside to pull weeds. I couldn't see dashing anywhere in my birthday suit.
       He shifted away from me, cool air between us. His gaze didn't waver, nor did the intensity of his expression. "Gina never stopped talking. Most of the time what she said seemed like meaningless dribble and it got so I couldn't listen long enough to hear what was sandwiched between."
       I'd met his ex-wife. Talk about hackles rising! All my Neanderthal genes had come out. Gripes about Gina were always welcome.
       "But you ... you say nothing. Take your father's side of the family. You made it sound like you'd moved away and lost touch. And they're what? Fifteen, twenty minutes drive from here. Then today, I find you at your Aunt's, looking all chummy with some dude that runs out the back door as soon as I walk in. I ask you about the funeral. You say, ‘deep'. I feel like I'm digging for gold through quicksand ..." Pure frustration. "You hardly ever tell me what you want -- except a six-month contract to live together, do chores, no strings."
       I felt a brief flutter of guilt over my attraction to Donny and squelched it. "People change when they get married," I muttered. That message blared over and over again in recovery groups and in my practice -- and hell, in my family. I'd had three step-fathers and I couldn't even count all the second, third or fourth marriages on the McCue family tree. No matter how well-intentioned two people were when they got married, they wanted from their spouses what they didn't get from their parents. Considering the divorce rate, they didn't get it.
       Zoloski continued. "I'm not saying let's get married right now -- but I'd like to know the possibility exists. I'm not getting any younger."
       "So what is this? Mid-life crisis?" I wished I hadn't said it.
       "Damn it, Blaize! I'd like to know you're committed. And, yeah, I do want to get married. If that's not in your deck of cards, tell me now..."
       Married or not, I figured I was never going to like being vulnerable. But I sure as hell didn't like feeling lonely either. And right now the Gulf of Mexico was opening between us. I didn't know what scared me more, commitment or loneliness. My head might know that a ring wasn't the executioner's song, but as far as my heart was concerned, marriage was a freshly sharpened ax.
       He sat watching me. God knew what he read in my face, because he stood up and looked ready to walk.
       "I've never lived with someone this long," I spat out, feeling wretched. "I've never seen a marriage that worked. My role models stank, Stephanos. You'd be taking a huge risk marrying me." I swallowed back tears, lifting my chin defiantly. "You're the first guy I've ever dated whose parents are still married -- and I can't say they act super happy with each other."
       "Hell, nothing's perfect! But they love each other ..."
       "Then why does she talk about him like he has half a brain, isn't capable of running his life without her? Why does he talk about her like she's an emotional basket-case, like emotions are a dirty word?"
       Zoloski yanked off his tie and threw it on the bed. "It doesn't have to be that way! Sure they've let their resentments build up, they do a lot of bullshit, but we at least are trying ..."
       I laid back against the pillow, turned on my side, sheet pulled up to my chest. "Maybe I need an injection of faith," I said. "Our relationship is one big change and it scares me to death. Most of the time I try not to think about it, just do it -- one day at a time. But marriage -- you want me to think about a lifetime with you and I'm scared shitless. I'm afraid the love will disappear ... that all we'll have left is a grim prison, not a paradise."
       Zoloski sat on the edge of the bed, pain in his eyes, his jaw a hard line. "So, you want out of prison?" he ground out.
       "I didn't mean I feel like an inmate with you. But marriage... I need time."
       A forced smile. "You're out there playing detective and you can't give me the time of day."
       I knew there was no good answer. He was always accusing me of getting into trouble with a capital T. And I was always holding up my professional success like a bullet-proof vest for my personal disasters.
       "There'll never be enough time ..." He stood. "We have three months left on our ... contract. After that, if you won't set a date to get married, I'm calling it quits."
        I knew my mouth was hanging open, but it wouldn't shut. Jesus, why wait for the ax to drop? Three months wouldn't be long enough when I wasn't sure three years would be. I knew I'd regret it, but couldn't stop the words, "Maybe I should just move out now ..."
       A sour, miserable, angry look. He scooped up his tie and stormed out. I scrambled from the bed and was four steps down the front walk before realizing I was naked. "Stephanos, wait!" He kept walking, opened the Jag's door and climbed in. The tires squealed as he backed into the street and drove off.
       I retreated inside, feeling hurt and abandoned. The house echoed with loneliness as I leaned against the door. My life was a broken mirror and I was stepping on every jagged edge.
       The jackhammer pounded a couple more times, then as if it had finally bored through the wall it had been working on, I suddenly remembered the words coming out of the dark, out of the hedge at Aunt Charlene's._ "Stay out of our lives."_
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         *Chapter 9*
       _STAY OUT of our lives_. Did that mean stay away from the McCue family -- everyone on the tree? Stay away from someone in particular? Why'd the person have to be so vague?
       9:45 p.m. My body felt like stone. I threw on Zoloski's t-shirt and a pair of old jeans, swallowed some aspirin and retreated to the kitchen. The three Swedish meatballs aggravated by a bite of New York cheesecake hours earlier had my stomach grumbling. I wrestled an oatmeal chocolate chip high-protein bar from a shrink wrap bag, inhaled the chewy delight, then gulped down two more.
       Feeling calmer, I reached for the phone and dialed Ian's number. It rang a dozen times before I gave up. Where the hell was he? I just hoped this wasn't the kind of day that would push him over his bottom line. Hoped he wasn't ruining his life like I'd just ruined mine. Or was he talking to _her_, whoever _she_ was?
       I nuked some coffee, my thoughts firing a zillion different directions. Needing to regain some semblance of sanity, I called information for the number of an old college chum, now a psychiatrist, and dialed. It rang twice before a feminine voice picked up, "You have reached the office of Dr. George Nichols. If you wish to leave a message ..." Would he remember me after ten years? I almost chickened out, then talked rapidly. "George, this is Blaize McCue. I know it's Sunday, but I'd like to talk ... tomorrow if possible. I'll explain when you call." I left all my numbers, hung up, and took a sip of the bitter coffee, wondering what I expected to accomplish by speaking to George.
       We'd met in grad school, used to study together and sit around on breaks and discuss personality theories, diagnosis and treatment plans, and whatever else our instructors threw at us. My area of interest was food, drug, and alcohol addiction, his was working with couples and sexual dysfunction. He'd dated my friend Pat for awhile, but I'd lost track of him after they parted ways.
        If anyone could give me an in-depth education on sexual addiction, he could. A little personal counseling wouldn't hurt either.
       It struck me that when things were going well with the Z-man I was always holding my breath, waiting for the dynamite to blow. Now that I'd pushed the relationship destruct button, I felt strangely relieved. Unhappy, but hey, that was "normal."
       Dammit, I was sick of _deja vu_. I wanted Zoloski. I eyed the refrigerator, Zoloski's scrawled message under a magnet, "Call Detective Burns, Auburn PD, and confirm interview time."
       Didn't Zoloski ever take a break? I thought about all the things I loved about him, from his lovemaking to his laugh.
       Then I thought about marriage. Memories of my parents' endless arguments -- of the time my Dad threw a plate of eggs against the wall because they weren't cooked right, the time he burned Mom's school books because she ‘didn't need college', lined up in my left brain like a debate list against marriage. My mother had divorced one jerk only to marry another "nice" guy who became a "bastard" after a skip down the aisle. Though I didn't see Zoloski having any of my father's traits, my stomach knotted and I felt awful.
       I took another sip of black sludge and dialed George again. "I've got tomorrow evening open. If you could fit me in, I'd really appreciate it. I repeated the numbers, then, needing action, I drove out to Rancho and Ian's digs, hoping he'd be home by the time I got there.
       He answered the door still dressed in his funeral clothes. Cigarette in one hand, mobile phone in the other. "Blaize? I just tried to call you."
       "Where've you been?" This time no one was going to stop me from getting answers.
       He inhaled deeply and gestured toward the spartan living room, ushering me past a shelf of baseball trophies. Disgusted at his evasions, and my inner voice whining for a drag of his cigarette, I sank onto the leather sofa. He claimed the recliner and rubbed his cancer stick out in a gold ashtray until the butt was well past dead. I hit him again, "Where have you been?"
       "Around." All the openness I'd seen in Tahoe disappeared behind the mask I knew so well. But I was determined to break through even if I had to lay a guilt trip the size of Mt. Everest to do it. "Someone slugged me on the head at Charlene's."
       His mouth dropped.
       "Whoever it was told me," I pointed a finger at his chest, "to stay out of our lives." I gave him my best _don't bullshit me_ look. "What's going on, Ian?"
       "Jeez, Blaize. Have you seen a doctor?"
       "Dammit, I'm fine. Start talking."
       He turned toward the wall, muttering, "What a fucked-up mess."
       "What mess? Ian, who is _she_?"
       He exhaled, bit his lip. I sensed an admission coming. But of what? I can handle this, I told myself, giving him my most encouraging look.
       "Our family is the mess." He met my gaze head on. "You haven't been in touch with anyone from Dad's family ... but I have. That's how I learned about the flag. I avoided you after Rich's death because I wanted to make sure I had the killer nailed before I talked to you or the cops. But I didn't."
       "Elaborate, please. Names, details, things like that."
       "Look you have a right to be pissed -- " My face must have shown my impatience because he shifted gears. "It's a long story."
       "I have all night," I said, realizing with a stab of sorrow that Zoloski wouldn't be home to miss me.
       "This is strictly between us," Ian said. You're my counselor and I'm your client."
       Like that would stop a grand jury these days? I nodded anyway, hoping it would never come to that.
       Satisfied, he said, "A couple years ago I met Art at a meeting."
       Art of the gold cigarette butt. Holy smokes! My thoughts jumped back. "A twelve-step meeting?"
       "You know I can't tell you that."
       "This is murder, Ian, not some tabloid trivia question." I shoved to my feet so we were eye to eye.
       "It doesn't matter how we met. We kept in touch. Had a cup of coffee together a few times. Shot the shit. Nothing major. Then he kind of dropped out of sight and I figured -- "
       "What? That he'd blown his program?"
       "I didn't say that." But his eyes did.
       "He's a sex addict?"
       "I've already said too much."
       "How long ago did he drop out of sight?"
       "Haven't seen him in six or seven months."
       "But he called you about the flag?" I asked.
       "He gave Charlene my number. You know the rest."
       I almost wished I didn't -- that I hadn't taken the flag, gone to Tahoe, any of it. Almost. The family stuff had brought Ian and me closer and I couldn't regret that. _Even if he's guilty?_ that little voice in the back of my head whispered. He had to be protecting someone, I told myself. If so, he was asking for trouble. What he was telling me, coupled with the gold cigarette butt, didn't look great for Art. I wondered if the porno magazine was his too. I told Ian about both.
       "Look, whatever Art's reasons for hating his old man, he has a pretty good alibi for the time Rich was shot."
       I gave him a hard look and crossed my arms. "Where was he?"
       "With Francine -- that's the _she_ I was referring to."
       Jeez. Talk about dropping a bomb. Art and Francine between the sheets? "I thought Art hated her," I said, recalling his expression at the cemetery.
       "Doesn't mean he can't -- " he shrugged. "I wanted to talk to her before I told you anything -- see if her story matched Art's."
       My dislike of Art spread like a flash flood. A perfect match for Francine. "And?"
       "And she couldn't remember the exact time he arrived. Did remember they screwed a l-o-n-g time -- her words weren't quite so polite -- and that he snores and it woke her during the night. She thinks he left around seven-thirty a.m., when the alarm went off."
       "Thinks?"
       "She didn't check the clock -- just assumed it was seven-thirty and went back to sleep. Said she called in sick."
       "How long has she been doing the Caterpillar Conga with Art?"
       Ian lit another cigarette. "Since before the separation. That's what convinced me they're telling the truth. She didn't want to admit he'd been there, and tried to say it was the first time -- but when I told her what Art said, she admitted they'd gone at it before she and Donny split up."
       "Why would Art tell you that?"
       "He trusts me. And I gave him the same line I gave Francine." He grinned, exhaling smoke. "Said she'd already spilled the beans."
       "Maybe you should become a cop," I said, remembering a long time ago when Zoloski had spoken similar words of admiration to me. The memory hurt because it had been a long time since he'd said anything like it and I shoved it away. "It's not an iron-clad alibi."
       "Nope." Ian gave me an uneasy smile. "But it's better than mine."
       "What did you tell the police?"
       "My lawyer ran interference. I answered their questions, but didn't volunteer anything."
       "Good." But from Zoloski's comments, I knew Detective Burns thought Ian was his best suspect. Burns would question him again and again to try and turn his words inside out and gain some kind of admission they could use in court. If Ian lost his temper he might say something that could be misconstrued. He had plenty of motive and opportunity. I wasn't willing to trust the cops with my brother's life.
       He jammed his cigarette into the ashtray. "There's something else I need to tell you. I'd planned on talking about it in Tahoe, but then -- "
       The feeling swirling in my gut made me uneasy. "What?"
       Ian sang in a soft choirboy voice, "_I'm gonna build a castle on the river Nile and there I'll live in a heckuva style_ ... You remember the song?"
       The knot in my stomach grew. The red leather recliner I used to curl up in, tried to disappear into, filled my mind with vivid clarity. The fear I'd felt at Charlene's when I'd seen it again struck me with goosebumps. I swore I could feel the cracks in the arm rests, the sensation of falling when it tilted backwards. An abrupt image -- myself hiding behind the chair -- two people walking into the room, Rich's gruff voice a low drunken slur as he sang that song, my brother's voice singing, too, fear twined in every word. Then the memory of sounds -- whispered threats, a child's whimpers and pleas, an adult grunt, silence...
       Unable to stop the flow, I croaked, "I heard it. When Rich molested you." My bones felt like ice. "I was so scared -- and I didn't understand what was happening, but I knew it was bad and I heard him threaten you and I kept telling myself it was a dream ..." I looked at Ian. "Then Mom took us away and I forgot ..."
       Ian hugged me, a Tahoe hug I could glom onto.
       "I didn't do anything to help," I whispered. "I'm so sorry. Jesus, I'm sorry." I gulped air.
       He held me, his voice soft, his words terrible. "Rich knew you were there, Blaize. After it was over, after you escaped, he laughed about it. Thought it was funny."
       I bolted into the bathroom and heaved, losing the protein bars, my mouth left with the sour taste of Swedish meatballs. My hand shook as I clenched the counter. I couldn't believe anyone would do that -- didn't want to believe it -- yet I knew it was true.
       Gathering my emotions together, I blinked back tears. Ian held me until I stopped trembling. Finally, he stepped away, looking at me. "It wasn't your fault, or your responsibility. You were a little kid. So was I. Rich deserved to die ..."
       I stiffened, expecting a confession. No more, I thought. Not tonight. Not ever. But I couldn't stop the words, "Did you shoot him, is that what you're trying to tell me?"
       "Hell no. I'm just trying to make you understand what kind of a sick jerk he was."
       "Okay, he was a bastard. Everyone agrees on that. But whoever shot him isn't a hero, Ian. He or she hit me on the head. Told me to stay away from the family. My skull could have been dented permanently."
       "Doesn't have to be the murderer who hit you. Could be someone trying to protect another person. This is a family thing," he said, as I was having the same thought.
       "Like Art, worried about his anonymity?" I asked, thinking Art was a great candidate as the killer, no matter what alibi Francine gave him.
       Ian raked his hair back, his expression uneasy. "I just don't see him slugging you or anyone else. He's not the type."
       I didn't voice any of my doubts about Art. Ian's expression told me he wasn't going to spill any more about our cousin -- at least not now. "Well, then who is the type?" I asked, "Francine?" She looked more the type to scratch out someone's eyes in a moment of passion, not pull off a carefully executed murder.
       "I don't know." He gave me an awkward hug, the new Ian resurfacing. "But I'm glad you're okay."
       "I'm fine," I reassured him, denying the queasiness inside. And the fear. Was there anything else I'd _forgotten _from my past?
       He seemed to understand intuitively. "Rich was never interested in little girls. Mom kept a close eye on him, and not long after Rich molested me, Dad died and we moved away."
       "You make it all sound so sterile. Easy."
       "It's been a long time."
       He said it so calmly. For the moment I felt reassured, believed him innocent. "Thanks Ian ..." I gave him a quick squeeze, then headed for the door, needing space. He followed to the front step.
       Pausing, I said, "Be careful. Whoever pulled the trigger on Rich crossed a big line. It makes the next time easier." Just saying the words made me feel like I'd skated across thin ice and it was cracking around me. I rubbed my head, fatigue seeping into my bones. "I'm too tired to think. Let's connect tomorrow after the meeting with the lawyer."
       He hugged me good-bye, a Tahoe hug that I felt down to my toes, and I felt guilty for not telling him about Zoloski. But old habits die hard. I was beginning to wonder if they die at all.
--------
         *Chapter 10*
       GEORGE CALLED me back Monday morning just as I was rushing out to Auburn and the lawyer's office, then a meeting with Detective Burns, Auburn PD.
       "I can see you at six o'clock tonight," George said, "If you don't mind me slurping dinner while we talk."
       "Can you slurp Chinese?"
       A chuckle. "You remember?"
       "Kung Pao Chicken and steamed rice."
       "Sounds great." He gave me quick directions to his mid-town office, the downstairs of a renovated Victorian.
       I hung up feeling a sense of relief, slung my half-ton leather purse over my shoulder and closed the door. As I started the car, Zoloski's favorite CCR tape started blaring about putting a spell on me, and not taking any crap.
       I tried not to think about the cold fact Zoloski hadn't come home. Despite my irritation at him for not being perfect, I loved him and wanted to make our relationship work. But the "M" word? Why couldn't he be happy with what we had?
       _Why are you so afraid of commitment_? the therapist in me shot back.
       _Why did he have to push_?
       _Why did I feel this overwhelming desire to bolt in a blaze of glory_?
        I headed up the freeway, wondering how many changes I was willing to make. "_You better stop the thing that you do_ ..." The lyrics cycled through again. Oh yeah? Calm, cool, and collected I could be reasonable, follow through on commitments, whatever needed to be done. Unfortunately, when I was stressed I snapped back into dysfunctional pre-recordings: _dump them before they dump you. Shut down, shut up_. Behaviors that did not work. I lectured myself all the way to the parking lot of Gladden, McVie, and Halderson, then pulled my cellular and called Zoloski.
       Amazingly, he picked up, his voice edgy, "Zoloski, Homicide."
       "I haven't killed myself yet, but my boyfriend didn't come home last night and I'm tossing the idea around."
       A slow exhale. "I slept over at Arnie and Pat's."
       Pat, my friend from college, now worked missing persons. Arnie, the Z-man's best friend, was also a homicide dick. "I missed you," I forced out, feeling like I'd just opened my arms for a knife thrust. "I'm seeing a counselor tonight at six. Specializes in screwed-up therapists. I'd like to talk to you afterwards. Be home?"
       Silence. "If this is another carrot, I'm not hungry." His flat, unyielding tone hurt. Did he really see me as manipulative?
       "So you want to marry me but you don't want to help me?"
       His chair squeaked. He lowered his voice, "Don't put words in my mouth, Blaize. I really can't talk now. I'm playing racquetball with Arnie from six to seven. Be home around eight."
       Home. Technically it was _his_ home. Emotionally, sometime during the past two years it had become mine as well. "See you then," I said, making an effort to sound appreciative.
       He clicked off without the Bogart imitation that always meant I'd been forgiven. I felt a surge of anger and at that moment I didn't want forgiveness, I wanted to call him back and tell him not to do me any fucking favors, that I'd move out tomorrow. I threw the phone back in my purse.
       Ian's white Porsche pulled into a free space along the curb, and I pushed down thoughts of the Z-man. As Ian ambled over, I got out and locked my door. I'd thrown on a black crushed-velvet dress that swirled about the top of my ankle boots, and a multi-colored velvet vest that gave me an expensive wind-blown appearance. Ian was dressed in a well-put-together charcoal suit and tie. Hair combed, rested, fresh shave, he smelled faintly of spice and tobacco as he gave me a long, warm hug.
       We McCues might be screwed up on the inside, but damn, we looked good. I wanted to cling, getting that Alice-in-Wonderland feeling -- one blink and he'd be gone. If he noticed the dark circles under my eyes he didn't mention it. "Ready?" he asked.
       "No." I held onto his arm, wanting reassurance. "Ian, you've told me everything there is to tell, right?"
       "We're late, Blaize. Let's talk later."
       "Ian!" I held my ground as he tried to step past.
       "You've already been threatened." He pulled his arm free. "I can't say anything else. I won't risk your life."
       At that moment I could have throttled him. "I can take care of myself. But only if I know the facts."
       His tone became placating, irritating me further. "We'll talk later."
       I shouldn't have dropped it, but I did.
       We walked into the courtyard of a small block of office buildings until we found gold print on the door of Gladden, McVie, and Halderson. The place felt like an old-fashioned law office from the 50's, dark paneling, mahogany reception area, and cocoa carpet. The receptionist, a middle-aged woman, glanced up from what looked like a 1940's Smith-Corona. "You must be Ian and Andrea McCue. Everyone's here. Go on back. Last door to the left." My watch read 11:05, only five minutes late and we were the last ones? The relatives were obviously champing at the bit to find out what they'd inherited. Had Richard been a mattress stuffer? An astute stock-market king? A dope dealer? Nothing about this fucked up family would have surprised me. The whole thing smacked of theatrics. Had Richard gloated at the idea of forcing people who hated each other to sit in the same room?
       I followed Ian's boot-prints in the shag pile and into a conference room dominated by a massive oak table with clawed feet. At one end sat Uncle Tom and anorexic Aunt Elizabeth looking extremely uncomfortable in their out-of-date suits. Charlene, still in black, slumped like a big lump of gelatin beside Elizabeth's bird-like frame. The three old folks seemed rather outnumbered by the younger camp at the other end of the table where Lillian claimed the spot beside Donny, his soon-to-be-ex glaring at her from across the wooden expanse. Art sat slightly apart from Francine, feigning boredom. And surprise, surprise, the rotten mother-of-the-year, the big-haired, silicon-enhanced Dolly Parton clone, Calista, sat on Art's other side.
       "Ian and Andrea McCue? I'm Bill Gladden." An overweight Andy Griffith lumbered to his feet. He gestured toward two empty chairs in between the two camps. I ended up closer to Charlene, Ian near Francine.
       "Let's get started." Gladden smiled benevolently. "Each of you is here because Richard McCue named you as a beneficiary. He instructed that you all be present to be notified verbally of his bequests." The lawyer reached for a stack of tan legal-sized envelopes beside a manila file.
       I glanced at Ian, who was eyeing Lillian. Art caught my eye and grinned as though he hadn't a care in the world. If he could hump his brother's wife, not much bothered him. Including murder?
       I put the nasty thought from my mind as the lawyer handed each of us a sealed envelope with our name typed on the front. "Each envelope contains a message from Richard McCue." He held up his hand as Tom opened his mouth. "I have no idea what they say," he said. "He wrote them ten or more years ago -- at the same time he made out his will."
       Wondering what mine said, I shoved it into my purse as the lawyer cut to the money-chase. Tom and Elizabeth received fifty thousand dollars. Aunt Charlene received the house -- zip on the rest of the estate. The dabs at her cheeks stopped abruptly, the hankie floating to the table as her face twitched.
       "All other property, five acres in Folsom, and ten in Loomis, worth over half million, shall be divided between Calista McCue, Lillian McCue, and Andrea McCue."
       I must have gaped like a fish on land. That came out to at least one-hundred-fifty-thousand each, give or take twenty-five grand. I glanced at Calista McCue -- even her name sounded like country music hype. Art said she sold Mary Kay. She wouldn't need to now. I looked at Art, his face impassive, as if nothing surprised him. He seemed to know a helluva lot about everything and everyone. Calista looked almost bewildered by the bequest. As bewildered as me? And Lillian, well, I couldn't read her expression at all. But Charlene's jaw was working its hinges.
       Gladden continued, "a two million dollar life insurance policy is to be divided between Donald McCue, Arthur McCue, and Ian McCue."
       No one moved. Two million! It screamed through my brain -- two million to the guys. Redemption money? Then why did he leave Calista anything? What the hell could he have done to her? And Lillian? And me for that matter? And why had he only left Charlene the house?
       Charlene, obviously wondering the same, pushed to her feet, a quivering mass. "That son-of-a-bitch! Makin' me scrape together that damn policy money every month -- pay all those damn property taxes -- telling me I'd have nothing to worry about when ..."
       When he died? I could almost hear Uncle Rich laughing.
       "Please sit down, Mrs. McCue," the lawyer said, his frosty blue eyes boring into her.
       She glared back at him. "I'm gonna get my own lawyer."
       "If you contest the will, you will receive nothing -- not even the house." He spoke calmly.
       Donny and Art appeared dumb struck -- as much by Charlene's outburst as the inheritance, I thought. Donny's soon-to-be ex wore an ecstatic smile. Gladden continued, reading through some personal items to be divided between his sons.
       "I don't want the money," Ian said, softly, drawing a collective gasp from around the table.
       The lawyer's brows rose in surprise.
       Ian stood. "Give it to the Society for the Prevention of Child Molest. He's not buying my forgiveness. I hope he rots in hell."
       The lawyer stared. Whatever his thoughts were he hid them well.
       Ian, patting his pockets for his cigarettes, pulled one and stuck it between his lips.
       The lawyer cleared his throat. "You may want to think about it, Mr. McCue."
       "Jesus, what's to think about," Francine murmured as she held out a lighter and lit Ian's cigarette, the implied familiarity sending shock signals to my brain. She gave him a proprietary smile. "You don't want it, sweetie, I'll take it off your hands."
       Sweetie? It didn't mean anything, I told myself. Ian said she was screwing Art. Ian said ... Oh shit, had I fallen for a lie? Had his program slipped since the murder? He was under tremendous stress and Francine was attractive in a punk-rocker sort of way. Another thought hit me, burying all else in a landslide. Were she and Art setting Ian up? It was a giant leap but my gut told me I was missing a heck of a lot here in undertones.
       Ignoring Francine, Ian headed for the door, trailing smoke.
       "Mr. McCue," the lawyer said.
       Ian didn't even pause.
       I was torn between staying or chasing after him. But it seemed I was always running after somebody, so I stayed. I began to wonder what was in the envelopes. What was in Ian's? I wasn't in any hurry to open mine, and no one else seemed anxious to rip theirs open either. I was beginning to think my uncle had been a Machiavellian nutcase.
       Francine broke the uncomfortable silence. "Can Ian give his share away? Can it be divided between the rest of us?"
       "I'm afraid not," the lawyer answered in a dry tone. "Mr. McCue stipulated that if someone were deceased at the time of his death the money would be divided between the others. Once probate ends, the stipulation ends."
       Oh shit, a prescription for murder!
       Everyone did some uncomfortable seat-shifting as though having the same thought.
       Donny glared at Francine. She pulled a pocket mirror and studied her reflection. Another fight coming? Art was looking at her too, a speculative gleam in his eye. I wished I knew what it meant.
       Art remarked, "I don't plan on kicking the bucket anytime soon."
       "Neither did Richard," I said. No one had a comeback.
       After learning it would be several months before the money was distributed, I headed for the ladies room. By the time I hit the parking lot, everyone had left.
       My thoughts fired in several directions. Worry about Ian. Speculations about Art and Francine. The hundred-fifty-thousand dollars. I could pay cash for a house! _That_ would thrill the Z-man no end since I was living in _his_ place.
       Donny's voice cut through my thoughts. "If you think you're getting a dime of that money, think again."
       I whirled around, saw the dark van at the end of the lot.
       "I'm putting it in trust for the boys."
       Was he talking to Francine? I took my time digging for keys, straining to hear.
       "Just remember, murderers can't profit from their crimes..."
       Oh god ... I felt sick. _Not Donny_.
       "Don't think you're going to pin this on me. I didn't kill him," Donny said, his voice low but rising.
       "I know what you said!" All the attempts at whispering vanished. "After what he did -- " Francine broke off abruptly as though too furious to get the rest out. I saw smoke rise from behind the van and realized she must have lit a cigarette. "You're the one with no alibi, Donny," she said, a moment later. "Not to mention your missing gun, remember that."
       His gun? My God! Maybe Ian was home free. But Donny?
       He laughed dryly. "Yeah, because you took it. You and Art -- together. What kind of an alibi is that?"
       It sounded like he believed his brother and Francine had killed Richard. With Donny's gun? And what did she mean -- after what he did? What had good old Uncle Rich done? I had a pretty good idea.
       Francine stormed off in the opposite direction, not even noticing me, as if she didn't give a shit about who heard what. It didn't seem in character for a killer.
       Donny, keys jingling in his hand, saw me as he came around to the driver's side of the van. A flush spread up from his collar. He strolled over. "You heard?"
       "Just the end -- " I felt sorry for him. "You really think your brother and Francine killed your father?"
       He lit a cigarette. "What's the alternative? I know I didn't do it. They told the police they were together that night, but -- " He shrugged.
       I wondered if it were true. "What was she referring to -- after what Richard did?"
       He shrugged.
       I gave him my "trust me" look.
       "This has to be private. Between me and you."
       "I won't repeat it," I said, "but I can't lie to the police if I'm asked."
       "This is about therapy."
       Seemed like everyone was wanting to use my therapeutic license to keep their conversations secret. "What about therapy?"
       He looked apprehensive.
       Short on time, I said, "I have an appointment in a few minutes, but we can talk if you walk me to my car." The police department was only a few blocks away. I could have walked, but I didn't want to advertise where I was headed. I felt as rigid as rebar.
       He tossed his half-smoked Marlboro, and immediately pulled another, his gaze riveted on it, not moving to light it. I expected him to talk about Francine and his brother, instead he surprised me. "She was talking about our son, Teddy."
       His gaze skidded down the street and back as though assuring himself we wouldn't be overheard. "My father molested him ... Teddy told me last month ..." Raw pain graveled his voice. "I've always been protective of them, whenever they visited their grandparents, because ..." Black fury in his eyes. He started walking, one stride to two of mine.
       I said, gently, "Your father molested you?"
       An angry nod. "It's been years. I'd put it out of my mind. But this -- it started a little over a year ago -- before Francine and I split. Jesus, he'd barely turned ten. Goddamn ..." He sucked on the cigarette until it was ash, tossed it in the gutter and continued, "She was out till all hours ... screwing every guy available, leaving me to scramble for baby-sitters so I could meet clients, make deadlines. A couple of times I had to ask my parents to watch the boys. Most of the time I made sure Mom was there, but this last year's been hell and -- "
       Anguish flared in his hazel eyes. He shoved his fists into his pockets. "I found a permanent baby-sitter as soon as I could -- from the junior college -- she's studying to be a teacher, and she's great with the kids. I've actually gotten some work done the last couple of months. But then Teddy ... he's eleven now... he said ..." His jaw worked, but no words came for a moment. "The son-of-a-bitch!" He jammed the cigarette between his lips and lit it. After a few drags, his breathing slowed, and the ragged tone smoothed. "Francine and I had already split up when I found out. Of course she blamed me, like it had nothing to do with the fact she wasn't home ..." He inhaled another third of the cigarette. "I've talked to Teddy, told him what happened wasn't his fault ..." he choked, started walking with even longer strides that made me jog to keep up.
       "I'm really sorry." I was, too. For Donny's son and because he'd just given me one hell of a motive for murder. Outraged father loses control and kills old man. Or outraged mother, I told myself, wanting it to be Francine. "Why are you telling me all this?"
       "I'd like you see my son. Talk with him. See if he's okay."
       "I don't work with children, Donny -- "
       "I don't know what to do. Or who to trust. Look -- this sickness -- I've read about it. It's a family disease like alcoholism. But people don't freak out when you say there's an alcoholic in the family." His tone rose with regret. "Look who I married. Francine fits the same profile. She's always prowling for a fuck. Shit, from what I've read, she could have married Casanova and she'd still be obsessed."
       "There are co-addict groups," I ventured.
       His face reddened. "Yeah, I went to one. Ten women and me. Felt like such an oddball ..."
       We were standing at my car. "You won't tell the cops about my son, will you?" he asked.
       Feeling confused, I said, "I won't volunteer anything, Donny, but I can't lie."
       Donny dropped what was left of his cigarette, a last desperate wisp of smoke spiraling over the toe of his boot as he stepped on it. His dark eyes stared straight into mine. "Francine thinks I shot him."
       "Did you?" I had to ask, but disliked myself for it.
       "I keep forgetting we haven't seen each other in years. You have no reason to trust me." Sadness darkened his eyes like shadows on a pond. "No, I didn't kill him." A pause. "My biggest concern right now is my son."
       I pulled a business card and jotted the name of a child-psychologist on the back. "She's great with kids." I climbed in my car and watched Donny walk away.
       My mind spun. Art must have been molested by Rich, too. Donny, Art, and Ian. Three suspects. I had a hard time imagining Ian killing anyone point blank. Not the man I'd met in Tahoe. But where one dog might wag its tail at a man, a dog that ran in a pack might rip the same man to pieces. I tried, but couldn't stop my mind. Had they planned this murder together?
       I could quit now, I told myself. But then I'd never know. And that seemed worse than anything I might discover.
--------
         *Chapter 11*
       HE WAS rich! Well, not rich, exactly. He had to pay off his debts first, but with a few good investments ... The six figures glittered in his mind, seductive as the red neon of a strip joint or the velvet fingers of a high-class hooker. It wouldn't hurt to cruise a bit, he figured, since he was heading back to work.
       Two hours later, he jolted back to reality. He was late. Frustrated, he rechecked his watch and felt a flutter of panic. Where had the time gone? How would he explain this?
       Fuck it. But he was already lining up excuses like a quarterback readying his offensive line. By the time he pulled into the parking lot he had story down in exquisite detail.
--------
         *Chapter 12*
       I STARED at Detective Burns's youthful face and figured he was way out of his league investigating a murder. Reticent to say much, knowing he was sizing me up as a possible suspect, I decided to stick with the facts. I took a deep breath and reminded myself I had as much or more experience ferreting out the truth behind what was said, and unsaid, than he did. I took the chair across from him at the small table. Maybe I'd get lucky and he'd let something drop. "I'd like a cup of coffee, please."
       The unnamed sidekick left. Burns meticulously opened a notepad, pulled out a pen, and gave me what might have passed for a friendly look.
       The uniform returned with two coffees. Burns took a sip of his, then hit the red button on the recorder and went into a routine about who he was, who I was, where we were, and who else was present. That done, he gave me an expectant look again. When I didn't volunteer anything, he said, "I'd like you to verify a few things for me, if you would?"
       I nodded.
       "I need a verbal response for the recorder."
       "Yes, okay."
       "First, Doctor McCue, when did you last see your uncle alive?"
       Relieved this was about me and not Ian, I answered, "Twenty-six years ago at my father's funeral."
       "You're sure about the date?"
       "Yes."
       "Your aunt said you visited their house Wednesday, November 11."
       "Yes, but I didn't see my uncle."
       He listened without expression. "You mean that after twenty-six years, you visited your aunt, but didn't bother to see your uncle?"
       "You got it."
       "And you only stayed fifteen minutes?"
       "Thereabouts."
       "Would you care to explain why?" He leaned forward as though expecting a confession.
       "No."
       "No? Are you familiar with the term _obstructing_ justice?"
       Reluctantly I explained about the flag from my father's coffin, that a nasty divorce after his death had divided the family and we'd been ostracized.
       Whatever Burns thought of my explanation remained hidden behind his bland, baby-faced expression. His voice softened, "But isn't it true your uncle molested you and your brother, and that's why your mother took you away?"
       "Is that what Charlene said?"
       "Please, answer the question."
       "No, it's not true."
       "It's not?" He flipped through the notepad. "Let's see ... Your brother says he was molested. Shall I read you his exact words?"
       "I can only speak for myself," I ground out. "And the answer is still no. My uncle did not molest me."
       Disbelief flared in Burns's eyes, but he merely flipped through his notebook again. "So you stayed fifteen minutes, then left. And you didn't go back?"
       Working to hide my anger, I said, "Stephanos Zoloski drove me there and back. You can check with him."
       "We've talked to Detective Zoloski," he said. "He says you were with him all night. He left at 5:30, Thursday morning, for the gym, then work, didn't see you again for a couple of days. That you took off with your brother."
       "You aren't seriously suggesting that my brother and I took off Thursday morning to shoot Rich, then drove up to Tahoe for dinner to celebrate?"
       "Is that what happened?"
       Suddenly I wondered if I'd underestimated Detective Burns.
       "Your uncle died sometime between eleven p.m. and eight a.m. Thursday morning. You have an alibi?"
       "I was at -- " I shut my mouth before my foot went in any deeper. Never volunteer information -- I knew that -- but the urge to deny and elaborate was strong. This guy was looking for someone to nail a murder rap on, and he'd just as soon it be me as Ian -- that much I could see in his "talk to me" expression. But I didn't have to talk to him and we both knew it.
       "You were at?" he prodded.
       "Work."
       He jotted something in his notebook, his scrawl unreadable. When he looked up he said, "Would you mind reviewing for me, please, what you did Thursday morning, from the time Detective Zoloski left you alone until he picked you up in Tahoe, Friday the thirteenth."
       Friday the 13th. How did I miss that? I cleared my throat. "I did aerobics to a video, went in to work early. My brother called. We talked. He asked me to dinner in Tahoe. Picked me up around one. I left Zoloski a note. Called him later, said I'd be home the next day. It was late and I didn't want to drive home in the storm."
       "So you drove all the way to Tahoe with your brother just to eat dinner?"
       "No. There was some therapy involved." I took a sip of bitter coffee, willing my nerves into submission.
       "Therapy? As in confidentiality? You know that doesn't hold here."
       Until a judge ordered it, I didn't have to say a word of what Ian and I talked about. When I said nothing, he leaned forward. "Does your brother own a twenty-two?"
       I shoved back my chair and stood. "I think this interview is over."
       "Hey, we're just gathering information here, Doctor McCue. Nothing to get upset about. Please, have a seat. I'm just trying to understand you and your brother's whereabouts during the time your uncle was killed."
       "I'm not talking without a lawyer present." I remained standing.
       "Why did you cancel your clients rather than schedule dinner with your brother on another day?"
       "No comment."
       "What was so important about this day?"
       "No comment."
       "Did you know your uncle was shot with a twenty-two?"
       _Oh shit_. Donny's gun was missing. A .22? I wanted to kick myself for not asking. I knew I was going to be digging through gun registrations ASAP. Burns and I stared at each other. "I want to talk to my lawyer."
       "It doesn't have to come to legalities, does it? Please, sit down."
       "Are you arresting me?"
       He was working to hang onto his friendly expression. "Not at this time."
       Ha. I guessed he didn't have much to go on. _Unless Ian did own a .22 and it turned out to be the murder weapon._ I told that little voice in my head to shut up and walked out the door.
       Freedom smelled great. I bee-lined back down the street to where I'd parked, trying to assimilate the image of Ian with a gun in his hands. He'd never expressed an interest in firearms or target shooting -- maybe the gun was for his shop office ... Why was I assuming he owned a weapon? Why was I spinning Burn's comment into a negative charge? Why couldn't I be optimistic for once? A .22 was more likely to be owned by a woman than a man. I forgot my inner turmoil when I saw the note on the windshield.
       _Andy, I'd like to get together and talk about the family..._
       I skimmed past an unfamiliar phone number to the signature. _Art_.
       So now both male cousins wanted to talk. Who next? Donny's ex, Francine? Doe-eyed Lillian? How many of _them_ owned a .22?
       I got in my car and punched in Art's number on my cellular. While it rang, I turned over the tan envelope with Uncle Rich's writing on the outside and ripped it open.
       "Art McCue here."
       The envelope was empty. I stared at it, confused.
       "Hello?"
       "It's me, Blaize, uh, Andy. You said you'd like to talk. I'm free for a couple of hours." Actually, it was only a couple minutes after 2:00 and I didn't have to be in downtown Sac until 6:00.
       We agreed to meet for coffee in Rocklin, halfway down the hill from Auburn. As I drove, I tried to reach Ian, and ended up leaving a message on his machine. Frustrated, I considered calling Zoloski, but figured we'd just fight, and stuffed the phone back in my purse. After the last four days I disliked my family more than ever. I didn't even want Rich's money -- Donny's son could probably make better use of it in therapy for the next twenty years. And the empty envelope -- what was that about? To keep everyone guessing who he'd molested and who he hadn't? My fingers tightened around the steering wheel. What Donny told me about his son made me sick, and furious, and yes ... glad Rich was dead.
       Donny, Art, Ian. I wanted to ignore what kept thrashing through my mind like a shark. They weren't the only ones in the family -- even if they'd received bigger chunks of change. What about Lillian? She had Rich's brother as a dad. Tom with the malicious, degrading eyes, and the violence sheathed behind a smile. He might be pushing seventy, but even now it wasn't too hard to imagine him with a belt in his hand. For a moment I found myself wondering if whoever offed old uncle Rich might take a shot at Tom. I wouldn't cry.
       Not a nice thought. I pulled into the Cup and Saucer and took the spot next to Art's Corvette. He was in a booth at the back, waving at me. The goose and gingham joint had all the touches: eyelet lace, pale blue floral wallpaper, blue and white checked tablecloths, and it smelled great -- like chocolate and coffee and fresh baked bread. Still shaken from my run-in with Burns, and hoping I wouldn't hear another horror story, I slid into the booth.
       Dressed in an expensive charcoal suit, white shirt open at the neck, gold chain like a collar, Art looked like a cheap playboy on the prowl. "How'd it go with the police?" he asked without preamble.
       I stared, striving to hide my shock. "Your sources must be better than mine. Who've you been talking to?"
       He shrugged.
       "Ian?" I guessed, thinking my brother needed his mouth taped shut.
       The flicker in his eyes said I'd hit the bull's eye. "We've all talked to the police."
       I ordered chocolate cake and a cafe mocha, extra hot, needing a shock absorber. "What did you tell Detective Burns?" I asked, attempting to turn the tables.
       Another shrug.
       "You did say _you_ wanted to talk."
       He glanced at the waitress. "Chocolate cake sounds good."
       The waitress departed, leaving us to peer at each other across what was not so much a table as a chasm of family dysfunction.
       "Before we talk, tell me something," I said, eyeing the heavy gold ring on his finger. It had a horseshoe of diamonds and made me think: gambler. Was he in debt?
       "What?"
       "Did you kill your father?" I prayed Ian wasn't involved.
       He laughed. "You cut right to the chase, don't you?"
       "It saves time."
       "You always in a hurry?"
       "If you didn't kill Rich, who did?" How was that for _hurry_?
       The waitress refilled his coffee and set a mug capped with steaming froth in front of me. I took a sip. Sweet, chocolate, hot. All my uneasy feelings sank beneath the foam.
       Art leaned back. "I'm not sure I want to tell you anything."
       Feeling more in control, I said, "Oh?" He _wanted_ to tell me something. I sensed it -- like a client beating around a guilty secret.
       His gaze slid toward the huge slice of cake on his plate.
       I cut a bite from mine and filled my mouth with the gooey chocolate decadence, watching Art do the same and wondering if he would answer without another cue. I took another bite, savoring the sweet, hog-heaven taste. Soft country music floated between us from the background. Maybe if I got him talking, he'd loosen up.
       "So, where do you work?" I asked.
       "Jackson Indian Casino. Security."
       "Long way to commute," I said, blandly, thinking I'd guessed right on the gambling. Was he in hock and desperate for money? Enough to shoot his father? I gave him my "I'm so impressed" smile. "What kind of gun do you carry?"
       He smiled back and set down his fork. "Don't carry a gun, sugar."
       When Lon called me _sugar_ I grinned, but the way Art used it, with a sexual undertone, made my skin itch.
       "I make sure people don't cheat; I don't shoot them." He twisted the horseshoe ring. "You asked who killed my father. I don't have the answer. But someone did us all a favor. If it was you -- thanks."
       "I had no reason to kill Rich," I said. "Hadn't seen the man in eons. Neither had Ian."
       Art's brows rose, like he knew something I didn't. What had I just told him? He forked a big bite of cake into his mouth, swallowed and looked at me expectantly.
       "You think Ian had a reason -- after all these years?"
       "Everyone in the family had a reason."
       _That_ didn't make me feel better. I concentrated on my cake until I'd inhaled half, then asked, "So what's on your mind?"
       "Curiosity." A shrug. "I've been in awe of you and Ian all my life. You were the two who got away. It was really weird to run into Ian years later and find out we're so alike."
       Alike? As in sex addicts?
       The sadness in his voice surprised me. He glanced out the window, then took a sip of coffee, his hand trembling. This dark-haired, good-looking guy who pretended to be in control had suddenly choked, letting me see the scared kid inside. I liked him better for it.
       "So, Ian and I escaped. What happened to you?"
       "I'm off limits."
       "Oh, come on. It's not hard to guess that Rich got to you too, and you and Ian met in SLAA."
       "If you've got everything figured, why ask?" All the hardness was back in spades.
       "I know I didn't kill Rich. Neither did Ian. So naturally -- I mean, you and Donny had a lot to gain."
       He glanced at the guy in the next booth. "I need a cigarette. Want to take a walk?"
       Whatever he wanted to say had to be good. I started to scavenge some dollar bills from the inside pocket of my purse.
       Art pulled a fat roll of bills and peeled off a twenty. "I've got it."
       "I'll take care of my own -- "
       "Don't be foolish." He tossed the twenty on the table. I'd seen the type before and had the feeling everything beneath the twenty was one's.
       Art lit a Sobranie and we paced the gravel lot and he worked up to what he wanted to spill. He inhaled and exhaled smoke a few times.
       "Either you trust me or you don't," I said, quietly, feeling sorry for this driven man whom I sensed needed a whole lot more than any one person could give.
       He gave me another intense look, his eyes suddenly awash with something akin to desperation. "Sometimes I think the whole family should be taken out and shot, put out of our misery. Sometimes I love them all so damn much it hurts. You ever feel like God fucked up?"
       If this was a test, I didn't know the answer, only that he had played a different tune that the one I'd expected, again. I went into automatic shrink mode. "No. I figure I'm here to learn something -- and when I do, I move on. My past makes me who I am today -- and yeah, sometimes I think life stinks. But I'm not a kid anymore. I have choices. If I can't see all my choices I try to talk to someone who can point out a few."
       "As in get therapy?"
       "There's nothing wrong with help."
       "I didn't say there was." He dropped the smoldering butt to the ground and stepped on it, his tone defensive.
       I stopped the pacing game and pointedly checked my watch. "What do you want, Art?"
       He shook his head and I couldn't tell if he didn't know or didn't want to say. Impatient, I gave him a verbal nudge. "Tell me about Donny."
       "You have his number -- victim, victim, victim."
       "Does he own a twenty-two?"
       He gave me a sly look. "As in gun?"
       "Yes, as in gun."
       "Francine says he has a couple of guns."
       "And you and Francine just happened to be talking about it?"
       "We were speculating on who shot the old man, if you must know."
       "And Francine volunteered Donny?"
       "Yes, but neither of us said anything to the cops."
       "Why not?"
       "Because he's my brother."
       "And what's Francine's excuse?"
       He squirmed like a kid under my hard stare. "She's afraid she'll get stuck with the kids if anything happens to Donny."
       "I heard her threaten him, she didn't sound scared."
       "She's just trying to put the squeeze on him. Believe me, she won't say a word. The last thing she wants is custody."
       Those poor kids, I thought. "Okay, so Francine told you Donny has a couple of guns. You know what kind, what caliber?"
       "Donny and I don't hang together. We hardly talk. He could own an arsenal and I wouldn't know."
       "But Francine would." If I could trust a word she said. Except the motivation Art gave her for keeping quiet about the guns made sense. She didn't strike me as the maternal type. I recalled his explanation that Charlene had called him when she found Rich. "You were with Francine the night your father was killed?"
       "Yeah." Defensive.
       "At the funeral you told me your mother couldn't reach Donny and called you. How did she know where to reach you?"
       Something flickered in his hazel eyes. He methodically lit another cigarette. I glanced at my watch. Still plenty of time to make the counseling appointment. Zoloski said he'd be home at 8:00. I didn't want to be late for either.
       "She called my cellular."
       Quick recovery, but it didn't quite ring true. Only I was uncertain why. Did he realize a cellular left a trail? I decided to let him off the hook for the moment -- until I had proof.
       He exhaled, his voice flat and controlled. "Look, you don't know what you're getting into -- with the family -- and your brother. The best thing you can do for Ian is to stay out of things. Don't start looking under rocks. You may not like what you expose."
       "Like what?" His words brought back being hit and the warning _Stay out of our lives_.
       "Like Ian plotting revenge."
       My chocolate cake calm deserted me. "You just finished telling me you're protecting Donny. And when I'm not ready to buy, you throw out Ian's name. Okay, I'll play along for a moment. Why would Ian kill him now -- after twenty-six years?"
       "We all wished him dead. Why should Ian be any different? And don't tell me twenty-six years _late _is a good reason. Twenty-six years is nothing."
       Time hadn't cooled his inner hell. "Give me a reason to believe you."
       "Because we all wished him dead. Donny, myself,_ and_ Ian. And we talked about it."
       My earlier fears about the three of them came rushing back. "When?"
       "Six, seven months ago, maybe longer. We met after a meeting. Donny was with me. Afterwards we got to talking about how nice it would be if he were dead."
       My mouth felt drier than week-old bread. "I thought you and Donny didn't hang together."
       "We don't. He and Francine were having talks about reconciliation and he asked me about SLAA. I only saw him a couple of times."
       It all rang true. With a sinking sensation I wondered what else Ian had failed to tell me. Yet it was curious that out of the few times Donny attended, they talked about murder. "Who brought up the idea of shooting Rich?"
       Art shrugged. "Don't remember."
       I didn't believe him, but I needed to talk to Donny and Ian before I tackled Art again. "You are certain you all played a game of _What if?_"
       "Oh yeah."
       "Did you know about the life insurance?"
       "Money wasn't important. We were just venting. Or at least I thought we were. Now I'm not so sure."
       He was pointing the finger at Ian and Donny, while Francine and he were alibiing each other. Convenient. I held his gaze. "Are you the one who hit me?"
       "Hit you?" He sounded incredulous. "That's not what _I_ do with women." The last had the suggestive tone I was getting used to.
       "Well, someone ambushed me at Charlene's," I said. "I found _your_ cigarette butt in the bushes, Art. Not Donny's brand, nor Ian's."
       He frowned. "Someone's always bumming a cigarette. Wasn't me. You obviously didn't see who it was."
       Another quick lie? I wasn't sure. "I saw a shadow." All I'd really seen was a blur. "Possibly dark hair," I fudged for a reaction.
       His shoulders tensed, but he didn't look guilty, he looked worried. I would have felt better if he'd been angry or defensive.
       When he didn't say anything I stamped my feet, getting cold, but resisted the impulse to head inside for another mocha. I needed privacy and road noise for this conversation. The newspaper's said Rich had been asleep when he was shot. One bullet above the ear. No sign of a struggle, or forced entry into the house. Both his sons had keys. So did his brother, Tom. Which meant his wife and daughter had access, as well as Francine. But the more I thought about it, a .22 bullet in the brain, the more it sounded like a professional hit. An unsettling notion. "You know who shot him, don't you?"
       His Brad Pitt eyes darkened, but his expression didn't change. "For all I know, you shot him."
       From the set of his mouth that was the only answer I would get. There were plenty of unsolved murders, but I doubted this one would remain that way. Usually the person who said _Believe Me_ was lying. Had he shot his father? Hired someone to do it? Was he looking to lay it on Ian?
       I had to get the truth out of Ian -- no matter what. No more _Trust me's_. No more of Ian's _Believe me's_. It was time to play hardball with my brother -- and pray the fragile bonds of our relationship could survive.
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         *Chapter 13*
       I BATTLED 5:00 p.m. traffic all the way to Ian's body shop, found him in the office, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, a stack of invoices on his desk, the phone head-set giving him a strange high-tech aura in an old-fashioned, cramped office. "You need it on Tuesday, no problem," he was saying. "Talk to you later."
       He glanced at me as he switched off, brow wrinkled. "Hey, Sis. Didn't think I'd see you so soon." His gaze flicked to the desk clock, 5:02 gleaming in scarlet, the message clear: he didn't want to see me at all.
       "I had an interesting conversation with Detective Burns, then with Art. Apparently you, Art and Donny discussed Rich's murder last year. Care to comment?"
       "No, I don't," he said, wearing a mutinous look. "Art was shooting his mouth off."
       "Was he telling the truth?"
       "How should I know? I didn't hear your conversation."
       I ignored his evasion. "Let's start with the murder weapon." I decided to take a chance.
       "Are we back to _Am I guilty_? I told you, I didn't shoot Rich."
       "Art implied you did, and that you own a twenty-two."
       "He what?" Ian rocked forward. His gaze shifted toward the door as though he felt trapped.
       I put my hands on the desk and leaned closer. "Are you going to let him frame your ass right into a life-term?"
       "He and Francine have as much motive as anyone, Blaize. Without the murder weapon or fingerprints, the cops have nothing."
       "That's not what you were saying at the cemetery."
       "Yeah, well I was shell-shocked. With my record, I thought the cops wouldn't look too much further."
       "Art has an alibi with Francine, which leaves you and Donny with plenty of motive and opportunity. Donny has never been arrested. And Art says the three of you discussed killing Rich."
       "We were just blowing steam. Jesus, you of all people should know that's all it was."
       "Have you told Burns about that conversation?"
       He inhaled down to the filter and exhaled. "It didn't come up."
       "Whoever brings it up is going to look a whole lot more innocent than the ones who don't."
       "I'm not volunteering anything to _anyone_."
       _Including me._ Irritated I asked, "Even if you, Art and Donny don't say anything and it never comes up, what about Francine? She isn't ready to play full-time mommy so she won't say anything against Donny, but why should she care about you? If Burns asks the right question you could come out looking guilty as hell."
       "Damn it, Blaize. I didn't kill him. The three of us were just shooting the shit. It wasn't a serious conversation."
       He sounded sincere. But he was my brother and I wanted to believe him. "Do you own a twenty-two or not?"
       He stiffened. "No. You're the gun-toting expert in the family."
       _And I'd killed my demon_. Had he killed his? All the Tahoe closeness had vanished. Did he? Didn't he?
       "Let it go, Andy. I don't care who killed Rich. The world's a better place, okay?"
       Almost exactly Art's words. "Will you listen to yourself?"
       Shutters seemed to close over his eyes. "Andy, you worry too much."
       "Burns thinks we cooked up Rich's murder together. Now Art is saying the three of you hatched the idea. Art's got an alibi. So does Donny. You ready to take the rap, Ian? What if Art's setting you up?"
       Ian inhaled deeply, his expression troubled but determined. "Art wouldn't do that." He stood and walked to the door. "I've got work to do, Andy. I appreciate your concern, but everything's fine."
       Fine? Now who was in denial? I was sick of him avoiding my questions. "What happened to working together, Ian? To rigorous honesty? Or has that gone down the drain along with your program?"
       His jaw tensed. "Who the hell gave you the right to take my inventory?"
       Shit. "All right, I'm sorry. I had no right to say that. But you keep telling me to trust you, believe you, but you obviously don't trust me. How do you think that makes me feel?"
       "I'm _responsible_, don't you get it? Someone slugged you. You could have ate a bullet like Rich."
       The concern in his expression stole my fire. "I can take care of myself, Ian. You know that."
       His big brother eyes reflected disbelief.
         * * * *
AS I ROARED back down the freeway, my brain felt fogged in. Was Ian involved? Did he know who killed Rich? It seemed like everyone had an idea. Should I stop my search for the shooter? Let Detective Burns handle the case? Ian hadn't been arrested. So far no one had. Odds were, the more time that passed, the less likely an arrest would be made. But I'd never know the truth. It kept coming back to that. I had to know.
       In the meantime, I had a counseling gig and a relationship to save.
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         *Chapter 14*
       THE COUNSELING appointment with Dr. George Nichols started off with my apology for being late, followed by Chinese food and a general update on the last ten years. He still reminded me of John Lennon, wire-rim glasses and all. The laid-back manner that went with his appearance hadn't changed either. His office was homey -- oceanscapes on the walls and small tables at each end of the couch and on either side of the recliners. Wearing a grin, he dropped a box of tissue on the table next to me.
       I told myself I wasn't going to need them as I glossed over how Zoloski and I met and the reason I'd moved in with him. George glossed over a three year marriage that ended when she left him for a long-haired mechanic on a Harley. "Guess she got sick of living with a shrink and being psychoanalyzed."
       Did I do that to Zoloski? No, I tended toward compulsive self-analysis.
       "Haven't seen Pat since our college days," he said, switching subjects, a bit of nostalgia creeping into his tone. "I hear she got married."
       "Two years and still happy.
       "But not you?" he asked.
       With the cozy scent of potstickers and chow mein wafting between us, I tossed the last carton in the garbage and pushed down my uneasiness. "Nope. Look George, I do want to talk about my relationship issues, but first I want to know more about sex addiction. You've counseled sex addicts. I've always referred them to someone else. Help me out here."
       He removed his glasses and cleaned them with a tissue, giving me a puzzled look. "Is this about Zoloski?"
       I scalded my tongue with the coffee and quickly set it down. "No." Now what? Either I spilled my guts or I was wasting George's time and my own. "It's my brother."
       "On the phone you mentioned problems with Zoloski, now you want to talk about your brother?"
       "Yes, but I'm also trying to figure out who killed my uncle -- and I'm afraid my brother's involved."
       A quirky expression crossed his face. "You do like to make life complicated -- I remember that."
       "Hey, the stuff just slams into me out of the cosmos." I wondered how much my friend Pat had blabbed to him when they dated.
       "It wasn't a criticism, just an observation, Blaize. So, you want to cover SA first and your relationship second?"
       "I'd like to forget my relationship," I said, with a false laugh.
       "Pat called you Blaize of Glory ... why is that?"
       Ah shit. He knew why, but he wanted me to say it. I reminded myself I was paying for help, which meant client participation -- in this case, mine. "Okay, so there's usually fire under my feet when I get into a relationship and the word commitment comes up. I've been with Zoloski longer than anyone -- "
       "How many men have you lived with?"
       "Two." Why was heat crawling up my neck? So what if I was almost thirty-three and I could count the guys I'd lived with on one hand. I was picky.
       "Zoloski's the second, who's the first?"
       "Ross. And it's been years since I dumped that loser, okay? It was a smart decision."
       He held his hands up in a defensive gesture. "Blaize, it's your life. How long have you lived with Zoloski?"
       I shrugged. "Almost two years."
       "Do you love him?"
       "Yes, but -- "
       "Enough to go into unfamiliar territory where you might be uncomfortable for awhile?"
       "Define _awhile_."
       "That's up to you and how hard you're willing to work."
       My fingers tightened on the armrests. "It feels like all I've been doing is working -- hanging on by my thumbs to stay when every cell in my body is screaming for me to take off, run, get away and don't look back."
       His lips curved up and I could tell he was holding back a laugh, and even though I knew why, it pissed me off. Then I surprised myself by laughing. "All right, so this is where the rubber meets the road."
       George sobered. "This is where you hit the wall. Every relationship has one. And it hurts. You either work through the pain, you stuff it and ignore it, or you break up. Most people break up, or deny the wall is there -- not many tackle it head on. I think you're here because you have a lot of guts and you've met a guy you feel is worth the effort."
       "Your flattery's working. I just might come back."
       "I hope you do."
       "Look, my brother could be in a heap of trouble and I'm worried. Can we talk about Ian before we run out of time?"
       His face was neutral, but his eyes said he thought I was focusing on the wrong subject. "Tell me about him."
       Feeling a tad guilty for pushing Zoloski onto the back burner, I said, "First, would you review the basics for sex addiction. I've done some reading but I want to make sure I'm not out to lunch."
       He pressed his fingertips together. "Bottom line, sex addicts are like other addicts. They don't believe other people would care for them, date or marry them, even give ‘em a job, if everything were known."
       That hit home. I was afraid if the Z-man knew what I thought, he would leave. Having been dumped by his ex -- he had similar fears which added up to massive difficulty in our trusting each other. Intellectually, I had it all down. Emotionally, I kept shooting the wrong targets. I thought of all the ways addicts clung to their "reality." At least I _knew_ the Z-man and I were in trouble, I told myself. Ian, on the other hand, was denying he had anything to worry about.
       George pulled some written material from his file drawer and handed it to me. "This covers everything about sex addiction in depth. Are you and your brother close?"
       "No -- not really. Until I went with him to a recovery meeting a week ago I didn't know about his addiction. We talked more those two days than we've talked in the last ten years."
       "That was before your uncle was murdered?"
       "Yes."
       "And you believe Ian knows more than he's told you?"
       "I know it."
       His pager buzzed and with a flash of irritation, he checked it, then said, apologetically, "I've got a suicidal client -- two actually. It must be the full moon. Why don't you read over the material while I'm on the phone."
         * * * *
I GLANCED at the top sheet, then skimmed the second.
       Sexual Addiction Cycle.
       A four-step cycle which intensifies with each repetition:
       1. _Preoccupation_ -- the trance or mood wherein the addicts' minds are completely engrossed with thoughts of sex. This mental state creates an obsessive search for sexual stimulation.
       2. _Ritualization_ -- the addicts' own special routines which lead to the sexual behavior. The ritual intensifies the preoccupation, adding arousal and excitement.
       3. _Compulsive sexual behavior_ -- the actual sexual act, which is the end goal of the preoccupation and ritualization. Sexual addicts are unable to control or stop this behavior.
       4. _Despair_ -- the feeling of utter hopelessness addicts have about their behavior and their powerlessness.
       The pain the addict feels at the end of the cycle can be numbed or obscured by sexual preoccupation which re-engages the cycle.
       Sexual addicts are hostages of their own _preoccupation_. Every passerby, every relationship, and every introduction to someone passes through the sexually obsessive filter. More than merely noticing sexually attractive people, there is a quality of desperation which interferes with work, relaxation, and even sleep. People become objects to be scrutinized. A walk through a crowded downtown area becomes a shopping list of "possibilities."
       To understand the trance-like state of preoccupation imagine the intense passion of courtship. The _intoxication_ of young love is what the addict attempts to capture. It is the pursuit, the hunt, the search, the suspense heightened by the unusual, the stolen, the forbidden, the illicit which are intoxicating to the sexual addict.
         * * * *
Somehow I could see Ian in that description. He said he'd almost broken his bottom line during his last relationship, and wasn't involved with anyone now. I believed him at the time, but now I wondered about him and Francine, recalling the intimate way she'd lit his cigarette at the lawyer's office. Could Francine be involved with Art _and_ Ian? More than ever, I felt the need to talk to Charlene.
       Unsettled by the speculation I skimmed down the page to: _Risk, danger, and violence are the ultimate escalators. One can always increase the dosage of intoxication_.
       I looked up as George returned to the recliner. "Sorry, Blaize. I've got another phone call coming through in a few minutes."
       "That's okay. I know you squeezed me in."
       "How's the reading?"
       "This says the level of intoxication can be escalated. How?"
       "The greater the addict's anger and pain, the more excitement he needs to block it. If the current behavior within the addictive cycle isn't blocking the pain, the addict may try something with a greater risk and greater level of excitement. Did your brother talk about his cycle?"
       "He told me he used pornography to masturbate, and was arrested with a prostitute."
       "Is that what got him into recovery?"
       "Yes."
       "What you're describing is a level one addiction. The mildest form."
       He offered it as reassurance but I wasn't jumping for joy. Dammit, I didn't want Ian to be level anything except level-headed. "How many levels are there?"
       "Three."
       "What's level two?"
       "The voyeurs and flashers. Level three behavior covers rapists, molesters, and incestuous fathers."
       I wondered where in the hierarchy my cousins fit.
       "Was your brother molested?"
       "Yes, by my uncle, the one who was murdered."
       "If you're worried about your brother, you might look at other behaviors, then confront him. Binge eating may follow a visit to a porno shop. Or being drunk may be a prerequisite to molesting. Addicts must see the total pattern in order to understand their powerlessness and unmanageability, and to stop the cycle."
       His buzzer went off again and with an apologetic expression he moved back to the phone on the other side of the room. My thoughts spinning, I resumed reading the material he'd given me, latching onto: ..._there is little difference between the voyeur waiting for hours by a window for ninety seconds of nudity and the compulsive gambler hunching over a long shot. What makes the sexual addict different is that he draws upon the human emotions generated by courtship and passion._
       A sickening banner fluttered through my brain: _Ian and Francine._
       George hung up and sank back into his chair. "Questions?"
       "How important is ritualization?"
       "It's a cornerstone. With a set pattern of behaviors, the addict does not have to stop and think or disrupt his focus. Like preoccupation, the ritual can start the rush of excitement." He got up and went to the credenza. "More coffee?"
       "Sure." I skimmed the next sheet as he poured.
       _Addicts often talk about their rituals. The compulsive masturbator and his surroundings, the incestuous father and his elaborate preparations, the exposer's regular routes, the hustler's approach and cruising area -- all involve complex rituals. The rituals contain a set of well-rehearsed cues which trigger arousal._
       _The intoxication of the whole experience is what the addict seeks in order to move through the cycle from despair to exhilaration. One cannot be orgasmic all the time. So the search and the suspense absorb the addict's concentration and energy. Cruising, watching, waiting, preparing are part of the mood alteration._
       I found myself thinking of Ian and my cousins, and feeling sick. "It's such a vicious cycle, George. The perpetrators were often victims themselves. I've never felt lucky for my food addiction, but I do now."
       "And you don't like your brother being a sex addict," he said, with compassion.
       "No." I put other thoughts into words. "Maybe I shouldn't care who shot Rich. Everybody keeps telling me not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe I'm being compulsive about this, too."
       "What do you think?"
       "He was a real SOB. No one can say one good thing about him."
       "But -- " he coaxed.
       "But I'll always wonder ..."
       "If your brother killed him."
       I felt horrible for the doubt. "Yes."
       "Do you know for a fact that your brother has lied to you?"
       "He lied about not knowing our cousins, and he left me stranded in Tahoe."
       "What about despair? Has he ever talked about killing himself?"
       I wracked my brain, frustrated by the nothing I came up with. "No." Yet I recalled Ian at the cemetery. He'd looked pretty desperate. But two days before that we'd been in Tahoe together and I'd seen a courageous and loving brother.
       Which was the real Ian? Had his interview with Detective Burns sent him into a spiral? Had despair forced him back into preoccupation with his demons? Or had Rich's murder set him off?
       I glanced at the clock and realized our time was almost up. I tried not to get overwhelmed by all the feelings bombarding me. Trying not to think about Zoloski and what I would tell him when I got home, I shifted my thoughts to Charlene. If anyone in the family had a history of suicide attempts, surely she would know. The woman could be a gold mine.
       "How long has your brother been in recovery?"
       "Three years."
       "And when was he molested?"
       "Twenty-five years ago. He was nine."
       "Did he have contact with your uncle since the molest?"
       "He says no, but I don't know if I believe him."
       "But your uncle was shot and there's been no arrest?"
       "Right." I didn't like George's expression.
       He spoke slowly. "If something happened to trigger your brother -- to throw him back to his past -- connect him to the rage -- " He cleared his throat. "It's not out of the realm of possibility that he killed your uncle."
       His words stabbed me in the solar plexus.
       He continued, "But you said he's in recovery -- has kept his bottom line for three years, so he's not isolated and he has a support system. It's not likely -- "
       _Not likely. _I wanted to hug him for that, until he added, "unless something triggered him and he were acting out again."
--------
         *Chapter 15*
       7:53 P.M. SHONE on the digital car clock. Hells bells, I was going to be late meeting Zoloski. Passive resistance? I couldn't get George's words out of my mind. _Unless he were acting out again_. Could I be blind to Ian's real motivations? Was my need for a "real" brother clouding my perspective? It had taken years to develop faith in myself and my abilities and now I doubted both. But for some reason, I believed Ian was innocent and maintaining his sexual sobriety. I clung to that as I drove home, trying not to feel guilty for avoiding the counseling -- about me and my inability to commit.
       The Jag was in the driveway. Usually he pulled into the garage -- unless he had to leave again. I parked at the curb, hefted my purse over my shoulder and marched up the walk. The door swung open as I reached the stoop. He was dressed in a dark suit and tie, keys in hand.
       "Sorry, Blaize. I left a note. Got a homicide. Everybody's out with the flu so I have to take it." His tone had a breathless edge that I interpreted as part regret and part excitement.
       How could I compete with the thrill of the chase? The question wasn't fair and I forced a smile. "Talk later?"
       Gratitude flared in his emerald eyes. He brushed his lips across mine. "I'll be back -- as soon as I can. We'll talk then."
       I knew better. In the beginning of a murder case he could be tied up for twelve or more hours and he'd be in no shape to talk until he'd slept. I watched him slide behind the Jag's wheel and start the car, his gaze over his shoulder as he backed out. Emptiness swept over me. Uncontrollable. Bone-deep.
       Feeling abandoned and terribly sad, I closed the door and leaned against it. I turned around and stared at the TV in the living room. The thought of watching it -- alone -- was more than I could stand. I bee-lined for the kitchen and picked up the phone as I rummaged through my purse for the number. I pressed the buttons and listened to multiple rings. Maybe it was a blessing Donny didn't answer because I was being reckless and I knew it.
       I pulled out my Palm Pilot and made a list of alibis.
       IAN: _Lives alone. Movie Thurs. PM. AM, worked out at the gym, went for a run. No one at the gym could confirm exactly when he was there. Picked me up at 1:00 to go to Tahoe._
       CHARLENE: _At murder scene. Supposedly asleep._
       TOM: _Sleeping off a drinking binge. Partly corroborated by Elizabeth and Lillian_.
       ELIZABETH: _Don't know._
       LILLIAN: _Don't know._
       DONNY: _Searching for Teddy. Supposedly_.
       ART: _With Francine. Maybe._
       FRANCINE: _Ditto Art. Convenient. Contrived?_
       Okay, so what did this tell me. Not enough. I called Charlene.
       Her grandmotherly voice answered on the first ring.
       "Hello, Aunt Charlene. This is Blaize. I've got some things I'd like to get your opinion on."
       "About what?" Her tone was neutral.
       "The family," I said, thinking,_ the will, suicidal relatives, Rich's murder, alibis_, her pick on _who did it_.
       "When?"
       "Thirty minutes?"
       A hesitation. "All right."
       I was there in twenty-five. It took four jabs on the doorbell before the door swung open. She unlocked the screen, Wheel of Fortune blaring from a TV somewhere overhead. Her grey hair was pinned up and she wore a defeated air along with her autumn house-dress and fuzzy slippers. "I was upstairs, packing Rich's things," she said, as I stepped inside and she closed the door.
       "That sounds hard," I said, hoping to build rapport.
       A furious expression deepened the road map around her eyes. "Hard isn't quite how I'd put it."
       "I imagine it must have been quite a shock to get nothing but the house."
       Bitterness oozed out with her muttered words, "He had me signing things right and left, saying it was stuff for the boys, that nothing would affect me, now come to find out I signed away my rights, my inheritance." She paused, then exhaled more fury. "He promised I'd be taken care of -- but then when did he ever keep his promises?" She tromped into the kitchen, saying over her shoulder in a tone that smacked of duty, "I've got water on the stove, would you like some tea?"
       "That would be great, thanks." I waited until I had Red Zinger at my fingertips, then asked, "Any idea what Uncle Rich said in the notes?"
       "A crock of shit, most likely." A look of consternation passed over her face. Swearing wasn't her, although I bet she'd heard plenty from Rich. "My envelope was empty." Her gaze fixed on me, curiosity in her eyes.
       I leaned close, "Mine, too. Have you talked to Donny or Art about theirs?"
       "Yes."
       "What did they say?"
       "Donny said he burned his unopened." Her tone expressed a measure of disbelief.
       "But -- ?" I coaxed.
       "I'm sure it said something similar to Art's."
       My heart pumped faster. "Which was?"
       Her face actually greyed. "That if he got murdered, I did it." She shoved away from the table and turned away.
       I cleared my throat, striving to hide my shock. "Rich accused you? No one'll believe that."
       Her voice, when she continued was low, furious. "He didn't even have the decency to die without hurting me. That fucking cock-sucker." Chagrin followed by a belligerent expression. "Sorry about my French, but he -- even now his lies are turning my sons against me."
       "How?"
       She looked at me, taking my measure. "I can see why you're a counselor. You're easy to talk to."
       "Thank you," I said sweetly, "maybe you just needed someone to listen."
       "Do you know what Ian's letter said?" she asked abruptly.
       I couldn't tell if she was asking because she already knew or wanted to know. I shook my head. "I thought he might have told you."
       "No."
       "How long has he been in touch with you?"
       "Oh, two or three years now."
       Shocked, didn't begin to cover how I felt at that moment. I'd expected to hear months, not years.
       "Art ran into him downtown and brought him to a family picnic."
       Robot-like, I said, "Was Rich there?"
       "Yes."
       "That must have been awkward."
       For a moment I thought she'd deny my implication. "Ian tried to keep his distance, visited with Art and Lillian -- Donny and Francine were late as usual and didn't arrive until after Ian left. Rich was drinking a lot and started asking Ian about his mother and you, then acting all maudlin, like Ian had been a son to him. Ian lost it. Told Rich to do the world a favor and put a gun in his mouth." She closed her eyes a moment, her lips curling.
       "Too bad he didn't," I said.
       Her eyes flared. "He was a selfish bastard. Didn't care whose life he destroyed. I'm glad he's dead."
       How many times had I heard that? "Destroy? Like who?"
       Her gaze narrowed. "Everyone he touched."
       "Molested?"
       She fidgeted. "Filthy pervert."
       "But you didn't shoot him?"
       She snorted. "Wish I had. I told the police that, too." She added the last as though it proved she was telling the truth.
       "Who do you think did it?" I asked.
       A smug smile curled the edge of her lips. "Ian, of course. That's why you're here, isn't it?"
       I stared, thinking Ian was looking like a scapegoat amidst the family system -- that or he _was_ guilty. "Why do you say that?" Did I really want to know?
       "Because Donny was out looking for Teddy. He'd run away. And in the morning Donny was busy getting all three boys ready for school -- he hardly had time to run out and shoot his father then run back and see the boys off. Art was with Francine all night. That leaves Ian. The boys got the most money. It makes sense."
       "So does your shooting him because you believed you were going to inherit." I couldn't stop myself from adding, "Art's lying about being with Francine the entire time. I think he admitted it to you."
       Another look of consternation. "Art's my son."
       "Did you call him at home that night?"
       Her gaze skidded away. "I was so flustered, I'm not sure who I called or when."
       "Is that what you told the police?"
       She seemed to gather herself, a weathered mountain rebuilding itself. "Yes."
       Rattled or not, she knew exactly which number she'd called. I needed to see Burns's police report, find out if he'd checked phone and cellular records. Ten years ago, when I did PI work with my then boyfriend, Ross, he could get his hands on anything. Would Zoloski help me or yell at me? How far was I willing to push? There had to be someone else I could ask.
       I took a sip of tea and smiled. "What were you doing when you heard the shot?"
       "In bed, trying to sleep. Rich had his own room at the end of the hall." She blushed, then hardened again. "Thought it was a car backfiring. Went back to sleep. Didn't check on him until breakfast. When he didn't come down, I knew something was wrong."
       "Do you know what time it was when you heard the shot?"
       "I went to bed at eleven. It woke me up later, but I didn't check the time."
       "Was there any sign of someone breaking in?"
       "No."
       "Did you give Ian a key?"
       "Give him a -- of course not. But he could have gotten it from -- from Francine."
       I wanted to say that was about as likely as winning the lottery, but I admired the fact she wanted to protect her adopted sons -- that she loved them so much. How did they feel about her? She'd allowed Rich to molest them both -- and her grandson, too. I changed directions. "Was there anything else you recall about that night?" I imagined Detective Burns asking the same question.
       "I thought I heard the front door rattle a few minutes after what I assumed was the car backfiring. Thought it was the cat."
       "Minutes?"
       An indignant look. "I didn't have a stopwatch. I told the detective it seemed like five minutes, but I was half-asleep."
       "That's a long time." Unless the killer was looking for something. Like the will? The pieces fit. Except the .22. That sparked of a professional -- not a crime of rage. But it did fit a crime for money. That got me thinking -- take away the rage or passion and that knocked Art, Donny, and Ian out of the running. All three had plenty of anger seething inside. Driven to murder, I saw them emptying a gun in Rich's chest, or lower.
       What about Charlene? Would she have plugged Rich full of holes or would one have been enough?
       Francine had Art for an alibi -- unless I could break it. But there had been outrage in her voice when I overheard her with Donny. She too would have plugged Rich below the belt line.
       If the killer was in the family, that left Uncle Tom and Aunt Elizabeth, and their daughter Lillian. That fired my thoughts in a new direction. I forgot about visiting the scene of the crime, and hurriedly said good-bye.
       I made a beeline for my car and cell phone, my brain buzzing for a former client's name. He'd been in Narcotics Anonymous for several years and a client of mine for the first three months of his sobriety. He'd gone from a compulsive drug user to a compulsive computer hacker. The guy could get into anything. What was his name? I rummaged through my purse for my palm pilot, flipped it open and prayed the number was stored.
       My luck held. Pete J. Not only did I have the number, but he answered and sounded happy to hear from me. I told him I wanted the previous two months phone records and the financial lowdown on Tom McCue, Elizabeth McCue, and Lillian McCue.
       "No problem," he said.
       "I also want to know if any of them are registered gun owners."
       "Yeah-okay."
       Aware I was breaking a few laws and might as well ask for the moon, I threw in Charlene, Art, Donny, Ian, and Francine.
       "It'll take a couple of days," he said, his voice not missing a beat. "And it will cost you a couple thou -- no matter what I find."
       I thought about the $150,000 I was due to inherit, give or take a few thou, and still hesitated. I could stop now. Should stop now. "Let me think about it. I'll call you back."
       My phone rang before I'd set it down. "What?" I said, expecting Pete, and prepared to tell him not to bother with the inquiry.
       "Where are you?"
       "Ian?" I almost didn't recognize his voice. It was high-pitched, anxious. "I'm in my car. What's -- "
       "It's Tom. He's been shot."
       My car was warm, but a chill cut through me like an icy north wind. "Shot? You mean killed?" I pulled to the side of the road and stared at the drops splashing against the windshield.
       "Yeah. Through the head just like Rich. Lillian found him."
       _Jesus._ "Are you sure? Found him where? When? Where are you?"
       "Slow down, Andy. Lillian found him in bed about twenty minutes ago. The police have taken her and Elizabeth in for questioning."
       I could use a smoke, I thought, trying to process the shock. "Where are you, Ian?"
       Glasses clinked in the background, like in a bar or restaurant.
       "I can't talk right now. Gotta go. Call you later tonight, promise."
       "Wait!"
       _Click._
       _Promise_? How much was that worth? Son-of-a-bitch.
       I sat by the side of the road, trying to get my synapses firing again. If Tom were actually shot twenty minutes ago -- it couldn't have been Charlene. I gave her an alibi and vice-versa. I punched in Zoloski's number. Busy. I tried Donny's number again. Still no answer.
       I called Pete back and told him to go ahead with the inquiry.
       "I thought you were going to try and drive my price down," he joked. "You inherit a million or what?"
       "Or what," I said. "Whatever you get, fax it to my office. Not my home." I didn't want Zoloski accusing me of interfering in an investigation. Not to mention doing something illegal. Cops were touchy that way.
       The digital clock on the dash glowed a pale blue 9:23. Wired from the Red Zinger and the news about Tom, I turned on the radio, listened to more predictions of rain, then called information for Lillian's number. She didn't answer. More than likely still at the police station.
       Unwilling to go home and face the empty house, I drove downtown. My office was across the street from the capitol, but I found myself headed toward Francine's address on I Street.
       She had alibied Art and I wanted to know why. I double-checked her apartment number and pulled to the curb. The apartments were old but fresh beige paint and green trim gave them a spiffy look. I climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked on her door.
       Voices suddenly hushed. The door swung inward exposing Francine in a halo of light. She wore a tight black dress, black stockings with a line of red hearts down the sides, and high heels that would have made me six-foot-two, but brought us eye-to-eye.
       Beyond her I glimpsed a dash of brown shag and white walls. "Guess I caught you at a bad time, but I need to ask you something. You have a minute?"
       She swiped at her short hair and bit the inside of her lip.
       Ian stepped into view from behind the door. "Hey, Andy. Small world."
--------
         *Chapter 16*
       LOCK-JAWED, I stared at my brother, eyed his dark slacks, white shirt, leather jacket and black tie. For a guy that lived in coveralls, he was dressed to impress. "What are you doing here?"
       He shrugged and part of me wanted to punch him. I tried to console myself with the thought he could have stepped out the back door and avoided me. Didn't work. The desire to shake him senseless remained.
       It smelled like Francine smoked menthols -- my old brand. A cigarette burned in the ashtray. Even though my eyes stung, my mouth salivated for a hit of nicotine; shock therapy I desperately needed at the moment. I dug out a piece of spearmint and chomped the compulsion into submission while the three of us stood awkwardly in the living room, me wondering what could be worse than Ian and Francine in lust. I didn't want to find out.
       "Going somewhere?" I said, eyeing Ian's jacket.
       "We went to dinner," he said.
       I glanced at Francine. "I guess she already knows about Tom."
       "Heard the news on our way back," Ian said.
       "And called me?" I challenged.
       "I was worried."
       Francine interrupted, an unlit cigarette bouncing between her lips. "Tom's dead. Fuck ‘m. Hated both those bastards." Her dark eyes flashed. "We should be celebrating. We're now worth another seventy-two hundred."
       Wow, quick with the math. I recalled Tom's inheritance as fifty grand, which didn't strike me as enough to get killed for -- not split seven ways.
       She glanced at her watch. "Dance'll be starting soon. Let's go, Ian."
       Ian retreated into the room, retrieving his cigarette from the ashtray. "I'm not in the dancing mood, Francine. Not now. I think it's time Blaize knew everything."
       What did that mean and why did I not like the uneasiness in his voice?
       Francine's gaze narrowed. "If you don't want to go, I'll find someone else to tango."
       "Wait a sec," I interrupted before this escalated. "You must have an idea who killed Tom, and why." I glanced from Francine's impatient expression to Ian's unreadable one.
       "I don't have a fucking clue and I don't care." Francine tapped one peek-a-boo toe silently against the carpet.
       "That's not true," Ian said in a soft tone I didn't recognize. Irritation or a threat?
       Trying to turn Francine into a team player, I said, "It's obvious you're observant and smart," as she pulled a long fur coat from the closet. Real or fake, it seemed a stark contrast to her one-bedroom, blank-walled surroundings. "If anyone has an idea about who shot Richard or Tom, seems to me it's you." I hoped I wasn't laying it on too thick.
       She preened and I didn't dare risk a glance at Ian. I was sure he'd see through my act.
       He took a step toward her.
       She lit a cigarette, her chin lifting to an arrogant line. "I may know something."
       "Something?" Ian scoffed as though she knew a helluva lot.
       "Hey, I'm talking to Blaize." She said it like we were best buddies. Gag me with a shovel.
       "Help me out here," I said.
       Francine glanced toward the door, then gave a frustrated sound that said she was having second thoughts about our friendship. She retreated to the kitchen, trailing smoke like a coal train. I heard the open and close of a refrigerator, then the snap as she popped a can. Making up her mind?
       She strutted back into the living room as Ian sank down on the sofa. "You're the one who wants to talk, tell her, Ian." I had the feeling she would see what he said before committing herself.
       He stared past me at the wall. "We all planned it. Rich's murder."
       My mouth suddenly felt like I'd swallowed a bolt of Shetland wool. He'd told me they'd vented _one_ time about killing Rich. He'd convinced me he hadn't shot Rich. Now he was practically admitting it. I found myself beside him, my breath trapped in the wool. Did he believe I would hold something like this back from the police?
       "But we didn't do it, Andy. We talked about it. Planned it, but we never actually said, ‘Okay let's do it tonight.' It was just a way to let off steam, and it felt really good. Donny had the gun. Art volunteered to pull the trigger -- "
       I could see Art pulling the trigger. Even so, I didn't want to face this. But I didn't move and Ian didn't stop.
       "I encouraged them. Hell, I wanted Rich dead. I kept thinking that if he were dead the past would be wiped away."
       Typical addict. Looking for the magic pill, but doesn't want to do the work. I looked at Francine. "Art wasn't with you that night, was he?"
       "Yes, he was." The absolute certainty in her voice gave me pause.
       "Are you saying you were with him when he shot Rich?"
       Ian answered, "Art didn't shoot Rich."
       An irrational desire to shake answers out of my brother almost overwhelmed me. "Then who? Donny was searching for his son."
       "Art and I were here," Francine said no hint of embarrassment, her eyes daring me to judge. I kept my expression deadpan. She continued, "We talked about shooting Rich, but we never meant it -- there's no reason to tell anyone anything." Her hand shook as she took a drag.
       "You say you planned it, but I'm not sure what you mean by that," I said, in the same _help me out_ tone. "Do you mean you shot the shit about it ..." I glanced at Ian, wondering how much whitewashing he'd done. "...or actually planned the details, like when Rich got home from work, what he did, who he saw?"
       "There was nothing to figure out," Ian said. "The guy came home and got plastered in front of the TV every night, then crawled into his cave to sleep it off."
       "And your plan called for him to be shot in bed while sleeping it off?"
       Francine frowned. So did Ian, and I knew I'd come close.
       "We talked about inviting him out to the Sports Bar, then shooting him after he left," Ian admitted.
       "It was supposed to look like a robbery," Francine added.
       "So -- either one of you had a different plan, or someone else murdered him." They looked as puzzled as I felt. "Let's finish with the night he was killed. Francine, do you know if Charlene called Art on his cellular?"
       "Yeah. She called to tell him Teddy had run away and Donny was out searching for him. Said she was going to bed because she was sure it was a repeat of what Teddy had done before. Worry Donny to death, then come home by morning. I tried to call Donny around five a.m., but when he didn't answer, we headed to the house -- his house now -- " she added with bitterness. "Later, we figured he'd shot Rich and was using Teddy as an alibi."
       Jesus. How could she say it so calmly? "Did the police question Teddy?"
       "Yeah."
       "Did Teddy tell you anything in confidence -- kid to mom?"
       "Just what he told the cops. Says he ran away, then got scared and came home. Didn't know what time. Donny came in later."
       Ian picked up the story. "Art told me that when Donny answered the door he had a drink in his hand and he was shit-faced."
       Francine wore a tight-lipped, gloating smile. "Art asked Donny if he'd done it and Donny told us to get out."
       "He might not have liked seeing the two of you together." Why did I still want to defend Donny? Because I'd loved playing stagecoach with him as a kid? Because I was still attracted?
       Francine shook her head. "It was almost six. He'd been drinking for awhile. First time I've ever seen him like that. He never touched alcohol, was afraid of being like his old man." She said it in a derogatory tone, as though Donny's fear made him weak.
       Holding onto a bland expression, I asked, "Have you told the police any of this?"
       Ian's gaze skidded away.
       "Who's it going to help if we go to jail?" Francine snapped. "We _planned_ a murder, for god's sake. The cops won't care that it went down different. Or that we never really expected it to happen. No matter what Donny did, he's the best parent those kids could have. I know it. Art knows it. Ian knows it. We can't let him go to jail."
       "Why would he deviate from the plan?" I asked, then had the thought, maybe he wanted to make it appear someone else did it. Still, I had the niggling feeling I was looking at this from the wrong direction.
       Francine shrugged.
       I let the question go and said, "If you cover for him, you're condoning murder."
       "And you aren't just the tiniest bit glad he's dead?" Ian snapped.
       I thought of the red leather chair. "That's not the point, Ian. I didn't pull the trigger."
       He lit a fresh cigarette and exhaled. "I didn't either, but I'm glad he's dead. So what does that make me?"
       I held up my hands, thinking _co-conspirator to murder_. "Then what about Tom? It's not just Rich any more. Are you saying Donny shot Tom, too? Why would he do that?"
       "That's what Ian's upset about," Francine said, smoke escaping her lips. "Donny took the kids on a scout trip to Bodega Bay. They won't be back for a couple more days. Ian said he talked to you around five, then showered and came over here." She cast a flirty glance at my brother. "I don't see any blood on his clothes, so I think I'm safe."
       Two murderers? The significance frightened me. And here was Francine alibi-ing Art for one murder and Ian for the other, her face a bit too smug. I looked at my brother. "Are you two, uh, dating?"
       Francine smirked. Ian's jaw tightened.
       "I asked Ian out," she said. "Things between Art and I cooled before Rich was killed. Besides, it never felt right, him being Donny's brother."
       Yet you still -- I bit the words back. Antagonizing her wouldn't help. I wanted to ask Ian if he was that hard up, but hey, when a brownie fudge cake called, sometimes I crumbled. And from a guy's standpoint Francine was a dessert with very attractive proportions -- if one didn't mind the tawdry punk look.
       "We've gone to dinner," Ian said, in a defensive tone that dared me to make a comment. "There's a recovery dance at the Hilton. That's where we were headed."
       Oh Geez, another addict co-ing out. I eyed the gold Coor's can clashing with her red fingernails.
       Francine offered a sardonic smile, set the can on the table, and turned to Ian. "There's nothing more to do here. Your sister knows everything. Let her deal with it."
       Unwilling to have her usher me out just yet, I locked eyes with her. "Did Ian tell you what happened to me at Charlene's?"
       Her genuinely puzzled expression was convincing. She looked at Ian. "What's she talkin' about?"
       "Someone hit Andy and told her to stay away from the family."
       "From the McCues?" she asked, her gaze narrowing as she sucked hard on her smoke.
       "That's what I thought," Ian said, sounding uncertain.
       "Who else was in on your planning sessions?" I asked.
       "Just the four of us," Ian answered.
       "Are you sure?"
       He shot an uncomfortable glance at Francine, as though he didn't trust her. "Yes."
       "Do either of you have any idea who might have hit me?"
       "I'd say Rich, but he was already dead," Francine volunteered, offering a cynical smile. "Tom whacks, uh, whacked Elizabeth around."
       More family secrets I didn't want to carry. Were family secrets behind both murders?
       Ian cast an uncomfortable glance at Francine. "I told Lillian about the plan."
       "You told that crazy bitch!" Francine's gaze narrowed. "Did you fuck her, too?"
       Ian's mouth tightened. "Lillian's not any crazier than the rest of the family."
       "Oh, that makes me feel better." Francine jabbed a finger at his chest.
       Ian put his hands up defensively. "Knock it off."
       She stepped closer. "Did she tell you about all the times she's tried to kill herself and ended up in the psych ward?"
       "That's bullshit. Besides, what she's done in the past is not your business, Francine."
       "Oh right. Like it wasn't my business when I was eight months pregnant and she was out fucking my husband?"
       I recalled the proprietary air the doe-eyed Lillian had worn at the funeral and lawyer's office, and Donny's uneasiness. He appeared genuinely embarrassed by what he called Lillian's ‘crush.' It appeared it was more than that, and he wasn't completely untarnished.
       Ian's face darkened. "Whatever Donny may have done, it was long after you'd killed the marriage. You know damn well Adam isn't even his."
       Holy shit.
       She looked stunned -- obviously she hadn't told Ian that tidbit. So who had?
       "Get out. Fuck you and your twelve steps!"
       I rose to my feet, glad she didn't have a gun. Ian and I hurried down the stairs. The door slammed behind us.
       Hardly feeling the night chill, I grabbed Ian's arm. "How did you know about Adam?"
       Ian looked really uncomfortable. "Can't say."
       "Oh, come on, Ian. This could be important."
       "Art."
       "Art told you? What does he know?"
       "He thinks Adam is his kid."
       Talk about family skeletons. "Jesus." This family couldn't get any screwier. "I thought Francine had separated from Donny before she and Art ..."
       "Art says there was one time when Donny was out of town, he dropped by. The kids were asleep. She and Art got really drunk and ..."
       And that's the kind of woman you want? I thought it, but had the grace not to say it. "Does Donny know?"
       Ian shook his head. "I don't know."
       How could Art stand the guilt? Or maybe he was too busy killing relatives to feel any. A jump that defied his alibi with Francine. But they could have agreed to the lie. "Did Art have an alibi figured when you all were planning Rich's death?"
       Ian took a couple of restless steps down the sidewalk. I stayed beside him. "He said he'd think of something."
       "Maybe he did."
       Ian shook his head. "Francine's not that good a liar."
       "Okay, forget Rich a sec. Who shot Uncle Tom? I know you have some idea."
       He pulled the collar of his jacket up. "He beat the shit out of Elizabeth." His eyebrows rose, indicating that was his answer.
       "You think Elizabeth shot him?" I had a hard time envisioning the slightly built, hair in bun, farm mouse with a smoking gun in hand.
       "Perfect time to off him -- make it look like whoever shot Rich, shot Tom. She and Lillian alibied each other for Rich's murder -- they'd gone to a movie."
       "Did Lillian tell you that?" My brother was turning into a reluctant treasure trove and the reluctance irked me.
       He had the grace to look sheepish. "Yes."
       "Is it true about Donny and Lillian?"
       "I don't know. Lillian's always fancied herself in love with him. She admitted that to me, and that once he married Francine he never noticed her."
       Until Francine was pregnant with someone else's kid, I thought. Not so hard to believe.
       "You really think Donny shot Rich?" Why couldn't I let that go?
       He shoved his hands in his pockets, his voice low. "Yeah, I do. The fucker molested his son."
       I didn't explain my thoughts about crimes of rage and how this didn't fit. "You know where the gun is?"
       "No. Art said he never saw a gun that night and the cops obviously haven't found it."
       Somehow I felt like Donny was the key to everything, but I couldn't explain it. "I want you to come with me to Donny's."
       "He's at Bodega Bay."
       I'd forgotten. "When will he be back?"
       "Couple of days. What are you going to do?" Ian asked.
       "Me? Hell, I don't know. But you're going to tell your lawyer every single detail you can remember, names, dates, faces, and do whatever he says. The longer you hold back, the worse it's going to look. For all you know, sweet little Lillian is spilling her guts right now."
       He wore an air of doubt. "How much trouble do you think I'm in?"
       I hugged him, a stiff-backed hug reminiscent of our childhood. "I don't know."
       "You really think -- "
       I interrupted before he could rationalize any further. "Too many people know about your little plan, Ian. Somebody shot Rich. You believe it's Donny. But you don't know where the gun is -- and now Tom is dead. What if Art had a reason to shoot his dad and his uncle? Or Elizabeth? Or even Lillian? You can't hold back this kind of information in a murder investigation." God, I sounded like Zoloski.
       He walked with me to my car. It was drizzling again and I longed for a hot bath and a pound of fudge.
       "I'll think about it."
       "No," I said, "this isn't something you think about. It's something you act on. Now." I held his gaze. "Promise me, Ian. Promise you'll do it tonight."
       A slow nod and an edge of coolness. "All right."
       He turned away and my anger faded into sorrow. What was it with us? But I knew. The Tahoe closeness was gone. We'd retreated back to our safety zones.
--------
         *Chapter 17*
       _TOM IS DEAD, Tom is dead, Tom is dead_ ... The words thundered through his mind like thoroughbreds trapped on a racecourse. He lit another cigarette to still the panic, then rolled down the car window and peered at the women white-washed by the halo of the street lamps. The one he wanted wasn't there. Too early?
       He drove past and parked on a lonely stretch of darkness where he could kill time unobserved.
       Kill time. His whole life was spent killing time, trying not to think too much, feel too much. He thought he had Rich's murder all figured out, but now ... Why Tom?
       For the money? He didn't believe it; a lousy fifty grand split too many ways. So what motive did that leave?
       A new idea struck. Did Tom have an insurance policy? His thoughts flew to Lillian; the greedy, manipulative bitch. She could've done it. Not like Francine, who let it all hang out -- a gun wasn't her style. Lillian hid everything behind those doe eyes and fragile veneer. Fragile? The irony made him smile. She had a core of steel. Heaven help the sap who got in her way.
       He needed to talk to her. See what the police had rattled out of her and her mother. Make sure he was safe.
       Safe? Now that was a novel idea. How could a man like him ever be safe? He felt a wave of shame and fear -- If anyone found out ...
       _They wouldn't._
       _What if they did_?
       He sucked on his smoke, feeling for a moment like a bad ass in a movie. Once you killed, the second time was supposed to be easier. He wondered if it might be true.
       Forget all this bullshit. He needed a high and a whore. He had the goods and the power. The question was how to use it.
       He tossed the smoke and drove back down the street.
--------
         *Chapter 18*
       THE DASH clock read 9:58. Zoloski would be out all night on the homicide. I had a client scheduled for 8:00 in the morning. I sat behind the wheel, knowing I should get to bed. Unfortunately, my mind was racing at light speed. Donny -- a killer? And anorexic-looking Elizabeth?
       Or was Francine playing Ian and Art against her ex? She had no desire to take the kids full time. I believed that.
       I flipped open my Palm Pilot and updated my list of alibis for Rich's murder.
       IAN: _Lives alone. Home alone the night Rich was shot_ -- _bet. 11:00 p.m. and 8:00 a.m., worked out at the gym, went for a run. No one at the gym could confirm exactly when he was there. Picked me up at 1:00 to go to Tahoe._
       CHARLENE: _At murder scene. Supposedly asleep._
       TOM: _Sleeping off a drinking binge. Partly corroborated by Elizabeth and Lillian_.
       ELIZABETH: _At the movies with daughter._
       LILLIAN: _At the movies with mother. Yeah, sure._
       DONNY: _Searching for Teddy. Supposedly. Ian/Francine think he shot Rich. Talk-Donny_.
       ART: _With Francine. (No other witness) Got Char's call, went by Donny's. Donny sloshed_.
       FRANCINE: _Ditto Art. Convenient._
       I really wanted to put Art and Francine at the top of my suspect list, but their reluctance seemed explained now that I knew they'd talked about killing Rich. Besides, I didn't see any motive for Art -- unless it was for money -- which put everyone in the same motive category. And it made sense Art and Francine would want to protect Donny. Still, Francine might be covering for Art just to give herself an alibi, and vice-versa. I felt like a Bloodhound with too many damn trails. Move on.
       CALISTA: _In Tennessee, working as Mary Kay consultant, and as a waitress. Confirmed by her boss_.
       I didn't see any motive for Art and Donny's real mother to shoot Rich after being out of the picture for thirty years. Finally, someone I could delete from the list.
       I wanted to delete Ian as well, but the jury in my head was still out. I moved on to Tom, and listed alibis.
       IAN: _At office at 5:00 p.m. Talked to me. Then out with Francine._
       CHARLENE: _Cleaning the upstairs? Talked to me._
       I tried to imagine her shooting Tom and racing home to be there in time for my phone call and arrival. Like she'd know I was going to call. No, it didn't play. If she shot Tom I'd buy the Brooklyn bridge.
       ELIZABETH:_ Don't know_.
       LILLIAN: _Don't know._
       I imagined Lillian and her mother might have the greatest motive. Especially if they thought they could blame it on Rich's killer. So, did that mean I could delete them from Rich's list? It would sure narrow the field. I shook my head. Not yet.
       DONNY: _At Bodega Bay_ -- _need to verify._
       If verified, then what? He could still have murdered his father. He had good reason. Would he have shot his father just once, and in the head? That bothered me.
       ART: _Don't know_.
       But I had the feeling he was a great candidate for either murder -- even though I had no motive for this one.
       FRANCINE: _With Ian. Sound familiar? Check murder time. Could have done it_?
       CALISTA: _Don't know. Back in Tennessee?_
       Again, I didn't see her hanging around to shoot her ex-husband's brother. I deleted her.
       I hit _done_, flipped the lid closed and dropped the machine into the side pocket of my purse. I would have headed for Donny's, but he was in Bodega Bay, so I opted for Lon's condo. My buddy.
       The door swung open and his blue eyes widened. "Hey girl, this is a treat!" He wore a bleached white apron over grey silk slacks, and a blue and grey shirt. The crisp apron was crumpled slightly from where he'd dried his hands. "Where's the badge-toting gorilla?"
       I faked a dark look. "Working. Did I interrupt something?" I hesitated just inside the door, my nose twitching from the smell of something yummy.
       He gave me a wry grin. "Just a late and lonely dinner after a long day designing another Emerald City Hotel."
       "Do they give you red shoes if you do a good job?"
       "I'll check the fine print."
       I eyed his blond hair and tanned face. "Getting a little sun, I see."
       "Weekend tennis -- weather permitting." He opened a cupboard and took down a plate. "Want some?"
       "What are we having?" I asked, thinking the Chinese food had been hours ago and Lon was a great cook.
       "Chicken Marbela," he said, spooning a boneless breast on a plate. "With rice and spinach salad."
       "I got here just in time," I said, inhaling a tangy green leaf that tasted of fresh grated ginger. "This is wonderful."
       He grinned and claimed the barstool next to mine. "Sometimes I amaze myself."
       We chatted about the cool weather, his latest building project, our workout schedules, movies, books, the news, his last date disaster. Over coffee, he said, "How was your uncle's funeral?"
       I found myself telling him everything, the people, my impressions, worries, what I'd learned, the unexpected inheritance.
       "What's Stephanos think about the money?"
       I felt guilty, like I was blowing it again. "He doesn't know yet."
       A raised eyebrow.
       "He was leaving when I got home. A homicide. I was going to tell him -- I just didn't have the chance."
       He chuckled. "I seem to recall your talking about _exits_, those irksome little avoidance behaviors couples do. Closing some of the doors you use to escape through -- so that you and the Z-man would have more time to work on the relationship. Have either of you made your list, committed to shutting a door or two?"
       "Stephanos can't exactly close the door on his work," I said, thinking that we'd both forgotten to retire our _exit_ strategies. In less than three months none of this would matter. The last thought destroyed my appetite.
       Lon swallowed the last of his coffee. "Work is a great distraction from relationships. Or in this case, your uncle's murder."
       "He wants to get married," I said, in a low, shaky voice I hardly recognized.
       Lon froze, put his cup down and gave me a hug. "Hey, hey... you say that like it's a death sentence."
       "It feels like it," I said, shuddering. How could my life feel so screwed up because the man I loved wanted to get married? Most women would jump for joy. I was terrified. Electro-shock therapy sounded better than a gold band. The thought made me laugh. I laughed harder at Lon's questioning eyes. His lips twitched, then he was laughing too. Both of us laughed until tears rolled down our cheeks. Finally, we both ran out of steam and slumped against the counter.
       It got quiet and Lon grew serious. "You love the guy, right?"
       "Yes."
       "So, what's the fear?"
       "Someday you're going to have to start charging for these sessions, Lon."
       "No changing the subject."
       I took a deep breath, then another.
       "Seems to me you and Zoloski have a good sense of who you are as individuals but you don't see yourselves as a couple."
       "Tell me something I don't know."
       "Hey, if you love the guy, if you don't want to lose him, you have to make a decision. Bite the bullet."
       "I didn't think you liked him."
       A wink. "He's not my type, but he is yours."
       I appreciated his support, but it didn't ease the fear. "What if he changes? Becomes the biggest jerk this side of the Sierra?"
       "Then you dump him and move in here."
       I hugged him, grateful for our friendship. We set a lunch date, and I drove home wondering if I could shut my brain off long enough to get some sleep. It was after midnight, but I was trying to figure out which doors I might close so that Zoloski and I could have more time together.
       The front door swung open before I'd turned my key. "What are you doing home?" I asked.
       "I talked Lee into taking the case. Where've you been?" His tone was casual, tension underneath. Dressed in slacks, his shirt tails out, buttons undone, he would have looked sexy except for the lines of fatigue around his eyes.
       "Visiting relatives." We stared at one another, the silence building into a wall. Where were all my good intentions? Why couldn't I say what I felt? I followed him back into the bedroom, feeling resentful, but not sure why.
       He dropped his shirt into the laundry basket. "I took tomorrow morning off." His tone was flat, his gaze wary. He sank onto the edge of the bed and waited. He looked deflated, tired, and sad, as if he'd fought ten rounds and had nothing left. I realized this might be my last opportunity to connect with him. He was here -- hadn't quite thrown in the towel yet, but he wasn't up for another boxing match. If I didn't say or do something to give him hope, give myself hope, I knew he'd say good-bye in that same flat tone.
       I swallowed and managed to get out, "I'm afraid -- "
       He must have heard the trembling in my voice because his face softened.
       I claimed the other corner of the bed. "I know I hold part of myself back. I share enough to keep our relationship going, but withhold enough to feel invulnerable when you leave. Deep down, I believe you will leave. You'll get shot, or hit by a car, or suddenly decide I'm not what you want."
       He reached over and clasped my hand. His touch was warm and encouraging, but I felt cold. _Bite the bullet or say good-bye_. "If I let go and love you completely, tell you everything that's in my heart -- if I get that vulnerable and something happens to you or you leave, I'm afraid I won't survive. It sounds silly -- "
       "Don't you think I have those same fears? I've been married and divorced. It's hard on the ego. Another round of that ..." He shook his head. "I don't want to make another mistake ... Look, I want you in my life -- for the rest of my life, short or long. But there aren't any guarantees. I can't say I won't get shot, or flattened by a drunk driver, but I will say it'll take more than anything you've thrown at me so far to make me walk out. You want to go to counseling, I'll go. I'll do whatever I can to make ‘us' work. But not if you can't commit, can't give everything in return. You say recovery's about going all the way, no half-measures. Well, I won't accept less than that from you." He paused a second and added, "Or me."
       Zoloski had put everything on the table, and still my instincts said _run_. I knew they were wrong. I clutched the edge of the bed, my fingers stiff, tears welling in my eyes. It was only when I felt his arms around me that I realized my eyes were closed. I sobbed into his shoulder and wondered if I was like Mary Tyler Moore's character in Ordinary People, forever broken. A part of me would have preferred that, having an exterior like ice over a river of feelings. But I knew what it took to keep the ice thick -- more food than I could ever consume -- I'd tried. So I kept myself planted against Zoloski's chest and slowly hugged him back, then more slowly began to breathe, recalling all the times he'd been there for me, offering support, confidence, love. I can do this, I told myself. Then we made love and it was glorious and I felt great -- until daylight and the phone rang.
--------
         *Chapter 19*
       "IAN, WHAT'S up?" I was on the kitchen phone, Zoloski sipping coffee and finishing his scrambled eggs and toast. I'd already bolted mine.
       "I'm in Auburn at the police station. Burns is detaining me for questioning."
       I choked, blowing brown spots all over the newspaper and yanking Zoloski's attention from the newsprint. "Detained?" A fancy word for _arrested_ without the official arrest, which meant they had reasonable suspicion, but not probable cause -- stronger and more compelling evidence, like the murder weapon.
       "You heard me." Pure recrimination rang in his voice.
       "You okay?"
       A half-laugh. "Oh yeah, just helping Burns clear up a few points."
       Burns was fishing, I thought. He was a small town detective with his first murder case -- one which, if he solved, might open a door downtown. Or maybe he'd write a book ... I'd made Ian talk to him and I felt guilty.
       "My legal eagle says this is just to hold me while they try to substantiate a murder charge with the DA."
       _Just_! "He thinks you'll be arrested?"
       "He said to expect the worst. Guess I should've hung on to Rich's money, huh?"
       "We don't even have it yet. Do you really mean to give yours away?"
       "Already signed it over to charity."
       "I bet that went over well with Francine."
       He laughed sarcastically. "Yeah, like a dachshund jumping a six-foot wall. Look, I only have a couple of minutes. If they don't release me, can you put up bail or should I have my lawyer talk to a bondsman?"
       I told myself Burns would let him go even as I asked, "Any idea how much it'll be?"
       "Depends on how many charges they can line up by tomorrow morning."
       _Like Murder_. "If you need collateral -- "
       "No. I can put up the business."
       "Are they after you for Rich's murder, or Tom's?"
       "My best guess?"
       "That would be helpful."
       "Both."
       "Both?" Burns was out of his mind! "Is this because of Francine?" I asked, thinking she might have lied to cover for Art when Rich was murdered. If Burns knew, it would make her alibi for Ian suspect.
       "You think they're telling me?" His voice dropped, "Help me, Andy," he said, then louder, "Gotta go."
       _Help me._ In my entire life, he'd never said those two words to me before. My throat tightened and I croaked out urgently, "Ian, call me when you're out -- "
       _Click._
       _Help me,_ then hang up. What was I? His mind-reading miracle-worker, that he could hold back information and cut me off in the middle of sentences, then expect me to intuitively know everything? That about summed up "dysfunctional." Worried and pissed off, I hung up the phone.
       "What's up?" Zoloski asked.
       I resisted the urge to dump my frustration on him, and explained everything except the whap on my head -- why ruin the remnant warmth of our cozy night together?
       After laying out the facts, I hoped he'd have a silver bullet, and tried not to feel guilty for my slight edit -- this was not the rigorous honesty the Program talked about.
       He hit me with an intense half-sympathetic look, but his tone was more frustrated cop. "I know he's your brother, but why are you pursuing this? You really think you're invincible like V.I. What's-her-name?"
       "Warshawski."
       He leaned forward slightly. "You think you can do better than a trained detective?"
       I wasn't about to step into that cowpie. I also didn't point out that if this was Burns's first murder, I was a veteran. "I'm a McCue. That gives me an inside track. The McCue's aren't going to cry if Ian's arrested. In fact, I think someone may be setting him up. This is Burns's big case and he'll hang whoever he can."
       "Setting him up? You have proof?"
       "No."
       "So what makes you think that?"
       "Call it intuition or a gut feeling, Stephanos, but Ian's in trouble. I think they're using him as a patsy."
       "They? You know how paranoid that sounds?"
       "Well, someone on the McCue side then."
       Zoloski shook his head, unconvinced. "Burns wants the truth. He's a smart guy. If he thought Ian was guilty, he'd have arrested him." When I didn't capitulate, he added, "You have a PI license -- Burns can't stop you, but you know damn well he won't help you either. You're stepping on his turf."
       "As I recall, you weren't too happy with my help when we were searching for Mac," I said, referring to the case that had first brought us together.
       His mouth tightened, his eyes zeroing in on the thin white scar along my jawline. Mac had almost killed me. "From what you say, everyone in the family had a motive to kill your uncles. What if you get too close?"
       I stifled another twinge of guilt. "I'll give everything to Burns, let him handle it." _Like hell I would_.
       "What if it's your brother?"
       "It's not. Ian signed his inheritance over to charity. With both our uncles shot, money's got to be the motive and Ian doesn't want any."
       "Unless he intends to direct suspicion elsewhere," Zoloski pointed out. "Don't forget, Rich molested him -- that's motive. For all you know, Tom did, too."
       His adversarial stance irritated me, even though he was voicing many of my own thoughts. Dammit, Ian was my brother! Tom was a drunk and physically abusive -- but there'd been no hint of sexual abuse -- and Ian would have shared that in Tahoe when he was spilling his guts. He'd been shocked by Rich's death. Tom's too. If he'd faked it, then I was losing my assessment skills. Not a pleasant thought.
       "I forgot to tell you," Zoloski shifted on his chair and I could see a ripple of uneasiness, "Speaking of Burns, he called last night. Just before you got home."
       "You forgot?" I glanced at the message board on the fridge and saw BURNS, underlined three times. Okay, so I hadn't checked the board, but I didn't believe he'd forgotten. I'd seen Zoloski work a case. The man was smart, focused, and remembered every detail. He didn't want me involved in police business -- anywhere, anytime -- and was trying to keep me out of the investigation.
       He fastened his shoulder holster and pulled on his jacket.
       "What did he say?" I asked, blocking his escape to the door.
       "Not much. Just wants to go over some things with you."
       I didn't buy it. There had to have been shop talk. The leftover heat from last night suddenly grew cooler. "Why didn't you tell me last night?"
       A raven brow lifted. "Other things came up, sweetheart."
       This was one time his Bogart-ese wasn't making it. "What evidence does Burns have against Ian?"
       His gaze dropped pointedly to his watch. "Look, I can't get into this now. It's after ten."
       I didn't care if he didn't get to work until noon. "Stephanos, he's my brother."
       "I know. I know he's your brother and I feel for you. But putting yourself in the path of a killer is ... You're not a cop. No matter how lucky you've been, luck does run out."
       "Luck?"
       He kissed my cheek and squeezed my shoulders, ignoring my wooden response, then eased past me and opened the door. "Later. I promise. We'll talk."
       Just like Ian, I thought, bailing on me. Short of throwing a rock through his back windshield there was little I could do to stop him from driving away. I stomped back to the kitchen to call Burns. He was busy. I left a message for him to call me on my cellular and headed out the door.
         * * * *
I SHARED a suite with a lawyer in the restored Senator Hotel, a historical building that had been converted into expensive office space for law firms, lobbyists, politicians and the like. The lawyer had one office, I had the other. We were on the fourth floor.
       From my window I could see the front steps of the Capitol, and watch the ebb and flow of lobbyists and bureaucrats. Most were dressed in power suits, red ties and all, ready to play _Let's Make a Deal_ over pending legislation. They were a welcome distraction between clients.
       When my last client left I sat in my chair and doodled on a notepad. I'd expected Burns to return my call long before now. The fact that he hadn't made me uneasy, edgy. I searched my bottom drawer for a stick of gum.
       The phone rang.
       "It's Pete. Turn on your fax and send me a check." My personal hacker sounded juiced. On adrenaline or coke? I preferred to believe the first.
       I flicked the switch and listened to the hum as the paper moved through.
       "You picked a bunch of losers," he complained. "I couldn't retire on their combined income. And I'm not a high roller like old Arthur."
       "Art?" I picked up the first sheet, scanning for Art's name, then the numbers beneath. Six credit cards -- all maxed. A second mortgage on his condominium. "High roller?"
       "Call me curious," Pete said, like I'd made his day. Maybe I had. "I talked to some friends. A loan shark's breathin' down his neck. Word is he's inheriting a bundle that will save his ass."
       So that big wad of twenties was a phony. Another chat with Art was in order. An additional $7500 might be a big deal if you were looking at losing your knee caps. Financially, neither Donny or Art were in good shape. Donny's house was heavily mortgaged and I wondered what kind of settlement Francine had gotten. "Any other interesting facts that aren't on the report?"
       "No. But you got four gun owners."
       Four? Holy Shit. I flipped past the next three sheets to the gun registrations: _Art, Donny, Ian, Uncle Tom_. One gun-totin' family. "Thanks Pete. I'll get a check out today."
       I looked at Ian's name again. _Damn you. You lied_. Burns had to know about it by now. One more page in his casebook against my brother. My own faith in Ian was eroding and I hoped there were no avalanches ahead. Art had also lied about not owning a gun, but had he lied to Burns? All four men had twenty-twos. Tom also had a thirty-eight. But Art had definitely jumped to the top of my list. He owed big bucks to people who didn't take kindly to welchers, his father had molested him, and he owned a .22.
       I called Burns again. This time he picked up. He asked when I would be available to answer a few more questions -- in person.
       Even though it was cool in my office I suddenly felt sweaty. "This evening," I said. "Or I have tomorrow morning open," I added in a helpful tone -- hoping he'd be helpful in return.
       "Eight a.m.?"
       "Fine. Detective?"
       A cautious "Yes?"
       "Has my brother been released?"
       "A few hours ago." Cool tone.
       "Has ballistics determined if both men were shot with the same weapon?"
       "You think they were?"
       I could've come back with "That's what I'm trying to find out," but instead said, "No, I don't."
       "Care to tell me why?"
       "Care to tell me if the same gun was used to shoot my uncles?"
       He surprised me by answering. "I don't have confirmation yet, but it looks like the same weapon."
       I was unprepared for that bit of news and floundered to sound calm. "Really?" Not my greatest comeback.
       "It's likely. We're checking all leads. So why did you think two guns were used?"
       I wasn't about to mention my conversation with Ian and Francine -- not yet. "Made more sense," I said. "Unless they were both killed for money," I added, fishing for Burns's reasoning.
       "See you in the morning, Doctor."
       The note of superiority in his voice yanked my chain. I called Ian's home and office, wanting a blow-by-blow of his interrogation, but his machine took both calls. I left the same message, "Call me."
       I called Charlene and got Elizabeth's and Lillian's phone numbers. Struck out on both. If they had machines, they weren't on.
       I jetted over to the new library and asked for Lillian in the hope her co-workers might gossip. I didn't expect her to be in, not after her father had been shot the day before, but she came out of the elevator, her stride bouncy, an air about her, like she was expecting someone. Since I hadn't given my name, I couldn't claim the credit. Her dress, a springy yellow that complimented her figure and skin, flowed around her calves. Not funeral-type clothes. Her step faltered when she saw me.
       I extended my hand.
       She shook it like I might give her cooties, but forced a smile and pleasant tone. "Hello, Andy. This is a surprise."
       "I don't work that far away," I said. "Had a break between clients and thought I'd stop in, offer my condolences on the off chance you were here."
       If she felt defensive about working, it didn't show. "I'm just about to get off."
       With most folks I would have taken that as an invitation to talk, with her it was a "hurry up and get out of my face."
       "When's the funeral?"
       A veil dropped over her eyes. "Tomorrow night. But don't feel like you have to come."
       She was telling me _not _to come. "Ian and I thought we'd pay our respects together. Same place as Rich's?"
       "I thought Ian was in jail."
       "No, just answering a few questions," I said, glibly. "He's home now. What time's the service?"
       She frowned, her gaze darting toward the door, then fixing on me again. "Six o'clock."
       "I heard the cops questioned you." I took a stab in the dark. "Did they give you a rough time about your father's life insurance?"
       "What life insurance?" she said, her voice rising.
       She was either a damned good actress or I could strike _money _as a motive for Tom's murder, which would not help Ian's case. Revenge was looking more and more real even though I didn't want it to be. I realized she was waiting for an explanation and stared at the floor a moment as though embarrassed. "Well, I thought -- " I began, "From what Burns said -- that he had a policy like Rich."
       "That detective is so stu -- " She stopped. "There's no policy, no money, no nothing." Another anxious glance toward the door. She stepped past me and waved.
       With a blast of cold, damp air, Donny sauntered through the entrance, his three kids in tow. The kids, bundled in coats, hurtled down the stairs to the children's room. All except Teddy, who paused a moment, his gaze flying from his father to Lillian. Then he dashed by. What was that about?
       Donny's eyes widened as he saw me. His face turned pink as he gave us each a stiff hug.
       "We were just talking about the funeral," I said, wishing suspicions weren't dancing around my brain. Wasn't he supposed to be out of town?
       He shifted forward up on his toes, then rolled back on his heels, clearly uncomfortable. "Funeral's tomorrow night." When Lillian didn't add anything, he said, "Lillian's car's in the shop. I'm giving her a ride over to pick it up."
       I doubted a car was on her mind.
       "I thought you were in Bodega Bay," I said.
       "Just got back," he explained. "Heard about Tom this morning. Cops called the park ranger."
       I figured the ranger gave him the best alibi in the family.
       "She was asking if Tom has insurance," Lillian said, as though vying for Donny's attention.
       "Insurance?" he asked.
       "Do you have any ideas why anyone would shoot him?"
       "Nope." His gaze slid toward the stairs where his kids had disappeared, reminding me that Rich had molested his son. Had Tom done something? I wasn't going to ask in front of Lillian.
       "I'd like to talk sometime," I said, being vague because of Lillian. A part of myself said I was wasting my time. Donny had an iron-clad alibi for Tom's murder.
       "I'll be around tomorrow," Donny said. "You need a ride to the funeral?" He gave me a warm smile, but his eyes held a spark of wariness in their depths that reminded me of a trapped animal and tugged at my sympathy.
       "I'll call you if I do," I said, leaving it open.
       Lillian's doe eyes darkened. She looked like she'd bit into a lemon. "We have to go," she said, in a sharp tone. "The shop closes at six."
       "I told the kids they could get a book," he said. "Be right back." His gaze caught mine before he started down the stairs.
       I felt a sense of loss I couldn't explain as I headed back to my car. A call to the Z-man connected me to his voice mail and I hung up without saying anything. So much for talking. I called Pat and asked if she'd like to catch a quick supper but she was meeting her hubby and I wasn't into a threesome. Lon wasn't home.
       I spent most of the night with my old pal, Jay Leno. During the monologue I speculated on the two-killer angle, the pendulum swinging back and forth between Donny and Lillian, Art and Francine. But I still hadn't figured out all the motives. I was sure the cops were looking at Ian and Francine -- but as separate shooters? Using the same gun or different guns? Why didn't Ian tell me he owned a .22? The son-of-a-bitch still hadn't returned my calls.
       Zoloski showed up sometime in the wee hours and was gone before I woke. Pushing thoughts of _exits _from my mind, I gulped a protein bar, swigged down some French Roast, and pulled on an expensive burgundy Dressed-for-Success suit for my interview with Burns. It was both professional and feminine: an above-the-knee skirt with a jacket the same length. I hoped it might gain me an edge of cooperation.
       Morning was hidden behind a thick grey wall of clouds. It smelled and felt like rain. I barreled up to Auburn, cursing myself for accepting such an early appointment. Should have made it later. Should have made him wait.
       Recalling what Zoloski said about Burns being smart, and the fact that he had given me an ace the day before, I decided to put my cards on the table in the _I'll turn over one of mine if you turn over one of yours_ game. I hadn't met a cop yet who liked PI's or would give them anything but lip, but maybe I'd misread the youthful-looking Burns.
       This morning he appeared sharply dressed in a dark suit and tie, the fresh-faced eagerness I remembered now replaced by shadows of fatigue. His short brown hair was windblown and prickly.
       My good intentions lasted until Burns ushered me into an interrogation room and gave me a cup of sludge he called coffee. He started the tape rolling and asked me several questions meant to put me at ease.
       I was starting to relax when he hit me with, "Do you have your brother's gun?"
       "What?" Disbelief made my jaw hang like a broken hinge. Why was he sandblasting me without the standard "buddy" approach first?
       "Your brother's gun," he repeated, his expression saying this was no joke.
       My thoughts raced as I tried to appear calm. "I never knew he owned a gun," I said, careful in my wording and trying to figure Burns's direction. He obviously wanted to shock me. He had.
       "You haven't gone target shooting together?" His expression implied we had.
       His intent gaze shot my anxiety level up to twelve. "No."
       He gave me a puzzled look, took a notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. "But _you_ go to the firing range twice a month, correct?"
       It was obvious he'd been digging into my background and wanted me to know it. Wanted to make me nervous. It was his job, but my hackles went up. "Yes."
       "Who do you go with?"
       "I go by myself most of the time. If Zoloski's free -- "
       "We know you've gone with another man. Tall, light hair, nice-looking guy. Ring any bells?"
       Lon. Since Ken's murder I'd taught him to handle a gun. From a distance, Lon might look like my brother. Especially when Ian's hair was bleached from the sun. "Could be a friend," I said, vaguely.
       He leaned closer, his stance intimidating. "This is a murder investigation, Doctor."
       I met his gaze, refusing to let him rattle me further. "I'm aware of that."
       "Then answer my question. Who else have you taken target shooting?"
       "You want a list?"
       "That would be helpful," he said, offering a sarcastic smile.
       "Stephanos Zoloski ...and Lon Wilson."
       Burns's jaw tightened.
       "I've never gone shooting with my brother, Detective."
        A red flush on his cheeks, he asked for Lon's address.
       "I don't see why you have to bother him -- " I was being protective and argumentative and after his slam-dunk attack it felt good.
       "It's just a formality. To confirm what you've told me." He was back to a polite tone, but I saw from his face that if I didn't give him Lon's address he'd hit me with obstructing justice. I told him.
       Burns asked a few more general questions about how long I'd owned a gun, how comfortable I was with one, how often I used it, which I answered with wary honesty.
       "Let's get back to your brother," he said. "Has he ever mentioned owning a gun to you?"
       "Not that I recall."
       "You've never talked about guns or target shooting?" he asked in an incredulous tone. Someone needed to tell him I wasn't on trial.
       "Not that I recall," I said, firmly, determined to hold my ground. He'd put me at ease only to hammer on this again. An old trick. He asked me a few questions about my practice, then brought up Ian again. "How much contact have you and your brother had the last two years?"
       "We talked on the phone a few times, had Christmas dinner together at our mother's. We've never been close."
       "But you have been to his shop?"
       "Yes. He fixed my car when it was wrecked. I borrowed his Porsche a couple of times as a loaner."
       "Nice loaner. Did he loan his car to anyone else?"
       I shrugged, wondering what Ian's car had to do with anything. "How would I know?"
       "Did you ever see his gun at the garage?"
       "I already told you I wasn't aware he owned a gun."
       "And he never talked about it to you?"
       "Not that I remember." It was the best answer I could make. Burns knew something and could tell I was sweating.
       "What about when you were worried about his safety? After you'd been threatened and moved in with Detective Zoloski?"
       Where had he gotten all this information? Ian? The Z-man? On his own? I felt sick. I looked past his shoulder, recalling Mac breaking into my place, going through my address book, threatening my family and friends if I left town. "I remember telling Ian to be careful, that's all."
       He gave me a quirky smile that radiated triumph. "According to your brother, you asked about his gun and whether he knew how to use it."
       I shrugged, wishing I could break Ian's neck. "I don't recall talking about a gun with my brother -- ever -- Detective, but two years is a long time. That was a very stressful period and I was worried about his safety. I remember that."
       "But no conversation about a gun?" he asked, skeptically.
       "No."
       We spent another five minutes going around in circles of his pointed questions and my vague answers.
       Burns made an impatient gesture with his hand. "Look, Doctor, I know you've been involved in a couple of murder cases before and like to think you're V.I. Warshawski -- but I need answers and no interference in this one. If I have to arrest you for obstructing justice, I will."
       _Zoloski, you shit_. Only Zoloski called me Warshawski. Now I understood the shock treatment. Feeling betrayed and mentally cursing the Z-man, I gave Burns a sincere look. "Have I obstructed justice? I came here to help. But you make it hard when I don't know what you're looking for."
       "Oh, I think you know."
       He had a bug up his butt and I was certain the Z-man was behind it. "You asked about a gun and I answered, several times," I reminded him. "So, if there's nothing else...." I started to stand.
       "Please sit down, Doctor," he ordered.
       "I have nothing more to say." Ready to call my lawyer, I nevertheless sat, because I could see he had something to impart and just maybe I'd pick up a fact or two.
       "Let me refresh your memory. Your brother owns a twenty-two. Registered back in ‘92. Reported stolen in ‘99 when his shop was burglarized. According to my calculations, that's about the time he began socializing with his cousins."
       I'd forgotten about the burglary. He'd lost a truckload of expensive tools. I stared at Burns. "What are you saying?"
       "You understood me, Doctor McCue. You're smart enough to fit the pieces together. Still want to leave?"
       Did all cops carry around that arrogant, irritating tone? I knew I should keep my mouth shut, but the desire to prove him wrong had words coming out of my mouth before I could stop. "So tell me where this piece fits," I said. "I got hit over the head at my aunt's house. I damn well know my brother didn't do it." I reached into my briefcase, brought out the paper bag and slapped it on the table. "I found this magazine and gold cigarette butt in the bushes where I was attacked."
       He eyed the bag's contents. "When was this?"
       "After Rich's funeral." I didn't need to tell him that either he or his men had missed this evidence or someone had left it there after Rich's death. His unhappy expression said both thoughts were on his mind.
       He jotted something in his notebook, his scrawl illegible. "Can anyone verify you found this at your aunt's?"
       "No."
       His gaze challenged my credibility. "Then there's no chain of evidence."
       I said, "It may not be admissible, but the butt or the magazine could be a lead to follow -- "
       "And you just want to help. I know." He set the bag aside and flipped a page in his notebook.
       Against my better judgment I'd given him something and he'd rejected it. I was through handing him freebies.
       "Did you see an MD after you were struck?"
       "No. I wasn't thinking about substantiating the attack, chain of evidence or anything but lying down. I went home, took two aspirin and went to bed."
       "So no one can corroborate your story?"
       "Well, Zoloski can tell you I had a headache. And the person who hit me," I said, with sarcasm, "can corroborate my story. Provided you find him. Or her."
       He gave me a look of impatience. "A headache? Try to look at this from my point of view. It's obvious you want to protect your brother. I admire that. But if you're making this up, I have to warn you -- "
       "Making this up?" I wanted to toss the dregs of my lukewarm sludge in his face.
       His eyes revealed that he knew he'd gone too far.
       I leaned forward, determined to remain professional. "The idea of Ian reporting his gun stolen, stashing it two years, then using it to kill a man he hadn't seen in over twenty years is preposterous." I made it sound as lame as possible, but my mind was frantic. Because of me, Ian had confessed to his lawyer, and obviously to Burns that he and his cousins had concocted a murder plot. Ian had said six months, but what if they'd been hatching the plot for two years? Shit, this was fitting together in an unwanted, unbelievable pattern. I sipped the cold coffee under Burns's scrutiny, knowing he wanted me to blurt out something to fill the silence. My heart pounded in my ears.
       "Is it preposterous?" he asked quietly. "You're a psychologist. Your brother's been in contact with your cousins and uncles for the last two years -- he's confessed to participating in conversations in which the topic was murder. He's admitted that learning his cousins had been molested made him furious. Now tell me how preposterous it is." His level gaze challenged mine and I felt chilled. "You've said you're not close to your brother. How do you know what he's capable of?"
       For one second I almost spilled everything about Tahoe, Ian's meeting, the closeness I'd felt there, my impressions of my cousins and who'd done what. I closed my mouth, recognizing that he wanted exactly that. I knew how this worked. Every word I said was being tape recorded.
       His gaze narrowed. "Of course, there's another angle. How does this sound? Your brother shoots Rich. He panics. He calls you. You both concoct this Tahoe trip and -- "
       "That's a bunch of horse shit." I was halfway out of my chair before I realized it. I took a step for the door. "If there's nothing else, I have a client."
       He didn't try to stop me, which unnerved me further, because it meant he believed he was on the right track. Were his expression and tone of voice just to shake me up? Did he really believe I'd help my brother cover up a murder? That I'd make up a whack on the head? When I reached the door, I turned back, making a stab for one last piece of information. "Did the bullets match?"
       He surprised me by answering. "Yes, they came from the same gun."
       Holy shit. One gun, one shooter, and Burns was fixed on Ian. With me as his accomplice. Not Art who had loan sharks ready to break his knuckles. Not Donny who'd gone through a nasty divorce and was hurting for cash. Did Burns know something I didn't? I was in desperate need of an antacid as I shoved open the door.
       "Doctor McCue?"
       "Yes?"
       "I'm looking hard at your brother. But if you've got information that could lead in another direction -- I'll look at it." It was more of a concession than most cops would make -- especially after he'd practically called me a liar, but I saw this as a weak attempt to apologize -- in case he turned out to be wrong.
       I nodded, said I'd call if I thought of anything, and hit the road. Half a block away, I pulled over. I didn't know which was worse, my interview with Burns or Zoloski's betrayal. He'd helped the bastard. I told myself I didn't know what Zoloski had said to Burns or why, told myself that no one was perfect, no relationship either, but the platitudes did little to ease the pain in my chest. Damn him.
       I checked my county map, and changed course.
--------
         *Chapter 20*
       IT TOOK ten minutes to reach Donny's house in a new subdivision in Loomis. The houses had the same crescent moon windows and front door pillars as every other suburb in America.
       I shoved my hurt over Zoloski into a back part of my brain and climbed from the car. I'd deal with the Z-man later.
       An ancient oak graced Donny's front lawn. A cement walk lined with rose bushes led to the two-story. Oak trees were everywhere in the foothills and I skirted this one to avoid oak worms. The little green critters hung out in droves -- but I never remembered which season until I'd found a few in my hair.
       Donny answered the door after one rap. He had a dish towel in hand and wore a black suit, white shirt, and blue tie. The same thing he'd worn to his father's funeral. "Andy, what -- this is a surprise. Thought you were my neighbor. She takes the kids to school. Come on in."
       Had he forgotten he'd said he would be home? If he'd had a morning like mine he might have. I stepped inside and saw the three boys, the youngest wearing faded jeans that were probably hand-me-downs. They all appeared too watchful and quiet for kids, their eyes alert, faces pinched, school books clenched against their chests like shields.
       "I thought it would be better if they went to school -- try to keep everything normal ..." He turned away, but not before I heard a frustrated "shit" under his breath.
       I had no idea what to say, so said nothing.
       The doorbell rang and he moved to answer it. The kids filed past, a grey-haired woman and a mini-van in the driveway. Eleven-year-old Teddy stepped out last and glanced back at his father, worry in his expression. "Bye, Dad."
       Donny's voice softened into a half-protective, half-exasperated tone. "No fights today, okay Teddy?"
       A grudging, "Okay."
       I recalled Francine's words, _Donny's a good father_ and that he'd been molested by his father -- a man who'd molested Teddy as well. Every rotten thing I'd heard about Rich crowded in my head, trying to rationalize murder, to convince myself to let it go.
       Burns's message had been clear, though. I wasn't about to stand back and let him railroad Ian and me into a jail cell.
       Donny closed the door, tossed the towel into what I presumed was the laundry room and checked his watch. "I've got a few minutes. Want some coffee?"
       I nodded, even though my stomach was burning from Burns's battery acid. Donny led me into the kitchen, a light, airy room with a skylight and high ceilings, oak cabinets and blue border print running below the windows and around the room like a gift box ribbon. Through the sliding glass doors I could see a muddy patio and waterlogged lawn.
       "How's Teddy doing?" I asked.
       "He's been having a hard time since the divorce. Lillian's been a big help though. Teddy seems to be able to talk to her."
       I had a hard time picturing Lillian's maternal side, but had learned enough from my counseling to know people hid a lot from the outside world. "I guess you heard the police talked to Ian again," I began, wishing I knew what he and Lillian might have discussed after I left the library.
       His gaze skidded away, his expression of guilt so sudden and so strong it stole my breath. "I heard." He poured two cups of coffee, handing me a mug with Dilbert on the side. I didn't read the cartoon.
       "You know he didn't do it," I asked quietly. "Don't you?"
       He looked torn, miserable. "I can't help him, Andy. Or you."
       Andy. It evoked feelings I worked hard to keep from unraveling. The longing on his face about undid me. What I wanted at that moment was crazy. Was it a need to hurt Zoloski or this unexpected sexual attraction that strengthened every I came face to face with this cousin? He moved to the sliding glass doors and opened them a foot, then lit a cigarette, exhaling into the air. Dampness seeped in with the cold, raindrops appeared on the porch.
       "Why can't you help?"
       "I can't say anymore." He gave me an earnest look. "Don't pursue this, please...."
       "Who are you protecting?" I guessed.
       He shook his head.
       For once I didn't want a cigarette. I didn't want to be here. I'd never regretted my past -- it made me who I was. I struggled with problems, who doesn't have a few knots in their cord? But murder?
       I wondered about what might have been had we stayed in touch. I thought he was protecting someone, but what if the someone was himself? And knowing that, why did I yearn to touch him, to find out what I'd missed? I stomped the need with logic -- it would only hurt us both. Not to mention what was left of my relationship with Zoloski. I could see George in my mind, his wire-rims low on his nose as he told me I liked complications -- but this was one I wanted to avoid. "I won't let Ian take the rap," I said.
       He took a long drag on his smoke, his body posture shifting slightly as he exhaled. The stance reminded me of Art and I found it unsettling. It should have made him unattractive, but somehow it didn't. His eyes met mine and his gaze hardened. "I can't help you."
       "Can't or won't?"
       He tossed the butt into a coffee can filled with sand and shut the door. "Both."
       I considered using the heat between us to pry something out of him. I couldn't. "After Rich's funeral, at Charlene's, someone hit me on the side of the head, knocked me out. Told me to stay out of your lives. Was it you?" I asked.
       Surprise flickered in his eyes. At least I thought it was surprise. "Jesus, Andy. What a thing to -- look, I didn't shoot Rich, I didn't make any threats, and I certainly would never hit you." If he were hooked up to a lie-detector test I was certain he'd pass. I was also certain he was protecting someone.
       "But you planned Rich's murder. Ian and Francine admitted that." I hardened my tone to pressure him further, "You know who did it, don't you?"
       "No! We talked about it, for chrissakes! That's all! First Burns is breathing down my neck, now you."
       "You talked to Burns?" Maybe I hadn't given the Auburn detective enough credit.
       "Who hasn't?" He pulled out a dining table chair and lowered himself into it. "He was parked in front of the house when I got home yesterday. Hard to ignore the bastard."
       "You told him about the plan you guys came up with?"
       "He already knew, asked pointed questions. I probably should have called a lawyer, but I just wanted him gone, wanted to get the kids to bed, be alone for awhile."
       "Francine said you got drunk the night Rich died. Something you never did. Why?"
       His gaze faltered, but again his words rang true, "I was upset about Teddy running away."
       "Did Burns talk to Teddy?" I asked, wondering what the look Teddy had cast at his father meant -- if anything.
       A tired sound that told me he was out of patience. "Teddy doesn't know what time he got home. He cut through the construction in the development, wandered down to the creek and followed it until dark. He fell asleep. When he woke up, he got scared and came home. End of story."
       "Were you here when he got back?" Francine had said Donny came home after Teddy, not before. Details were important, although I couldn't see why this one bugged me.
       "Yes, I was here."
       "Why?"
       "Why what?"
       "Teddy was missing. What made you quit looking for him?"
       "He's run away once before. Came home after midnight. I figured he might have this time. I came back to check. He got home while I was here." His answer seemed too well rehearsed. He checked his watch. "Hate to kick you out, but I have to get going."
       Not moving, I steeled myself for unpleasantness. "Are you and Lillian lovers?"
       His jaw clenched. "You asking for personal reasons?"
       "I'm asking because she doesn't seem to like me very much."
       "I don't know why I should tell you anything." He shook his head and gave me a sad half-smile that reminded me of the kid I once knew.
       I remained silent, thinking about Francine and Art, wondering if Donny knew Adam might be his brother's son.
       "Lillian and I -- we've screwed around, yes." His fingers curled against the table. "When Francine was pregnant with Adam, I found out she and Art ...that Adam might not be mine. I was so fucking angry -- and Lillian, well, she was there ...."
       "So you had an affair?"
       "For a few months. After Adam was born I had a paternity test, found out he was mine." He swallowed as though trying to obliterate the memory. "I decided to give our marriage another chance."
       "Did Francine know about the test?"
       "Hell no. I never told anyone. Let her believe what she wants."
       It was the first time I'd heard underlying rage in his voice. It should have warned me off, but I sensed the raw anguish beneath and wanted to reach over and touch his hand. I clenched my coffee cup. Guilt was a great weapon, I thought, wondering if both Francine and Art felt any and if Donny had used it, wondering if any of this had to do with Rich's murder. "So you gave your marriage another chance?"
       He looked at me. "For all the good it did." He grimaced. "Francine stayed home with the baby. Quit going out at night. Started being responsible, making the kids lunches, helping Teddy with his homework, even cooking dinner." He shrugged, the line of his mouth saying he thought himself a fool for hoping it might work. "Maybe it was her penance. Didn't last."
       Shattered dreams glimmered in his eyes.
       "When Adam was about two -- he's four now -- I overheard Francine on the phone with Art. Didn't take a genius to figure out their game. While she was gone, I packed her stuff, put it in the driveway, then changed the locks. Filed for divorce the next day."
       "But the divorce isn't final yet?"
       "She talked me out of signing the final papers. She said she was going to 12-step meetings, getting into recovery. I let her move back in. We got along better -- for awhile. Then Teddy told me about Dad -- he'd been -- you know -- for almost a year. I was so angry -- I couldn't forgive that -- her -- for putting me in the position of needing my parents to watch the boys." He shoved away from the table, dumped his coffee in the sink and leaned against the counter.
       "Teddy told you two months ago?" I asked, rooted to my chair, resisting the lure in his dark eyes.
       "Thereabouts."
       I knew he was watching me, waiting for my next move. My pulse sped. Now I wanted a cigarette, anything to shove down the emotions roiling through me, urging me to destruction. I stood and took a step toward the door, forcing my thoughts to sift through everything Donny had said.
       He trailed me to the door, keeping his distance. He hadn't asked about me and Zoloski, but I knew he wanted to. The attraction frightened me.
       "I appreciate you talking to me," I finally said, hesitating with the door half-open, early winter cold sending goosebumps up my legs. Zoloski had talked to Burns about me behind my back, but jumping in the sack with another man wasn't the way to handle it. So why did I feel like I was standing at the edge of his bed with the sheets turned down?
       "You must be good at your job," he said, with quiet admiration, closing the distance between us to an arms length.
       "Maybe you just needed to talk," I said, feeling hot.
       He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Maybe."
       I fumbled in my purse for my keys. I'd forgotten to ask about Tom's murder, about what he knew of it. Not now, I told myself.
       "Will you be at the funeral?" he asked.
       I looked away, eyed the slashing rain, thought about all the responses I could make and settled on, "Zoloski and I will be there."
       His expression closed down. "‘Bye, Andie."
       The finality of his words followed my sprint to the car. I drove to the nearest coffee shop. I needed to think, recover, get warm. I felt bruised inside. I couldn't explain it, tried rationalizing it with an inner dialogue of psycho-babble and ultimately buried it with a steaming cafe mocha with whipped cream. Only four-hundred fifty calories.
       I flipped open my Palm Pilot and jotted notes from my conversation with Burns and Donny.
       Had Donny been searching for Teddy, or out murdering his father? I went to my car, got on the phone and after a couple of calls, got confirmation from the park ranger in Bodega Bay. Donny had been there with the kids and another scout leader. The local police had talked with everyone and taken statements which I assumed were passed onto Burns. Question: If Donny shot Rich, why now? He'd known Rich had molested his son two months ago -- why not then? Who shot Tom? If he'd shot Rich, he'd had to have given the gun to whoever shot Tom.
       Lillian? Elizabeth? Art?
       Francine, Ian, and I semi-alibied each other during the time Tom was shot. I started to delete Aunt Charlene from my list. I couldn't see her plugging Rich, or Tom, or planning either. Unless ... she were having an affair and had help.... It didn't seem likely at her age, but I drove back to my office to look at the phone records Pete had faxed over. First, I checked the night Rich died. Charlene had called Art's home and cellular numbers, both around eleven. This matched her story.
       Art, however, could have been with Francine or anywhere. I checked the numbers Charlene had called over the last month. She called her sons once a week. Obviously not a talker.
       I checked everyone's records, scanning numbers and names, hoping something would leap out at me. One thing did. Donny or someone at his house had called Lillian the night Rich died -- around nine p.m. and again around one a.m. Time of death was estimated between eleven p.m. and eight a.m. Had he called about his son? Or his father's murder?
       I called Lillian, asked for the funeral time again, then mentioned in a casual, chatty tone what a great father I thought Donny was. "We talked this morning," I said, as though it was no big deal, "You must have been such a help to him when Teddy ran away."
       Dead silence.
       "Hello? Lillian?"
       "You stay away from him," she said, in a low, steely voice. "You don't belong in this family. You never did."
       Even though I had the car heater running, an icy chill knifed down my spine. _Stay out of our lives_. She was the one who had slugged me at Charlene's.
--------
         *Chapter 21*
       I DROVE to my office, murder scenarios fast-forwarding through my head. Had Lillian and Donny murdered their fathers? Or was the phone call innocent? I needed hard evidence. And I needed to quit seeing Donny's little-boy expression. He was a man, not a boy, and he had several reasons to kill his father.
       Nothing Ian had told me implicated Lillian. Was he protecting her for some reason? After Burns's reaction of disbelief, I couldn't accuse her of hitting me over the head without proof. Maybe she was just trying to protect Donny. Everyone else seemed to be.
       I pushed aside my sleuthing instincts and settled in for a session with a client. It dragged and I was relieved when it ended.
       I punched in Ian's work number.
       "McCue's Body Shop."
       "Where have you been?"
       "Working. Trying not to think."
       "Well, I've been talking to Burns. And Donny. And Lillian. I recognized her voice, Ian. She's the one who dented my skull."
       Silence.
       I imagined no surprise on his face and wondered who I'd strangle first, Ian or Zoloski.
       "Are you sure it was Lillian?" he asked.
       "Yes."
       "What if she's just protecting Donny? She gave you a headache, she didn't shoot you."
       Talk about rationalizing. Her low, threatening words echoed in my mind, _Stay out of our lives_. Was she just jealous of my connection to Donny or protecting a murderer? Ian needed a wake-up call. I said, in my best hardball tone, "You better be straight with me, Ian, or I'm through trying to help you. Is there any chance -- any chance at all -- Lillian's got your gun?"
       His, "No," came a second too slow.
       "Have you and Lillian screwed around?"
       Silence.
       "Ian?"
       A long exhale. "Remember when I said I dated someone who wasn't in the program and almost blew my bottom line? That we broke up?"
       I cursed a blue streak inside my head. "You were talking about Lillian?"
       A humbled, "Yeah."
       "So what else do I _not _know?"
       "How would you like it if I started interrogating you on your personal life?"
       "You asked for help, remember? I'm sorry, Ian, but questions have to be asked." Dammit, why was I apologizing? "Look, just -- forget it. So, tell me, is it possible she took your gun?"
       "I don't know ...I just don't believe she'd do that to me."
       "If your gun turns up it may send you to prison."
       "The cops already searched my house and the shop." His voice turned thoughtful as though he were digging through memory. "Lillian and I split up before the robbery. No one's trying to frame me, Andy, or the gun would have turned up by now."
       I had the feeling he was trying to convince himself. When he called from the police station he'd been upset and asking for help. Now that he was free, he was back to rationalizing.
       "My butt's out there, too," I said, in the stagnant silence.
       "You don't have a record and you live with a cop. You aren't a suspect."
       "No, I'm only your sister and a likely accomplice. For all I know, Burns thinks I was molested, too." It occurred to me that Zoloski had jumped to the same conclusion. "If Lillian's behind this, I'm going to prove it."
       "How?"
       "I don't know yet." I paused. "You going to the funeral? It starts at seven."
       "Seven, yeah. I'll be there." I heard a deep inhale, knew he was lighting a cigarette.
       "You think Donny might be arrested?" Ian asked, surprising me yet again.
       "I don't know, but Burns questioned him at home. Probably took a look around."
       "He'd never get a warrant," Ian said, sounding like a lawyer.
       "He just needs consent without one. Donny told me he probably spilled more than he should have, but he was anxious to get some sleep. My bet is he probably said, ‘Sure, go ahead and look around.'"
       "If Donny's arrested what happens to his kids?"
       "His kids?" The question took me off guard. "Francine gets them, I guess," I said, slowly, wishing it wasn't the case. "Ian, you can't save everyone -- sometimes it's enough to keep your own life together."
       "Maybe that's not enough."
       "What are you saying?"
       "You know about Teddy, right?" He asked it with the righteous tone of someone who was about to do something stupid.
       "Yes."
       "He needs his father. They all do."
       "Hey if you're talking self-sacrifice here to atone for past sins, cut it right now. The program is about rigorous honesty, not covering up and protecting a murderer."
       "What about justice, Andy? The blind lady with the scales. Rich got what he deserved. Tom, too."
       I spoke softly, wanting him to heed my warning. "You may be identifying with Teddy, and maybe your protective instincts are coming out. But lying or covering for someone is not the way to help that kid."
       "What if Mom had died and Dad had raised us? You think we would have made it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Francine slaps those kids around, she's a lot like Dad -- and the thought of her raising three kids makes me sick."
       "I'm not doing handsprings," I shot back. "But are you so sure Donny killed his father?"
       "Shit ... I don't know."
       I heard the slap of a door and the squeak of Ian's chair.
       "Gotta go, sis. See you later."
       "Ian -- "
       _Click_.
       What was it about the men in my life? First Zoloski blabbing to Burns, now Ian risking his neck to be a hero. What really bothered me was the possibility he might confess to a crime he didn't commit -- to keep Donny out of prison. Confess to vengeance for himself and Donny's ten-year old son.
       I dug through my purse for my Palm Pilot and reviewed information. Art owned a .22 and was in debt up to his eyeballs. I punched in Art's number, left a message, then called the Jackson casino asking for security and Art McCue.
       "Well, well, well, what are you after?"
       "I thought you'd be getting ready for Tom's funeral."
       "I went to my old man's. I'm working a double shift to make up the time. Besides, I'm not going to be a hypocrite twice."
       "I heard you owe money to some mean people. That your father's death might bail you out."
       I imagined those Brad Pitt eyes narrowing. "Look, I didn't kill my old man or my uncle and I don't give a shit who did."
       I realized from his voice that he was either drunk or well on his way. "Aren't you curious as to why they were killed, Art? You might be next."
       Silence. Thinking or belting back on a bottle? I waited, letting the tension build, but he didn't speak. "You lied to me about owning a gun," I prodded.
       "That little pop gun? Fuck, I'd forgotten about it. Besides, the cops already know all this. They took my twenty-two and it's clean. You're wasting your time."
       They did? The more I dug, the more uncertainties I uncovered about Ian and my cousins. He was much more involved than I'd ever imagined and he hadn't liked admitting it. Still, the way he'd talked about Donny convinced me he hadn't shot anyone. And maybe Art was lying to me again.
       I said good-bye and called Burns on the off chance he might still be in an apologetic mood and tell me something. He wasn't in and I didn't leave a message.
       It was closing in on six o'clock. It'd take forty minutes to get to Auburn and I wanted to be early for the funeral so I could watch everyone arrive and pray for inspiration.
       I debated whether to call the Z-man. I still had a bad taste in my mouth from his back-stabbing, but I needed to get it off my chest -- whether everything blew or not. I made the call, but didn't get a chance to say anything but hello. His excitement made me furious and envious. "Got the bastard, Blaize. Just have to break him down, get a confession. But I know how I'm going to do it." Background voices. "Gotta run."
       "Tom's funeral's at seven," I said, hating the fact I was being rushed and that he hadn't bothered to ask how it went with Burns. I had a sick feeling he already knew. "Same place as Rich's. I should be home around nine."_ Meet me at the door with a damn good explanation or get flayed_.
       "Nine? I'll try, okay?"
       I thought of Yoda's infamous words,_ Do or do not. There is no try._ "Okay."
       "Bye."
       I listened to the dial tone, hungry for more than I'd gotten. I felt restless and edgy. Angry that the Z-man's job was once more in first place. That he'd talked to Burns and not told me. That the police fraternity meant more to him than I did. You're jumping to conclusions, I told myself. Maybe so, but then again, maybe not. Grabbing my keys, I slung my leather purse over my shoulder and wished I could shut off my brain as easily as I flicked off the office light.
       I arrived at the funeral home in time to see Lillian and her mother, and Donny and the three kids arrive together, heads respectfully bowed. I was seated in the back pew, close to the wall. Donny nodded to me as they passed. They looked like a family already, I thought, wondering if Burns would even see it. If Burns bothered to come.
        I felt sorry for Donny's kids. For him, too. Why the hell did he have to tug at my heartstrings?
       Most of the faces that followed Donny's down the aisle were familiar -- the drinking club from Rich's funeral.
       The place was only a quarter-full when the service began. Rich the child molester had garnered more mourners than his drunkard brother.
       Ian slipped in and sat beside me. We didn't talk. As the service ended, I watched everyone shuffle out. Tom's wife Elizabeth was crying and I was reminded of Charlene's tearful act at Rich's funeral. I turned and saw Burns standing just inside the door, staring at me.
       Ian leaned close, "Burns is waiting for us, isn't he?"
       "Looks that way," I said, rocking to my feet. "Only the three of us left." He met us in the lobby.
       "I'm sorry if I upset you this morning," he said, his tone sincere.
       Hiding the fact I was still pissed off, I gave him a forgiving smile. "I realize you have a job to do."
       Ian shifted on his feet like he'd rather be anywhere else.
       Burn gave him a dismissive look. "I'd like to talk to your sister."
       "Sure." Ian gave me a stiff hug and made a show of strolling out.
       "You crack the case?" I asked, trying to quell my uneasiness.
       "You have anything you want to tell me?" he fired back, obviously feeling defensive that the hours were ticking by and Rich had been dead a week.
       "No hard evidence has shown up at my door," I said, politely.
       "You probably know I searched your brother's home and his shop."
       "Yes."
       "Your cousins both gave me permission to search their residences also."
       Why was he confiding in me? He wasn't the type to give freebies. "Find anything?" I asked, wondering what he wanted.
       "Not yet."
       Why did I not like the sound of that?
       "I'd like to take a look around your house and office -- just to eliminate possibilities."
       Eliminate possibilities? I managed to keep my mouth from falling open. "I'm not sure Stephanos would appreciate the police searching our house." I stressed the word _our_.
       "If I get his permission, do I have yours?" His tone said he didn't think getting Zoloski's consent would be a problem. If Zoloski said yes I wouldn't be living there anymore.
       "If you get his permission, ask me again."
       "Is it okay if I look around your office?"
       "My office? What do you -- " I shut my mouth.
       "Just covering all the bases," he said, in a smooth tone. He was getting better at this.
       I almost said no, then thought maybe I could get something in return. "I have a lot of confidential client files."
       He held up his hands in an innocent gesture. "Won't touch ‘em."
       "I want to be there," I negotiated like I was in Mexico.
       "I'll call and let you know we're coming."
       I distrusted his earnestness.
       "Come on Doctor. Put your money where your mouth is. You're so sure your brother is innocent, help me eliminate all the places he might have stashed the gun."
       "You must be desperate," I said, unable to stop myself from antagonizing the guy.
       His expression remained calm. "Narrowing suspects is not desperation. But I'll tell you what. You let me look around your office, I'll run that cigarette butt and magazine by the lab and let you see the results."
       Chances were he'd already done the lab work and gotten _nada_, but I couldn't be certain. I hesitated, sensing his impatience and hoping to get more.
       "Let me see the lab results, and tell me why you're so focused on Ian, and I'll give you permission."
       His jaw tightened. He didn't like the deal. Now, I'd see how desperate he was. "Process of elimination, Doctor. Donny's son was missing. He was looking for Teddy while Lillian stayed with the other kids."
       I worked to keep my face blank, hide my excitement. Donny had never mentioned Lillian to me, neither had Francine or Art and they'd gone by to see him that night.
       "I thought Lillian went to the movies with her mother?"
       "Early show. Donny left a message on her machine and she went over around ten."
       That jibed with the phone records, so why had Donny left it out when he talked to me? Because he was still involved with Lillian and trying to hide it?
       "Art was working when Tom bought the ace of spades, and he has an alibi for the time his father cashed in his chips -- "
       Casino humor? The man kept challenging my expectations. I almost liked him. "His alibi was Francine," I stated.
       "Yes, Francine McCue. Who incidentally gave your brother a partial alibi for Tom's murder."
       "So what does my office have to do with them?"
       "Like I said, I'm trying to eliminate your brother's involvement. When I have the lab result I can drop them by ... take a look around your office ... two birds...." He offered a disarming smile. "Do I have your permission?"
       I hoped I wasn't making a mistake. "Yes."
       He offered me a friendly nod. "Thank you."
       Before I could ask anything more, Zoloski stepped through the doors, and stopped short.
       Surprised at his sudden appearance, I stared, realizing as the two men eyed each other that they'd never met face-to-face. "Detective Burns, this is Detective Zoloski."
       Zoloski extended his hand. "Call me Stephanos." The fact he used his full name and not Steve, indicated he liked the guy. But then what did I expect? Zoloski had told him more about me than my mother probably knew.
       "John," Burns said, as they shook.
       I gave Zoloski a _keep your mouth_ shut look then went outside. Ian was in the parking lot, leaning against his Porsche, smoking a cigarette. I noticed Donny's van pull away. "What did Donny have to say?"
       "Wanted to know if we were going to the cemetery. Told him I wasn't." He gestured toward the funeral home. "What do you think Zoloski and Burns are talking about?" He climbed into his car.
       "I don't know," I responded, thinking if the Z-man was talking about me I was going to break his jaw into so many pieces it'd have to be wired shut.
       Ian rolled down his window. "See ya."
       "For a man whose neck is on the line, you're acting awfully casual."
       "Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. You know the words, Blaize. Maybe I'm smart enough to know when to let go."
       "Let go or give up?"
       He started the car, the engine humming like a big cat. "I'm sorry I dragged you into this, you know?"
       "I'm not," I said. "Where are you going?"
       "At eight o'clock on a rockin' Saturday night? Thought I'd hook up with Francine."
       "Ian -- "
       "Just a joke, Sis. She's not even talking to me. Probably a good thing. All this has been pretty damn stressful." The car rolled backwards.
       I stayed beside his door. "Have you broken your bottom line?"
       "No." Hard-edged.
       "Do you have any idea where that gun is?"
       The car started forward. "With any luck, the bottom of Lake Tahoe."
       "Ian -- "
       He nodded toward the chapel. "Your boyfriend's coming," then sped away.
       Frustrated, I thought about Burn's questions that morning, his reference to V.I. Warshawski. She was a ballbuster and I was feeling like one as he sauntered toward me.
       "You okay?" Zoloski asked as though he could feel my anger.
       "Burns knew one helluva lot about me this morning." I didn't give him a chance to defend himself. "Even called me V.I. Warshawski."
       His green eyes grew wary.
       When he didn't spill, I asked in a hardball tone, "What did you tell him?"
       "I gave him some professional advice, Blaize. I also told him how we met."
       "So he knows all about me and Mac?" I snarled, wondering if Burns also knew I'd been raped by that bastard.
       "I gave him some basic details of the case -- nothing too personal -- " _As in rape_, his expression said. "Look, I said more than I should have. I'm sorry. We just got to talking and...." His tone was penitent.
       "How'd the Warshawski thing come up?"
       "I told him good luck in getting anything out of you that you didn't want to give."
       Like wedding vows, I thought.
       "That you were as relentless as Warshawski when you got into something." His gaze dared me to contradict him.
       "He didn't tell you he thinks I'm Ian's accomplice?"
       He looked surprised. "Hell no."
       Except for us, the parking lot was empty, no one on the sidewalks, either. The freeway noise seemed loud, the gold rush town lulled to sleep by the constant hum. We stood there staring at each other, the silence uncomfortable and lengthening.
       "Burns has to look at everybody, it's his job," Zoloski said. "Your brother had motive and opportunity. He's the suspect, not you."
       "No, I'm the accomplice," I said, sarcastically. When Zoloski's expression remained unconvinced, I asked, "Did you give him permission to search your house?"
       "No, I didn't. He wants to search it, he can get a warrant. And don't you mean _our_ house?"
       "At the moment, yes."
       His green eyes darkened. "Is that a threat?"
       "Let's just say I don't like you talking behind my back."
       His stance turned defensive. "And you've never gone behind my back?"
       We both knew I had pulled a few questionable stunts when I was trying to clear Lon of murder charges. Zoloski had saved my neck. I hadn't told him about Lillian hitting me on the head, either, which made being self-righteous a whole lot tougher.
       He nodded toward the line of broken down Chevies and pickup trucks following the hearse across the freeway bridge. "You going?"
       "No."
       He put a tentative arm around my shoulders. "Forgive me?"
       How did he do it? With just one sizzling look and searing touch he had my brains scrambled. "You want forgiveness you have to earn it, big guy." My lips twitched despite my best efforts.
       He grinned and my resistance melted. "I can think of a few good ways to do penance."
       "I'll just bet you can." The last of the funeral procession disappeared from view and all the banter left me.
       "You okay?"
       "Just dandy. It's this family that's got me twisted into knots. Dammit, everything's pointing toward Donny and he's the only relative I even care about."
       Zoloski gave me an unreadable look, then ushered me to my car. His Jag was parked alongside. "How about forgetting your family and going to dinner?"
       I'd been considering a drive to Jackson, but couldn't remember my last meal. Art could wait. Besides, Zoloski owed me and knew it. "Benihana Grill?"
       He gave me that killer grin and I wondered what I'd ever seen in Donny. Despite everything, I loved this guy.
         * * * *
THE PLACE was crowded, with six of us seated around three sides of our table, the fourth side claimed by our Japanese chef. The couple to our right were in the middle of some kind of argument and keeping their trembling voices low. The couple across the table from us hadn't noticed they weren't alone and kept stealing kisses. Not a bad idea, I thought, eyeing Zoloski's tasty-looking mouth. Enamored by the menu, he didn't notice my scrutiny.
       My stomach rumbled and I decided he had the right idea. After everyone ordered, our chef amused us by juggling knives, spinning the pepper mill, and sending our shrimp soaring for a last bonzai before landing on the hot grill. The vegetables and shrimp tangoed amidst a stream of teriyaki, the scent tantalizing my taste buds.
       Warmed by the heat rolling off the grill and sips of Sake, I followed Zoloski's lead and tried to cool down with a Kirin beer. Our chef scooped everything onto plates with the finesse of a martial artist. Over steaming dishes Zoloski's gaze met mine and I recalled all the things I liked about the Z-man, from the way his dark hair fell over his collar to the gentle touch of his hands. We ate like lovers, exchanging more heated looks than the honeymooners.
       The angry couple sniping at each other brought me back from Never-land. I told Zoloski about my interview with Burns and my conversation with Donny. "Did Burns tell you anything?" I asked.
       Zoloski chopsticked his last shrimp, dipped it in ginger sauce, looked at it a moment, then popped it into his mouth. "He told me the gist of your interview. Said he kind of blew it...which you know."
       "That's all? Nothing about searching my office?"
       He laid the chopsticks down. "You didn't give him permission, did you?"
       "Yes."
       "Why?"
       "Because there's nothing to find, that's why. He promised he'd stay away from my client files and to call first so I could be there."
       "So you could be there? Blaize -- what if right after you talked, he called your office? You're not there. He's fulfilled his obligation. He gets the cleaning people to open the door and he's free to take a look around."
       Oh, shit. I grabbed my cell phone and played back the messages on my office answering machine. Burns's was the last one. Damn it, I'd been had. My first instinct was to jump in my car and haul ass downtown. Of course by now he'd be done. I took a deep breath and glared at Zoloski.
       "What?"
       "Did you know?"
       "Hey, I just think like a cop. I had no idea he planned to search your office."
       "Swear on your gold shield?" I asked, knowing it was the most important goddamn thing in his life.
       Zoloski glanced at the bill, pulled a fifty from his wallet and slapped it on top. "And cross my heart."
       "As long as your fingers aren't doing the old double X."
       He leaned over kissed my ear. "Let's forget all this and go home."
       One part of me was annoyed while the other part was friskier than the cats who used our backyard for midnight trysts.
       The lady to our right asked her husband why they'd been given an orange slice instead of a fortune cookie. I could have told her we were in Japan for the evening, not China, but purred to Zoloski as he rubbed my shoulders.
       "Think I'll be as lucky as that guy tonight?" he murmured, his gaze swerving toward the honeymooners.
       "If you crawl, beg forgiveness and pledge your undying love you might get lucky."
       He gave me a slow, sexy smile that warmed me to my toes. "How about two out of three?"
         * * * *
WE MADE unhurried, deliberate love and I fell asleep with the thought that I was exactly where I should be. Toward morning, Zoloski's warm hands slowly brought me out of a deep sleep and into another hot and heavy session. It was interrupted by the annoying shriek of his pager.
       Swearing, Zoloski rolled toward the nightstand and squinted at the pale green strip of light. He switched on the lamp and grabbed the phone.
       Feeling like a cat in need of a scratching post, I listened as he pulled on his pants. I scrambled out of bed, knowing I was too frustrated to go back to sleep.
       "What are you doing?" he asked, hanging up the phone. "It's Saturday. Sleep in."
       "I'm awake," I groused. "It's after seven. You're obviously on call. Might as well get up."
       "And do what?" He tucked his shirt and buttoned his slacks, a bulge still evident.
       "Maybe I'll dig out the vibrator."
       "Hey, I'm sorry, believe me."
       "What is it this time? Burglary gone wrong? Gas station hit? Apparent suicide?"
       "Gas station."
       I went into the kitchen and ground coffee beans, my thoughts grinding into territory better left uncharted.
       He came up behind me and kissed my neck. "Want to get married?"
       "Married?" _Are you crazy_? "You want to talk about that now?"
       His hands fell from my waist. "Guess not," he grumbled while I hid my relief. I poured the grounds into the coffee maker, dumped in the water and turned it on. "Do you think Burns would let you look at his case book?"
       Zoloski dropped a bagel into the toaster. "Forget it."
       "You said he asked for advice. What would it hurt?"
       "He talked to me out of professional courtesy. I'm sorry about the Warshawski thing, but sometimes your refusal to quit is a pain in the butt."
       "If that's the best you can do at crawling and begging forgiveness you need lessons," I said, half-serious.
       He made an impatient sound intended to make me feel like a nuisance. "Look, I'm willing to take on Burns or anyone else when it comes to you. I love you -- most of the time. But I don't know your brother."
       What was with him? Was he mad I didn't want to talk weddings, that I wasn't jumping up and down shrieking _yes _to his proposal? "Burns is looking to put Ian behind bars." I gave him a beseeching look.
       "Blaize, drop it."
       The bagels popped up and he slathered fat free cream cheese on both halves, then wolfed down one in four bites.
       I listened to the coffee bubble and hiss and tried again. "Does he know that Art's in debt to loan sharks?"
       Zoloski swallowed and put down what was left of the bagel. "If you're so hot to talk, there's a lot of things we haven't discussed the last two days."
       I recognized the one-up-man-ship tone. If I was going to persist, he was going to bring up the M word again, and I had no coffee-grinder defense. "I was just asking if you'd talk to Burns. You're free to say no."
       "Okay. No. I meant what I said about the end of the year, and a commitment. You want to talk about this with a counselor, I'll do it. Give me the time and place."
       I was still struggling with his NO and trying to accept it graciously, when he added, "But I'm telling you, quit playing PI." It came out like a direct order to some peon subordinate.
       "I'm not going to quit."
       His eyes dared me to say another word.
       I dared. "This is my brother we're talking about, Stephanos."
       "Dammit, when do you stop?"
       The phone rang and he grabbed it, barking his name into the receiver. After a moment, he said, "She's right here."
       I started to reach for it and he stepped back, his fingers strangling the phone. "Yes ..." He listened a minute. "She did say she had a headache...." His sidelong look skewered me. "Sure, no problem, John." He hung up, anger staining his face red. "Why didn't you tell me someone attacked you?"
       Oh, shit. "Was that Burns? Why didn't he talk to me?"
       "Because he's been talking to your relatives, trying to verify your story -- about getting hit on the head." His gaze narrowed. "One, you neglected to tell me. Why?"
       Double shit. "You weren't home after it happened. I went to bed. It was just a bump on the head."
       "Well, that's reassuring. This is exactly what gets me. I try to be reasonable but you keep holding back, then pushing and pushing."
       Reasonable! I held my chin up and glared back. "Damn right I'll keep pushing."
       "Let Burns handle the case," He said it slow and loud as though I'd suddenly gone deaf.
       I bristled. "Does he know about Art's debts?" When he didn't answer, I asked, "Does he know everyone wants to protect Donny? That Francine cleaned Donny's clock in the divorce? I talked to Donny and he's hiding something. If he didn't pull the trigger on Rich, he knows who did, and I think it's Lillian."
       Zoloski pulled on his jacket. Instead of arguing that Ian was still a great candidate, Zolski asked, "When did you talk to him?"
       "Yesterday," I said, stifling a twinge of guilt along with the satisfaction of getting a response. "Why?"
       "You just happened to stop by Donny's place, and he just happened to be there? This is the guy you like, right?" He gave the word _like_ a jealous edge.
       "Yes. He's a sweet guy."
       "A sweet guy who may have killed his father and uncle," he said, in a high-and-mighty tone. "Stay away from him and the rest of your screwed-up family."
       It was one thing for me to call them screwed-up, it was another to have him pointing the finger.
       "Your family's no prize," I shot back, hardly believing we were talking in this tone.
       "No one's been molested, raped, shot or stabbed in my family," he said, self-righteously.
       Was my mouth hanging open? If this was vulnerability in a relationship -- it sucked. Angry tears pricked my eyes. First Burns and now this. I moved to the coffeepot so he wouldn't see my face.
       "Blaize?"
       "You're going to be late."
       I could feel him hesitate. "It's going to be a long day. Don't wait up."
       _Fat chance_. I listened to the front door close before I moved. My mind stung from the blow of his words. I called the manager of an apartment complex downtown, then started to pack. Even though I knew this was not the time to act, I couldn't stop myself. I wanted out -- my own space -- freedom. No more pain.
       _Don't wait up_. Damn right I won't wait up. Never again.
       Filled with righteous anger, I stuffed my Saturn with clothes, emptied my closet and drawers, lugged the extra TV into the trunk -- and had second thoughts.
       Until I remembered in vivid, exquisite, excruciating detail his face as he ordered me to quit playing PI. He disliked the way I analyzed things. He disliked me asking about his cases, didn't want me involved in police work. He resented my PI license and the fact I kept it current. What did he like about me -- besides my body? Stoking my fury, I left him an unemotional explanatory note -- the kind I was way too good at -- scooped up my purse and shut the door.
       Love didn't work on a deadline, I told myself all the way downtown.
       Fuck it, I thought as I pulled into the underground parking lot of my new home, love didn't work at all.
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         *Chapter 22*
       HE FELT screwed, big time, in the ass and every which way. The fucking bitch was telling him, _him_ what to do. As if he didn't have enough worries, now he had her on his back. This was supposed to be celebration time, dammit. If not for his brother.... He cursed, knowing he couldn't tell her to stick it, not yet.
       And Andy. What was he going to do about her?
       He'd fucked up everything. The money, his job, his life. He'd grown up in a sewer and it followed him no matter what he did to crawl out of it.
       _Quit whining, you big baby_. Even from the grave, the bastard crowded his thoughts.
       _You're dead, fucker. Dead._
       Didn't seem to matter. When he was alone, that ghost came out. At night the ghost smothered him in nightmarish dreams until he bolted upright, drenched in sweat, heart thudding against his ribs, a scream lodged in his throat, his cock throbbing in his hand.
       _Get out._
       _Get out._
       _Get out._
       The words propelled him into action. Get in the car. Drive. He didn't have to think about where anymore. It was automatic.
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         *Chapter 23*
       AFTER MAKING a deposit and collecting the keys, I dumped my stuff on the middle of the living room floor and stood there, staring at the bare white walls. My own place didn't feel as great as I thought it would.
       I flicked the light switch in the kitchen. A bulb flashed, then nothing. Great, here five seconds and in need of a light. I opened the refrigerator, hoping for a bottle of wine left for the new tenant. In my dreams.
       All the stuff I would need to buy, from groceries to potted plants, cluttered my consciousness. Hell, I needed a dish to eat off. I thought about the vacuum at Zoloski's. What I'd pictured as my retreat, a personal haven, now appeared a barren wasteland. Starting over had gone from a revenge fantasy to tedious reality.
       I kept replaying my conversation with Zoloski. The therapist in me said I'd overreacted. The rest of me said I was justified. Fuck the therapist crap. Why shouldn't I run when the bombs dropped? Shit. Self-awareness was a gift and a curse -- all depended on point of view.
       Okay, so maybe I'd jumped the gun.
       Did I really want to go back? To feeling boxed-in by the Z-man's expectations? To the sense of hopelessness I felt when I didn't measure up to his ideals?
       I lugged my clothes into the big bedroom and hung them in the closet, smelling the faint odor of pine and paint. From the upstairs apartment came the thump, thump, thump of what sounded like a basketball and the shrieks of two kids fighting. All of a sudden I was back in time, in my first apartment, screaming toddlers across the landing, pick-up trucks and broken-down hotrods in the parking lot.
       I retrieved my cellular and called George Nichols to make an appointment. I'd just clicked off when the phone beeped.
       "It's Stephanos."
       My fingers tightened around the phone. I pulled back the living room curtains and studied the busy street. Railroad tracks ran alongside the two-lane. A homeless man was pushing his grocery cart into the sheltering eaves of the restaurant next door as the drizzling rain turned to an downpour. Jesus, $1500 a month and I'd still be listening to trains and watching the homeless shuffle past. I'd gone from a home in the suburbs to downtown yuppie-ville.
       Zoloski cleared his throat. "Look -- what I said to you this morning may have been out of line."
       "May have been?"
       He continued as though I hadn't spoken. "It's just, in the past -- " His voice grew distant, responding to a coworker, then came back, "It's a little chaotic around here."
       It was always chaotic around there.
       Outside a train roared by. The sound echoed into the room.
       "What's that noise?"
       _My life on the same old tracks_. The sad thought spurred me to say, "I just made an appointment with George Nichols. For crisis counseling. Seven tonight." Nine hours from now. I could almost see him checking his watch.
       "I'll be there. What's the address?"
       He'd automatically assumed it was for both of us and I didn't correct him. Maybe because I was too surprised. I opened my mouth to tell him I'd moved out, then wondered if he'd been home -- if that's why he'd called?
       Before I could voice my suspicion, he ended the conversation with a hurried, "Gotta run. See you later."
       We were both in emotional retreat and I wasn't sure how to stop it. I could return to the house, tear up the note and pretend it never happened, but it might be too late.
       I let the curtains fall into place. Lunch time was a couple hours away. I didn't have any clients. Wouldn't hurt to drop by my office and catch up on my bookkeeping, pay my half of he rent.
         * * * *
I'D MANAGED to forget Burns's offer about the lab results until I saw the manila envelope on my desk. Not that it told me anything I hadn't already guessed. The saliva on the cigarette butt was Art's, and had been there awhile. The magazine had smeared prints. Inconclusive. Neither seemed to matter now that I'd figured out Lillian was the one who'd brained me. But did that mean she'd pulled the trigger on her uncle and her father? Disgusted with myself for letting Burns con me, I tossed the envelope into the bottom desk drawer. The same gun was used for both murders, but that didn't mean the same finger pulled the trigger both times. I shortened my list of suspects to Donny and Lillian -- or less likely in my mind -- tag team #2, Art and Francine.
       I needed to move, to talk, to do something. Zoloski smiled at me from the photo on my desk. What if I'd misread his reason for calling? What if he didn't know I'd moved out? He'd get one helluva surprise during counseling. I tried to reach him, got his voice mail and hung up.
       As usual, I turned to the steady of my life, Lon.
       We met at a small coffee house on 21st Street where we used to study together. He was waiting outside, looking great in an expensive ivory suit, dark shirt and navy tie. Two pretty women, standing next to the croissant case, gave him the eye as we passed. He didn't seem to notice.
       Claiming our old table near the back, I shoved aside a torn, coffee-stained copy of _News and Review_. The scent of fresh brewed French Roast and almond pastries wafted through the place, but I ordered homemade vegetable soup.
       Over a steaming bowl, I poured out everything that happened since our last talk, even my speculations about Lillian and Donny.
       "One thing at a time, girl. You've got me in overwhelm."
       "You're in overwhelm!" I couldn't hold back a groan. "I just left Stephanos and I feel like shit and I don't know what I'm going to say to him."
       "Just tell it like it is, sugar."
       "Oh, right. I love you, Stephanos, but I've moved out?"
       "It's why you moved out that's important." He reached across the table and took my hand. "If I thought you and I -- I'd live with you in a second -- you know that -- but when you two look at each other -- I can't compete with that. What are you running from, Blaize?"
       "He's suspicious and controlling."
       "Which side of the street are you sweeping?"
       Twelve-step lingo for taking another person's inventory instead of your own -- a classic way to avoid looking at yourself. "I don't like deadlines."
       "Is what he wants so unreasonable?"
       From his tone, I knew he didn't think so. The problem was, half of me agreed. Where did that leave the other half? I took a sip of peppery broth, trying to see myself walking down the aisle. Why was it so much easier to see myself alone? My throat tightened and I could barely swallow. Lon watched, waiting for an answer. I shook my head. "No, what he wants is flattering. I mean, most women would say I'm an idiot."
       "Most people are idiots about themselves."
       "Thanks for the support."
       He grinned, then his smile faded and he patted my hand. "Zoloski may hate my guts, but he deserves a commitment.
       "He doesn't hate you."
       "Poor choice of words. You know what I mean. We'll never be pals, okay? Let's get back to commitment. Don't you think you deserve one, too?"
       Was all this about what I believed I deserved? Could it be that simple? The therapist in me said _yes_. The rest of me said _no way_. I shoved back from the table. "I'm just not ready ... Every time I open up he says something to hurt me."
       "So, be a therapist, look at what's behind his words. You're not the only one afraid of commitment."
       But I was the one running from "I do's." I loved him, but that wasn't enough. What would be enough? "It isn't commitment that scares me, Lon. It's the feeling that if I do this, give in, I'll be giving in forever, to make him happy."
       "But what if it makes you happy?"
       I had no answer. Imagining myself happy as an overall life statement was not on my train ticket.
       "Why does his happiness mean you give up something?"
       I squeezed his hand, memories of my mother giving and giving and giving to my father -- who never seemed happy -- clouding my eyes. If I didn't feel so ridiculously caught in my own trap I would have laughed. I shook my head. "Skewed programming."
       Lon gave me a look of encouragement. "So start changing it."
       "I still don't know that I want to get married by New Year's. Why is he so insistent?"
       "Maybe because he knew you'd run."
       "You really believe that if I say I want to get married, he'd back off?"
       Lon held up his hands. "Whoa -- I won't stick my neck out that far, but isn't that the dance most couples do? One advances while the other retreats, then they reverse the process?"
       "Whose books have you been reading?"
       "The book of life, Blaize. You remember when I helped you move out of Ross's place?"
       "How could I forget all that screaming and yelling?"
       "Yeah, but he came around, tried to get you back, didn't he?"
       I thought about the two years dating Ross, how he'd chased me until I moved in, then he disappeared. What kind of dance was that? "But I told him to get lost."
       Still, it was beginning to make sense. When I'd been interested, he'd done everything to push me away. Zoloski wanted to get married, and I was having fantasies about Donny. Did I really believe I deserved someone more like Ross or my cousin, but not the Z-man?
       "Whatever dance Stephanos and I are doing, I'm tired of it." I checked my watch. "And I've got to run or I'll be late for our appointment."
       "What are you going to do?"
       I felt like a tightrope walker making a debut over the grand canyon. "I don't know."
         * * * *
ZOLOSKI was getting out of his car when I pulled into the space beside him. Typical October weather, the sky was cloudy, the air growing colder as the sun set. "You want to get some dinner afterwards?" he asked as we went inside.
       He didn't know. Feeling hollow and mustering a meager smile, I shrugged. "Sure." If he still wanted to. I had no idea what to say. I glanced around George's reception area as though I'd never been there, hating the feel-good art. I sat on the beige leather couch. Zoloski joined me, leaving a foot of space between us. I swallowed, readying myself to give him the news of my exodus.
       He spoke first. "I called John Burns," he said. "He's checking into everyone's backgrounds, not just yours. And he's questioning Art, Donny, Lillian, and Francine again."
       I didn't know what to say.
       "Donny's gun is missing. They checked the twenty-two registered to Tom and the one registered to Art, not a match."
       Donny's gun was missing, too? If Lillian was setting up Ian that didn't make sense. I glanced over at Zoloski, his dark hair windblown, his green eyes watchful. I was flabbergasted at his peace offering. Why, when I'd thrown in the towel, did he make me want to retrieve it? "You didn't have to tell me this. You said no, and I respect that." _Most of the time. When my brother isn't a candidate for a jail cell._
       "That's not the point. Some of the stuff I told Burns was inappropriate. I'm sorry about that. And this morning. What I said and how I said it." He shook his head. "I was frustrated."
       His words brought back the sting of accusation. Even so, I wished I hadn't moved out. "Well, thanks for thinking it through," I began as a preamble to giving him the news.
       "I'm sorry, Blaize. But you know how you are when you get involved in PI work."
       His sanctimonious tone wiped out the apology. I found myself recalling the time right after I'd moved in, when he'd accused me of being willing to have sex with my old boyfriend if I thought it could get me information. All because I told him I was going to ask Ross for help. I'd tried to walk out then and he'd stopped me. This time I'd done it. Yet here I was, sitting outside George's office, stewing over what to say.
       Before I could work out a response, George stepped out of his office. He nodded to me as he escorted another couple -- looking like a _happy_ commercial -- through the reception area to the door. "Blaize, come in." He waited until I'd passed, then shook Zoloski's hand, both men exchanging names.
       George sat in a leather recliner and Zoloski and I sat on either end of the couch in his office. "So, what brings you here?" He looked at me, then Zoloski.
       Zoloski spoke first. "I want more of a commitment from Blaize than she's willing to give."
       "I'm totally committed to our relationship," I said, "I just don't want to get married."
       "How long have you been together?" George asked, casting an interested look from me to Zoloski.
       He answered, "Two years."
       George raised his eyebrows at me. "You've been living together that long?"
       Images of me and Ross on the houseboat came back. Two years of lunacy before I'd smartened up and left. But this time? I bit my lip, trying to figure out what to say. "Yes."
       Zoloski's gaze narrowed at my hesitation.
       How did I get myself into this?
       George said, "So, what's the problem?"
       "We had a fight this morning. About my brother. I wanted Stephanos's help. He said no. After he left, I -- I moved out."
       Zoloski gaped. "You moved --  ?" His stunned expression made me feel guilty. Then he was on his feet. "Then what was this for?" He made a vague gesture toward George. "Payback for what I told Burns?"
       "I tried to tell you, but ..."
       His furious expression shriveled my words. He offered a grim look to George. "Guess we don't need counseling," he said, striding toward the door.
       "Couples don't come to me when things are going well," George said, his words stopping Zoloski in his tracks. "Obviously you both care enough to be here. Blaize's move may be a turning point to something better for the two of you. Don't quit now."
       Zoloski wore an unconvinced expression. He stared at me. "Do you want to work it out?"
       My fingers dug into the sofa's cushion. "What if I can't work it out by New Year's?"
       "I don't know," he said, stiffly.
       It was a concession.
       George cast his inquisitive gaze my way. "New Year's?"
       "Stephanos wants to get married and he wants a _yes_ or _no_ by the end of the year."
       Zoloski shifted on his feet.
       "You mean it?" George asked.
       "Yes," Zoloski said.
       "Why don't you stay and talk about it," George invited.
       Zoloski reclaimed his place on the couch, leaning back, arms folded across his chest. Under George's questioning, he explained about his first wife and his distrust of me, ending with, "Blaize and her long-lost cousin, Donny, looked pretty chummy and she was obviously annoyed when I interrupted their conversation."
       "No, you were pissed off because I said I wanted to stay at Aunt Charlene's instead of going home -- "
       George cut me off. "What are you feeling right now? I want you to tell Stephanos."
       "I feel like what I want is unimportant, unless it's the same thing you want."
       "For instance?" George queried.
       "I really wanted you to come with me to the funeral. Instead you show up at Charlene's afterwards, then you want to go right home and have sex."
       "I wanted a conversation and some time together and you know it! But no, you have to save the world again. I'm sick of worrying about you, wondering if you're okay. You've almost been killed twice. A normal person might think before investigating a third murder, but not you. Dammit, I don't want to see you in a box in front of the church!"
       "So it's okay for you to take all the chances and have all the fun, but not me?"
       George interrupted, "All the fun?" He looked at Zoloski. "You consider your job fun?"
       "Well ... yeah. I enjoy it."
       George's eyebrows lifted. "Okay. Let's approach this from a different angle. Both of you take a deep breath. Stephanos, I want you to say to Blaize, "I worry when I don't know where you are, because I love you."
       Zoloski repeated the words in a flat voice. Even so, I felt less defensive than a moment before.
       "Blaize, I want you to say, I like the challenges of investigative work, but I don't mean to worry you. Would it help if I called you or left a note when something unexpected comes up?"
       I said the words, then added, "So why do I feel like I'm being controlled by saying I'll call or leave a note?"
       "Controlled?"
       "Okay, call it mistrust. I don't feel like Stephanos trusts me."
       "Because?"
       "Because if he did I wouldn't need to call him or leave a note for his approval."
       "Approval?" George asked.
       Zoloski was leaning forward with interest while I squirmed on the hot seat. Whoever said emotions were logical? "Yes, approval. If I call him and tell him where I'm going or what I'm doing he'll try to talk me out of it."
       "And?"
       God, I hated George's prodding. "And we'd get into a fight."
       "So you don't want to tell him what you're doing because it will provoke a fight?"
       "Yes."
       "And you don't fight if you don't call him or leave him a message?"
       "No, we still fight, but -- " But what? I said the words reluctantly. "But we fight afterwards, so he can't stop me."
       "So you're afraid that if you talk to him beforehand he'll stop you from doing what you want?"
       Zoloski looked dumbfounded. "No one can stop you when you set your mind to something, Blaize. All I'm asking is that you keep me informed so I don't go nuts wondering if you're safe."
       "What about the two month deadline?" I shot back, still feeling defensive.
       "I won't press you. We can have a long engagement."
       The unexpected reprieval left me speechless.
       "What are you feeling?" George asked Zoloski.
       He glanced at me. "Apprehensive."
       George nodded encouragingly. "About what?"
       "That she's stringing me along and when the day arrives, she won't show up."
       "Tell Blaize."
       He said it again and I bit back a sarcastic retort about not wearing a guarantee. "What would make you feel less apprehensive?" I asked.
       "If we keep coming here and work on our communication."
       "Sure." I felt like we'd jumped a major hurdle.
       "And I'd like to set a tentative wedding date," he added.
       "Why do you want to get married so badly?" I didn't understand his desire to pin me down.
       Zoloski swallowed, anxiety etched in his face. A cold sensation spread in my gut. "I'm thinking about having a kid."
       Geez Louise. "I thought you didn't care about kids."
       "Well, I guess I'm thinking I might like one, and I'd like to know how you feel."
       We'd joked about children, neither of us concerned because we were both so busy. How did he think we would fit a child into our schedules? "I'm not exactly great mother material, Stephanos. Look at my family ... it's full of screw-ups."
       He frowned, his tone accusing. "You've never given me a chance to know your mother or brother. You've always got reasons for not inviting them over."
       "I don't want to ruin the time I have with you," I threw back.
       "Let's get back to your view of marriage," George said. "Do you think it's realistic, Blaize?"
       Reality had nothing to do with it. I knew where George was headed, hell, I could tell my clients the same thing -- but now I was the client and suddenly it wasn't so damn easy. I'd been born with a train ticket in my hand that put me on the track toward spinsterhood. "I suppose I have a pessimistic view," I allowed. "There may be a few marriages out there where love triumphs -- with or without kids."
       "It's a matter of responding differently, which I'm sure you're aware of," George said. "How a person responds is mostly about their history and has very little to do with the other person's actions."
       "In other words, when I trigger Stephanos and he yells like a two year old, it's because he's feeling ignored like he was as a kid which makes him overreact as an adult. And vice-versa."
       Zoloski looked about to grumble something derogatory at my brilliance. Amazingly, he kept his mouth shut.
       "I want to try something," George said, and my stomach flip-flopped. I was about to become an emotional guinea pig. I told myself this was why I was here -- to get to the core and change it. What's wrong with the familiar? a part of mind resisted loudly. Get up, get out, say _sayonara, adios_, and _dazvedania_. He was just a guy, for chrissakes. Anyone who agonized over a guy was a fool -- 
       I turned off what I'd long ago recognized as my mother's voice and nodded at George. "Ready." Oh yeah? I was a quivering mass of gelatin -- only I didn't let it show.
       George stood up, took two folding chairs from the closet and set them up in the center of the room facing each other. His voice was low and encouraging. "I want you and Stephanos to sit here. Get as close as you can to each other and hold hands."
       Stephanos looked as resistant as me, but we did it. His hands were warmer than his guarded expression, his grip obligatory. I stifled the urge to pull away.
       "I want you to see Stephanos as a little boy."
       Oh no, not that inner child shit. But the image of a dark-haired kid with mossy-colored eyes and an unreadable expression superimposed itself over Zoloski's face.
       I damned my imagination as all my fears and resentments faded into a ball of pain. It swelled in my stomach, but instead of choking me, it faded too into something totally unexpected. Compassion. A desire to hold him, comfort him, love him. Tears stung my eyes as I squeezed his hand.
       "What is it you want to say?" George coaxed.
       My words were an even bigger surprise. "Don't leave me."
       Zoloski's arm slid around me and he drew me onto his lap and held me. I shuddered a thousand deaths in his arms as he stroked my hair and said, "I love you."
       Once more my emotions shifted, to a place of peace and safety, a place I rarely visited. Slowly we detangled ourselves and returned to the couch.
       "I want you both to practice holding each other. When one of you is pushing the other away -- take that as a sign of needing to be held. If you can choose to act instead of react, you really can heal each other."
       I felt hopeful, and wary of that hope at the same time.
       Zoloski, his voice calmer and more assured, said to George, "I'd like to talk more about having kids."
       "Kids?" The plural shot new alarm bells into action.
       George glanced at his watch. "Looks like we have next week's topic."
       Next week? I wanted to duke it out right now. Reluctantly, I said, "Okay, next week." I glanced at Zoloski and he nodded tacit agreement.
       George smiled. "Last exercise before you leave. Blaize, what do you appreciate about Stephanos?"
       I looked at Zoloski, wishing he hadn't said _kids_ and thought, _he irritates me to death_ and forced out, "You're a great cop, you work hard and you play a mean game of racquetball." Zoloski's mouth softened and my insides started to relax. "You're patient and I feel safe with you." More loving feelings. "You're handsome, a wonderful lover, you're smart, and you have a great sense of humor." Where had the tension gone? Even the idea of motherhood seemed less frightening -- although I wasn't near ready to admit that. Maybe by next week I'd figure out that subject.
       "Okay, Stephanos, what do you like about Blaize?"
       He looked at me and my heart clenched. If he smiled, I'd be putty. "You're bright and gorgeous and a great lover. You're loyal and you work hard, you love sailing as much as I do, and you're fun to work out with."
       Warmth flooded between us. With a heart-stopping grin, Zoloski reached over and squeezed my hand.
       George cleared his throat. "Same time next week?"
       We both nodded. It wasn't until we were in the parking lot, standing under a lamplight, that I realized my clothes were in my new apartment. Snuggling in bed with Zoloski sounded way better than the apartment floor.
       Standing beside my car, the Z-man wrapped me in his arms and whispered, "I love you," then stole my "ditto" with a soul-searing kiss.
       I lost my balance and slid sideways.
       A loud backfire blasted the air. My car window shattered. The word "bullet" ricocheted through my brain.
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         *Chapter 24*
       ZOLOSKI knocked me to the ground, taking most of the impact. "Stay down!" he ordered as he peered toward a row of gardenias shrouded in darkness.
       I heard a car engine rev and the squeal of tires, and raced to the other side of the bushes. Zoloski beat me by a toe. All I glimpsed was part of a bumper sticker WEEK that might have been yellow or orange and a flicker of taillight.
       "You okay?" he asked.
       I shook slivers of glass from my shirt and brushed off my pants. "Yeah, like the battery bunny, I just keep going."
       "Jesus, you're bleeding."
       "Where?" I didn't feel a thing.
       "Hairline." Cursing under his breath, he reached in the Jag, grabbed a tissue from the box behind the seat, and dabbed at my forehead. I wondered if I had another lecture coming along with the first-aid. "There, that'll do," he said, his mouth compressing as though to hold the rest back. I watched him retrieve a flashlight, then we searched for the bullet that had shattered my window, and scanned the bushes for a bullet casing. _Nada_.
       He tossed the flashlight behind the seat and pulled his cellular. "I'm getting a team out here, then I'm taking you home." Speaking into the phone, he used his urgent _don't give me any shit_ cop voice. This time, I appreciated it.
       I sank into the passenger side of the Jag. Had someone really meant to kill me? Or was someone just trying to warn me off? It didn't seem real. Yet. But as Zoloski talked to the new arrivals in blue I could feel anger seeping through the shock like oil through waxed paper. Some asshole had taken a shot at me! In the nether regions of my brain, the name _Lillian_ flashed. Had she progressed from mad thumper to this?
       By the time Zoloski crawled behind the wheel, I was stoked to catch her or whoever it was.
       "We'll come back in the morning," he said, as the engine purred to life. "Get your car fixed then. They haven't found the bullet."
       We both wanted to recover the bullet and see if it came from the gun that killed Rich and Tom. If the killer was after me, would Zoloski tell me one more time to let Burns handle the case, or help me? "I think two people are involved," I said, as we zipped toward the freeway. "Art had no motive to shoot Tom, neither did Donny. But Lillian did."
       Stephanos gave a warning grunt, worry and frustration in his expression.
       "Maybe it's a case of I'll take care of your problem if you take care of mine. Art helps out Francine or Lillian, one of them helps out Art."
       His jaw tightened, but I saw a flicker of curiosity. "How about Donny helps out Lillian? You said she's the one who hit you on the head, right?"
       I'd snagged his attention, and he wasn't lecturing. This was new. Hearing Donny and Lillian's names coming from him, though, made me want to poke holes in the possibility. "Yes," I said.
       "Now someone's taken a shot at you."
       My stomach clenched, anticipating the reprimand.
       "Or the perp was aiming at me," he said.
       "You?" The thought hadn't occurred to me, but it should have. Lots of people didn't like cops -- especially ex-cons.
       "Maybe we should find out where your suspects are at the moment, then check into possibles on my end." He got on the phone to his partner, the conversation lasting until we'd pulled into the driveway.
       "We should have some answers by morning," he said, leading the way inside.
       "You think the WEEK on the bumper sticker might be a lead?"
       "Fruitcake Week? Kill a Cop Week? God knows what it could say and I didn't see it at all." His tone said if it led anywhere he'd do laundry for a year.
       I dropped my purse by the door. "The shot could have been meant as a warning." I headed into the living room. My nervous energy dying, I sank onto the couch, and watched Zoloski strip off his tie and gun.
       He sat next to me, the cushion sagging beneath his weight. "That or the person's a lousy shot."
       "We need a new sofa," I said as he put his arms around me. His mouth closed over mine and I forgot the need for springier cushions. We made love with a sense of desperation. I needed to feel my heart beating against Zoloski's chest, to feel connected and safe. I figured he needed to reassure me and perhaps himself as well. We made love again in bed, this time slow and easy and I fell asleep with my head on his chest, his arms around me.
       I woke before the five-thirty alarm went off and found myself studying the Z-man's face in the dim shadows. What would it be like to wake up alone? My chest constricted. Sometime during the last two years my baseball bat had gone from beside the bed to the garage. I no longer felt a need to have it handy. My nightmares had faded and I couldn't recall when I'd had the last one.
       _Beep. Beep. Beep._ Zoloski propped himself up on one elbow, reaching past me to slap the snooze button. "Want to go for a jog?"
       I hadn't jogged with him for at least two months and he'd quit asking. "What about my car -- the suspects -- all that?"
       He gave me a wicked grin. "I'll find out what's what while you figure out which of my shirts and shorts you're going to swipe."
       I thought about my clothes at the apartment. My jogging shoes were still here in the garage on top of the dryer. "Do we have time for coffee?"
       "If you move that gorgeous butt, sweetheart."
       I moved it, but not from bed and Zoloski's grin widened. We didn't go jogging, but we showered together, had breakfast together, and went to the police station together.
       His partner, Arnie Dryden, married to my college roommate, Pat, gave us the lowdown on Donny, Art, Lillian, and Francine. Arnie looked like marriage agreed with him -- his red hair neatly trimmed above the collar, shirt ironed, brown suit and tie coordinated with matching socks -- of course I hadn't known him before he married Pat, so maybe he was always a dapper guy. Put a bowler on his head and he'd look like Ralph Fiennes' John Steed. He spoke in low, concise tones. "Francine was waiting tables, attested to by co-workers; the other three were in transit between work and home, according to them. Both Lillian and Donny could have stopped long enough to take a shot at you without going much out of their way -- of course, how they knew you would be there is a question. Art was working in Jackson -- tough for him to be here and there -- unless someone's covering for him at the casino. It's a good hour commute."
       He reached into the top desk drawer and pulled out a bag. "Found the bullet. It's mangled." He handed the bag to Zoloski, then glanced at me. "Your brother already fixed your car. Four a.m."
       Ian's way of showing he cared, I thought, love welling up for my brother. In our family, verbal communication was not a strong point -- but action spoke volumes. I no longer doubted his innocence, but I wasn't about to stop. This had become way too personal, and I was mad.
       Arnie handed me the keys. "It's in the parking lot, ready to go."
       Zoloski opened the paper bag and peered inside. "Looks like a twenty-two," he said, casting a concerned frown my way.
       I thought of Donny, and his admission that he owned several guns. His .22 was missing. Was the guy who'd rescued me as a kid now trying to kill me? The look Zoloski gave me said he thought the bullet was meant for me. I did, too.
       Zoloski dropped me at my car. "I'm going to talk to Burns, Blaize. Where you headed?"
       "The apartment." I gave him a wink. "Time to move my stuff home. Then I thought I'd give Ian a call."
       "Be careful."
       He wasn't ordering me to stop? I gave him a lingering kiss. "I will."
         * * * *
I SAT in the empty living room of my new apartment and studied the blank walls. There was a longing for my own space, completely my own, that tugged at me. A dysfunctional tug, I admitted. I deserved a chance with the Z-man, and he'd proved that he could give as well as take. He wasn't my father and I wasn't my mother, always giving away her soul for a "thank you" that never came.
       I loaded everything into my car and roared back out to Antelope. I walked through the house, inhaling the scent of Zoloski's aftershave in the bathroom, the smell of hazelnut coffee in the kitchen. He did dishes, laundry, enjoyed cooking... and he'd shown up for the counseling session. I'd had doubts. I didn't now. Despite the kid issue, which still scared the shit out of me, I was committed to the engagement. For the first time in months I had faith that we could make it.
       As I unloaded the car, I thought about the risks the Z-man took. Life made no guarantees. But I would do my part, go the whole measure with Zoloski and see where it led.
       Enough analyzing. I called Ian. "My car looks great, thank you."
        I could almost see him burn red at the compliment. "Least I could do."
       "Why don't you come over for dinner next week?" I offered impulsively.
       "Dinner?"
       "Yeah, you know, we sit around the table and shoot the shit, get to know each other."
       He laughed. "I'd like that."
       "So would I," I said, meaning it. We decided on the following Sunday. I hung up thinking that would give Zoloski ten days to get over his shock and figure out what to cook.
       Back to the murders. I decided on a course of action -- hardball with each of my cousins until I got something. I wanted to confirm a few details with Art before tackling Donny or Lillian. It seemed like a good time to approach Aunt Elizabeth and do a little digging about her daughter. Bottom line: Did I believe Lillian or Donny took a shot at me?
       Lillian, yes. Donny, maybe. So, if I acted on my gut, I pursued Lillian. Where did that leave Donny? He knew who shot Tom and his father, I was sure of it. He'd basically told me he'd protect that person or persons no matter what. If he was protecting Lillian, his demeanor puzzled me. He didn't act overjoyed to be with her or super protective, traits I would expect. If I was going to talk to Burns, and eventually I would have to, I needed evidence. Like the slug that shattered my window. Problem was, it was mashed and probably couldn't be connected to the murders.
       I punched in Art's number. He might give me a little ammunition against Donny and Lillian. If he didn't, I'd talk to Francine, then Elizabeth. I planned to hit Lillian last.
       Art answered in a groggy, half-baked tone, "‘lo."
       "It's Bl -- Andy. You missed a pleasant chat with Detective Burns at the funeral."
       "Andy? What time is it?"
       "Twelve-thirty. You want to meet for lunch? The place with chocolate cake?" I needed chocolate to calm my fears, especially now that someone had put me in the cross hairs.
       "I didn't get home until nine. Shit." My question seemed to finally register and I got a more wakeful, "Lunch? Why?"
       "Thought you might be curious about the funeral. And about what I've learned about the murders."
       "I don't give a flying fuck." But a squeakiness in his voice said otherwise. In fact, his voice sounded strangely off-key. Could he have taken a shot at me?
       "In an hour," I coaxed.
       A groan. "Oh, why the fuck not? But it's on you."
       Well at least he wasn't out to impress me anymore. I changed into a cable knit sweater, jeans and lightweight hiking boots. Warm and comfy. I tucked my .32 into my purse. I wasn't trusting anyone in this family.
       I called the casino, asked for security. If Burns had talked to them they might assume I was a cop -- their mistake. "Detective Burns and I were talking and I need to verify that Art McCue was at work last night."
       "Like I told the other guy, McCue works swings, eight-to-eights. Saturdays through Tuesdays. He worked an extra shift last night."
       "You're positive he couldn't have slipped away while on duty?"
       Exasperation. "My boss gave you the video -- the guy was here all freakin' night Monday."
       When Tom was shot. "What about the previous Thursday?"
       "He called in sick. I already told the other guy this. I can't believe you people -- "
       "I appreciate your time, thank you." I hung up with his grumbling in my ear.
       I checked my Palm Pilot notes. Art had called in sick, yet ended up playing blanket bingo with Francine -- according to their alibi. Either of them could have shot Rich. Tom was a problem, though. Art was at work. With all the casino cameras I didn't see how he could have snuck out. Francine was out with Ian -- but not all evening. Ian had been at work until my visit around 5:30; Francine could have been anywhere. Both of them had seemed genuinely upset about Tom's murder.
       That left Lillian and Donny. Or Lillian and Art? She could be using Art or vice-versa. Dammit, I needed a break. I wrestled with the idea of talking to Burns and telling him what happened.
       I dialed his number.
       He answered on the first ring. "John Burns."
       "This is Blaize McCue." His hesitation told me I caught him off guard.
       "Yes?"
       "I don't know if Stephanos talked to you yet, but someone took a shot at me last night." I didn't want to say where we were, didn't want him knowing any more of my business than he already did. It upset me that he'd dug into my background at all.
       "He called a couple of hours ago." I detected no "give" in his voice. "How do you know he wasn't the target? He's made two arrests in the last week. Both men are out on bail."
       "The bullet shattered my car window, not his," I said with forced calm.
       "And you think it has to do with your uncle's death?" His condescending tone reminded me of the first time Zoloski and I met, and Zoloski questioned my judgment.
       "The possibility occurred to me," I said, stiffly, trying to hide the sarcasm.
       "Then maybe you should quit stirring up trouble."
       "Oh right. Just sit back and watch you railroad my brother? I don't think so."
       "Now look, Doctor. I'm not out to railroad anyone." His hard as nails voice went against my image of his baby face. "I'm out to gather facts and find a killer. Now, I really appreciate you calling me, and if you have any other information I'd be glad to hear it."
       "Since you're out to gather facts -- not guesswork -- the only fact I have, so far, is the slug Zoloski and I found this morning."
       Silence, then voices in the background. "Will you hold for a moment?" The line clicked to soft music before I could answer. Guess he was showing me who was in control. I hung up.
       And called Zoloski.
       "It's Blaize. I just called Burns. Instead of pumping me for information he put me on hold. You talked to him earlier. What's going on?"
       A long pause where all I heard was breathing. "Your brother's not in as much quicksand as you think. Burns now thinks Art killed his father, and possibly his uncle. Dammit, you better not breathe one word of this conversation to anyone."
       Art? "I won't," I promised, meaning it and suddenly wondering if I should meet him. A busy restaurant was not a killer's choice for taking out his target. I patted my purse and the arsenal inside it. I'd be on guard. "Thank you, Stephanos."
       "You can thank me later," he said.
       "Why does he think Art did it? I mean, money or revenge is a given for Rich, but what'd he have against Tom?" Was there a gap in the casino video? _If Art did it_.
       _Shut up_, I told that nagging little voice. I wanted Art to be guilty.
       "It's complicated."
       "How?"
       "The day before he was killed, Lillian admitted that she let something slip to her father. He threatened to go to the police. She got scared and called Art."
       I immediately wondered why she didn't call Donny, then remembered he'd been at Bodega Bay. "Did she say how Art reacted?"
       "She said he freaked out."
       "And Tom got shot."
       "You got it, sweetheart."
        "Any idea of what time Tom was shot?"
       "Earliest -- five p.m. Latest -- eleven p.m. The guy had enough alcohol in his system to fell a rhino."
       My mind cranked. Art could have shot Tom before going to work.
       "Now will you trust Burns and give it a rest?"
       "There's a couple of things I want to check out, but after that, if Ian's in the clear, I'm off the case."
       A grudging, "That's your best offer?"
       I slipped into my throaty Monroe imitation, "My best offer comes after hours, darling."
       "Promises, promises," but his tone was lighter.
       I said good-bye with warm thoughts running through my mind. Until Art's image intruded. And Lillian's.
       As I was sailing out the door the phone rang. Curiosity got the better of me. "We must have been cut off," Burns snapped. "Come to the station as soon as possible. We need to talk."
       "About what?" Something was up.
       "Not over the phone. How soon can you get here?"
       I recalled that Art sounded so tired he might let something slip. A part of me still wanted to give Burns something he didn't have already. "An hour."
       "All right. But make it a short hour."
         * * * *
I CLAIMED the same cozy restaurant booth as before and ordered a cafe mocha. The _step_ part of step-cousin sounded better and better. I made a list of questions as I sipped.
       You build a theory from the facts and work with it. That was the art of detection. Trouble was I had a whole lot of guesswork and some gut feelings, but no facts. I glanced toward the door and checked my watch. Fifteen minutes late. Last time, Art was early. The uneasy feeling in my stomach started to burn.
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         *Chapter 25*
       HE FELT trapped. Walls closing in. The high and the whore had done little to ease his pulsating need for more. The voracious animal of his addiction had him in its jaws, going for the jugular. He was spinning out of control. Going crazy. Dear God, he needed ... a way out. His life was one big shit hole. He saw himself flailing, clawing for a handhold, and sinking into a sewer.
       He was suffocating. The desire to redeem himself warred for control with the animal. Was it too late to meet Andy?
       What would he say if he did?
       No.
       He knew what he needed to do. He had his son to think about now.
       He had to do it. Just this once, he had to win. No matter what.
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         *Chapter 26*
       ART DIDN'T show. Even after two pieces of chocolate cake, I was pissed. My cellular rang as I pulled to the curb at the Auburn police station.
       Donny's voice, low and tight with anxiety. "Art's been in an accident. He's in surgery. They're not sure he's going to make it."
       I stared out the windshield and tried to make some sense of it. "What happened?"
       "Don't know," he said, his tone evasive.
       "I think you do, Donny. Tell me what's going on." I added softly, "Before someone else gets hurt."
       A sharp inhale of breath. "This was a car accident."
       "You certain about the accident part?"
       Silence.
       "Does Burns know?" I asked.
       "Yes. He sent a cop to check everything out." An edge of panic underlined the words. "I'll talk to you when you come."
       I started the car, feeling edgy. My body seemed to know something my brain had yet to register. "Where are you?"
       "Sutter Hospital, Roseville."
       _Rap, rap, rap_. I jumped, my gaze shooting toward the passenger door. Burns eyed me through the glass. He gestured impatiently for me to come inside.
       "Donny, I'm tied up at the moment, but_ please_, wait for me. I'll be there as soon as I can."
       "I'll be here." _Click_.
       My head spinning, I switched off the ignition and climbed from the car. "I just heard about Art. Donny wants me at the hospital. Can we make this quick?"
       His youthful face told me _quick_ was not on his agenda. "I'll try," he said.
       The offices smelled like charred coffee. We passed his desk with a huge piece of devil's food delight sitting on a stack of papers, a lopsided white candle stuck in the frosting. Even after stuffing myself with two pieces of cake it looked good. "Your birthday?"
       A curt nod that said he wasn't thrilled with the direction his day had taken. Made me think of Zoloski and all the times he'd been called away from home, had to cancel plans. The job took its toll. I found myself feeling sympathetic toward a man who suddenly seemed more human because he got stuck celebrating his birthday at work.
       Once inside the tiny interrogation room, he shocked me by bringing out an evidence bag with a gun inside.
       My mouth dried. It was the murder weapon. I knew it. Felt it.
       Burns settled into a chair across from mine, his elbows resting on the table. He leaned forward. "Okay, you want _quick_, here's the run down. It's the gun used to kill both your uncles. Ballistics came back while we were on the phone this morning. Serial numbers are filed off. Recognize it?"
       "Looks like a twenty-two," I said with intentional vagueness.
       "Is it yours?"
       "Mine?"
       His baby-faced expression looked way too smug. "It was in the bottom drawer of your desk."
       "What?" How the hell had a gun turned up in my desk?
       "You heard me, Doctor."
       The way he said _doctor_ made me wonder if he was angry at me in particular or just the way this day had gone.
       My mind raced. "Were there prints?"
       "Wiped clean."
       "What about the bullets?"
       He lifted an amused eyebrow. "No bullets."
       "If I'd left it in my drawer I wouldn't have wiped it clean." Some SOB was trying to set me up.
       "I realize that, Doctor. I'm not saying you're guilty of anything. I'm just trying to understand how the gun came to be there." His _help me_ tone made me more suspicious than his hard-assed one. He gave me a sardonic smile, "I can't rule out you or your brother, but your cousin's ‘accident' opens up more questions and I can't ignore them either. I'm sharing my thoughts here because I'd like to know yours."
       "I don't recognize the gun and I don't know how it got into my desk."
       His lips disappeared in frustration.
       I debated whether to tell him that I'd figured out Lillian was the one who'd hit me at Charlene's. Could she have put the gun in my desk? Anyone could approach my suite. The doors were left open during business hours. "Have you talked to the cleaning woman who does our office?" I asked. "Maybe she let someone in."
       "Mrs. Imelda Gomez."
       "That's her."
       "We're still trying to reach her."
        I knew she worked two jobs. Reaching her wouldn't be easy. "So now what?" I asked, staring at the gun.
       "We'll try to determine who owns the gun. My guess is your brother or Donald."
       Donald. No one called him that. "It could be Art's."
       The flicker in his eyes said he'd been waiting for me to bring up Art. "No. His gun's in his apartment. Unused. We tested it last week."
       "Maybe he stole it just to implicate Donny or Ian."_ Or maybe Lillian did._
       "Maybe," he conceded. "Any ideas on why Art veered into a concrete divider on a near empty stretch of road?"
       "Drunk?" I ventured, telling him about Art's haggard speech.
       Without comment, he jotted it down. His cellular rang and he flipped it open. "John Burns." He listened, swore under his breath, then disconnected and glanced at me.
       "What's going on?"
       He shoved to his feet. "Looks like your cousin Art drove into the divider to kill himself. He left a written confession to both murders."
       Art killing himself and leaving a confession? I thought of all his dark, smoky looks and sexual innuendoes and his obvious need to impress. Suicide? I didn't know enough to rule it out. "Wasn't he working when Tom was killed?" I asked, hoping I sounded completely ignorant.
       "He's on the casino video, but there's a window of time before he arrived at work. If he'd put the pedal to the metal he might have been able to pull it off."
       "With his inheritance he'd have the loan sharks off his back, money to burn, why throw in the towel now?"
       "Loan sharks?"
       "He mentioned owing money," I fudged. "Why steal a gun, file off the serial numbers and ditch it in my office if he was going to confess, then kill himself?"
       Burns ushered me toward the door. "Maybe he wasn't working alone and he didn't inform his accomplice of his suicide plan."
       "And the accomplice put the gun in my desk?"
       Burns shrugged.
       A possible scenario that fit Art and Francine. But more likely Donny and Lillian. As Burns walked me outside, he was entirely too nice for comfort.
       "Are you certain Art's confession was written by him?"
       "It was handwritten -- a letter -- that's all I can say."
       No, that's all he _would_ say. I climbed into my car and rolled down the window. "I'd like to know what he said."
       "Maybe I'll call you later."
       Fat chance of that, I thought.
       He leaned down. "I think you're holding back, Doctor. I'd like you to trust me."
       "Trust isn't my strong point," I said, unable to resist adding, "Zoloski must have mentioned that."
       Not a blink. "I'll be talking to you again."
       I watched him head toward a dark brown sedan and open the door. I should have been relieved. Art was guilty. End of case. But the sensation in my solar plexus scared me. As I hit the freeway the words I'd casually dropped to Donny -- maybe Art's accident was no accident at all -- struck with fresh force. What if Art's accident wasn't a suicide attempt? What if the murderer was simply tying up loose ends?
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         *Chapter 27*
       WITH UNPLEASANT thoughts of murder crowding my brain, I pushed the accelerator to the floor until the white lines blurred, and told myself my imagination was working overtime. Art had tried to kill himself; he'd even left a note. But dammit, the convenience of it got my brain cells into a twist. Why would he take a shot at me if he was going to confess? Why not leave a confession then shoot himself?
       Much as it put Ian and me in the clear, I just didn't buy it. Or not the whole package. Maybe he did it -- but not alone. And since Lillian had whacked me on the head and I'd found Art's cigarette butt at the scene, it now seemed reasonable they might be working together. But how to put my theory to the test?
       With no answer forthcoming, I wondered if Art would make it? Much as his sleazy charm turned me off, the boyish vulnerability I'd glimpsed made me hope he'd get a second chance -- maybe turn his life around. _And clear this mess up_. Miracles happen, right?
       _Right_.
       The digital clock flashed 4:10 as I pulled into the parking lot. Thunderclouds gathered overhead and an icy wind stung my face as I jogged to the hospital entrance. Shivering, I wished I'd worn long underwear.
       I dashed toward an open elevator, squeezing in between two occupied gurneys and easing in front of a couple of doctors who looked barely old enough to have finished high school. The odor of pine cleaner sucked my nostrils closed.
       "...pickled liver. That guy should've died ten years ago."
       "Heard about the woman who came in complaining about hemorrhoids ..."
       They were winding up a competitive gross-out contest.
       "That's not as bad as ..."
       We jolted to a stop at my floor and I escaped before hearing the doctor's entire "polyps" story. I followed arrows toward the waiting room, happy to breathe the more tolerable smells of disinfectant.
       Had Art survived surgery? Regained consciousness? I wondered what his note said and what he'd say if he lived. I wanted him to be guilty, and this to be over, but the tension in my gut said it wasn't.
       The line-up of relatives came into sight, reminding me of Rich's funeral. Only now everyone slumped like run-down wind-up dolls, glazed eyes staring off into space, clothes thrown-on, mismatched. No one spoke. The Auburn policewoman noticed me first, and gave me a once-over. At my arrival, tension rippled down the McCue line.
       Donny stood. "Andy." He wore faded jeans and a sweater, his leather overcoat slung over the back of his chair, his blond hair disheveled. I gave him a hug, aware of Lillian's heavy perfume. Mixed with the hospital odors, the rose-scent was downright nauseating. "How is he?" I asked.
       He shook his head. "Don't know. He went through the windshield --  wasn't wearing his seat belt. It's a miracle he's alive."
       "He'll probably wish he wasn't," Lillian said, her tone as bland as the vegetable she apparently expected him to be.
       I tried to ignore Lillian's rattlesnake expression. Why she hated me made no sense, but it was obvious she did. My hackles rose. She moved to the top of my prime suspect list. "When will they know something?" I asked Donny.
       "It'll be another hour at best," he said.
       I gave him an expectant look. "Let's walk."
       Charlene's wobbly voice halted our retreat. "Has anyone told Ian?"
       "I didn't," Donny answered, pulling on his overcoat.
       Lillian offered, "I'll call him."
       Not thrilled, I herded Donny toward the elevator. Lillian's narrow gaze bit into my back.
       We rode down to the lobby in awkward silence. Even though the old attraction was still there, it didn't zap me. The only man I wanted was Zoloski.
       Once we reached the sidewalk, Donny lit a smoke and leaned against the concrete retaining wall. God, typical Donny, says he wants to talk then clams up. Hoping to pry open his shell, I used my best counselor's voice, "I'm ready to listen, Donny."
       He stared toward the street. "I can't believe it. I keep thinking he's fine and this is just some joke." He turned to face me. "I was really pissed at him and Francine. Jesus, my own brother. But I went to enough meetings to understand that his actions -- hers too -- were more about their problems than about me. I wish ..."
       I waited a beat, then asked, "What?"
       "I wish I'd told him I forgave him."
       Though I felt sympathetic, I wished he'd fast-forward to who shot Rich and Tom, but sensed that he needed more encouraging noises. "That's a place to start when you see him."
       _If he lives_, lingered between us unspoken. He gave a half-laugh, half-snort of derision. "We were never close, Andy. Don't know why. But I love him." He cracked a smile, raw and full of pain. "The kids love him. He plays with them. Wrestles. Jumps around. Not that he saw much of them lately."
       "Because of Francine?"
       "Yeah. Guess he was afraid I'd pop him one. Might have, too."
       Cars flashed by in rhythm to his exhalations of nicotine.
       Trying to prod him into something that would lead somewhere, I softened my tone to one of a confidant. "You asked me to come here, Donny. You must have something to tell me. Did Art shoot your dad?"
       "No! He's got nothing to do with -- I mean, I -- "
       The certainty in his voice made me feel like I'd fallen from a ten-story building. He did not believe Art shot their father. Not only that, his tone said he knew who was responsible. It re-opened the field of suspects. Feeling unsettled, I said, "You all planned it. Believe me, I understand why. All I want to know is who pulled the trigger."
       His jaw clenched. He looked like whatever he held inside was killing him.
       I waited, watching the sky darken. Definitely a storm brewing. "Art left a confession before crashing into that wall, Donny," I said. "Burns is at his place now, gathering evidence."
       "He what -- ? I don't believe it."
       "It's true."
       "What'd it say?"
       "I don't know. All I know is it was handwritten ...a letter."
       "I don't believe it," he repeated, stunned. "Art's my brother, and I love him, but ...he's as self-serving as anybody I've ever known." His eyes met mine. "He wouldn't write a confession to a murder he didn't commit any more than he'd try to off himself."
       "Are you so sure he didn't do it?"
       His expression was answer enough. "If that's true, then you'd better serve someone else up to Burns."
       He was silent, and I wished to God I knew what he was thinking. "Donny, you can tell me ...you can trust me."
       His dark eyes fixed on me as though he were drowning and I might be the only life preserver within reach.
       I touched his shoulder. "Please ..."
       His fingers curled into a fist. Smoke streamed between his clenched teeth as he tossed the butt. "This is a mistake." He shoved away from the wall and started to walk away.
       I'd lost him, dammit. I stared out at the parking lot. My gaze froze. "Donny?"
       He paused and turned, the movement reluctant.
       I pointed toward the dark blue four-door -- the yellow bumper sticker suddenly bright amidst the winter grey. "You know who owns that car?" _National Library Week_. It couldn't be a coincidence.
       "Lillian. Why?"
       Certain now she'd shot at me, I asked, "Is she the one you're protecting? Is she blackmailing you?" It had to be blackmail -- had to be Lillian -- nothing else made sense. Or my view of the McCue family was totally cock-eyed and I was misinterpreting all the pieces of the jigsaw, including Donny's reactions. "What the hell does she have on you?"
       "Nothing." He looked scared, a man sucking on nicotine for courage.
       "Here you are." Lillian's voice startled us both. She'd come around the corner and stopped. How long had she been there?
       Face a guilty red, Donny pivoted. "Is Art -- "
       "He's out of surgery. The doctor's waiting for you." She shot me a venomous glance as we hurried toward the door.
         * * * *
THE DOCTOR was dressed in blood-spattered green, a surgical mask dangling from her neck. She reminded me of an older version of Meg Ryan in _City of Angels_. She glanced around at our little group and smiled as McCues crowded near. "Is everyone present?"
       Lillian said, "Yes."
       I wondered where the police officer had gone.
       The doctor dipped her head toward Charlene, her tone reassuring, "Your son's very lucky. Everything went smoothly, we've reduced the brain swelling and he appears to be holding his own. The next few hours are critical, but after that, barring complications, I would expect a good recovery."
       Good recovery, not full recovery. I took that to mean waking up with any brain function at all -- a suspicion I didn't want to share with Charlene. I might not like the woman, but she appeared so wobbly and pale as she clung to Donny's arm that I felt sorry for her.
       "What kind of complications?" Donny asked, his body stiff.
       The doctor crossed her arms. "Anything from minor memory loss to coma. The next few hours will tell us a lot."
        "What other injuries does he have?" I asked, hoping to distract the doctor from giving us a rundown of all the horror that lay between memory loss and coma. "I'm his cousin," I said, when her eyebrows lifted.
       "Two broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder and fractured humerus." Her pager buzzed and she cast Charlene an apologetic smile. "I have to go. Your son's in Recovery. Talk to the nurse about visitation."
       "How long before we can see him?" Elizabeth asked, reminding me she was there. With her small stature, overly thin body and soft, mouse-like voice, she tended to fade into the wallpaper. I found it hard to believe I'd seen a resemblance between her and her daughter. Lillian was so full of hate and lethal-looking.
       "How long?" The doctor repeated. "I don't know. Why don't you go home and try to get some rest. I'll instruct the nurse to call if it appears he's regaining consciousness."
       "But how long could that be?" Lillian asked, stalling the doctor's departure.
       She shook her head. "It could be hours, it could be much longer. I hate to say it, but we'll just have to wait and see. If you have any other questions, you'll need to talk to the nurse." She gestured toward the right corridor, then hurried to the elevator.
       "Where'd the policewoman go?" I asked, suddenly thinking about the shot Lillian had taken at me. What would she do to Art when she learned about his confession?
       Elizabeth answered, "She spoke to the doctor when Lillian went to find you and Donny, then left."
       "You hear what they said?"
       "No." Her offended voice told me if she'd eavesdropped she'd never admit it.
       "I did," Charlene murmured from behind a hankie she was using to dab her eyes. "The police are worried about Art's safety."
       "Safety?" Donny suddenly looked worried.
       Oh, shit. I hoped Burns wouldn't strangle me for opening my big mouth. I threw Donny a warning glance.
       He ignored it. "Then it wasn't an accident." His gaze shifted from me to Lillian, his expression making a pact with her that I had no part of, that made me wonder if Stagecoach Donny still existed. "Art tried to kill himself," he said.
       "Why would he do that?" Lillian looked genuinely puzzled.
       Donny cast me a challenging look, as though to say_ this is your story._
       I found myself saying, "He left a confession letter. The police found it."
       "Confession? To what?" Three people said at once.
       "Murder." The word dried my mouth to a Sahara.
       Charlene made a choking sound and sagged into a chair.
       Lillian turned to Donny, the two of them sharing some secret communication. I had to link the .22 to her or get Donny to talk. Art's confession gave her a way out -- as long as he didn't live to retract it.
       I moved toward Donny. "We should finish our conversation," I intentionally let Lillian overhear.
       His gaze questioned what I was up to. "I've gotta get the kids," he said. "Francine could only watch them a couple hours."
       "Why don't I drop by around nine, after they're in bed?" By then I planned to get Art some back-up, and hitch up my all-purpose, tape-recorder bra.
--------
         *Chapter 28*
       I HAD a plan, but couldn't reach Burns to ask for help. Was he going to leave Art unguarded? I waited at the hospital for an hour, then called Zoloski, hoping he might be on his way over. The desk sergeant said the Z-man was conducting an interrogation which might last the night. I left a message, then tried Ian.
       He picked up the phone with a breathless "Hello?"
       "This is Blaize. I'm at the hospital. Did you know about Art?"
       "Yes. Lillian called. I got hung up. Is he okay?"
       "He made it through surgery."
       "Good. I'm on my way."
       He promised to meet me in the cafeteria in twenty minutes. For the first time in my life I believed I had a friend in my brother. A friend I desperately needed. After telling the nurse where I'd be -- in case Art suddenly came to -- I found a chair near the cafeteria doorway. My gaze kept drifting toward the dessert case.
       I was just swallowing my third bite of chocolate cream pie when a male voice asked, "How do you stay so slim eating that junk?"
       Face hot, I twisted around in my chair. "What are you doing here, George?"
       One eyebrow lifted above the wire-rims of his John-Lennon glasses. "How are you and Stephanos getting along?"
       "Better, thanks," I said, wondering why he'd sidestepped my question. I pushed the pie away.
       He sank into the chair beside me. "You have a minute?"
       There was nothing casual about the question. He had something to tell me. "Yes."
       "I have an ex-client -- a case you might find intriguing. I could use some advice. One shrink to another."
       "Oh?" My antennae quivered.
       "This guy had an affair with his brother's wife, on and off type of thing that began twelve years ago. Perfect example of sex and love addiction. He cleaned up his act for awhile, then a couple of months ago quit therapy. Now he's in the hospital -- attempted suicide."
       I blinked, shocked by what he was telling me -- knowing he was referring to Art -- and knowing he was stretching confidentiality -- probably because Art was in such bad shape. Obviously George was concerned about me. The "twelve years" sank in. Art and Francine had lied about the length of their affair -- so had Donny -- unless he didn't know. How many other lies had I swallowed? "You said suicide is common among addicts. Did he leave a note?" I asked, playing along.
       George nodded. "A confession really -- all his sins."
       "You mean, like sleeping with his sister-in-law?" I didn't move.
       "And fathering a child his brother thinks is his."
       I opened my mouth to set him straight, tell him that Donny had a blood test to prove Adam's paternity, then remembered this was supposed to be a vague discussion between two practicing psychologists. "Sounds like a soap opera."
       "Addicts crave drama," he said. "The man laughingly suggested he quit therapy to save a few bucks. Said he owed thousands to all the wrong people. I heard from a reliable source he came into a sizable inheritance. He not only left a suicide note, but confessed to murder. The police asked me to take a look at the letter."
       Holy hail Mary. "Sounds like quite a case. Any idea if the letter was genuine?" God, was Art guilty? Were my instincts about Donny and Lillian all wrong?
       "Looked like it to me, but I'm no handwriting expert."
       "Did the letter implicate anyone else?"
       "No."
       I didn't know what to say to that.
       "What concerns me is that he may try to kill himself again. I'm thinking some family therapy might be helpful, but I work with individuals. I thought you might be able to recommend a family therapist."
       I gave him two names, figuring he probably knew them as well. So much for my advice.
       He suddenly glanced down at his pager. "The doctor. Gotta run, Blaize. Take care."
       I wanted to ask more but we both knew he'd stretched doctor/patient ethics as far as he could.
       I sank back into the seat. I felt sure it was Lillian who whacked me on the head and tried to shoot me. Had Art decided to be noble and protect her? Was she Art's accomplice? Or Donny's? Was Art's note a lie meant to protect his brother? I chewed on facts and spit them out every which way trying to make them fit. Should I go on with my plan?
       I closed my eyes and focused on my feelings. Every instinct in me said Art wasn't the killer, that Donny knew it, and Lillian knew it, too. If so then, my life and Art's were in jeopardy. I had to finish this thing.
       I felt the air stir and looked up. "Ian, you made it."
       "Sorry, traffic. How's he doing?"
       "Hasn't come around yet. Last prognosis went from good to fair. He's not coming out of it as quick as they'd like."
       Ian claimed a chair, looking blown away by my news. He raked his damp hair back from his forehead and I realized it must be raining. "Guess I figured he'd be okay." He shrugged off his wet jacket.
       "So did I." It was nearly eight p.m. I'd been there for three-plus hours and felt helpless.
       "Looks like you ate without me."
       "Just dessert." I waited for him to get a cup of coffee, then laid out my conclusions, ending with, "You were in on the fantasy murder. I hope you've been straight with Burns cause the shit's coming down."
       He held up his hands. "I'm clean. Anyway, with Art's confession Burns won't be looking anywhere else."
       "Yeah, but you didn't see Donny's reaction when I told him about the letter. Like he knew it was a lie. And I know Lillian whacked me on the head and took a shot at me. What do you think?"
       He took a sip of coffee. "Look, before I say anything I need to get this off my chest."
       Now what? I hoped I wasn't about to have another bomb dropped on my head.
       "I've held stuff back, because it was personal. Because I felt like it was none of your business. And I felt bad about it, because I got you involved in all this. I want you to know, I'm sorry. For running out on you in Tahoe, and for not being straight with you every step of the way."
       I started to protest that I would have involved myself no matter what, but he held up his hand as though anticipating my interruption. "Okay, here's my rundown. Lillian's a manipulator and she's damn good at it. Especially the guilt trips. I think you're right. She's involved."
       It felt great to be on the same wavelength.
       "Donny told you he had a paternity test, right?"
       "Yes."
       Ian shook his head. "He's lying."
       "How do you know?"
       "Art told me his nephew was really his son. If Donny had taken a paternity test Art would know. So would Francine. She's terrified Donny'll find out the kid isn't his and she'll lose child support. Donny makes a helluva lot more as a computer programmer than Art's security job."
       "What if Donny did have the test like he told me, only ..." Thoughts spun new webs in my brain.
       "You think he shot his old man, figuring to blame it on Art? Get his dad and his brother both?"
       His putting my thoughts into words turned the pie in my stomach to lead. "Revenge is a strong motivator."
       "You're the shrink," Ian said.
       "But you don't agree?"
       "Donny was camping when Tom was shot."
       "Yeah, but Lillian was here."
       He nodded. "I can see Lillian pulling a trigger." He glanced toward the door and I knew he was craving a cigarette. "If she's got Donny by the balls.... You think Donny whacked Rich and Lillian took out her old man?"
       "It's a scenario that works, given all the facts."
       My brother looked glum.
       "Look, Burns hasn't returned my calls and I'm worried about leaving Art once they move him downstairs. Anyone could walk in on him."
       "You want me to hang around?"
       I felt a wave of appreciation. "You read my mind twice tonight."
       "Hey, us McCues think alike."
       "Now you're scaring me."
       He grinned. "My date with Buffy the Vampire Slayer can wait for the next rerun." I felt a camaraderie with my brother I'd never had before -- the Tahoe closeness and more. "Just let me grab a smoke first," he said. I walked him outside and gave him my itinerary, which only deepened his frown.
       "I'll be fine," I assured him. "What parent wouldn't want to do what he did? Donny had a strong reason to shoot Rich -- he's not likely to shoot me."
       "_Want_ is the critical word, Blaize. What if the motive was money? If he killed Rich for that, he might be willing to kill to keep it. You shouldn't go there alone."
       "I thought you were ready to go to jail to protect him?"
       "Not him ...the kids. He's tried hard to be a good father to them. You ask Art or Francine, they'll both admit Donny's been a good dad. But you're the one who's got me wondering ...and you're the one who told me that after the first kill, the next is easier."
       "I don't see him shooting me, Ian." Even now, I saw him as my childhood rescuer. Stagecoach Donny. "Did Art and Lillian ever have an affair?"
       Ian's eyebrow lifted. "Not that I'm aware of -- and I think I'd know."
       "I've got to talk to Donny."
       Ian finished his smoke and tossed the butt in the garbage. "I don't like you going there alone."
       "He's not going to shoot me with his kids in the house. Besides, I asked Zoloski to meet me there after he finishes work." I adjusted my purse strap and gave him a hug. "You be careful. Lillian may come after Art."
         * * * *
I PARKED the car a block down the street from Donny's house. If Zoloski were here he'd lock me in the car and throw away the key. Even so, I missed him. I patted my chest, barely feeling the transmitter through the bulky knit. God, the last time I'd worn a wire I'd almost been killed. I kept telling myself there was nothing similar about that experience and this one, but my mouth felt drier than Death Valley. I reached over and snapped on the tape recorder. Illegal evidence? _Yes_. Was that going to stop me? _No_. "This is a test." I rewound it and listened to my voice, tinny but loud and clear, then slid the recorder under the seat.
       Bowling-ball purse on my shoulder, I climbed out.
       Why was I nervous? Did I really believe Donny might shoot me? I glanced around, spooked by the quiet, hoping Zoloski would show up soon.
       I bee-lined past the rose bushes to Donny's front door. The cold had a bite to it now that the rain had stopped and I hugged myself as I waited for him to answer the bell. The porch light made me feel like a duck on the first day of hunting season. I jabbed the bell again.
       _Click._
       The cloying scent of roses tingled my nostrils. I flinched as something hard and cold poked my back. "Door's open, step inside."
       Lillian. My hand suddenly felt clammy as I twisted the knob and shoved open the door, her gun driving me forward.
       "Down the hall and through the kitchen. Move."
       "Where's Donny?"
       "Running late. He asked me to meet you."
       Part of my brain screamed "run."
       The house was warm and cozy ...and stifling, the scent of Lillian's perfume all I could smell. My chest tightened as she prodded me past an expansive living room with coloring books and movies scattered around a big-screen TV. More kids' toys cluttered the kitchen counter and dining table. "The kids asleep?" I asked casually, thinking she wouldn't dare shoot me with them upstairs.
       Lillian smirked. "They're at Charlene's."
       I gripped the handle of my purse, the only life-line I had, telling myself she wouldn't shoot me in Donny's kitchen -- even if the kids were gone. But I'd underestimated her and was not all that confident about whether or not she'd pull the trigger. I eyed her black turtleneck and slacks, thought, another funeral? and wished I hadn't. Her arm moved, bringing my gaze to the .38 special, and the latex surgical gloves on her hands.
       _That_ was not good. Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. "What's the gun for?" I asked, for the tape's benefit. I knew what it could do -- leave a nice neat hole in my chest and blow a great gaping canyon out of my spine. Did she intend to plant me in the backyard?
       "Just a precaution. There's a killer running amok in the family." Her humorous tone didn't warm her stone cold eyes.
       "Art left a confession," I said, hoping to keep her talking, to buy time until some distraction would allow me to get to the gun in my purse.
       "You don't believe Art killed anyone, do you?" Her fingers flexed around the gun grip.
       I searched for a conversational tone. "It doesn't matter what I believe, it's what the cops think that's important. They believe Art's guilty. But they won't if you shoot me." When she said nothing, I added, "I'm not sure what to believe, Lillian. You're my cousin. I'd like to understand ..."
       That sparked a bitter expression. "Understand? What do you know about living with a drunk? You never had to watch your drunken father beat up your mom, then crawl into your bed."
       Holy shit.
       "You've had it easy. Had everything...."
       What planet was she living on? "Everything? You think my step-fathers were a picnic? Lillian, I was raped when I was sixteen. You think I walked away without scars?"
       "Don't hit me with some sob story, Andy. It won't work. I'm not as gullible as Donny."
       "Where is he?"
       Her lips curled into a nasty smile. "At the hospital."
--------
         *Chapter 29*
       HE FELT numb. Darkness covered his eyes in black, undulating waves. Faint streaks of light invaded the pulsing shadows along with the unpleasant odor of disinfectant.
       "Art, can you hear me?" Donny's voice echoed like he was speaking into a tin can.
       _I'm not dead_, he thought, relieved. Dread followed. Why couldn't he move?
       "Art ...I can't let you...."
       The words faded and he knew he was drifting in and out of consciousness. Donny squeezed his hand and he wanted to sob like a baby on his brother's shoulder. _I did it for you and Teddy_, he wanted to say, but his mouth wouldn't work. Nothing seemed to work. More light filtered behind his eyes, making him aware of how dry they were. Gritty. He heard his father's voice taunting him, "Jesus Christ, Metalhead, you can't even kill yourself without screwing up."
       He blinked, caught a blurred image of the old man's face, which sharpened to become Donny's. Donny, the golden one, the very thought usually drove Art to reach for a smoke, justifying all the times he and Francine....
       Donny's brows pulled together in a worried frown.
       "So sorry," Art managed, the sound raspy and alien.
       "I'm sorry, too," Donny said.
--------
         *Chapter 30*
       "WHO KNOWS you're here?" Lillian asked.
       "My boyfriend. Ian. Detective Burns."
       She frowned.
       "Zoloski's meeting me here." The pager on my cellular buzzed like an angry bee. I pulled it from my belt, wondering if I dared take a stab at the .32 in my purse.
       Lillian looked ready for the play. "Give it over." She stretched out her hand.
       I glanced at the phone before tossing it to her. Zoloski. Jesus, what rotten timing.
       She didn't fumble. "The purse, too. Slowly."
       I complied, reluctantly.
       She slung it over her shoulder, then held up the phone. "Is it the cop?"
       "Yes. Probably on his way."
       "What'll he do if you don't respond?"
       "Assume I'm getting to know Donny better than he'd like and turn on the siren."
       "Jealous?"
       "Testosterone overload. Hang around and you'll see World War Three." Her face hardened. _Breathe and think_, I reminded myself.
       "What'll he do if no one's here?" she asked.
       "We going somewhere?"
       Her fingers flexed on the grip as though to say _you are_. She gestured toward a side door. "Move."
       I shoved it open to darkness and a blast of cold air. "Where's the light?" I tensed, hoping she'd step close enough for me to try the old twist and tackle.
       No dummy, she kept her distance. "On the left. Around the corner."
       I brushed my palm along what felt like sheet rock and found the switch. The garage glared into view -- everything neat and tidy, only one car in the center of the two car space. Hers. The trunk was open.
       My nose twitched to odors of oil and sawdust. Above a lathe and workbench in the opposite corner, two-by-fours, a hose, shovels, hammers, wrenches, and screw drivers lined the wall. Wonderful weapons, if I could just get to them.
       "Move it."
       I stepped down and started around the front of the car.
       "No, stay on this side." I backtracked, hoping again to get close, but once more she anticipated my thoughts, keeping a steady five-foot space between us.
       I passed the passenger door. Black tarp crinkled beneath my boots. It covered the cement from the rear wheels to the automatic door, and told me much more than Lillian's expression. She had planned my death with the ruthless efficiency of a serial killer. I was sure she'd already picked a place to dump my body.
       I looked up and saw she'd pulled the cord to the electric garage door. My insides clenched. She'd thought of everything. Geez, Louise, was I just going to stand there and let her shoot me? My anger kicked in. I was taller, stronger. I could bench press more than she weighed. If I could distract her for one second, I could take her down. _If_, my mind pointed out, sticking a needle in my pep-talk balloon.
       "Park it on the bumper."
       I stared in horrified fascination at the plastic-lined trunk. My legs refused to bend. She lifted the gun higher, and I dropped my butt onto the hard edge.
       She tossed my purse into the trunk behind me. "We wouldn't want anyone to know you've been here."
       I lowered my hands to the plastic knowing I'd never reach my gun. It was too far away.
       "Don't touch anything. Keep your hands on you lap."
       Time seemed so slow. I was aware of the blood racing through my veins, aware of how it would look splattered all over the plastic. Despite the cold, sweat slicked my palms. Up shit creek without a paddle. Why hadn't I tucked my gun in my jeans?
       Whatever she saw on my face prompted a warning, "Don't fuck with me, Andy. Call your boyfriend and tell him Donny's not here and you're heading home."
       With trembling fingers I punched in Zoloski's number at the station. It always took forever to switch over to voice mail. In that moment, what really mattered became clear. I wished to God I could tell him I loved him and I wanted to marry him. "Line's busy." I held the phone toward her. Adrenaline shot through me as I waited for her attention to shift. One second, just one.
       She kept staring at me like I was a math problem to solve, or in this case, erase. "Put it down. You can try again in a sec."
       Trying to visualize how I was going to lunge at her, I said, "Donny told me everything." I'd go low, for the knees, I decided, my mind supplying the crack of cartilage and bone. She wouldn't expect a low tackle.
       One dark eyebrow rose. "No way."
       "I'm a counselor. It's my job to get people to talk."
       "Bull."
       "You think you're the only one he talks to?"
       She smirked. "About this, yes."
       "How can you be so certain?" I tensed, intending to tackle in the middle of her answer when she'd least expect it.
       "Because if he told you, then Teddy would go to jail."
       Teddy! I froze, too stunned to move. Rich's only victim I hadn't considered! A painful knot formed in my throat. I recalled the eleven-year-old at his grandfather's funeral, dry-eyed and jumpy, being comforted by Lillian. Like a jigsaw puzzle, pieces of information came together in my mind. "Teddy shot his grandfather?"
       "Don't look so shocked. Rich was a bigger asshole than my dad, and that's saying a lot. Offing Rich was a great idea. But after the weeks kept passing and the guys didn't do anything, I realized I needed to get the ball rolling." She paused as though waiting for my approval.
       "Get the ball rolling?"
       "Donny had guns. And plenty of motive. But no matter what I said, he insisted the plan was just a way to blow off steam. He wasn't serious." Her gaze clouded with irritation. "Dial your boyfriend."
       I didn't reach for the phone. "You couldn't convince Donny, so you got Teddy to do it."
       Her expression said she knew I was putting off the call, and my death, but that she enjoyed gloating about how smart she was. That getting someone else to do her dirty work made her feel superior and I could see the risk of involving a child her plan didn't matter. Or perhaps she planned to off Teddy as soon as she and Donny tied the knot. "All the babysitting, being nice to Teddy finally paid off. I drove him up there and gave him the gun." She laughed with malicious glee. "You should have seen him bolt out of the house. Looked like Rich's ghost was on his heels."
       _Bitch_. "Smart," I said, hoping my face showed admiration. Nine-thirty. For all I knew Art was dead by now -- and my own future didn't look too good. The bumper felt like an ice block beneath my butt. The gun in my purse felt miles away. The clock ticking in my head turned graveyard quiet. I heard some sound from inside the house and moved my feet, crinkling the plastic. "Then what happened?"
       "Keep still."
       She listened to the silence, then finally continued her malignant saga. "I dropped him two blocks from here and drove home. I knew Donny would panic and call me." Triumph masked her face. "It's our secret now. He needs me."
       "Donny knows everything?"
       "He knows what I want him to know." Her tone said she thought all men were idiots.
       The door to the kitchen was ajar, but no one had come to investigate. What else could I say? "Aren't you afraid Teddy will tell Donny the truth?" I feigned a look of admiration while my insides crawled and my ears strained to hear the slightest noise. Had I imagined the sound?
       She didn't answer.
       All my muscles screamed with readiness. I mentally began to count, one ... "Does he know you got Teddy to pull the trigger?"
       "Teddy'll keep his mouth shut." But in her eyes I saw that Teddy's days were numbered.
       Suddenly, Donny's voice erupted from the doorway. "You bitch! You used my kid!" He charged around the car like a linebacker.
       Lillian's gun shifted and I dove.
       The blast of her gun drowned out the thud of our bodies on the concrete. Ears ringing, I scrambled over her, grabbed her wrist and twisted hard. I realized she was screaming, but the tumble of swear words hardly registered as I staggered upright, her gun in my hand.
       Donny was sinking to his knees, face dazed, blood seeping from his shoulder. He'd live.
       Something scraped behind me. I turned and instinctively fired off a round as Lillian swung a tire iron at my head.
       She gasped, the iron slipping from her hands as her body stiffened, then she crumpled like a twisted pretzel, eyes open and unseeing.
       A moment later, Burns and Zoloski barreled through the door and around the car, then pulled to an abrupt standstill. Burns took in the scene. "Roll two ambulances," he said into his radio.
       Zoloski holstered his gun, his gaze searching me for injury. His expression somewhere between furious and relieved, he crushed me in his arms.
       I had just eased free when Ian wrapped me in a tight hug. "Jesus, Andy."
       "Amen," I thought. "Amen."
--------
         *Chapter 31*
       I HID my inner shakes as the techs stepped around Lillian's body to lift Donny onto a gurney. Resisting Ian and Zoloski's support, I followed the techs out to the curb. Rain splashed my face, cold, wet, welcome.
       "What now?"
       I realized Ian's words were directed at Zoloski.
       Zoloski wrapped his arm around my waist, his grip tight. "I'm taking Blaize home."
       Shaky as I was, I disliked being treated like a child in need of comfort. "I don't -- "
       Ian's mouth crooked up. "We know. You don't need any help. We McCues never do. Shut up and accept it, okay? I'll drive your car back." He rummaged through my purse, extracting my keys.
       "How did you get here? Is Art okay?"
       "Art's fine. He regained consciousness about an hour ago and the prognosis is good. Donny broke down at the hospital. Said Lillian was waiting for you at the house. I called Stephanos."
       Zoloski opened the door to the Jag. "I picked up Ian and called Burns."
       I settled into the passenger seat, smiling at the two most important men in my life with gratitude. "See you for dinner, Ian?"
       That wiped the worry from his eyes. "Wouldn't miss it."
       Like a truant kid, Burns strolled over. "Guess I owe you an apology."
       I promised him a statement in the morning. He actually gave me a grin of approval before heading back into the house.
       "You okay?" Zoloski asked.
       I gave him a good-natured,"So -- what held you up?"
       He worked a small velvet box from the confines of his jeans and flipped it open. The diamond winked beneath the dash light. "I was at the jewelry store."
       I swallowed the lump in my throat. I couldn't believe how devastatingly handsome he looked when vulnerable. "If it fits, you're stuck," I said, feeling a little overwhelmed. My hand shook as he slid the ring into place. Miraculously it didn't feel like a ball and chain.
       Leaning over, his lips brushed mine. "I know your ring size."
       "And more," I said, hearing wedding bells in the future. One day at a time, I told myself as he pulled from the curb. One day at a time.
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         *Bibliography*
       Anonymous, _Hope and Recovery, A 12 Step guide for healing from sexual addiction, _Minnesota, CompCare Publications, 1987._ _
       Beattie, Melody, _Codependent No More:_ New York, Harper & Row, 1987.
       Carnes, Patrick, _Out of the Shadows: Understanding Sexual Addiction_, Minnesota, CompCare Publishers, 1983.
       Carnes, Patrick, _A Gentle Path Through the Twelve Steps_: Minnesota, CompCare Publishers, 1989.
       Carnes, Patrick, _The Betrayal Bond_: Florida, Health Communications, Inc., 1997.
       Hendrix, Harville, _Getting the Love You Want_: New York, Henry Holt & Company, 1988.
       Larsen, Earnie, _Stage II Recovery, Life Beyond Addiction_: New York, HarperCollins, 1985.
       The Augustine Fellowship, _Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous:_ Massachusetts, 1986.
       SA Literature, _Sexaholics Anonymous_: California, 1989.

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