DEATH STING

A Nick Bancroft Mystery

BOB LITER

A Renaissance E Books publication

ISBN 1-58873-159-6

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

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PageTurner Editions

A Deerstalker Mystery

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty- Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter One

"However, according to the coroner, it wasn't the bee stings that killed her. She apparently died from a heart attack brought on by stress."

Maggie Atley, who sat across from me at the fold-down kitchen table in my apartment, lowered the latest copy of Better Homes and Gardens.

"What?"

"The body was found in a field southwest of town, according to the Central City Press. In other words, this woman was scared to death."

"What a horrible way to die," Maggie said. "Who was she?"

She marked her place in the magazine with one of my latest past due bills, put the magazine down, lifted her coffee cup and sipped. She frowned, said, "Yuk," got up, went to the counter, poured the coffee from her cup into the coffee maker, refilled her cup and returned.

"Her name, if you must know, was Vicki Fowler. Twenty-three years old from Springfield. She lived here at the Good Shepherd Home."

"Springfield, Illinois?"

"Yes. Don't you find it intriguing that a woman was found dead practically outside our door with bee stings all over her body?"

Maggie pushed light brown hair from her forehead and sighed.

"Intriguing, yes, and I know what you're thinking," she said.

"You always think you know what I'm thinking."

She put her elbows on the table, held the cup in both hands and smiled that knowing smile I loved.

"You're thinking there's a story in this you can sell to the Chicago Times. You're planning right now to start an investigation into this bee-sting thing and neglect the work that brings in steady money, work that pays the bills. Right, Nick? It's your business, of course, but you need money."

When we first met I was thinking I would like to get in her pants – to coin a phrase – and her heavenly blue eyes, sparkling with amusement, told me she read my thoughts. Instead of pretending to be offended, she smiled.

Now I admired her freshly scrubbed face. She was a knockout when her hair was teased into a semblance of obedience, and she wore that eye shadow stuff and the rest of it. But at breakfast, with tousled hair and freckles on her checks unhidden by makeup, she was woman.

She was right about my plans to pursue the story. "Well, why not?" I said. "There surely is more to the story than what they've printed here."

As it turned out there was a hell of a lot more. If I'd known the players and their eventual desire to kill me, well, I would have thought about it.

Maggie was my part-time secretary, lover and would-be slave driver. She lived with me at the moment but insisted it was not a permanent arrangement, which was fine with me, I thought.

My name is Nick Bancroft. I'm an ex-reporter who inherited a run-down one-man detective agency in Central City, Illinois, and am a couple of years older than Maggie's "nearly forty."

"What about those pictures you promised that attorney?" Maggie asked, "the ones of the broken sidewalk. And you have two traffic-accident photo jobs."

I finished my coffee and squeezed out from under the table. I kissed her forehead on my way to the office in the front of the apartment, taking the newspaper with me.

She was right. I had to get to work, and I would in a minute or two, but first I had to consider the possibilities of the bee-sting story. How would a woman get bee stings all over her body and wind up dead in a nearby farm field? Where did the bees come from?"

My nameless cat jumped onto the desk, sat and waited. I petted it automatically, a cat-trained provider. It was an independent thing, mostly white with a black ear and an attitude. Maggie had foisted it on me back at my old office. It wouldn't let me touch it for weeks even though it showed up regularly to be fed. I refused to name the ungrateful beggar much to Maggie's annoyance. She called it Ruffles until I convinced her it was male.

Maggie appeared in the office doorway, leaned against the jamb, and sighed. "You pay more attention to that cat than to me. I want more than a peck on the forehead when you head out to slay dragons."

She glided into the room, petted the cat, and sat on my lap. Her one-hundred-and-twenty or so pounds settled in as we kissed. I tasted coffee and smelled Dial soap, the soap we had used to shower together before breakfast. I enjoyed washing away the sweat her body created when she ran her usual two miles before I got out of bed.

We sat, as we often had since she came to live with me, and watched through the large front window as a variety of shoes and ankles marched past on the sidewalk above. Stairs from the walk led down and by the window and its black, block lettering advertising my business: "AAA Investigations."

My office consisted of an old wooden desk, a couple of file cabinets, an outdated Dell computer, a Canon printer and a Motorola radio in a cracked plastic case.

"Okay boss, I'll get the mundane stuff done, and then see what I can find out about how and why a woman winds up scared to death by bees."

Maggie placed her warm, moist lips on mine. I caressed a well-formed breast before she pulled away, stood, and said, "Oh no, you don't. We've both got other things to do."

She placed one hand atop her head and sashayed out of the room. I downed the rest of the coffee and left the cup on my desk. She'd see it later, take it to the kitchen, and insist she wasn't going to chase all over the apartment picking up dirty cups I left behind. Life was good ... then.

Chapter Two

I strolled up the steps leading to my apartment and stretched. A car rolled by. A brilliant display of May's blue skies greeted me. Birds chattered, joining me perhaps, in thinking that midwestern small towns like Central City may be equally dull to some. But I couldn't think of a better place to be on such a morning. I paused and enjoyed the glory of it all before walking to the back of the four-story building and my parking space.

I removed a 35 mm camera from the trunk of my car, and checked to make sure there was enough unexposed film. It occurred to me, as I drove to the corner of Grove and Davenport, that routine detective stuff was as boring as the crap assignments I used to get as a newspaper reporter. The assignments weren't the reason I quit, however. I quit because newspapers had become more entertainment than hard news. I had principles, didn't I? Also, I bowled in tournaments and wanted my weekends free.

At my first stop I took pictures from different angles of the slab of sidewalk that had been pushed up by roots of an old elm tree. It was easy to see how the woman who was suing the city could have tripped over it. As a taxpayer I wondered why she didn't look where the hell she was going. I would gain a few bucks by taking the photos for her attorney. But, if he won the case, my taxes probably would go up.

A small boy in blue shorts and a white T-shirt came out of a clapboard house and said, "What are you doing to our tree?"

"The tree is on the street side of the sidewalk. It belongs to the city. I'll bet you don't even know what kind of tree it its."

Before he could answer a woman in pajamas appeared on the front porch and shouted, "Rodney, come in here this minute."

He started back toward the house, turned and said, "It's a elm, a Chinese elm."

I think he was right. At Tom's Auto Parts down by the tracks I got directions to a 1999 Ford Bronco from a white man who was mostly black from dirt and grease his body and clothes had accumulated. The car I sought had been demolished in a collision. The other driver had run a stoplight. Both drivers had survived, but, as my photos would show in court, the Bronco did not.

Mister Clean, after I finished shooting the photos, said, "She sure got busted up. That must be a good job, running around taking pictures of busted cars. Do you make a lot of money doing that?"

"Probably less than you do," I said.

He laughed, said, "Bullshit," and went back into a tin shed that served as an office.

I drove to Century Auto Body Shop clear out on the west end of town where I made pictures of a Cadillac damaged on the left back end. I didn't know the details of this accident. I didn't need to. All I needed was photos showing the damage.

It was nearly noon by the time I finished. Captain Andrew Brown, Central City's police detective, and my main source of information at the police department, would be out to lunch. I had time to practice bowling, something I hadn't done for a while. This particular practice didn't do much to improve my skills, but while I was going through the motions I thought about Maggie, how we met, and where we were going.

As I said, I inherited the detective agency. A guy I thought was my friend left it to me when his liver gave out. I guess he didn't have anyone else he wanted to punish. The office was in an old building on Commerce Street down by the tracks across from Otto's Tavern. Jimmy Johnson, the guy who left me the business, had hired me occasionally to do leg work for him.

I quit my job when I discovered he had paid the rent six months in advance. I didn't get the benefit of the entire six months, however, because the place was eaten by fire when an arsonist tried to keep me from investigating a murder.

When I quit the newspaper the editor, Richard Bowles said, "You need direction, Nick. You still act like a kid, playing your silly games, what is it, pool and bowling? You have this idea that news is all about investigating evil, like the Green Hornet, or something. The fact is we have to give the readers what they want. They want stuff that affects their lives, stuff that is entertaining."

"Graft in Central City doesn't affect their lives? We're as bad as television, and we could be so much better."

Bowles sighed, stood up and shook my hand.

"Good luck, Nick," he said as he dismissed me.

It was a little after one o'clock when I got to City Hall. Built just before World War II, it stood across from the Rock Island train depot. In those days the train ran from Chicago to St. Louis with many a stop in between. Now all that was left were a few freight runs. The depot had been turned into a popular restaurant.

I climbed worn cement steps to the police department. The offices of city officials were on the second and third floors. I entered a large room on the first floor. Phones rang, and policemen interrogated potential residents of the cells in the basement. I stood on the public's side of a long counter and informed the desk sergeant I was there to see Brown. I tried to remember the sergeant's name but failed.

"How ya doing, Nick," he said as he motioned toward the back. "He's at his desk sorting clues." The guy laughed, amused by his own words.

Brown's office, on the other side of squeaky swinging doors, was enclosed where the others, except for the chief's, were open. Brown was reading a report when I entered. He was about my height, a couple of inches under six feet, and my weight, around one hundred eighty pounds. He had angry dark eyes, a jutting chin and the ability to intimidate criminals and witnesses. He also intimidated reporters and other low types. However, I had learned to get past his tough exterior and was no longer awed by him.

He pushed the report aside, put his feet on the desk, leaned back in his swivel chair, rubbed his bald head with his left hand and said, "Been awhile since you came around. Must want something, right?"

"Naw, I just came down here to see you. Since you made captain you and all your authority make me nervous. Still, I like to see you every now and then."

He smiled, leaned forward and took a cigar out of a desk drawer, cut off the tip, and lit it. The slowly rotating ceiling fan gathered the smoke and breathed it out again, much like the smoker.

"I thought you quit," I said.

"I did. Cigarettes. But now I'm on these things. Only two a day though. Better than two packs of cigs. How about you?"

"Oh, I quit more than a year ago. I'm glad I did. It was a mess, carrying around a pipe and tobacco all the time."

"I suppose you don't even miss it, right?" Brown said.

"I miss it, but less and less. I'm not kidding myself. Quitting a pipe is much easier that quitting cigarettes. I just tossed all the tobacco pouches away, put the pipes in a sack and stored them where I don't see 'em. It isn't like cigarettes when all you have to do to get one is ask. Not many people carry extra pipes."

"So, you're here to discuss smoking?"

"I'm interested in this woman who was found dead with bee stings on her body. What have you found out so far?"

"Why don't you ask our esteemed midget sheriff? Or just read the paper? Everything I know was in the story the Press published. It's been all over Springfield television, too. That's all there is."

"Hey, I know you don't ignore a death like this one even if the body was found outside your jurisdiction."

"We want to know what's going on, sure, but that prick of a sheriff never shares info. He's going to have a news conference in about an hour. Why don't you attend, and then you can tell me what's what."

"Right, if he'll tell me anything. I'm probably still on his shit list. He says I'm a troublemaker. Can you believe that?"

I didn't wait for an answer.

Chapter Three

The county building, made of gray limestone, was outside the city limits on Lancaster Road. It rose like a taxpayers' monument among fields of young corn and soybeans. I got there early and had time to enjoy the cool spring breeze as it pushed last year's leaves across the blacktop parking lot.

Sheriff Dudley Hudson pulled up in his polished, just-washed Ford. The black patrol car featured white stripes with the words "Heinhold County Sheriff" emblazoned on the side. Sheriff Dud glared at me, opened his car door and ducked his head, but not far enough. His felt cowboy hat fell to the ground. It skipped away, a toy for the breeze. The sheriff scurried after it. Each time he stooped to grab it the breeze got there first. The hat blew against a car. He grabbed it, brushed it, and placed it back on his head at the usual cocked angle. He straightened his shoulders and marched to my car.

"Hey you," he shouted in his high-pitched voice. "You can't park there. That's reserved for deputies."

I got out and looked down at him. One hand was on his hip. He cocked his head, looked up at me and said, "Well."

"How ya been, sheriff? My name is Bancroft. Remember me?"

"Damned right I remember you. Troublemaker."

"How many deputies do you have on duty?"

"You know how many. Seven."

"Then why do you need a dozen parking spaces reserved for deputies? Just think of me as a deputy of sorts. I'm here for the news conference."

He marched away, turned, and shouted, "The news conference won't be for half an hour. You just wait ... outside."

I stretched out as best I could in the car and was nodding when the clan began to gather. A TV van arrived. Call letters of the Springfield station were red on a white background. I recognized the reporter, Allison Guth, from having seen him on the tube.

Sheriff Hudson eventually appeared and stood on the top step leading into the courthouse. Two more vehicles wheeled into the parking lot. One contained a reporter I learned later was from Springfield and the other carried Wayne Foster and his wife, Clare. Wayne was a reporter for the Central City Press. Clare, as usual, was driving. Wayne looked to be sober when he got out of the car and joined the others below the steps facing the sheriff.

I was impressed with the dress of the press. Allison Guth wore sandals, sharply creased cream colored slacks and a silk, long-sleeved white shirt with ruffles – yes, ruffles – on the cuffs.

Wayne Foster wore his usual suit, bow tie and vest. Clare's slender body looked supple under a cool cotton dress with alternating blue and white stripes, the blue only slightly faded.

I got out of my car and strolled over near to the group. I stood behind them. I must have been outstanding in my T-shirt, jeans and scuffed running shoes.

The sheriff hitched up his pants, reset his hat and stamped his cowboy-booted foot. The sequins on his shirt glistened in the sun. He squinted at the news hounds below.

He checked with the TV cameraman, got a nod of assurance that the cameraman was ready to roll, and announced, as though he was revealing great unknowns, that the name of the woman found dead with bee stings on her body was Vicki Fowler.

Somebody asked, "Where was the body found, sheriff?"

The sheriff hitched himself up again to perhaps an inch or so above five feet and announced, as though it was just learned, that the body was found in a farm field near The Good Shepherd Home, off Ardmore Road.

"Who identified the body?" Wayne Foster asked.

"Charles Slavens, the guy who owns the bees."

This was new.

"What about the time of death, has that been established?" Foster asked.

The sheriff took a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, unfolded it and, after studying it for a moment, said, "The coroner figures she died about three in the morning. Oh, and he says she was twenty-three years old."

"How did he know that?" Foster asked.

"Don't know. Ask him. The whole thing was just an accident."

"Then you don't think this woman was murdered?"

Eyes turned in my direction after I asked the question, then turned back toward Hudson. He snorted and shifted his weight from one boot to the other.

"Why are you asking questions, Bancroft? Weren't you fired? Who do you represent?"

I was tempted to say I represented the people, but I knew it would draw sarcastic laughter.

I said, "I represent a citizen, me."

"It was just an accident. Who said it was anything else? It was just an accident. If there are no more questions..."

There was a general grumbling from the press as the conference broke up.

"Want to stop for a drink on the way back to town?" Wayne asked as we headed for our cars.

Clare said, "Don't pay any attention to him, Nick. He knows it's too early for a drink."

"Yeah, sure. We slaves must adhere to the rules, right, Nick?"

I figured he would talk her into stopping at some watering hole on the way back to the paper, and the idea was tempting. I hadn't seen either of them for some time. A drink would give me a chance to talk to Clare. When I was a drinking buddy of Wayne's I had admired Clare, even made a pass at her once, and was promptly put in my place.

"We're hanging out at the Sunshine Club a lot lately if you ever want to look us up, old buddy," Wayne said.

"Okay," I replied. Clare drove them away. The parking lot cleared as I sat in my car pretending to study notes, even though I hadn't taken any. I wanted to talk to the coroner, but didn't want any of the others to follow me.

Art Grawley, the coroner, was the exact opposite of the sheriff as far as cooperating with the press was concerned. He apparently had always told me everything he knew about a case. A thin man with graying hair and glasses that insisted on sliding down his nose, he greeted me warmly and invited me to sit.

"Thanks Art, but I've only got a minute. Do you think there is any chance this woman, Vicki Fowler, was murdered?"

"Well, there's always a chance. Someone could be guilty of murder if they pushed her into a mess of bees. I understand bees don't see too well at night. I've been wondering how such an attack, apparently such a prolonged attack, could happen in the dark.

"Heart failure killed her, of that I'm certain. She was literally scared to death. My best guess ... I think it was an accident. It appears she stumbled out into the night after drinking too much and just happened to get tangled up with those bees."

"What do you know about the Good Shepherd Home?"

"Not much," the coroner said. "Only that she lived there. We got her purse and ident papers there. Several other young women seem to live there. They all have children, are unwed mothers, except Vicki. I was told she was the only one there who was not a mother. But she was going to be. She was about three months pregnant."

I thanked the good coroner, shook his hand, promised to keep in touch, and left. Maybe Maggie was right. Maybe I should stick to business, my agency business. But I had a gut feeling this woman's death involved foul play.

Chapter Four

I almost missed the sign. "Good Shepherd Home" was painted in uneven black letters on a board nailed to a tree on the side of Ardmore Road. I drove on a rutted path to near the front of a large house with pealing paint and dirt-smeared windows. I waded through foot-high grass and higher weeds to the front porch. The doorbell button was rusted and the paint around it was pitted. I knocked.

Almost immediately a large woman opened the door. Her straw-like hair was bleached. Her eyes were pale, almost colorless, and her jaw jutted out like a square-rigged ship facing a hostile sea. She wore slacks and a man's denim shirt. I heard shouts and muffled chatter of children in the background.

"You're wasting your time and mine, mister. We don't want any."

"I'm not selling. I want to see Slavens."

"He's out back fooling with his bees."

She continued to frown as she closed the door. Out back was not just behind the house. There was a barnyard with broken fence and a barn as big as, well, a barn. It was open on both ends with stalls on each side and a loft overhead. A pickup truck was in the middle of the aisle. The front end was raised, revealing a rusting truck bed. A pair of feet, with greasy black work shoes attached, protruded from underneath.

I shouted, "Mister Slavens?"

A rasping voice shouted back, "He's out in back with his damned bees. Go right on through the barn. You'll see 'em. But, if I was you, I wouldn't go near the damned things."

I went by the truck. I couldn't see the face of the person under it. There was a pungent smell, like dirty, wet socks. I wondered if it was the truck or the guy. I looked back after I was beyond it and noticed that the right front headlamp was broken. Some of the red undercoat was visible beneath the faded blue paint on the hood.

Beyond the barn a man in the distance with a net over his head was bent over something I couldn't see. I went through a gate in the barbed wire fence and walked what seemed like a couple of blocks through a path that dissected a clover field. The guy saw me coming and walked away from what I could see were beehives. He motioned me to stop. He took off the protective net.

"No need to risk getting too close. I got one hive that's pretty aggressive. What can I do for you?"

He was nearly as short as the sheriff. Tiny veins stood out against the pale skin of his face. His thinning hair fluttered in the slight breeze. He stared at me through thick glasses. The bees buzzed some twenty yards away.

"I'm investigating the death of a woman named Vicki Fowler. Did you know her?"

His smile faded, like a flower drooping under an August sun.

"Who are you? I already talked to the sheriff."

I explained my mission. He didn't say anything for a moment. I thought he was going to refuse to talk.

"I knew her, sort of. We have several women. She was kinda new. This is a home for unwed mothers, you know."

"You do know she was found dead near here, don't you?"

"Yes, of course I know, I found her. Right over there." He pointed toward a bunch of trailer homes facing Ardmore Road, a block or more from where we were standing.

"She had no business being out here in the middle of the night. I've told them all to stay away from my bees, them and their kids. God works in mysterious ways.

"They're all a bunch of sinners, those women. Unwed mothers. What's this world coming to? But this Vicki, she was the worst. She had no business here. She had no kid. She just wanted to have a good time. Didn't care about anything else."

His voice became a hollow monotone. He reminded me of a gloom-and-doom preacher I was exposed to when I was young. I made a mental note to check his background. He was carrying a frame of some sort. When I glanced at it his face lit up and he started talking about bees. No droning voice now. His face took on color as he talked.

"Did you know honey bees are not native to the United States? They were brought here by the early settlers. Beekeeping dates back to the Stone Age. They know this because of cave paintings."

"Hmm, very interesting. Why would your bees attack this woman?"

"Bees generally are not aggressive by nature. They won't sting unless they're protecting hives. They must have been provoked. I've got one hive that is more aggressive than the others, but..."

"How do you steal their honey without provoking them?"

"Well, you have to know what's what, especially this time of year. They are just getting really active."

"Yes, I can see and hear that."

"They have been living on honey they stored from last year, honey I left for them. Now they're making new honey. You don't just come out here and harvest the honey, you know. You have to control mites, feed the bees medicated syrup, add Apistan strips, like this one – he held up the thing he had in his hand – do a lot of stuff to keep 'em producing."

"Yes, well, I'm sure..."

"Did you know there are three castes of honeybees. There's the queen, of course. She can live three to five years. She mates with several males and will remain fertile for life. A queen can lay up to 2,000 eggs a day."

I thought of trying to stop his lecture. But I wanted to appear interested so he would continue to talk.

"All the worker bees are female."

"A good idea," I said.

"What?" He didn't wait for an answer. "They literally work themselves to death in summer. Most of the bees in a hive are workers. They're the ones that sting. Then they die.

"The drones are there to mate with the queen. When they mate they die."

"Quickly, I hope," I said. "For the human male it isn't that easy."

My attempt at humor was wasted on him. He followed me to the barn, spouting bee babble all the way. When I shook his hand and thanked him for the information, he nodded, turned and walked back toward the hives, still muttering.

The truck and the guy who was working on it were gone. I circled the house. I had the feeling the Amazon who greeted me at the door before was watching. I could hear children through the open windows, but no women. Where were the mothers?

When I got to my car and opened the door a faint, unpleasant odor floated out. It smelled familiar. Like the smell in the barn. I moved back, expecting to see the man from the barn in the back seat. No one was there. I checked the glove compartment. Nothing was missing, as far as I could tell. I opened the windows and drove back toward town.

At a stoplight, in my rear view mirror, I noticed a blue truck behind me. The blue paint on the hood was faded. Some undercoat was visible. The right headlamp was broken. The traffic light changed. I drove on. The truck followed. The truck I saw in the barn? I was going back to town. Why couldn't the driver of the truck be doing the same? Not necessarily following me. A teenager with a ponytail dashed across the street in front of me, taking my mind off the truck.

I parked in my spot behind the apartment building and went inside to my loving mate and independent cat. When there are no complications – like a woman wanting to know why you didn't call or where the hell you have been – going home produces a nice feeling.

"Otto called and wants to meet us at Chester's. Okay?"

She must have washed her hair because a towel was wrapped around her head. And she still had that no-makeup look. She was wearing cutoff jeans and a T-shirt. No shoes, no bra.

"It's been awhile since I saw Otto. Normally I'd jump at the chance to go to Chester's for beer and whatever, but look at you. You do this on purpose. Look so sexy I forget to eat, except an occasional nip at your butt. I'll go if we can get away early and get back to our lusty bed."

"What happened to your fondness for Otto? When we first met you spent most of your spare time with him in that scrungy tavern he owned."

"Otto is a good old buddy," I said, "but a man must set his priorities. First there's bowling. Then there's your body, then there's beer and Otto. You'll note that I no longer include pool. I gave that up for you."

She unwrapped the towel and threw it at me. I allowed it to land on my face and breathed in the fragrance of her shampoo. I think it had something to do with herbs.

She picked up the towel, wrapped her arms around my neck, and held the towel so it covered my head and face, and gently kneed me in the groin.

"I could hurt you, mister," she hissed.

I bent over in faked agony, let the towel fall to the floor, staggered to a chair and curled up like a threatened bug.

"Oh, come off it, Nick. I didn't hurt you."

"There'll be no hanky panky tonight," I said.

We met Otto at the tavern, but were a little late. Looking back. I realized it was the end of that particular Maggie and Nick honeymoon.

Chapter Five

Chester's Bar and Grill was a neighborhood bistro with nothing much to distinguish it except Janice's tits. She ran the place, apparently owned it, and, according to Otto, never knew Chester, who opened it twenty years before and had since died.

Otto and I had known each other for several years. My office used to be across the street from his tavern in the old section of town down by the tracks. I moved when I was burned out. Otto closed his tavern soon after, claiming my move killed his business. His wrinkled face and caustic disposition hadn't changed since he started hanging out with a group of old farts at Chester's. He still waddled. I had imitated him once, shifting my weight from side to side as if I was stepping on hot coals. He didn't appreciate the imitation. I never did it again. He weighted in at over two hundred pounds – he never would tell me how much over – even though he was little more than five feet tall. His feet still hurt, he still refused to go to a podiatrist, he still wore baggy pants and T-shirts that advertised things. I liked him. Maybe he was a father figure. We had kept in touch, often by meeting at Chester's. The beer at Chester's was fine, especially the Old Style light I drank, but the food – forget it. However, because Otto liked it, Maggie and I met him there for supper.

"I'm surprised you like this place, Otto," I said. "It's clean, was built after World War II and doesn't smell like rotting wood and stale booze."

"I'm surprised you like it, junior. I saw that office you had across the street from my tavern, remember."

Otto, a never-say-die Cub fan said, "Things look good, so far. Do you think they can keep it up?"

I said, "You know, things do look good. But they've got to keep hitting."

"Well, maybe," Maggie said, "but they better get some relief pitching soon or they won't be able to score enough runs to win many games."

I stared at her.

Otto said, "Well, this is a wonder. Imagine, a woman, a good-looking woman, who knows something about baseball!"

"When did you get interested in the Chicago Cubs?" I asked.

"When it became apparent you two couldn't talk about much of anything else."

"We talk about the female anatomy, sometimes, but never in front of you. We're gentlemen," I said.

"Nick, don't turn around, but there's a wild-eyed, filthy man at the bar who keeps staring at us. He makes my skin crawl."

We were sitting in a booth near the back. I turned. The guy glared at me and slid off his stool. He spilled beer as he came toward us carrying his glass. I was sitting across from Maggie. Otto sat next to her. I moved out of the booth and stood as the guy arrived.

He was a couple of inches taller than me. His bloodshot eyes focused on mine. He glared. I glared back. I had no idea why he was challenging me. He was lanky, bony. It had been at least three days since he shaved. He pulled a greasy rag from his back pocket, wiped his red nose, and stuffed the rag back. His fingernails were black and broken, and he was holding a switchblade knife in his right hand.

He slide into the booth where I had been sitting, still holding the beer in his left hand and the knife in his right. There was an unpleasant odor. Wet, dirty sweat socks?

"What the hell do you mean, coming over here and sitting uninvited? And with that knife. Put the damned thing away before I stick it up your ass."

He folded the knife shut and stuffed it in the side pocket of his once-blue jeans. He grinned, revealing rotting teeth.

"Don't get excited, mister," he said. He gulped beer, nearly emptying the glass. He belched.

"My God," Maggie said. "Nick, get this creep out of here. No don't do that – call the police."

"Look buddy," the guy said, "I don't want no trouble." He slurred his words as his head bobbed. "I just want to know what you was doin' pokin' your fuckin' nose around out at Slavens' place today."

"You're the guy who was under the truck?"

"I fixed that mother-fuckin' truck and I'll fix you if you don't mind yer own business."

"That's it, get out of here. And I don't mean just away from this booth. Get out of this tavern or you'll wind up in jail, buddy."

Maggie and Otto grabbed their glasses as he nearly upset the booth getting out. The guy pulled the knife from his pocket, but did not switch the blade open. He pointed the thing at me and said, "You mess with me, mister, and you'll wind up pushin' daisies. Just leave me alone. I didn't commit no murder."

"Murder? Who said anything about murder?"

"I know what'll come down. They'll pin the murder on me because, well, it'll be the easiest thing to do. I'd run, but I'm tired of that. I didn't do it, why should I have to run again? Why don't you check with that Blaine guy. See what he was doin' when that woman was murdered. Just because she lived at Slavens' home don't mean I killed her."

"Niiiick," Maggie said. I shushed her. But the guy was through talking. He bumped into a couple of people at the bar and staggered out of the tavern.

Chapter Six

I figured Andy Brown would know about Blaine so I went to his office. Now that he was captain of detectives he had his own coffee maker, given to him by fellow police in recognition of his promotion. Of course, he still was the only detective in the department. He poured me a cup when I told him I had some new information about the Good Shepherd Home and the hired hand there.

"Really," he said. "I'll bet it's new."

I sipped at the coffee. It was less bitter than the stuff from the big urn used by the rest of the department.

"This guy was drunk last night at Chester's. I think he followed me there from the Good Shepherd Home. He threatened me and suggested Vicki Fowler was murdered. Said I should check with some guy named Blaine."

"The guy that was drunk, who is he?"

"I don't know his name?"

"Was he sleazy-looking with bad teeth and drives an old blue pickup with one light out?"

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"His name is Jake Ripon. Bancroft, I know everything, remember."

"Yeah, right. This Ripon works at the Good Shepherd Home. At least I think he does. He was working under that old truck when I went out there to question Slavens."

"What's Blaine got to do with this?"

"I was hoping you could tell me. When this guy mumbled about Vicki Fowler being murdered and claimed he didn't do it he told me to talk to Blaine, but he left without saying who Blaine was."

Brown leaned back in his swivel chair. He toyed with a pencil with one hand and rubbed his head with the other.

"Maybe it was murder, maybe not. There is a little problem, you know. The body was found outside the city. I have no jurisdiction, but I'm not going to ignore the case, leave it to our intrepid sheriff. No way."

"What about Blaine?"

"He must have been talking about Andre Blaine who owns and operates the Sunshine Club. It's a strip joint and more. The girls who strip there also whore. They make arrangements with guys at the club but leave separately and go to rooms in the Majestic Motel where the records indicate they are permanent residents. Everything is out of town. In spite of that we had a sting operation going because the suckers are mostly from our fair city. It looks like Blaine investigates the background of the johns before any money changes hands. He must have spotted our undercover guys because none of them were asked for money. And none of them were offered the services of the women there again."

"Where does he get the women?"

"Are you kidding? There are plenty of willing ones around. I suppose they make pretty good money, although you can bet Blaine gets his share. He came here from Chicago. I think most of the women are from Chicago."

"Why would Blaine be involved in this murder?"

"Look Bancroft, you've brought me some information so I'll tell you one more thing. Blaine owns that old farmhouse and the five acres around it. Where the Good Shepherd Home is. Where the Majestic Motel is. He's a nasty bastard. Stay away from Andre Blaine or you'll wind up with a bloody nose, or worse."

"This is getting interesting. There must be a hell of a story in all this. You know how I am about good stories – stories I can sell to the Chicago Times."

"Don't give me that shit about the public's right to know and you being their representative. Stay away from Andre Blaine. You'll screw up our chances of nailing him, not that they're very good as long as Blaine stays outside the city."

Back at my office I e-mailed the Chicago Times state editor and asked him to check on Andre Blaine. In a couple of hours I had e-mail back that said:

Andre Blaine! Is he in Central City? We hear he was run out of Chicago because he had a disagreement with Tony Carbona's west side gang.

Something to do with who owned a west side tavern and the girls who worked there. He's been investigated in connection with two murders, arson, child pornography, government graft, and a few other crimes, but never been convicted. What's going on?"

I sent back the message, "Just a story I'm looking into. I'll let you know when I get something."

Chapter Seven

I made the mistake that night of telling Maggie I was going to the Sunshine Club. "It's business," I said.

"Sure, it's business. What's the matter, getting tired of me? I've heard about that place. If you go there you're taking me."

"I'm surprised you'd want to go to a place like that. Not that I've ever been there."

I had planned a simple and quick survey but it turned into a production. Maggie got dolled up and complained because I didn't change into something "decent."

"This was intended to be a quiet look just so I would have an idea of what I'm dealing with when I talk to Andre Blaine. Now every guy in the place will notice me because I'm with you. You look better than any young thing with firm, rounded breasts, unlined face, slim legs and unfettered passion. And those wide-open, innocent eyes as the young thing sheds her clothes. That wouldn't interest me."

"You have been there."

"No," I said truthfully. "I've never been there."

The Sunshine Club glittered with neon. A large parking lot separated it from the street. A link fence drew a line separating it from the surrounding industrial blight. An attendant halted us at the entrance to the parking lot. I rolled down the window. He looked past me, noted Maggie, looked at the empty back seat, and said, "Welcome to the Sunshine Club."

He motioned us through the gate and pointed to empty parking spaces near a row half-filled with cars. Inside we were greeted by a woman wearing nothing that would keep her warm. She greeted me like a regular. It added fuel to Maggie's pretense that I spent half my life in the place. We were ushered to a table. I watched the greeter's cheeks caress each other as she walked ahead of us.

"Well, I'll be damned. Never though I'd run into you in a place like this, Nick. And who's the dream boat with you?"

It was Wayne Foster. His wife, Clare, stood behind him.

Clare always was there, serving as chauffeur, nurse, shoulder to cry on, keeper of the peace, and who knew what else? I had helped her wrestle him to the floor once when he started swinging at a guy who objected because Wayne was making a pass at his wife, She didn't really need my help, she informed me.

I didn't like Wayne much even though I could sympathize with his problem because of my mother, who was an alcoholic. But Clare I liked. Her dark eyes and eyebrows and short, black hair had given her a little-girl look. Now there was a weariness in her eyes that hadn't been there before. I introduced Maggie and invited Wayne and Clare to sit at our table.

Maggie nudged me and whispered, "Look at the way he's dressed. Why don't you dress like that?"

Wayne was wearing his usual bow tie, suit with vest and drunken grin.

"Do you want me to be drunk all the time?" I whispered back as Wayne settled into a chair. He latched onto Maggie as a new audience for his incessant chatter. He interrupted when she tried to carry on a conversation with Clare.

"How are things going?" I asked Clare.

She shrugged and offered a sad smile. It brought back memories. I got to know her background because of our conversations when Wayne was either passed out or near it.

"I'm from a farm in Iowa," she told me then. "I knew how to milk a cow, bale hay, stuff like that. But I never expected to have a chance to know much else until Wayne came along. He was mister sophistication to me. Big city reporter. He worked for the Des Moines Register then. He came to our county fair and spent a lot of time in the cow barn with me and my champion Angus."

I surveyed the large room that made up the club. A high stage ran half the length of the back wall, with bar seats in front of it. Most of the stools supported males who had a drink in one hand and eyes focused on the gyrating female body of their choice on the stage.

Three young women in various stages of undress ground out their routines on the stage. Rotating lights bathed their swaying hips and naked bosoms in red, green, and yellow.

The corner to the left of the entrance was walled off. A door leading into it was marked, "Private." A huge fireplug of a guy with a crew cut and bulbous nose stood near the door. His eyes covered the room like a prison spotlight. In the opposite corner, doors highlighted by more rotating lights were marked "His" and "Hers."

Maggie dug an elbow into my ribs and said, "Nick, you insisted on dragging me to this place. The least you could do is talk to me and Clare."

"So, how's it been going?" I asked Wayne.

"What about you, Nick?" he said. "Got any hot stories working that you care to tell me about. Ha ha."

"If I had anything hot going would I be wasting my time here? And if I did, would I tell you?"

"Well, I just asked. How about that lovely young thing on the stage. You'll find out in a minute if she really is a blonde. I already know."

Clare glared at him. I was surprised, as drunk and full of himself as he seemed to be, that he noticed.

He said, "I only know because she strips. I don't know her, honest Clare. For Christ's sake, give me a little slack."

As the performer in question ended her performance she did appear to be a true blonde, but I suppose hair coloring can be used anywhere. Later I assured Maggie that in didn't make the slightest difference to me. "Wayne brought up the subject, remember."

Maggie said, "It's a shame he drinks so much. Otherwise he seems like a nice guy."

"Yeah, the women all love him. He's got quite a line. Did he hook you?"

"Do I look hooked? I was just making conversation."

"Well, don't think he's harmless. He's got a mean temper. I saw him beat the hell out of a guy once when I thought he was too drunk to walk. Clare stopped him. Probably kept him out of jail by apologizing to the guy and batting her eyes."

We were home by then and Maggie said she had a headache and wanted to sleep.

"I'm sorry you have a headache," I said. "But we couldn't have lost ourselves in each other anyway. I have the cramps."

She stifled a chuckle, groaned instead, kissed me on the forehead and rolled to the far side of the bed.

Chapter Eight

The next morning Maggie announced she was going to Ohio to see her new granddaughter and visit the child's father – her oldest son – and his wife.

"You're too young to have a grandchild."

"You don't even remember, do you? I told you about it just a couple of weeks ago. I knew you weren't paying attention. I'll be gone for about a month. I'm also going to visit my other son in Indianapolis."

"You're going to be gone a month? I'll bet you won't even miss me."

"I might, a little. It will be good for both of us to be separated for awhile."

"Good God. I've been sleeping with a grandmother."

"My flight is this afternoon. You can drive me to the airport ... if you want."

"Of course I want. You know I want. You know all about how I want. Like, how about taking care of my want before you leave?"

"Never mind. I'll just take a taxi."

"Okay, go ahead and take a taxi. Do you have enough money to be gone for a month?"

"Do I have enough money?"

"Who is going to read to the kids at the library when you're gone?"

"Nick, don't worry about it. Arrangements have been made. I'll be able to read to my own grandchild. That's why I started reading at the library. I used to read to my kids when they were little."

Later, as I was trying to get my mind back on the investigation, I wondered what I said wrong, what I should have said, and stuff like that. It seems, in my relations with women, I wonder about stuff like that a lot.

Without the neon glitter, in the light of day, the Sunshine Club was just an old cement-block building. The gate was open and three cars were parked near the door. Two were small and the other was a highly polished Cadillac. I figured the Caddy belonged to Blaine. He had agreed to talk to me after I phoned and said I was a stringer for the Chicago Times. I suppose he was hoping for some customer-producing publicity.

The front door of the building was open, and a large floor fan was at work removing smoky, stale air. I sidled past the fan and went into the building.

Inside a man was sitting at a table talking to a woman as another woman mopped the floor. I heard a growl. I jerked my head around, expecting to see a lion, but it was only a huge black dog with fierce eyes and a definite dislike of me. It was restrained by a leash tied to a roof-supporting pole.

"Bruno, shut up. Don't worry, he's tied," the man at the table said.

I recovered enough to note the place, compared to the way it looked at night, was drab. The tables and chairs all were pushed to one side. The linoleum flooring was dirty and littered where it hadn't been mopped.

The guy got up. "Come, sit down," he said. "Can I get you something to drink, on the house of course?"

His black eyebrows provided an attention-grabbing contrast to his white hair, combed straight back. He sat down again as I reached the table. The woman stood up and smiled. She was just under six feet tall, had long, bony arms and a nose that dominated her face. She shook my hand after Blaine introduced her as Roxy Amber.

"She's my main man," Blaine said. He introduced himself. His grip was firm. I firmed mine to keep my hand in one piece.

"You're the reporter who called?"

"Yeah, Nick Bancroft."

The woman said, "I'll leave you two alone." She went behind the bar.

Blaine's eyes darted away from mine as I noted his nose had been broken. A silk suit with subtle vertical blue stripes on darker blue was tailored to his slender frame. His unflawed teeth were sparkling white. I wondered if they were false.

"I'll get right to the point, Mister Blaine. I'm investigating the death of Vicki Fowler. Did you know her?"

The smile on his face vanished.

"What is this? Vicki Fowler? Sure, she worked here, but I know nothing about her death. Who the hell told you to ask me? I'll break the fucker's legs."

"You don't know anything about it then?"

"No, I don't know anything about it then. I told you. Thought you wanted to write a story about my place. No, you come in here with this shit about what do I know about a murder. Get the hell out of here."

"I didn't say it was murder."

He stood. I stood. He glared. I glared. The dog growled. I could hear its feet scratching on the floor as it strained against the leash.

"Maybe we'll talk again sometime," I said. I circled away from the dog and resisted the urge to look back. It was a relief to climb into the safety of my car.

Chapter Nine

Silence filled my office like heavy fog. No Maggie. No prospects of Maggie any time soon. I turned on the radio to the elevator-music station I favored and put my feet on the desk. The cat appeared, leaped onto the desk, sat, and waited. I reached out and stroked its head.

"We're alone again cat, just you and me. Like the old days when she first made me responsible for feeding you, Mister Snooty. Remember? You were so skittish. Wouldn't even let me touch you. A stray cat that didn't trust anyone. Probably had a rough life, huh? You became a contest. I guess I won. Now you're mine. Or am I just your provider? Either way we miss her already, right?"

Talking to the cat no longer embarrassed me. I'd been doing it for some time. But did I have to sit around and mope because Maggie was gone? I gave the cat a final rub, went to Chester's, ordered a cup of coffee at the bar and said to Janice, "I thought Otto would be here."

"He went somewhere else for lunch. Total disloyalty. He and a couple of those old farts who sit around here all day and nurse one beer. Didn't hear where."

I settled into a booth. I could practice bowling, get something to eat, even go to a damned movie. But I just sat there. Food didn't appeal to me. There was no one to whom I could talk. Did this mean I was going to have to ask Maggie to marry me? She would probably say no anyway. What about the case? Think about the case. Was it really just a horrible accident? Or did someone kill Vicki Fowler, and, if they did, why? Blaine had called it murder. So had Ripon.

I got through the rest of the afternoon by slogging through some routine agency business, stuff as exciting as checking property title records. That night, just to be doing something, I went to the Sunshine Club. The guy at the gate to the parking lot let me in, urged me to have a good time, and went back to his booth and the paper he was reading.

There were only a few cars. It was early yet. I figured I'd be tossed out of the place as soon as someone, like Roxy Amber, who greeted me at the door, spotted me. She was wearing a low-cut gown the color of her long, flowing hair. Amber, I guess.

"Didn't Andre tell you to stay the fuck away from here?"

"Yes, I believe he did," I replied.

She smiled. "I'm his number one man, right." I nodded.

"Well, as far as I'm concerned you can live here the rest of your life, mister. If that bastard wants you out of here he can throw you out himself."

"You don't like being called his number one man?"

"That's not all I don't like, the two-timing bastard. I should tell him to shove it but, what the hell. I knew about his tomcatting before I came down here with him, didn't I?"

"Came down here from where?"

"Oh, look at the reporter, trying to suck information out of me. I'll let you suck something else, maybe. It would serve him right. He probably wouldn't care if I sold it like ... hey just go sit down anywhere. I'm going to get a drink."

"I'll buy you one," I said.

"Well, why not? That's what the girls around here are supposed to do. Get the customers drunk."

We sat at a table near the door, both of us facing it, she on one side, me on the other.

A waitress appeared. She was dressed like a little girl who had developed early and outgrown her clothes. Her name was Rita, according to the tattoo on the upper part of her left breast. Roxy ordered scotch on the rocks, and I ordered a glass of beer.

"Roxy Amber, that's a colorful name," I said.

"Beats Jane Walls when you're in this business."

"Why are you pissed at Andre?"

"Who me? Who's pissed? He just promises me stuff and then forgets it. Like I'm nothin' but shit to be flushed when he's through. But the pay is good. And I'm in looove."

A bitter laugh came from her gut as she looked into my eyes.

"You here to get laid?" she asked.

"I though maybe you served food. I'm hungry."

"Aren't we all," she sighed. "You came to the wrong place to eat if you mean what I think you do. Food, right?"

"Yeah, food," I said.

"Why don't you leave? I'm bitter tonight. Just forget what I said. Andre will kick the hell out of me, and you too if he sees us together. This Vicki thing has him on edge. Go on, go home to that dish you had in here the other night. She's better for you than anything in here."

"I'm investigating a murder," I said.

"A murder? Jesus! Hey, I'm not with you. Thanks for the drink. I don't know nothin' about no murder and don't want to. Jesus!"

"Is Mister Blaine here?"

"Who knows? He's got his own private door in back. He comes and goes and we don't even know it. It's his idea of how to keep us pushin' our asses to make him money."

"Where's his office?"

"It's back there." She pointed to the corner of the room where space had been walled off and a door was marked "private."

When I got up and started toward the office she said, "It's your ass. Don't tell him you been talking to me, please."

It only took a tap on the door marked private to produce the fireplug. He scowled and said, "Whadda ya want? Can't you read the sign? This is private."

"I think Mister Blaine wants to see me."

"I know he tolt you to get the hell out. That don't mean you come back. What's a matter, you deaf?"

"Will you tell him I'm here?"

"I ain't tellin' him nothin'. Besides he ain't here. Now beat it before you gets hurt."

He pushed his barrel chest against mine. I held my ground for a second but decided there was no way I was going to push past this Neanderthal. I went back to the table where Roxy and I had been sitting. After I finished my beer I waved the waitress over. She seemed nervous. Goose bumps appeared on her exposed skin. I asked for another beer.

"Gee, I'm sorry, mister. Roxy told me not to serve you. I'm sorry."

"Its okay, don't worry about it. I'll leave and you can forget all about it. What time do you get off work?"

She seemed to shrink. Roxy was watching. I put a couple of dollars on the table. My business card was under the money. I didn't expect to hear from her but what the hell, it never hurts to try.

It was a little after midnight when the phone in my bedroom rang. I drifted up from sleep, fumbled the receiver off the cradle and mumbled, "Yeah." A female voice said, "Vicki Fowler lived at Good Shepherd and worked here at the Sunshine Club like the rest of us."

"Rita?"

"Never mind who. I've got to hang up now."

The phone went dead. I put the receiver back in its cradle and sat up in bed. The mothers working at the Sunshine Club would explain why I didn't see or hear any of them while I was snooping around. They probably were asleep after working most of the night, maybe all night.

I tried to concentrate on the case, but images of warm, vibrant Maggie danced in my brain. I shook my head and thought of all the possible implications of the link between the Good Shepherd Home and the Sunshine Club.

If Vicki Fowler was murdered could it have been because she threatened to expose Blaine and his operation? Were the mothers held hostage because the home had their children? Good Shepherd indeed.

The cat, which had been allowed to sleep at the foot of the bed, crept up to Maggie's pillow and curled itself there. Instead of putting it back in its place I petted in as I thought about the possibilities of the bee-sting story and how I was going to get the facts. It was nearly dawn before I went back to sleep.

Chapter Ten

The next morning I dressed and dawdled over a cup of instant coffee. The sound of song-happy birds filtered through the open kitchen window. I turned on the radio and fed the cat. I e-mailed the Chicago Times state desk asking if someone would check on a Roxy Amber, alias Jane Walls.

I wrote a letter to Maggie. I explained how, since she had gone, I'd become a sensitive man who spent most of his time thinking about how he could meet the psychological needs of the woman in his life. Gentle things, being aware of her moods, her desire for romance, taking out the garbage, good stuff like that. Of course, I wrote, I still am working on my ability to meet her physical needs as well. I signed it "Sensitive."

I put it a drawer in my desk. Maybe I would mail it later. In the meantime. I had leg work to do for three clients, and then I had to talk to the sheriff. I didn't expect him to give me anything new, but I had to make the effort.

It also was an effort to get through the routine stuff. Rain clouds hung over Central City. The sky grumbled and threatened. I wished it would just go ahead and rain and get it over with.

By the time it did rain I was through with the client work and drenched as I raced from the parking lot to the entrance to the county building.

I paused in the lobby and brushed water from my face. I thought of how I had looked upon Dudley Hudson as a crumb-bum politician who was more interested in promoting himself than anything else. The only reason why he got elected was because the sheriff before him, who was running for re-election, was indicted for bribery three weeks before the vote.

I suppose it gave Hudson a good feeling knowing his jail was more modern by thirty years than the city's. The fact that the county fathers had pushed his office into the basement to make room for other offices pleased me. His office door opened on a long hallway and the jail cells. It reminded me a little of the sheriff's offices in wild west movies.

And there was a cowboy, of sorts, right there in his office. He was Yocum Smith. Hudson's cousin and chief deputy. Over six feet tall and as beefy as a steer, he provided the muscle Hudson needed to back up his pomposity.

Yocum sat on a chair tilted against the wall. He picked his teeth with a toothpick as I entered. On his right hand was a small, faded tattoo of a butterfly. I hadn't noticed it before. Food wrappers from Mister Quick were on the floor beside him. A late breakfast?

"Mister Smith. It's a pleasure to see you again. Where is good old Dudley?"

"Don't give me that high hat stuff, Bancroft. It's been good not seeing you. You're getting the floor all wet. Is it a couple of years now since you got fired?"

"Yeah, that's right. I didn't quit. I'll say I was fired if it makes you happy. Where is the sheriff?"

"What do you care? None of your business."

"I work for the Chicago Times, dumbo. It's their business and therefore it's mine. I'm sorry I called you dumbo, it's the little eyes, they remind me of a pig."

"Dumbo ain't no pig."

"Oh, is that right? Then I'm the dumbo. Sorry."

"The sheriff is out on business and I'm in charge until he gets back. You wait outside. Don't want you getting in the way of business here in the office."

"Right. I'll wait outside. Don't want to get in the way of business. You might fall off the chair."

"Huh?"

From the lobby I could see the rain had moved on. Water had formed puddles at various spots in the parking lot. I went out to my car and waited. It was a good move. It gave me time to cool my anger just below the boiling point.

When the sheriff arrived, complete with hat, I went over to his car before he could get out and said, "I'm here to see if you have anything new on that murdered woman, the one with the bee stings."

"Murdered? I told you, it was an accident. Besides, none of your business."

"It's the public's business," I said.

"It's public business when I say it is. You gonna stir up trouble again? Why don't you ask that buddy of yours, that Detective Brown. He's been snooping around. Don't think I don't know. The victim was found in my jurisdiction. It's none of his business either."

"Do we have to go through all of this again? Do I have to get another court order to force you to release public information?"

"That was because of an arrest. The judge said I had to make it public when I arrested someone. He didn't say nothin' 'bout information involved in an investigation."

"Okay sheriff. You probably don't know anything anyway. I'll just investigate the damned thing myself. You can read about it in the paper."

"If Yocum gets aholt of you, you won't think you're such hot shit. He'll rattle your cage."

"That would make a nice story, too. Your days as sheriff are numbered. That would just get you out of office before the voters get around to doing it."

I walked away, annoyed with myself for arguing with the idiot.

Chapter Eleven

A rusty bus was the only vehicle at the Majestic Motel. I pulled in and parked. I waited a few minutes. No one appeared. I got out and went to the back of the motel units. From there I could see the Good Shepherd home across a field off to my right. Three garbage cans leaned against each other behind the office. Barbed wire surrounded the clover field that stretched away toward the home and the apiary. I held the top wire down, got one leg over it and then the other without snagging any important parts of my anatomy.

The clover was high enough so that I left a trail as I walked through the still wet foliage. Bees were doing their thing. I walked carefully, trying to avoid stepping on the busy creatures. After I'd walked a hundred yards or so I looked back and could see a faint path designating where I had been. My pant legs were soaked. I was looking for a similar path that would show how Vicki Fowler got to the apiary, if she didn't go directly there from the home.

I made a zigzag path toward the beehives and, about half way to them, found a trail where the clover had been beaten down in a line from the apiary to the fence near the motel. The path indicated someone had climbed over or under the fence about two hundred yards from the apiary and about thirty yards from the motel.

A piece of green material no larger than a nickel fluttered from a barb on the bottom strand of the fence. Evidence? I could leave it there and tell the sheriff about it. No telling what he would do with it, if anything.

I looked in all directions, didn't see anyone watching, bent down and, holding onto a corner, carefully pulled the bit of cloth from the barb, I held my shirt pocket open and dropped it in. I would give it to Brown and see what he could do with it. Was I tampering with evidence? Could be.

I stood up and nearly dirtied my drawers as a small snake slithered across a bare spot only inches from where my hand had been seconds before. Standing motionless, I spotted something red, something much larger than the green and black snake I had seen.

My inclination was to get the hell out of there, but curiosity won. I kept my eye on the red thing as I slowly lowered myself until I could pick up a large pebble. I was about to toss it when I realized I was staring at a flashlight.

I sighed, stood up, took out my handkerchief, and picked the flashlight up by wrapping the handkerchief around it. I moved the switch to see if it worked. It did. I had nowhere on my clothing to hide it. When I got to the motel and was moving toward my car Mike Ripon, carrying a wastebasket, came out of one of the units.

"Hey, what you doin' here? Snooping around? This is private property. What ya got there?"

I walked to my car. He followed. I tossed the flashlight into the front seat and closed the door.

"It's a beautiful spring day. I just thought I'd go for a walk. I like to walk along the sides of roads and collect things. You never know what you'll find. The road right-of-way isn't private property."

"Yeah, I guess. But you was snooping, don't try to bullshit me."

"I thought you worked over at the home. You work here too?"

"What you care where I work?"

"Okay, okay. I'll see you around."

His bloodshot eyes glared at me. I remembered the knife he had displayed at the tavern and was pleased he didn't display it again. I got in my car, moved the flashlight and handkerchief to the other seat and drove past him to the road. I drove back to town and the police station.

I removed the piece of green cloth from my shirt pocket, placed it on Brown's desk and said it was evidence. I placed the flashlight beside it with my handkerchief still wrapped around it.

Brown rolled the flashlight away from the handkerchief with the tip of a pencil and handed the handkerchief back to me.

"What kind of evidence is this? You touched this green cloth with your fingers. Don't you, a licensed private investigator, know better than that?"

"Sure I do, and I always carry plastic containers around with me so when I run into evidence I can pick it up with the tweezers I also carry. And I've got a magnifying glass so I'll look like a real Sherlock Holmes."

"Where did you get this stuff?"

I told him.

"It presents a problem. Technically you should have taken it to the sheriff, but then..."

"Yeah, I know. Technically. But giving evidence to the sheriff is not the way for me to get this story."

I explained the paths in the clover and the evidence that maybe the dead woman came from the motel.

"Why would she do that?"

"Maybe she was forced."

"Yeah, maybe. I'm going to have to give this stuff to the sheriff or I'll be as guilty as you are of withholding evidence. I'll say an anonymous person mailed the stuff to me, thinking it was my case.

"I'll have the lab guys look at it first. See if they can get fingerprints, whatever. But the dead woman was not wearing a green dress."

"So where does this leave us?"

"It doesn't leave us anywhere, Bancroft. It leaves me with a case that isn't mine and you with no story."

"Oh, I've got a story all right, but I would like to know more before I send it to the Times."

Chapter Twelve

I went to the Central City Press library and looked at five years of death records before I found what I was after. While I searched through the microfilmed pages, Wayne Foster appeared.

"What's up, private detective Nick Bancroft? Do I smell a reportorial coup here? Does the man with the proboscis for matters that matter and things that go beyond the law have something cooking?"

I ignored him until he looked over my shoulder. I stopped and copied the names of two persons who had died. One was a Herman Axel and the other a Mrs. Mary Henderson. They meant absolutely nothing to me, but I allowed Wayne to note the names and knew he would try to figure a connection between them.

He still was hovering when I spotted what I was after, a death notice involving the address of the Good Shepherd home. The deceased was a six-week-old baby named Amanda Smithy. The mother was listed as Pamela Smithy. No father was listed. I memorized the names and moved the tape to other names on another day. I copied down a couple, took the tape out of the machine and returned it to the librarian.

"Come on Nick, what the hell are you up to? We can share the story. I won't run it until you sell it to the Times."

"Sure, Wayne. But there's no story. I'm just doing some research for a client. Has nothing to do with news."

"I can get away. I'll buy you a beer. What do you say?"

"It's too early for me. Besides where is Clare? She turn you loose?"

"She's getting her hair fixed. Won't be back for an hour. She'll never know I slipped out."

I noted the desperate longing in his eyes and felt sorry for him as I left. He wanted an excuse to get a drink. He'd get to a bar soon enough without my help.

Now that I had a name I checked the Central City telephone book. I really didn't expect to find a Pamela Smithy listed. I figured Andre Blaine got his unwed mothers from out of town to avoid contact with whatever families they might have and that Pamela Smithy would be long gone. But the name and telephone number were there. I called and a quiet voice said, "Yes?"

I explained the reason why I was calling and was told, "You must be a lame brain. You think I'm crazy enough to talk about that bunch. I want to stay alive."

I talked to her for maybe five minutes, but she wouldn't budge. "I keep my mouth shut," she said before she hung up.

Chapter Thirteen

The next day Brown called and told me Mike Ripon had been arrested for the murder of Vicki Fowler. I called the state editor of the Chicago Times, told him what was going on and got the go-ahead to write the story, take it as far as I could and keep digging. If Maggie had been there I would have smirked. That afternoon Ripon called me.

"This is my one call, so I'm calling you. It's your fault I'm here. I swear I didn't kill Vicki. I'll tell you the stuff they'll dig up against me and you, since you're so damned nosy, can find out who really killed her."

"But you ... why call me? You should have called an attorney."

"I don't know any attorney, numbskull. You're so damned smart, you find me one, a good one."

"You're asking me for help, right?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"Well, cut the nasty crap or you can go to hell, understand?"

"Yeah. I ... I'm sorry. I'm scared."

"Okay. I'll try to get you an attorney, but the court will appointed one if you are indigent."

"I'm what you said, all right. Do you think I would work for practically nothin' if I had any money? If I had any money I'd be long gone. I should of knowed bad things was gonna happen and they would blame me. The natural born fall guy, that's me. Promise, ya gotta promise."

Someone on his end shouted "Your time's up," and we were cut off.

I went to the county jail, not to help the poor bastard, but to question him. Of course, if he was innocent, I wanted to clear him as well as get the story and pin this murder, if it was one, on whoever was responsible.

"What you doing here? You got no business here," the sheriff said the moment he saw me.

"I'm here to see my client."

"Since when do unemployed reporters have clients?"

"I'm licensed by the state of Illinois as a private detective and I'm here to see my client. Are you going to force me to get a court order? The judge will be thrilled to waste more time with you because you don't know the law."

He sat at his desk, his ever-present hat tilted back. He jumped up, grabbed his hat as it flew from his head, and squashed it back onto his head.

"I know the law. Who is your client?"

"Mike Ripon."

"You can't see him. He's a murderer. I'm not letting him out of his cell. No sir, I'm not that dumb."

"Funny. I thought you told me Vicki Fowler's death was an accident. Now you accuse my client of murdering her. What's going on sheriff?"

"None of your business. Now that we have arrested a suspect you can go away and do whatever it is you do. Leave us alone."

He was standing in front of me now as I sat on a wooden chair. I stood, forcing him to step back. I said, even though I didn't believe it, that I knew he was smart enough not to let a murder suspect out of his cell.

"And don't worry. I won't ask you about the new evidence. I'll talk to him through the bars. Right?"

"Well, I guess," he said. I stepped around him and went down the hallway separating the cells until I found the one that housed Ripon. He was sitting on a bunk, his head in his hands. I tapped on one of the bars. He looked up, sighed, and slowly got to his feet. He came to the edge of the cell, wrapped his hands around separate vertical bars, and said, "I didn't think you'd come. Thanks."

"What is it you want to tell me?"

"I came over here from Iowa a couple of years ago. I was convicted of assaulting a girl over there and served three years before I was released. They'll use that against me in this case, I know."

"How old was the girl?"

"She was under twenty-one, maybe seventeen, at least that's what they said. Anyway, these guys will find out about that sooner or later, and I won't have a chance. They'll pin this murder on me. I didn't do it."

He paused, wiped his face with one hand.

"I drink a lot. I was at the motel that night. It's my job to hang around, make sure none of the customers rough up the girls, clean the damned place up a little after everyone is gone. I 'd been drinking. I heard some noise outside, but I just thought it was one of the johns leaving late. It must have been around three in the morning. Most of them get out of there before that. The women were all asleep I guess. I should have looked, but I was drinking, and well, you know."

"Was anyone with you?"

"Then, no."

"Had anyone been with you before?"

He hesitated, shrugged and spread his hands out with the palms up.

"Yeah, one of them was with me earlier. But they're not supposed to mess with me. No money in that for Blaine and that bunch. I won't tell you her name. They would hurt her or her kid."

I told him to wait a second and returned to the office. Ripon shouted some choice names at me. I ignored him, got a chair, came back, sat down and got out my pen and notepad.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I though you was gonna leave."

"Okay," I said. "Tell me what you know about the Good Shepherd Home, the Majestic Motel, and the Sunshine Club. From when you first started working there."

He slid down against the bars until he was sitting on the floor with his back to me. He said he was handy enough to find work occasionally as he hitchhiked his way across the Mississippi into Illinois. He rambled, dwelling for awhile on a stay in a river town on the Illinois side – he had forgotten the name – but remembered the name of the wife of the man who hired him to clean up his bar and grill each night after the patrons left.

Ripon said he got food, drink and a cot to sleep on but no money. It lasted until the bar owner caught his wife with Ripon on the cot.

I figured I'd get more by just listening. I didn't expect to be able to help him, but I was hoping he would give me more information about Blaine and his operation, and thus, a good foundation for digging out the facts.

I finally had to ask, "When did you start working at the Good Shepherd Home and the Majestic Motel?"

"A couple of months ago. I tried to go into the Sunshine Club one night. That big goon, Alfred, was guarding the gate and wouldn't let me in. I was tired and drunk. I must have wandered along outside the fence, fell down and went to sleep. About the time the sun was coming up Alfred kicked me awake and hauled me to my feet.

"A tall woman was with him. Roxy, he called her. She asked me if I wanted a job. I wound up working at the home and the motel. They don't even pay minimum but what can I do? How many places are going to hire me?"

He recited the names of the women who were staying at Good Shepherd.

"How do you know all their names?"

"They wouldn't let me in the home but I was at the motel to clean up. I got to know some of them, the ones that was not so snooty."

"Was Vicki one of the snooty ones?"

"She was a snooty bitch, but she didn't deserve to die like she did. No one deserves that. I didn't do it. I didn't."

I recorded the names of the women he gave me, but he wasn't sure about the spelling.

"You could get the spelling off that fake motel register in the office. They was all there. Miss Amber told me to take good care of it, make sure I didn't throw it out when I was cleaning. Nobody ever wrote anything new in it except once when a new girl came to the home. Then they put her name in it. Come to think, it was Vicki Fowler. She was the last name in the book. They's all registered as permanent residents of the motel. That's what Miss Amber told me."

I asked if he had a key to the motel office.

"You don't need no key. The back door is nearly off the hinges. Just pull it open and hope it don't fall on you. Nothing in that dump to steal anyway except maybe the beds."

He begged me to help him. Could I? I promised to try to find him an attorney and investigate the case. My notepad was full of my brand of shorthand when we finished. Ripon returned to his cot, flopped onto it, and groaned. If he could be believed. I had a pretty clear picture of the whole business. At the sheriff's office I deposited the chair and told the sheriff I would see him later.

Chapter Fourteen

"Not if I see you first," he replied.

From my office, I called Ben Wilson, a friend and attorney who often threw work my way. I explained Mike Ripon's situation and told Wilson I had promised to try to find him an attorney.

"He doesn't have any money," I said. "The court will appoint someone. I'm just calling because I promised I would try. He's got a bad history. I don't know what evidence they have against him. Neither does he, according to what he said."

"What do you think?" Wilson asked.

I imagined Wilson sitting at his desk doodling with his silver pen. He'd look up from the doodles and flash that penetrating gaze. Gray eyes, thinning hair and a face as round as the moon.

"I don't know. I talked to him to get information for a story I'm working on. He threatened to beat the hell out of me once after he saw me snooping around at that home where he worked. He's got three strikes against him. An alcoholic on his way down."

"Yeah, but what do you think?"

"Well, he could be innocent. Who knows? Our esteemed sheriff isn't above arresting him just because he was convenient. Funny though. Before the arrest the sheriff insisted the woman's death was an accident."

"I haven't done any pro bono work for some time. I'll talk to this Ripon. If I decide to take the case will you do the legwork for free? By the way, do you know anybody who does yard work?"

"I'm already doing the leg work, trying to dig out the story. Don't know anybody in particular who does yard work. How about the phone book?"

"Sure, I'll check that when I get around to it. Talk to you later."

The cat paced on top of the desk. I petted the cat and thought about what else I could do. The cat continued to pace. It finally occurred to me that it wanted food.

Maggie had been taking care of feeding it since she moved in. Maggie. I hadn't thought of her for several hours. The cat followed me into the kitchen where I opened a can of cat food and poured a bowl of milk.

I wondered what Maggie was doing at that very moment. She probably hadn't thought of me all day. Probably was too busy with her grandchild.

If she were in the apartment where she belonged, I would be eating a good meal and thinking pleasant thoughts about the cook. I told the cat to keep an eye on things and walked the couple of blocks to Chester's Bar and Grill, hoping Otto Kamp would be there.

He wasn't.

I sat in the booth Maggie, Otto and I had claimed for our own and ordered a beer and a hamburger with everything. Some meal. Oh well. Maggie's cooking had put unwanted pounds on me.

I'm sure my eyes lit up when Otto walked in. He spotted me, stopped at the bar, got a beer, waddled over and laboriously eased his bulk into the booth.

"Where's Maggie? I don't relish being seen with you alone. With Maggie, I guess it's okay."

"I'd like to talk to her myself. I've been thinking of calling her. She's visiting her son and his family. I've been hoping she'd call me but, so far she hasn't."

"You look as lousy as that bedraggled cat of yours."

"Thanks."

"Okay junior, tell me what's troubling you. When I closed that bar of mine, and we both moved up the hill I thought my days of listening to other peoples' troubles were over."

"Actually I've got a story I'm working on. As soon as I leave here I'm going back to the office and file what I have. You remember that woman who was found dead with the bee stings all over her body?"

He remembered. I recited my involvement in the story. He listened.

"Who is this Blaine guy? Never heard of him," Otto said.

"You retire and hang around with a bunch of old farts who can't remember what day it is. Why would you be surprised there is a guy in town you never heard of? The world is still turning."

"So, tell me about it."

I recited what I knew. It gave me a chance to sort out my thoughts. By the time I brought him up to date on my investigation I had a couple of ideas of what to do next. But first I had to file the story. I would much rather have sat there and had a few more beers. I suggested that he stick around and I'd be back.

"You must be kidding. I'm an old man. It's almost nine o'clock. I'm not anxious to lose my beauty rest."

Back at the office I called the Chicago Times and made connections with the state desk and editor Ed Rocke. After I outlined the story he said, "Send it now. I'll get it in tomorrow's state edition. Sounds interesting. Geez – all those bee stings – what a way to go."

And so I sat down at my computer, ground out the story and e-mailed it. I looked forward to comparing it with whatever the Central City Press had. The cat and I spent a quiet hour listening to elevator music as I petted it and mumbled to myself. I wrote out a list of the six routine things I had to do in the morning to keep my business going. The last thing on the list was "catch up on the bookkeeping. Ha."

The "ha" was my acknowledgment that I probably wouldn't do it. Not until I absolutely had to.

Chapter Fifteen

Breaking and entering is not my thing. I've done it a few times over the years – even a couple of times when I was a reporter – but I don't like the possible consequences if I get caught.

Ripon had suggested that getting into the office of the Majestic Motel was no big deal, so I drove past the place, noted there were no vehicles parked there, came back, and parked beside the office so my car was not be visible from the Good Shepherd Home.

In back of the office, weeds reigned. I stepped carefully, having no desire to meet another snake. Unstable wooden steps lead to the back door. I pulled on the door and nearly was shoved off the steps as the thing came open and hung on one hinge. Inside, in the dim light, a card table sat in the middle of the small room. The registration book was open on the table. I found a folding chair in the corner among cobwebs and dust, pulled it up to the table and copied the names. There were seven. The last one was Vicki Fowler.

The others, in order, were: Andrea Smith, Rebecca Jones, Rita Long, Beverly Lewis, Janice Jones and Donna Smith. The address beside each name was simply Chicago. Beside each name was the word "permanent" and a scribbled date that was not readable. I copied the names even though I figured some, if not all, were fake.

Checking out the rest of the office was easy. No other furniture. I found a candy wrapper under the table, a dirty towel in a corner. Was it worth the risk to check out one of the units where the women apparently entertained their guests? I stepped outside, surveyed the area like a platoon sergeant. I lifted the hood of the car so I could claim I had car trouble if anyone came alone and stopped. I was inside the first unit poking around when I heard a car pull up. I got outside before Yocum Smith hoisted himself out of his patrol car.

"Boy, am I glad to see you. I was on my way out of town when the damned car broke down. You got a pair of pliers?"

A breeze was gently rocking the half open door of the unit I had just left. Yocum looked at it and then back at me.

"You got someone in there?"

"Naw, I told you. I stopped here when my car died."

"What's a matter with your car?"

"A wire came loose. I think I have it fixed, but I sure wish I had some pliers so I could be sure. I guess I'll have to go back into town and stop at a service station to get it fixed right."

"Well, you better not have anybody in there." He nodded toward the gently swaying door.

"Go look for yourself. There's no one there as far as I know."

"Why is the door open?"

"How would I know?"

"I'll tell the sheriff you was out here. He ain't gonna like it."

"Okay, Yokum, you do that. I've got to get going if this car will run."

I closed the hood, jumped in and acted surprised and pleased when it started. I gave him a thumb up and left.

I took the names to Brown at the police station and explained what they were. We danced around the subject of how I got them and finally he said, "You make another copy of the names and leave them on my desk. Thanks. What else have you stumbled onto during your investigation?"

"Not much," I admitted.

We discussed the sheriff.

"He acts like a fool, maybe he is a fool, but I would be careful if I were you," Brown said. I thanked him for the advice and left.

Chapter Sixteen

Back at my office I waded through paperwork, paid a few bills, and set aside others I figured could wait another week or so.

There had to be something I could do to learn more about the women and children who lived at the Good Shepherd Home. If Maggie were there I would have talked her into acting as a state inspector. Maybe she could get into the home that way. She would love being involved in the investigation. It was her fascination with my "exciting" life that got her interested in the first place, she claimed. She insisted it wasn't my good looks or pleasing personality.

How about a real state inspector? When was the last time the state visited the home? Had an inspector ever visited the home? I called Springfield and was connected with the child welfare people. They wouldn't answer my questions.

"Why do you want to know?" a clerk who gave her name as Martha asked.

"I'm a reporter for the Chicago Times," I said, "and we're looking into this so-called home for unwed mothers. Shall I write that the state doesn't know anything about it?"

Silence. Apparently she was talking to someone. Then, "You should talk to Mister Holmes, our assistant director, but he's not in his office right now."

"Have him call me."

I gave her my telephone number and she said, "This is not a Chicago number."

"I know. It's a Central City number. I'm here investigating the Good Shepherd Home. Have him call me if he wants the public to hear the state's side of this mess."

A few minutes later Mister Holmes called. He said the state had inspected the home, of course, before a license was issued, that the state had periodically inspected the home since.

"I don't have the records on hand," he said when I asked for the date of the last inspection.

"These inspection dates, a record of the license issued, and any reports on the inspections all are public records, of course," I said.

"Yes, of course. But they just aren't available right now."

"Why aren't they available?"

Silence and then he said, "The Chicago Times has reporters here in Springfield. Have them check the records. We don't give out this kind of information over the phone. And besides, you don't seem to realize how short-handed we are. We can't inspect every facility that frequently."

"Could you say how frequently you do inspect each facility?"

"No, I can't, off the top of my head. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a meeting."

I call the Chicago Times state desk, reported my conversation with Holmes, and asked if they could have someone check on the inspection records pertaining to the Good Shepherd Home, and send me the information.

The woman said she would ask the state editor, and if he approved, it would be done. 'We'll e-mail you the information," she said.

Next I checked the local telephone book to see if I could find any names I had copied from the motel records. Another one of those tedious tasks that add to the glamour of a private detective's life. I called all the Joneses, Smiths, Longs, Lewises and Fowlers in the book. None of them claimed any connection to the women I asked about. I called Brown at the police station.

"Did anyone ever claim Vicki Fowler's body?" I asked.

"Come on, Bancroft, that's not my case. How would I know?"

"You would know. There isn't much goes on around here, in town or out, that you don't know. For instance, you know the sheriff has arrested Ripon."

"No, really?"

"So, did anyone claim the murder victim's body?"

"You should get that information from the coroner, but I'll save you the trouble of a call. A couple from Springfield claimed the body. Said they were her parents. A Mr. and Mrs. George Fowler. They are in the phone book."

"What's the phone number?"

"Why don't you just sit back and relax? I'll make the call for you."

"That would be nice." He gave me the number.

A George Fowler answered. I introduced myself. We talked about how awful it was that his daughter was dead.

"I'd like to know more about her, sir. Maybe it would help me understand what happened."

"Why do you want to know?"

"I'm a freelance reporter, and I'm investigating your daughter's death."

"Why? Don't you believe it was an accident like they said?"

"I don't know, I'm just trying to find out ... for sure."

"God, her mother mustn't hear about this. She's, well we're both devastated. Vicki was such a sweet little girl. The sheriff from up there called, asked a few questions, didn't even say he was sorry about her death. He said it was an accident. He didn't say anything about ... why do you think it was ... murder, is that what you think? My God.

"We hadn't heard from her in six months. It broke her mother's heart. We had an argument with her after she got her divorce. She was running around a lot, said she had a right to a good time before she got too old, stuff like that. But, really, she was a good girl, just strong-headed, reckless. You know."

"I'm probably wrong," I said.

"Wrong?"

"I mean, maybe it was an accident."

I thanked him for his time and hung up. I was convinced by then that Vicki's death was no accident, but there was no need to tell him that.

Chapter Seventeen

Later, after talking to the cat and listening to soothing music, I slept. The telephone's irritating ring startled me awake.

"How are you?"

It was Maggie. I nearly fell off the chair. I stammered like a lovesick teenager until I recovered and said, "Well, you caught me at a good time. I'm alone."

"Do you miss me?"

"Do you miss me?" I replied.

The music of her laughter glided over the wires. "I'll admit I miss you if you admit you miss me."

"I do. I do," I said.

"I'll be back soon. I'm going to visit Harold first. Try to stay out of trouble."

I could hear the crying of a child in the background.

"Grandma is being paged. I've got to go. Love you."

"Love you," I whispered, but it was too late. She had hung up.

After a while I went to Chester's, wrapped myself around a cold one and a greasy hamburger, and thought about Maggie.

"I'm surprised to see you here. Thought you'd be in jail by now," Otto said as he labored into the booth.

"I just talked to Maggie before I left the office," I said.

He said he was glad she was fine, pleased she soon would be back, and asked, "Are you going to buy me a beer?"

And so it went. We talked about the old days at his tavern, how Maggie turned up her nose at the place the first time she visited, and how the Cubs were doing.

Later, as I walked home, I hummed to myself, trying to mimic the sounds of a warm late May night. It wasn't until I was in bed that I thought about the case again. I needed to know more about the Good Shepherd Home.

Chapter Eighteen

Charles Slavens opened the door of the Good Shepherd Home with one hand and held a cup of coffee in the other. He invited me in out of the rain that had brightened the weeds in the yard and cooled my hide.

"Good to see you again," he said. "You're the young man who was so interested in my bees. Most people don't care."

I followed him through a large front room that featured a fireplace, a television set and a well-worn couch. Off in a corner were two studio lights, a white sheet and a camcorder.

We proceeded toward the back of the building. The next room apparently had once been for dining. A gate guarded the door we entered, and Slavens carefully closed it when I got inside. Six children lay face down on mats. Not a sound came from any of them.

"Nap time," Slavens said.

We went through another gate into the kitchen.

"Want some coffee?"

I accepted and sat at the Formica-topped table on a metal kitchen chair. A large gas stove dominated one wall. Cupboards lined another. A sink with workspace on either side was in the back where a large window looked toward Slavens' bees. The coffee, a pleasant surprise, was several classes above the stuff I had been brewing since Maggie left.

"What brings you to our humble home?" Slavens said.

I was about to lie to him about being interested in doing a piece on the raising of bees for fun and profit. Before I could the big woman I had encountered at the front door during my first visit appeared.

"Charles! What's he doing here?"

"I invited him in for a cup of coffee. So shoot me. I get tired of talking to nothing but you and those damned kids. This is my wife, Lydia, Mister ... er."

"Bancroft, Nick Bancroft. I'm interested in doing a story on honeybees. I'm a freelance reporter. I sell most of my stories to the Chicago Times," I hastened to add. "It would be good for business."

"The local paper beat you to it," Lydia said.

"Yeah, that Foster guy, and his wife, they were here early this spring. Did a nice story. She asked more questions than he did, I think, but he wrote a nice story," Slavens said.

"Well, I'd like to do a story anyway. If his story helped your business mine surely won't hurt. A lot of people in central Illinois read the Chicago Times."

"Would there be a picture of him?" Mrs. Slavens asked.

"Maybe I could arrange it," I said.

"See, stupid," Mrs. Slavens said as she glared at her husband.

The glare shifted to me. She said, "You told me you was investigating the death of that Fowler woman. Now you say you want to write a story about honeybees. You get out of here before I call the sheriff."

I pointed out that it was possible to investigate the death of that Fowler woman and also do a story on honeybees, but she would have none of it.

Why didn't she want a photo of her husband published? Was one published in the story in the Central City Press? I could see there was no point in arguing with her. I left. Questions, always questions. I needed some answers.

Chapter Nineteen

Back at the office I called Pamela Smithy again, hoping she would change her mind and talk. A guy answered the phone. "Who are you?" he demanded.

For once telling the truth paid off. "I'm a freelance reporter who is investigating the death of Vicki Fowler and I would like to ask Pamela some questions," I said.

"Well, it's about time somebody did. She's goin' nuts thinking she should do something about that woman's death. She works at Kraner's Restaurant until eight and at Pete's Bar until midnight. Don't tell her I told you where to find her. I just hope she'll feel better if she talks to someone. She tried to talk to the sheriff. He wasn't interested. A city detective listened but said he couldn't do nothin' because it wasn't the city's case."

I waded through some paperwork, had a beer at Chester's and, finally, it was late enough in the day to go to Kraner's. The place wasn't crowded yet. I sat in a booth in back and watched the waitresses until I saw one with "Pam" stitched on her ruffled white apron, worn over a dark red blouse. All of the waitresses also wore red slacks.

Pam was short, slightly overweight, and busy. Her bleached hair was medium length. She wore horn-rimmed glasses.

I sat in the wrong section. The woman who waited on me directed me to table seven. "If you have to have Pam wait on you."

Pam got to me eventually, after serving two other tables. I pretended to study the menu as I said, "I was sorry to learn about you're baby's death. Was it the fault of the Good Shepherd Home? I'm the guy you talked to the other night on the phone about the death of Vicki Fowler."

She continued to hold a pencil over her order pad. Her bored expression evaporated.

"I told you..."

"I know, but I'm hoping to change your mind. If you'd rather, I could sit at Pete's Bar later tonight and you could talk to me there. Please. You owe it to Vicki."

"It wasn't the home's fault my baby died, it was mine. She was sick before we moved in there. I don't know about owing Vicki anything. She was always after any guy she thought was interested in one of us regulars."

"Regulars? What do you mean?"

"The mothers, the ones that had kids at that home. She didn't have no kid. She just waltzed in there and sucked up to Mister Blaine. I figured Roxy would kill her, I don't mean really kill her. Maybe slap her around a little for fooling with her man. Some of the others probably felt the same way."

"Do you think Vicki was murdered?"

She lowered her order pad, put her hands on her hips and glared at me.

"You gonna order somethin' or not."

"If you'll talk to me. Otherwise I'm going to sit here until the place closes and starve to death."

"I don't know nothin' you probably don't already know. You gotta order somethin' now. I'll tell you what little I can, but order something, please."

I ordered prime rib of beef, medium rare, au gratin potatoes and cabbage cooked with little beets. It was good stuff. I'd forgotten what a joy eating can be. I promised myself I would take Maggie there after she returned.

The meal was an experience, but Pam didn't have much more to offer. She thought the women who were staying at the Good Shepherd home were being "screwed."

"Being taken advantage of. I mean. They work at that damned nightclub, make some pretty good money with the johns and then have to pay too much of it back for rent and child care. Vicki was always complaining about it. We told her to leave if she wasn't satisfied. What was holding her, her with no kid? But she stayed and maybe ... who knows if it was an accident or she was murdered. She never drank hardly at all. Why would she be out there wandering around among those bees if she wasn't drunk?"

The stream of words stopped. Pam took off her glasses, took a napkin from the holder on my table, and wiped them.

"That's all I got to say. Now don't ask me no more questions. I could get in trouble."

I left her a five-dollar tip.

Chapter Twenty

I stopped at the coroner's office to see if he had anything new. Not that I expected anything. At that point I was just going through the motions. I stared without interest at pictures in a country-living magazine while I waited in the outer office. I was thinking of leaving when he called me into the inter sanctum and said, "I'm glad you stopped by. I've tried to call you a couple of times but missed. That woman with the bee stings, there was no alcohol in her blood."

"From what I've learned about her, I would have been surprised if she was drunk. Being pregnant gives her a reason for connecting with the Good Shepherd Home. She apparently planned to have the baby and was setting up a place where she could get care for it."

"Could be," the coroner said. "We also found traces of a muscle relaxant in her blood. The kind used at zoos to knock out large animals for medical examinations."

"Every heard of it being used on farms by veterinarians?"

"Yes, of course," he said.

"You've made my day," I said. I thanked him and left.

Sometimes, when I'm at the point when I think I'll never figure out the details of a story I'm trying to unearth, just sometimes, a fact jumps up and clears the muddle in my brain.

The coroner had given me two such facts. I headed for the police station and, when I got there, waited for several minutes until Brown got off the phone.

He offered me coffee and said, "You've got something. I can tell by that smirk on your face. You wouldn't make much of a poker player."

He was right about the poker and, I suppose, about the smirk.

"I was getting practically no where until I talked to the coroner today. He told me Vicki Fowler had no alcohol in her blood, but there were traces of a muscle relaxant."

"So?"

I explained my thinking.

"Yeah, maybe. Incidentally, I gave that flashlight to the lab guys before I got it to the sheriff. There were no fingerprints on it."

"None?"

"That's right, none."

"Then someone must have wiped it off. There should have been some on it."

"Right, Mister gumshoe. You're really getting sharp."

I couldn't sit still. I had to get out of there and walk, think and walk. It was no surprise when I wound up in front of Chester's. As long as I was there, I went in and had a beer.

Chapter Twenty-One

I got back to the office about eight. The phone was ringing and the cat was yowling for food.

"Yeah," I snarled into the phone as the cat continued to complain.

"This is Wilson. I've been trying to reach you most of the day. I got Ripon out of jail. You won't have to do any legwork as far as I'm concerned. The sheriff has dropped the charges against him. He never really had anything anyway, and Ripon had a woman who said she would swear she was with him from two o'clock on the night that other woman died."

"That's great. Thanks. I never figured the poor slob did it. The coroner says the victim wasn't drunk and there were traces of a muscle relaxant in her blood. Looks like someone doped her up and took her out to those bees."

"Well, that's for you to worry about. I've done my pro bono for the moment. Your guy is free. By the way, I've got a couple of routine jobs for you. Call me tomorrow – there's no hurry. Good night."

I fed the cat, settled in my chair, kicked off my shoes and put my feet to rest on the desk. The radio breathed soothing, romantic music into the room. I dozed. A determined banging on the front door startled me awake. I cursed, went to the door, and snapped on the outside light. Mike Ripon leaned against it, his hand raised to knock again.

I cracked open the door and shouted, "This office is closed until tomorrow. Go away."

His bleary eyes focused on me. He managed to straighten himself and said, "Okay, mister hotshot, I'll shee ya morrow."

He staggered to the stairway opposite the door, slid to a sitting position and extended his legs. I turned off the outside light and hoped he wouldn't be there in the morning.

But he was. His head had slid away from the wall and was resting on his left arm. His legs were spread on the lower step. I opened the door a crack and listened, for a second, to him snore.

I ate breakfast and went out the back and about my business. Surely, I thought, by the time I got back late in the afternoon, he would be gone. I completed a lot of work because I was purposely staying away from the office. I had no desire to spend any time at Chester's either; Ripon had spoiled that for me by reminding me that abstinence, at least once in awhile, was not a bad idea. It was about six o'clock when I walked from the parking lot in back to my front door. I go in that way to pick up mail. I got a couple of bills and Mike Ripon. He looked like something fresh out of a swamp. He appeared sober, but was shaking.

"What do you want from me, Ripon? I've done all I can do."

"Roxy fired me right after I got out of jail. She told Slavens to send me to the Sunshine Club as soon as I showed up. When I got there she fired me. Said they couldn't afford to be mixed up with someone who is accused of murder. She wouldn't even give me a drink."

"You ready to tell me everything you know about the Good Shepherd Home, that motel?"

"Sure, if you give me a drink. I'm broke. Been bumming around all day but couldn't find any kinda job. People look at me like I'm some kind of garbage. I guess I am."

"You don't invite confidence."

I felt stupid, but I let him in, made him a cup of instant coffee, and fed the cat. The cat avoided him after it got near enough to get a whiff.

When I pulled a TV dinner from the refrigerator and put it in the microwave Ripon begged me for a drink.

"You're going to eat something first," I said.

He picked at the food, drank another cut of coffee and cried. He sat in my little kitchen and wailed the agony of the damned. I was trapped. I had to try to help him even though I figured his was a hopeless case. His crying decreased to a low moan as he lowered his head to the table.

His body shuddered, like a dying motor, and he slept for a few minutes. Right then I had time to come to my senses, try to get him out of there somehow, and avoid getting involved in an impossible situation. But I didn't. Instead, when he awoke, raised his head like a heavy bar bell, and looked at me with bloodshot eyes. I said, "I'll let you stay here tonight if you'll take a shower and shave, get cleaned up. I'll see if I can find some old clothes, some clean clothes for you. You'll have a better chance to get a job if you clean up."

"I can't do nothin' 'til I gets a drink. Please."

"I don't have anything to drink except coffee and milk," I lied. "The milk's for the cat."

Getting rid of his clothes almost gagged me. I put them in a plastic bag to protect the innocent, sealed it and threw in into the garbage bin in the parking lot. I placed his billfold, a bunch of keys, eighteen cents in change, and that switchblade knife he carried on a paper towel on the bathroom floor.

His skin was pink – and clean – when he came out of the shower. I found a pair of paint-spattered pants and a T-shirt that was too large for me anyway. I knew the pants would be short, but it was the best I could do.

He didn't want to shave. I insisted. His hand shook as he removed a week's worth of beard. He asked if he could use my toothpaste. I nodded, figuring I needed a new toothbrush anyway. He squeezed toothpaste on a finger and rubbed the stuff into his teeth. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly as he gazed at himself in the mirror. He looked almost human.

"Thanks. I feel better. But the shakes are comin', I kin feel it. Just one drink, please."

"When's the last time you had 'just one drink?'"

Chapter Twenty-Two

I spent a restless night worrying that Ripon was going to wake up and prowl around looking for booze. He slept on the couch in the living room, across from the television. Every time I checked he was snoring.

"Could I have a cup of coffee before I go?" he asked the next morning when he came into the kitchen. I was eating a couple of eggs and toast.

"Sure," I replied. "Want some eggs, toast?"

"No thanks. I don't think my gut could take any food yet. I'll get out of here after I try to drink some coffee. I'll be all right once I get out and start walking."

"Where you going?" I asked as I set a cup of coffee on the kitchen table in front of him. "It's raining."

"Who cares? It's not cold. Sometimes the rain feels good, like it kinda washes stuff away."

"You know that attorney who got you out of jail, Ben Wilson. The other day he asked me if I knew anyone who could do yard work for him. His wife died a year or so ago. She loved gardening. Had a lot of flowerbeds, that sort of thing. Ben has let it go to hell, and now he wants to get it back like it was. Want me to call him, see if he still needs a gardener? Do you know anything about that kind of stuff?"

"Sure. I worked in a truck garden. Raised vegetables for grocery stores. Flowers, too. But he's probably already got someone. I'll just run along. Thanks for taking me in."

I talked him into waiting and called Ben who didn't seem too happy about the idea, but admitted he did need someone and hadn't gotten around to finding anybody.

"Been putting it off. I guess I don't want to see someone in the yard working. It'll remind me of my wife. But it must be done. The neighbors will complain. Ripon surely won't remind me of my wife. I'll be here for an hour yet."

Ripon shook as I drove him across town to Wilson's large house and yard. The grass was about four inches high, and weeds were flourishing in the many flowerbeds.

"You going to be okay, doing this?" Wilson asked Ripon as the poor guy continued to shake.

"Yeah, I'll be okay once I get started. Where are the tools, the lawnmower?"

As I left Wilson and Ripon were in the garage trying to get the lawnmower started. It was a relief getting away, and I figured Wilson could handle it. If not, I'd hear from him.

On the way over I learned Ripon had nothing new to offer concerning the Good Shepherd Home, the Majestic Motel, or any of the rest of it. He wouldn't tell me the name of the woman he claimed was with him the night Vicki Fowler was killed.

"I didn't tell that stupid sheriff either. Just told him I could produce her in court if I had to."

As I drove away I figured I had seen the last of Mike Ripon. Wilson would pay him. Ripon would get himself a bottle of wine, and disappear. I was wrong, as I learned when Wilson called me later that day.

"Hey, I thought you were dumping that guy on me just to get rid of him. You should see my yard. It looks great. Grass trimmed along the walks, a couple of flowerbeds already weeded and tilled. He really worked. I feel guilty. I only paid him minimum wage."

Wilson gave me a couple of routine jobs to do, one involving a property title check, the other making photos of a house damaged by fire.

Wilson said, "I asked him to come back tomorrow and complete the job. Do you think he will? He seemed awfully anxious to get away. I offered him a ride into town but he said he'd rather walk."

I don't know who was more surprised, Wilson or me, when Ripon showed up the next day and completed the job of turning Wilson's yard into the showplace of the neighborhood.

It was three nights later that Ripon pounded on my door – drunk and disorderly. He passed out on my doorstep. I managed to get him into the back seat of my car and headed for the police station where I planned to dump the problem off on them. It wouldn't do to have him showing up in the middle of the night when Maggie got home.

I parked near the station and sat there for several minutes. It was only a few more blocks to the mission where beds were provided for indigents. Would they take drunks? No, I found out, they would not. Parked again near the police station I sat there for another few minutes. I drove back to my parking space in back of the apartment building and left Ripon snoring in the back seat, hoping he would wake up and leave.

Chapter Twenty-Three

He still was sleeping in the car the next morning. It took a lot of shaking and some swearing to rouse him. His bones creaked as he unwound his frame and slowly emerged from the car. He stretched, shaded his eyes from the sun, steadied himself by placing a hand on the roof of the car, massaged his face with his free hand and said, "What am I doing here?"

"You're sleeping off a drunk."

"Oh God. I'm sorry. Did I ... what did I do?"

I hadn't noticed before but he was wearing a faded pair of blue jeans that fit him, a slightly faded T-shirt and canvas shoes whiter than mine. I figured he bought them at a used clothing store.

"You passed out on my doorstep. I'm not going to put up with that. Next time I turn you over to police."

He leaned against the car and held his head. I was afraid he was going to heave. He slowly raised it. Tears glistened in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, really. I stayed sober for a few days. It nearly killed me. And now I'm right back where I was."

"No, you're not back where you were. Stop crying. You stayed sober for a few days. When is the last time you did that?"

"I can't remember. But I shouldn't have bothered you. You're the first person who cared a shit about me since I was a kid, and now look what I done."

"You need to learn something about your disease. You've got a disease that you have to handle one day at a time. If you slip it doesn't mean the end of the world. You try again. You stayed sober for awhile. The next time, starting right now, you stay sober longer, one day at a time. You should join Alcoholics Anonymous. That would help."

He stared at me. I wondered if he'd heard a word I said.

"Oh God," he said. "I've got a job to do. One of Mister Wilson's neighbors wanted me to work on her yard. Now I've screwed it up. Mister Wilson said I could use his lawnmower until I get one of my own. He thinks I could get a yard-work business going."

"I'll drive you out there. I'm headed that way anyway," I lied.

The next time I saw Mike Ripon was in Ben Wilson's office. He wore new clothes, had gained a little weight and apparently worked every day at his business. He shook my hand; tears came to his eyes. I looked away.

"I'm here to deliver some title copies," I said to Wilson.

"I've got to go. I was delivering some stuff, too. Thanks, Mister Bancroft, thanks for everything."

I sat down for a moment in Wilson's outer office while his receptionist, Mrs. Swanson, looked at me and wiped tears from her round cheeks.

"Is Wilson in?"

She assured me he was and that I could go right in.

"You been drinking this early, Nick? Your eyes are red."

"Sure, really hitting the stuff. I just saw Mike Ripon. He looks great. How's he doing?"

"He's doing fine. Slips now and then but less often. He's got a good business head. I'm financing him, but insist on a weekly report. That's why he was here. I guess he thinks you're an angel for giving him a chance."

"Me? What about you? It looks like you've become the angel."

"Okay. So we're both angels. Don't you have work to do? I know I have."

Mrs. Swanson still was wiping her cheeks with a lace hankie as I left. I felt good even though I knew whatever success Mike Ripon had was due to his efforts, not mine or Wilson's.

Chapter Twenty-Four

"You've got mail," greeted me when I connected to the Internet back at my office.

I did indeed have mail. A mess of it. I hadn't checked it for a couple of days. It's like an unchecked mailbox. If you forget to clean it out you wind up with a bundle of junk mail and, occasionally, something important, but, so far, no bills.

I deleted invitations to visit nudist sites, take advantage of cheap dental care, a couple of credit card pitches. Finally, I got to e-mail from the Chicago Times.

Whoever sent it labeled it "important" which nearly got it deleted. It was lucky I looked. Usually anything labeled important is important only in the eyes of the sender.

The e-mail informed me the Good Shepherd Home was inspected before a license was granted and hadn't been inspected since. And, according to the information provided by The Times, Charles Slavens was the name of a preacher who left an independent church in Slatetown in southern Illinois with several thousand dollars of the church's funds.

"Could it be the same guy?" the message asked. It was signed Scotty.

I sent a return message thanking Scotty, and settled down to talk to the cat. It apparently was glad to see me. I had fed it, and now we were in our usual positions, me with my feet on the desk, and the cat purring and rubbing against my hand as I petted it.

"What do you think about me driving down to Slatetown, just for a break? I've been working hard enough, haven't I, even though Maggie probably won't believe it when she gets back? I wish you could learn how to keep books and pay bills. Maybe Maggie could teach you."

The cat continued to rumble from deep within its body. It stretched its back legs and settled into a throw-rug position on the desk.

"I'm going to do it. Just get away for a day or two. I could call down to Slatetown and find somebody with the information I want but, what the hell, I deserve a day or two off, right?"

The cat rolled over on its back, an invitation for me to scratch its belly. That was Maggie's job. I'd seen her do it several times. When I rolled over and tried to make myself look and sound like a cat she sometimes rubbed my belly. Sometimes I got her to lie still while I rubbed hers.

My Escort got the works before I took it out on the highway. An oil change, lube job and a good cleaning, inside and out. I figured maybe it wouldn't run after all that, but it did.

It had been awhile since I'd been out of town so I enjoyed cruising south on Interstate 55. At times the sky was cloudy and threatening to rain, but it never did. By the time I was south of St. Louis, however, I was tired of just sitting there. Another hour to go. I tried to find some elevator music on the car radio, but the only thing I got clearly was hillbilly stuff.

A two-lane road that took me away from the interstate and toward Slatetown was lined on both sides by barbed wire, rolling pastureland, and, the last few miles, dense woods. Slatetown is in a different world than central Illinois. Some of the citizens, I discovered, actually say "you all," and others don't say anything. The consolidated high school seemed to be the only thing that kept the town going. The school's basketball team, called the Slatetown Miners, had, according to a huge faded sign on the roof of the school, won the state championship in 1963.

The one store in town, located in a paint-deprived building with worn wooden floors, with merchandise of every sort piled haphazardly about, belonged to Matilda Green, I learned. Matilda, the only clerk, offered to wait on me when I entered. The place was pleasantly cooler than outside.

"Hi," I said. "I'm looking for information about Charles Slavens and his church. Can you help me?"

"It 'twarnt his church, the thieving scoundrel. It belongs to the congregation. We got us a good preacher now, one we can trust ... I hope."

Mrs. Green polished a bit of wooden counter near the cash register, the bit that wasn't covered with merchandise. The grain on the surface stood out like driftwood.

"How long has this store been here?"

She didn't say, "I'm glad you asked," but it was obvious she was. She eased her pear-shaped, wrinkled body into a cushioned rocking chair behind the counter and talked, and talked. She recited the history of the town, the store and finally, Slavens. I gave up trying to interrupt her. By the time she finished I was squeezing my legs together, trying to keep from pissing my pants.

"It was that business they ran, taking care of kids whilst the women went off to Shawnee to work. That's where the money come from. 'Twarnt theirs. It belonged to the church. But they run off with it."

"How come they weren't charged with stealing? Or where they?"

"Nope – the church elders decided not to file charges. Just let the scoundrels go. Can you imagine that?"

"You got a toilet in here?"

"Not for strangers. I don't. It's in my apartment upstairs. No stranger allowed up there. You can go next door to the tavern."

She pointed to a door inside the store. It was closed but she assured me it led into the tavern. Six pairs of hostile eyes followed me as I hurried past the scattered tables, chairs and the bar into a john that smelled of old urine and something rotting, maybe dead rats. Still, I was glad to be there.

When I was done I leisurely walked out, went to the bar, and ordered a glass of beer. A man who was old enough to be Matilda's husband mumbled, "What kind you want?"

"What kind you got?"

"Only one kinda draft, Bud."

"I think I'll have that," I said.

Once it was poured, I turned, leaned my elbows against the bar, and sipped beer as I looked over the glass at five guys who stared at me as if I was Mark McGwire, complete with home run bat and Cardinal uniform. I gulped the rest of the beer and left. I figured I wasn't going to learn anything there. I wanted to sit in a cool bar and nurse a couple of beers before driving back. I hoped to find something a little more connected to the twentieth century once I got back to Interstate 55.

Chapter Twenty-Five

I settled for a beer in a bar about twenty-five miles north on the interstate. My eyes adjusted to the dim light after a few seconds. The place called "The Nickel," was small. It was beside a truck stop on a service road.

Three people, besides a young bartender in a red vest, were in the place. He talked, but when I didn't respond he returned to his spot at the end of the bar and watched a soap opera.

I knew I couldn't stay and soak up much beer because I was driving. I considered for the hundredth time whether I was an alcoholic. Would an alcoholic worry about being arrested for drunk driving or would he just continue to drink because he couldn't stop?

"Who you kidding?" I mumbled aloud. The bartender must have heard. He looked my way and raised an eyebrow. I looked away and he went back to watching the TV.

You may or may not be an alcoholic, but that's not what's bothering you. You're still out in left field on this case. Who killed Vicki Fowler? You don't have a clue what to do next. And, you miss Maggie. This is something you better think about. You've avoided getting trapped into marriage all these years because you don't want to take care of another woman like you did your mother. And now? Maggie doesn't even want to get married. What's your problem? I think I do want to get married, that's my problem.

I gulped the last bit of beer and got out of there. The drive back to Central City was long and depressing. After I parked the car I walked around to the front of the building to get my mail. There was a light on in my office. I forgot the mail and tested the door. It was locked. I inserted the key, opened it noiselessly and entered.

Why would anyone break into my office? I crouched and waited. A noise came from the kitchen. Someone was fooling with my pots and pans.

About half way down the hall, where I had crept with extreme caution, I saw her, Maggie! She was home. She was fixing supper. I walked into the kitchen and said, "Well, look who's home. The wandering grandmother."

She turned and faced me, a pan of water in her hand. She put it down and opened her arms. I accepted the invitation and wallowed in the comfort of her embrace. She held me tight against her. I held her tight against me. We kissed. "Welcome back," I said, my lips moving against hers. We kissed again.

"I've been home for a couple of hours. Where the devil have you been? It's nearly eight o'clock. No wait; don't answer that. It's none of my business. I'm just glad to be back."

"I've been to the deep south and back. Well, not so deep, just southern Illinois. Checking on something in connection with that bee-sting business. It's turning into a fascinating story. What about you? Did you enjoy your trip?"

"Oh, yes. It was great to see my sons again and their wives. And my grandson, Tommy. His daddy reads to him just like I used to read to the daddy. I took my son's place while I was there and read until my eyes hurt. I loved it. I'll see if I can get your accounts straightened out first thing in the morning. Want a cup of coffee?"

"Sure, but first..."

"Nick, you're impossible. Is that all you ever think about? Let me turn off the burners first. I was getting hungry. Was going to eat even if you didn't show up."

"Later," I said as I went to the bedroom. She followed.

I wonder which is the most exhausting, the sexual climax or the energy it takes to delay it as long as possible. This time it was like trying to hold back the tide.

Also, I wondered how this woman could support my one hundred and eighty or so pounds as I lay on her like a bag of warm Jell-O after we were through. Maybe it was because she was as soft as a bag of Jell-O beneath me.

Still connected to her, I went to sleep. She nudged me awake as she pushed me onto my back.

"Don't go away," she whispered as her lips brushed mine. I was asleep again before she reached the bathroom. Later she lay beside me, her head resting on her elbow-propped hand. She stroked small circles on my chest with the tip of one finger, and said, "You did miss me, didn't you?"

I nodded.

"I suppose you really did, at least once in a while. When you weren't bowling or following your nose for news. I don't suppose you ate many decent meals."

My eyes were closing when her hand moved from my chest to my stomach and then lower. She had a way of touching my skin, of exploring my skin with just a whisper of a touch. My desire to sleep vanished.

This time it was easier to delay, to stroke and stop, to kiss her breasts without exploding. She made little noises against my ear, her tongue sought mine, and we merged into one wet heatwave of desire.

She made those guttural, earthy sounds that give as much pleasure to the person who caused them as they indicate pleasure in the person from whom they escape, like miniature volcanoes that rock the bed. My climax followed hers by only a few seconds. My dying shudder accented the oozing contentment of exhaustion.

"Are you hungry," she asked, her face on top of mine, her lips moist and warm against my eyelids, eyelids that wanted to surrender to sleep.

"No," I mumbled.

"Okay. Now you can sleep and dream of bowling a perfect game or whatever it is that ticks your clock."

"You tick my clock," I mumbled.

"Yes, I know, and you tick mine. But that's not what I'm talking about. What makes you tick? That's what I'm talking about."

"I thought you knew everything about me. You say you always know what I'm thinking," I said as I turned on my side facing her and make a feeble attempt to puff up my pillow before I sank my head into it.

"I know what you're thinking now. You want to go to sleep. And tomorrow you'll give me a peck on the cheek after we eat breakfast and go back to thinking about bowling and beating the competition on another news story."

"Yeah, that's all there is to me."

"Well, what else then?"

"I'm a philosopher. I think deep thoughts. Did it occur to you that the climax of our recent passions was the culmination of thousands, millions of such climaxes throughout the history of mankind?

"Do you realize the responsibility we have to make every sexual experience better than the last to uphold our responsibility to the past?"

She turned her back to me. Silence. I was wide awake.

"I did miss you, Maggie," I whispered. "It was a strange feeling. A loneliness, a longing. I need you. I want to be with you. I love you."

She rolled over and pushed me onto my back. She was on top of me, kissing me, holding me. Tears streamed from her eyes.

"I thought you were asleep. Why are you crying?"

She wiped a finger across my cheek.

"You're crying, too."

Chapter Twenty-Six

Rain pattered against the kitchen window. Maggie and I held hands across the table. "Want a bagel?" she asked. I shook my head and gazed into her blue-as-the-sky eyes. The phone rang.

"Oh damn," she said. "I think I could have talked you into dressing like a grown man, the way you were looking at me." She struggled out from underneath the table and answered the phone.

"It's for you, that policeman, Brown."

"Hi policeman," I said into the phone.

"Yeah, that's me all right. That policeman. Woman sounds too nice to be associated with you. Can you come down to the station in about an hour?"

"Sure, what's up, a press conference?"

"No, and don't invite any of your press friends. This is private, okay?"

I explained to Maggie what he said and wondered aloud, "What do you suppose that's all about?"

"I don't know. Maybe they're gonna arrest you for the way you accosted me last night."

"Did you file charges?"

"Charges? Why would I file charges? Just because you get a woman all heated up and then want to go to sleep? If that were illegal all men would be in jail."

"How would you know that?"

"It's general knowledge. I do hope they don't arrest you. I've got plans."

"Me, too. How would you like to drive over to Des Moines with me and then on up north about sixty miles? Clare Foster was raised on a farm there, and, when Wayne got fired from the Register he lived there for a few weeks before he found the job here. We could stay overnight in a motel room and have a honeymoon."

"I thought we just had one. I guess I could stand it for one more night."

At the police station I parked in an "official" parking space beside a new Ford that belonged, according to the lettering above the license, to US Customs.

Brown was all business when I entered his office. He introduced me to a guy named Ronald Wilder. Wilder, clean-shaven with recently trimmed brown hair, shook my hand firmly as he held a gray felt hat in his left hand.

"Mister Wilder is with US Customs," Brown said, "Sit down, Bancroft."

I sat and felt like a kid called before the principal's office because of another infraction of the rules. But what did Wilder and US Customs have to do with it? Whatever it was, his constant frown indicated it was serious.

"Tell Mister Wilder about your investigation."

"Which one?"

"Come on, Nick. The bee-sting business. Go ahead."

"Why?"

"Look, Nick, I've been told to help Agent Wilder. I told him you have been poking your nose into a death that may be connected with the Good Shepherd Home. Blaine, the rest of it. He's interested. Now why can't you be reasonable, and tell him what you know?"

"Do I get to know why he's interested?"

"I'm not at liberty to reveal that information," Agent Wilder said.

"That figures. You want me to tell you what I know, but you don't tell me a damned thing, right?"

"Right. Maybe, if you cooperate, I'll be able to feed you information later."

"And, if I don't?"

"We'll have to get a restraining order."

"Restraining me from what?"

Agent Wilder stood. I stood. Brown got up, came around from his desk, and said, "Nick, why do you always have to be such an asshole? What's it going to hurt if you tell a federal agent what you know about this case?"

"I don't like government officials who want information, but refuse to give out any, like it's theirs. I believe in government of the people, by the people and for the people."

Agent Wilder smiled.

"Quite appropriate here in the Land of Lincoln. However, things aren't as simple now as they were in Lincoln's time. Thanks detective, I'll keep in touch."

He left. Brown returned to his desk, sat down, put his feet up, rubbed his bare noggin, and smiled. I smiled, too. My world was filled with smiles that morning. I thought of Maggie, and wondered if she was smiling.

"The mayor won't like this," Brown said.

"I don't like it either. What's that guy want? Why is US Customs interested in the Good Shepherd Home?"

"I'm not at liberty to reveal that information," Brown said. "Run along now. I've got work to do."

"I appreciate you calling me down here for this shit," I grumbled.

"Don't blame me. The mayor insisted. You know how he is. He'll kiss any ass if he thinks it will get him some points with people in power. Maybe he thinks he'll be backed for the Senate if he kisses enough federal ass."

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Yocum Smith was parked in my space when I returned to the office.

"The sheriff wants to see you," he said as he unfolded from his sitting position and towered over me after I parked beside his patrol car.

"Okay, okay. Try not to get excited. I'll see him as soon as I can. I've got work to do."

"So have I, Mister Hotshot. You comin' with me?" He glanced around, saw we were alone, and pulled his gun.

"A real cowboy," I said. "What kind of gun is that? A cannon?"

"Don't you worry none about what kind of gun. You get in the patrol car or I'll bonk you on the head with it."

I reminded him that he was outside his jurisdiction, but he thought he knew better. According to him he had a right to follow a criminal into town after he had committed a crime in the sheriff's county.

"Who told you that bullshit?"

"The sheriff told me. Let's go." He nudged me in the ribs with the tip of the gun barrel. I moved.

The sheriff jumped up from behind his desk, came around it and demanded, "Where the hell you been, Yocum?"

"He went to the police station. I couldn't arrest him there."

"When you two get the time would you mind telling me what's going on? This is false arrest. What are the charges? It will make a good story."

The sheriff insisted I put my billfold, change from my pocket, my keys, everything in my pockets, on his desk.

"What's that in your shirt pocket? Put that with the rest of the stuff. Search him, Yocum. Make sure we got everything."

The notepad from my shirt pocket contained a few notes in my particular form of shorthand that I figured would make no sense to anyone else. The names I had copied earlier were about five pages into the pad. I hoped the sheriff would lose interest before he got that far. He thumbed through the pages, stopped at the names and looked at them for what seemed a minute or more.

"What are these names?"

"That's private stuff. You're invading my privacy. You have no business reading my notes. What are you charging me with anyway?"

"Get Mister Bancroft a chair, Yocum. Take his car keys and check what he's got in his trunk. Sit down, Mister Bancroft."

"Hey, dumbo, be careful with the camera and stuff I got in my trunk. If you damage that camera, I'll sue."

"Don't fool with the camera, Yocum. Just look. If you find anything suspicious bring it to me."

The sheriff, in spite of his short stature, looked down at me now that I was seated and he was leaning against his desk. He looked different. Not quite the comic character I'd thought him to be. Maybe it was because he had removed his hat, revealing stringy hair. We waited in silence. He stared into my eyes. I stared into his. Yocum came back before either of us gave in.

"Look what I found," Yocum announced as he returned. He was holding a small package.

"What do you think it is, sheriff?" Yocum said. He sounded like a child playing a guessing game.

The muscles in my gut tightened. Whatever it was, it didn't belong to me. The sheriff carefully removed the white paper wrapping, smelled the leafy substance and said, "Why, by gosh, Yocum, I think you've found a wad of marijuana. We'll have to charge Mister Bancroft with possession. And breaking and entering. Do you want to tell me about these names now?"

He thrust the notepad toward my face. I stood up.

"All right, this little comedy has gone far enough. Those names are none of your business. That package you planted in my trunk is not mine. Either give me back my stuff and let me go or I want to call my lawyer. I've got a right to one call. You violate my rights and it'll be your ass, not mine."

"Let Mister Bancroft make one call, Yocum, and then take him to a nice clean Heinhold County jail cell. Don't put him in with any of the other prisoners. He might stir them up. He likes to stir things up, don't you, Mister Bancroft?"

I called Ben Wilson. He promised he would get bond set and have me out as soon as possible.

"Call my office, please Ben, and tell Maggie, my secretary, what happened."

"Sure, I'll do that, just relax and enjoy the rest, if you can."

"Not likely, not while this idiot sheriff is trying to frame me on a dope charge."

"Don't worry about it. I'll get you out."

Yocum led me to a vacant cell and grinned as he slammed the door. I had plenty of time to worry about what Maggie might be thinking, about how she would worry, and whether it was possible the sheriff could get away with this. I wondered how many other persons he had jailed this way. Wilson showed up about an hour later and said he couldn't get a bond hearing until the next day.

"Sorry Nick, I'm sure they'll let you out on your recognizance, but not until tomorrow. Your secretary is out in the office raising hell. The sheriff was threatening to arrest her when I left. She's a hellcat when she gets angry."

My cell was clean. I had to admit. But the cot was not deluxe sleeping, and the blanket was thin. Even though it was May I was chilled like a refrigerated piece of beef before the night was over. I slept some. The rest of the time I thought about Maggie and fumed about what that stupid sheriff was trying to do to me. Why? Did he hate me that much? I had done my best to display his stupidity. Would he risk false arrest charges because of that? No, there had to be a stronger reason. But what?

Morning finally came, and I found out why the cells were clean. We prisoners were rousted out of the cots and instructed to scrub our cell or go without breakfast. A bucket containing water, suds, and a rag, was pushed into the cell. I was told to wash everything, including the toilet, and the floor. I earned the eggs, bacon, toast and coffee I got after the cleanup inspection.

About 10 o'clock I went to court with several other prisoners. We sat in a row until our cases came up. Maggie was sitting in back with Ben Wilson. By noon I was back among the living, released on bond. Ben drove Maggie and me to my office.

"I know you're mad as a hornet," Ben said, "but don't do anything stupid. They don't have a breaking and entering case against you and this drug thing is questionable."

I hoped he was right.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

"This thing has become personal," I said to Maggie. "I was just looking for a story before, maybe trying to make sure justice was done, too, but now, hey they can't do this to me."

Maggie stood beside me. She ran her hand through my hair, leaned and kissed my forehead.

"You taunt that silly sheriff. Now he's after you. Shouldn't you lay off? Why don't you mind your business and let police take care of this weird murder?"

"You don't mean that. You don't want me to back down like a pussy just because things get a little rough, do you?"

"Naturally you'd bring "pussy" into it."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do." She came around the table and sat on my lap after I moved my chair away from the cold cup of coffee I had been sipping.

"I get so aggravated at you and your quest for justice, like a misplaced knight, but I wouldn't want you to change, I guess. I have a right to worry though, don't I?"

"Tomorrow I'm going to drive over to Iowa and check on Wayne Foster. Talk to a guy I know on the staff of the Register and then go up to Dyke."

She pressed her body against mine and said, "Am I still invited?"

I caressed a breast, gently of course.

"You are. We'll have to get right back though because I don't want the sheriff to find out I'm gone and accuse me of jumping bail."

It's about a three-hour drive from Central City to Des Moines. Most of it was on Interstate 80. It was pleasant, with the sun behind us and miles of prairie ahead. I put the car on cruise and tuned in a classical music station.

"Don't tell me you like classical music," Maggie said as she lowered the back of her car seat and stretched her legs forward.

"Just to listen. It's one of those public broadcasting stations, hardly any commercials. I like that."

As I said, it was pleasant, when I wasn't thinking about what the sheriff might do to me. I was worried, but I didn't want Maggie to know. Maybe she already knew. She always thought she could read my mind. I deposited Maggie at a cafeteria where she could get lunch while I went into the building that housed the Register.

The guy I knew, Jerry Gross, was a sports reporter. Naturally, he was on vacation. No one else in the newsroom wanted to talk about Foster, a former fellow employee. I joined Maggie, and we ate a leisurely lunch. It was only an hour's drive to Dyke. I inquired at the one gas station there about the location of the farm owned by the parents of Clare Foster, the girl who married that reporter from Des Moines. I figured, correctly, that any native of Dyke would know who I was talking about.

The station attendant, a young round-faced man who wore a Chicago Cubs cap backwards, puffed on a cigarette disturbingly close to the one gasoline pump. He informed me the Anderson farm, owned by Clare's parents, was four miles east of Dyke.

"Her folks are good people, I gotta tell ya. Too bad she had to run away with that drunk. He made quite a name for himself around here. I gotta tell ya."

"What did he do, besides drink?"

"He thought he was better than people around here. Always picking fights in the tavern. Never won one. Had a black eye once, a real shiner. Old Harold Stamp decked him when they got to arguing over a pool game. Foster came after him with a pool cue, but the guys stopped that in a hurry. I gotta tell ya. They threw him out and told him never to come back. Soon after that him and Clare left."

I drove out to the Anderson farm where we were greeted by three barking dogs. Mrs. Anderson – Gladys we learned – and later, Elmer Anderson.

"How's Claire?" Mrs. Anderson said. "Is she all right. We worry about her, you know."

I thought about it a second and said, "As far as I know, she's okay. I, we don't see that much of her."

Mr. Anderson said, "That damn Wayne, he just swept her off her feet at the fair. Clare always was daydreaming about getting away from here, and he offered her a chance. We didn't even object much, at first. He came back a few weeks after covering the fair. He wrote funny stories, features I guess they call 'em, while someone else reported the results. The Register thinks it's too big to tell all the winners. We even have trouble getting our local weekly to report all the winners. It's a damn shame."

While Elmer talked Gladys busied herself at a huge kitchen range. She warmed two-dozen dinner rolls. Home-made, no doubt. She put three different kinds of jam – homemade jam – she informed us, and a large jar of honey on the table.

"The honey's made right here, too. From Elmer's bees. They do turn out good honey. Try some," she said as she put the rolls before us and poured steaming coffee in large mugs. Maggie sipped the coffee and dabbed a bit of strawberry jam on a roll.

"Aw, honey, you must be on a diet. That's not enough jam to feed a bird. Pile some on there. I'll bet you don't get many chances to eat real home-made goodies."

Between bites of melt-in-your-mouth rolls smothered in jam and sips of strong, flavorful coffee, I asked about Wayne Foster. They didn't know much more than they already had told me.

After a series of good-byes we cruised east on Interstate 80, headed back to Central City.

Maggie said, "Why all the questions about Wayne Foster? Do you really think he's capable of murder?"

"Who isn't? I don't know if I really suspect him. I just wanted to get away. Thought it would be nice to be going somewhere with you. I thought we would stop halfway back for supper, but I don't know. I ate too many of those rolls. How about you?"

She agreed we didn't need any more food. I thought about Wayne Foster as the miles rolled away behind us. He did have a temper. But why would he kill Vicki Fowler? Was he fooling around with her? Did she threaten to tell Clare? Seemed unlikely that he could get away from Clare long enough to have an affair with anyone.

Once, when I asked her why she married Wayne, she said, "He brought excitement and romance into my life. And I love him. You don't know him like I do. Our honeymoon was better than anything I ever dreamed of, even if it was in my own bedroom at home."

By the time we returned to Central City Maggie was asleep, and I was worrying again about the charges against me. Could the sheriff make them stick?

Chapter Twenty-Nine

It was my week for being summoned before the authorities. Now it was the mayor's turn. His secretary, Miss Suzette Simmons, called and asked, "Would it be convenient for you to come to the mayor's office this morning. Before eleven, please, because he'll be going to lunch after that."

"What does he want?"

"Oh, Mister Bancroft, I have no idea. He just asked me to call and see if you were available. Shall I tell him you'll be here?"

"Are you doing your nails as we talk or, maybe, plucking your eyebrows?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Nothing, forget it. Yes, I'll be there. I'm curious. I'll bet you do know what he wants. You know what's going on."

I had used this conspiratorial approach with her before when I was trying to get information. It didn't work then, and it didn't work this time either. The first time I saw Mayor Luke Ledbedder, I laughed. However, I soon learned he was not the joke I thought in spite of his bib overalls and red and white bandanna around his neck. He established an image and it got him elected. He kept the streets repaired, the garbage collected and, in spite of his cozy arrangement with his secretary – she drove a city-owned Mercury as if it were her own – voters re-elected him.

"You should see his secretary," I told Maggie as we talked during breakfast the next morning. "She is plump, to put it kindly, and she thinks she's oh so cute. Does nothing much all day but look at herself in a hand mirror. But she's no dummy. I've tried to pry information out of her. She keeps her mouth shut."

"Maybe she doesn't know anything. Is she as "plump" as the mayor?"

"No, he must weight close to three-hundred pounds. Still, she carries a good deal of weight. I've wondered how they join, if you know what I mean."

At the mayor's office Miss Simmons' pouty red lips parted in a smile. She apparently was pleased I had shown up.

"The mayor is on the phone. I'll tell him you're here as soon as he hangs up."

"Gosh, I hope I'm not in trouble. Hope I didn't break any laws. I was arrested by the sheriff, you know."

"Yes, I ... what I mean is ... I don't know why his honor wants to see you but I'm sure..."

Her voice trailed off. I sat down. She picked up a nail board and flicked it at the end of a pinkie. The mayor appeared in the doorway to his office. His expanse filled it and his stomach extended into the reception area.

"Come in, Mister Bancroft. I appreciate you taking time from your busy schedule. This won't take long."

His office was as lean as he was fat. It consisted of a cleared-off desk, his chair, a couple of visitor chairs, three file cabinets and a wooden floor. He often pointed out that he wasn't wasting taxpayers' money on fancy fixin's. And, as far as I had been able to tell, in my brief probes in the city's activities since he had been mayor, the city was run the same way.

I hated officials who took advantage of their positions to add to their own bank account. Yet here was a guy who apparently was honest, and I didn't trust him. He seemed too good to be true and too much of a self-promoter to stomach. Why couldn't he just do his job and shut up.

"I'm disappointed in you, Mister Bancroft," he said as he cautiously lowered himself into his chair.

"Oh, why?"

"You're refusal to cooperate with the federal agent fella. It's not good for our city's image."

"How would my cooperation with the federal agent fella benefit our community?"

"Well, federal grants maybe, for one thing. We want the people in Washington to know they can count on us to help stamp out..."

His voice trailed off and he stuck his thumbs under the bib of his overalls.

"Do you know why agent Wilder is here?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"That's funny, he said the same thing when I talked to him. He wasn't at liberty to say. Well, I am. He's with US Customs, you know, and he's here because local farmers have been secretly shipping corn to Iraq and Libya."

"I don't think that's true," his honor said as he stood. "I asked you here to see if you couldn't see your way clear to cooperate with him and you concoct this wild story. It won't be good for Central City if you get that story published in that Chicago paper. Think it over. It would be to your benefit if you'd just cooperate once in a while. Thanks for coming, anyway."

"I was just kidding. I don't know, yet, why US Customs is interested in Central City. But I doubt it has anything to do with corn. I'll let you know when I find out."

"I understand the sheriff has accused you of possession of a controlled substance and..."

"Breaking and entering," I said as I left his office and closed the door.

Was the mayor threatening me?

Chapter Thirty

That night I announced my plan to visit the Sunshine Club and see if I could stir up something that would lead me to more information.

"Information about what?" Maggie asked.

"I don't know. Who's connected to what, maybe? What part does Blaine have in all of this? What about Roxie Amber? I suppose, as usual, the Fosters will be there. I probably won't hang around long. Want to go?"

Maggie had on a pair of cutoff blue jeans, a T-shirt and was barefooted. She had just returned from the YMCA where she swam a ton of laps a couple of times a week. She could swim from one end of the pool to the other and back, under water. I once went with her and watched as she glided through the water like a dolphin. Well, maybe not quite that easily, but she could swim.

"I thought you'd never ask. But, no thanks, I'm not going to change clothes and put on makeup."

I put on a dress shirt and tie, a pair of creased pants, a sports coat and shoes that were not designed for running.

"Wait a minute, mister. What's going on? When you take me there you dress like the slob you are. Now, when I'm not going, well, look at you."

"You still can go if you want. I don't know why I put on these clothes. Maybe I'm just tired of being a slob."

Maggie kissed me good-bye and urged me to be careful.

"I'll take a shower and try to stay awake until you get home, handsome."

The parking lot at the Sunshine Club was almost full. Roxy Amber greeted me at the door and said, "Aren't you banned from here?"

"Well, I certainly hope not. It was just a little misunderstanding between me and Mister Blaine. I'm sure he's forgotten all about it."

"He hasn't forgotten anything, you can bank on that, but what the hell, if he wants you out of here let him have his gorilla throw you out, right?"

"Right," I said, although I didn't really like that idea. "Actually, aside from wanting to gaze upon your magnificent body, I'm looking for Wayne Foster."

"Aw shucks mister, you make me blush clear down to my undies, if I was wearing undies," Amber said. "Foster and his ever-present wife are at table eleven."

Wayne greeted me with his usual drunken bombast, and Clare said hello without enthusiasm.

"What brings you into this den of iniquity?" Wayne asked. Everyone within three or four tables could hear.

"I was wondering why you didn't run a photo of Slavens with your article on his honeybees."

He shook his head. "What? Didn't we? Is that right, Clare? I remember we had shots of the hives, didn't we?"

Clare, who had been staring at her hands as they rested on the table, looked up. She said, "There was no photograph of Slavens because he insisted, no he didn't insist, because his wife insisted. She absolutely did not want our guy to take a shot of him under any circumstances. It almost killed the story. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I was just curious. I read the story the other day when I was looking up something else and noticed there was no photo of Slavens. You guys apparently spend a lot of time around here. Did you know Vicki Fowler?"

Wayne's eyes darted toward his wife. He pressed his hands onto the table. They stopped shaking.

"Do you want to order something, Nick? The waitress is here," Clare said.

"Yes, I'll have an Old Style; what about you two?"

"We're both fine thanks, Nick," Clare said.

Wayne appeared completely recovered. He looked at his wife and said, "I hate it when you turn down a free drink. I'm practically done with this one."

I looked at Clare. She shook her head.

Rita, the waitress I thought was the one who called me, was working the other side of the room. Once she glanced my way and then quickly averted her gaze.

I stayed around for a couple of drinks. Clare allowed me to buy a round. The conversation dwindled. I mentioned Vicki Fowler again. Clare said, "Oh, you did ask about her? No, we didn't know her, did we, Wayne?"

He agreed and began babbling about how hard they were working him at the newspaper and how they wouldn't give him a raise. I left after saying I was a working man and needed my rest. I stepped outside, paused to enjoy the quiet, cool night after the din inside, and walked into the beating of my life.

Chapter Thirty-One

I took a deep breath of fresh prairie air and exhaled to rid my lungs of secondhand smoke. I had walked through several rows of parked cars when, from behind, heavy, hard-muscled arms locked themselves around my chest.

Glow from a full moon combined with the few parking-lot lights to cast weird shadows as I struggled to free myself. The sounds of scuffling feet made slight dents in the silence. Puffs of dust caused by the struggle floated into the night. A pair of beefy, locked hands, covered by rubber gloves, pressed hard into my chest as I managed to get near my car.

A kick backward with my left foot brought a grunt from my attacker as my heel hit something. I felt his breath beating against my neck. I caught a piece of one glove in my teeth and jerked my head back. The rubber pulled away from the hand and tore. I caught a glimpse of a butterfly tattoo just before I was kneed hard in the seat of my pants. The tattoo was similar to the one I'd seen on Yocum Smith's hand. But the colors were brighter, like it was new. Could there be a butterfly-tattoo gang that was out to get me?

Other hands forced their way into my pockets and came out with my car keys. A large, gruesomely masked face appeared in front of me. The guy jerked opened the back door of my car. I resisted getting in. My head was forced forward until it thudded against the roof of the car several times. I lowered it and was pushed into the back seat. Not a word had been spoken.

I caught a glimpse of the guy who had grabbed me from behind. He was wearing a black stocking cap pulled down over his face. Fierce eyes glared at me through jagged holes cut in the material. He sat beside me while the other guy drove.

The guy in the back seat tried to put tape around my mouth. I bobbed my head. My face was slammed into the car window. My head was pulled back and masking tape was wound around it from above my eyes to below my mouth. An opening under my nostrils allowed me to breath a little. My wrists were taped together behind my back. I struggled again. My face was banged against the door.

The car was driven only a short distance. It stopped, the door beside me opened, and I was shoved out so hard I landed on my shoulder and the side of my face. I spit gravel. Was I still in the parking lot? Maybe in back of the building?

I struggled to my feet. Just as I was trying to get my balance I was smacked hard across the face. My lip or lips were bleeding. I tasted rubber as well as blood. They were beating me with rubber. Hoses? The blow had knocked me back to the ground. I tried to protect my face by burying it in the gravel, but one of them rolled me over and the other smashed something into my face again.

I was kicked in the ribs, and then one of them held me up from behind while the other punched me repeatedly in the stomach. I encouraged an urge to heave and did so with all the energy I could muster, hoping the vomit would land on the guy who was punching me in the stomach.

"Aw shit," the first words either of them had uttered, told me I'd hit my target. I was tossed into the back of the car like a sack of garbage. The car began to move. A large foot was pressed against my neck, forcing my face onto the floorboard. I must have passed out because the next thing I remembered was waking to extreme quiet. I still was on the floor, but there no longer was pressure on my neck. I lay there for a while, afraid to move for fear my face would be shoved back onto the floorboard. Finally, when it seemed the only breathing thing in the car was me, I moved in an attempt to get up. Pain, searing, burning pain, stopped me. I waited a few seconds and moved again, this time just a little. The pain came like a series of hammer blows. Each one followed the minutest move. Then the pain was constant, whether I was moving or not. It wasn't just my face. The pain in my ribs, especially the right side, was so severe that tears streamed from my eyes, tears induced not only by the pain, but also by the fact that I couldn't scream. I closed my eyes as tight as I could. My lips strained against the tape as the desire to gulp air overwhelmed me.

I paused, filled my lungs with as much air as I could, and thought of Maggie. What would she think of me now, a broken jerk who didn't have enough sense to take care of his business and leave the real detective work to the police? Yeah, like I should leave this whole thing up to our intrepid sheriff.

Somehow I managed to get my feet under me and was able to push up and onto the back seat. I sat for a while, waiting for the pain to ease. Perhaps it did. The car was leaning severely toward the door on my right. I turned so my hands were against the door handle. Finally I managed to get part of the tape around my wrists under the handle and pulled it toward me. The door flew open. I tumbled out with my wrists hung up on the handle like the ankles of a slaughtered steer.

The tape tore, and I tumbled into the ditch. For an instant I was afraid the car would follow, burying me in the mud and weeds.

The pain tormented me from every angle, but my anger overshadowed it. I was angry because of the beating I had taken, but I was even more angry because the bastards had left the car canted toward the mud, knowing I would fall into it when I managed to get out. I struggled to my feet and leaned my weight against the opened car door. I moved my arms. The pain stopped me for an instant before I ripped the tape from my face. I gulped air and regretted it as my lungs expanded against my ribs, causing new pain.

I crawled and staggered around the car until I got to the driver's side. I opened the door, climbed in, screamed angry words at the pain, and sat there, easing my body slightly against the back of the seat until I found the least painful position. After several seconds I remembered that I didn't have the car keys. For the moment, I didn't care. I just sat there until, miraculously, I went to sleep. I don't know how long I slept. It was pain in my ribs that woke me. I curled my body, trying to protect myself from the next kick.

I realized I was alone in the car, partially parked in a ditch, and that dawn was breaking. I reached toward the pants pocket where I carry the car keys and screamed. The pain still was with me. I moved more carefully and found the keys were not there.

There was nothing in front of the car except barely visible prairie. A dim light flickered in the grayness. I thought I would have to walk at least a mile to the nearest farmhouse. The back of my right hand brushed keys when I held the steering wheel post for leverage as I attempted to find a more comfortable position. The keys were in the ignition. How sweet of my attackers.

I started the car, moved my foot in stages to the foot feed, and eased the car forward. One of the back wheels started digging into the mud. I put the car in reverse, moved it back a little, and then gunned it forward. It spurted onto the highway. I just managed to brake it before it hurtled into the ditch on the other side. The deserted blacktop road was lined on either side by barbed wire fence. The car lights cut a moving hole into the grayness. I drove toward a light ahead, still not knowing where I was, when I noticed light in the rear view mirror. It was a spotlight shining in the distance behind me on the Ardmore Seed Company water tower, a landmark at the west edge of town. I continued on to the nearest farmhouse light, turned into the driveway where a barking collie alerted those in the house that I was there, backed out and headed home.

Chapter Thirty-Two

I struggled out of the car and into my apartment. I expected Maggie to be pacing the floor, angry and worried about where I had been. Instead, I discovered, when I got to the bedroom, she was asleep.

The cat watched from its spot at the foot of the bed as I maneuvered out of my clothes. I clenched my teeth to keep from screaming. The cat jumped down from the bed and rubbed its body against my leg. I eased my violated flesh onto the bed. I moved, inches at a time until I found as comfortable a position as possible. Maggie stretched. Her hand landed on my leg. She sighed and turned away. I didn't expect to sleep. Pain seared my ribs like an unrestrained blowtorch.

I woke up a few minutes after noon. I started to stretch. My body came to a screaming halt. I lay still. I could hear birdsong outside my open window. Boiling anger scrambled my brain. There was no way I was going to let the bastards get away with this.

Chapter Thirty-Three

As I was struggling to sit up Maggie came into the room carrying a pan of water, a washcloth and Band Aids.

"Just lie back down. Don't talk. Just lie still and let me treat your wounds. You can tell me about it later. Wait, I've got to get some iodine."

She looked down at me, shook her head, and left. I didn't look forward to the iodine.

"Let's start with your face. You've bled all over the pillow. You've got a black eye, a mangled ear and a cut on your chin." She washed as she talked and put a finger to my lips when I tried to talk.

"Naturally I'm curious about what happened to you. Yet, I suppose this is the kind of thing I can expect if you insist on playing policeman. It must be very exciting, getting yourself beaten up. And look at your clothes. Your sports coat is ruined. Blood and mud all over it. And your pants, too. What time did you get home, anyway. No, wait, don't talk until I get you patched up."

Tears glistened as they slid down her cheeks. She brushed them away.

I closed my eyes and, between dabs of iodine that jolted like electricity, thought about the beating and who the beaters might be. One of them certainly could have been Yocum Smith, but the butterfly tattoo I saw was not faded like his. And the other one? I thought of Andre Blaine's Neanderthal. Could have been him. That would mean close cooperation between the sheriff's office and Blaine. Or it could mean that Smith was acting on his own, without the sheriff's knowledge. Maggie touched my ribs. I jumped.

"You've got bruises all over your stomach and ribs. Such color, brownish yellow, dark red. You've either got to go to the hospital or at least see a doctor. I can't treat this stuff. Now tell me what happened. What time did you get home, and why didn't you wake me?"

"Well, I got home a little after six, you were asleep and I needed to lie down. So I didn't wake you. You sleep like a brick, you know."

"Who beat you up, and why?"

I told her what happened. I remembered as I talked, trying to recall anything that might prove who they were. The only thing, aside from their size and the hardness of the guy who first grabbed me, was that damned tattoo.

"Do you have a family doctor?"

"No. I haven't been to a doctor since I was a kid."

"My family doctor has retired and moved to Florida. My gynecologist still practices here. Maybe I can get an appointment with her."

I'd already said I didn't want to go to hospital. Didn't want to give those bastards the satisfaction of knowing they had put me there. Now she was insisting I go to a doctor. Stubborn woman.

"Gynecologist! Isn't that one of those doctors who treats female problems. What would she know about bruised ribs and stomachs?"

"Have a baby sometime and you'll learn about bruises and real pain."

"If it's worse than this, no thanks. Besides, what would we name it? And you wouldn't leave me, would you, if I had a baby?"

Maggie laughed. I turned away. No more being cute. The thought of what laughter would do to my ribs warned me to shut up.

I was a little out of place among the women in various stages of pregnancy. I sat like a broken doll as Maggie hovered nearby. The other women gave me inquisitive glances when they weren't trying to control the kids who had escaped from their wombs.

The doctor, a woman about Maggie's age and almost as attractive, probed, x-rayed and talked to Maggie about old times. Eventually she informed me that I had escaped "my car accident" without breaking any bones.

She wound a ton and a half of adhesive tape around my chest and abdomen. I was as bound as any mummy. It did ease the pain. She gave Maggie a prescription. I had a hell of a time convincing Maggie that I wouldn't take the pills even if she insisted on buying them.

"Drug companies are the robber barons of our time. I avoid taking any kind of pill. To hell with those bastards."

"Okay, big man, suffer, if such stupidity makes you feel better. In the meantime, are you going to tell police what happened?"

"Hell no! Police, in this case, is the sheriff's department and, for all I know, that damned sheriff or one of his deputies might have been in on it. I'm going to go about my business. Don't want to give whoever beat on me the satisfaction of knowing they put me on the shelf."

"Want to make love?" Maggie asked.

"You're on their side," I said. "I'll show you evil monsters. Yes, I want to make love. About as much as I want to walk in front of a speeding train."

"You look like you already have," Maggie said. I let her have the last word.

Chapter Thirty-Four

"So, you got beat up because you're sticking your nose in police business. Sounds familiar? Are you here to file a complaint?" Brown said as he rubbed his head and failed to stifle a smile as he stared at the black eye that Maggie's powder couldn't hide.

"No, I'm not here to file a complaint. You don't have jurisdiction anyway. I'm here because I said I would keep you informed on what's going on, remember?"

I eased my way into a chair in front of his desk.

"Okay. Don't get pissed at me. I wasn't in on it, honest. Who do you think it was?"

He leaned back in his cushioned chair, put his feet on the desk, and locked his fingers behind his head.

"Do you know anything about a blue butterfly gang or organization. Maybe a bunch of so-called patriots. One of the guys who teed off on me had a blue-butterfly tattoo on the back of his right hand."

"Deputy Yocum Smith has a tattoo like that on the back of his right hand, but I don't know anything about an organization," Brown said.

"Yeah, I saw his tattoo, but his was faded, like he'd had it a long time. The one I saw on this guy who grabbed me from behind, a big guy as hard as a rock, that one was bright, like it was new."

"What about your promise to stay out of the way of that customs agent? You're still poking around. That's why you got beat up. Maybe the customs guys did it."

Brown was smiling again so I assumed he wasn't serious. I didn't bother to answer. I asked him if there was anything new from his end and he said he couldn't tell me if there was.

"I promised to cooperate with customs and they haven't told me a damned thing. One-way cooperation, I guess."

As I struggled out of the chair, careful not to jar my insides with any sudden moves, Brown said, "You been to a doctor? Internal injuries can be serious. They must have really given you the works. Two of them, huh?"

"Yeah," I said.

I left thinking about his warning of the dangers of getting in the way of federal agents. What about the dangers of getting in my way? Ha, what a laugh, but I wasn't laughing. It hurt too much.

After disposing of a couple of routine jobs, I stopped in at Chester's for a beer. I wanted to do something aggressive. I got a beer and eased into a back booth. Otto left a couple of cronies in a front booth and waddled back to me. I expected him to say it was too early from me to be drinking beer. Instead he said, "I'll leave if you want to be alone. I don't relish being where I'm not wanted," he said.

He stared at my black eye, like everyone else had, and demanded an explanation.

"Just the usual story. I walked into a door."

"Yeah, sure."

"Sit down. I'll even buy you a beer if you'll go get it."

"What a nice offer. Especially since I'm holding a fresh one. Why so glum? Did the door fight back and you lost?"

I ignored the questions and told him about my night in jail and the charges against me. He tried to hide a smile.

"It's not funny."

"I know. Just pictured you steaming."

"I'm angry now, all right, about a lot of things, including my black eye. But that's another story. I hate to admit it, but I was scared when evidence was planted in my car and I was locked up."

"What are you going to do?"

"I've got an idea. Got to go see Wilson. Thanks, Otto."

"Sure, always anxious to help."

Wilson was in his office when I called and agreed to meet me at the sheriff's office after I explained my plan. I got there first and waited for him in the parking lot. I had my camera and had checked to make sure I had plenty of film.

The sheriff was watching television on a screen set high on the wall across from his desk. He grabbed his hat and put it on as we came in the door. He stood.

"We want to see the evidence you have against my client," Ben announced.

"What evidence? Which client?"

"That package of weeds you called marijuana. The package you planted in Bancroft's car."

"Now see here, Mister Wilson. Those are slanderous words. Do you want to repeat them in front of a witness?"

"I'll write them out for you and sign my name. But for now I want to see this so-called evidence. I want a picture of it. I'm within my rights. Are you going to force me to get a court order?"

The sheriff looked at me with what I suppose he considered a sneer. He turned to Wilson and said, "You can tell your client that if he would just mind his own business maybe there wouldn't be any charges against him. He went into a small room off the office and flipped a wall switch. A large bulb dangled on a wire. The sheriff took a cardboard box down from a shelf he could barely reach, sorted various parcels, and came up with the paper-wrapped package Yocum said he found in my car.

He plopped it on his desk and said, "There. Take a picture of it but don't touch it. It's evidence."

As I shot it from several angles, once nudging the sheriff aside. Wilson said, "It's got your fingerprints all over it now, sheriff. Won't be much use in court as evidence."

"Don't you worry none about the evidence. You done, Mister Bancroft?" the sheriff said.

Outside Wilson smiled and said, "I don't think you have to worry about the drug charge. He's not serious about it or he wouldn't have handled the evidence like that. He probably also knows he didn't have to let us photograph it."

"You think so? He's pretty dumb."

From his car, just before he drove away, Wilson said, "Don't think our esteemed sheriff is dumb. I think that business with the hat and his acting like a rube is just an act. He's not as dumb as he seems."

Chapter Thirty-Five

Most of the rest of the day I sat in my car waiting for a woman to come out of her apartment. She claimed a back injury she sustained in a fender-bender traffic accident kept her from working or even walking.

The insurance company involved paid me for sitting there, camcorder at hand, to get a video of her walking, if she was stupid enough to leave her apartment and reveal the lie, if it was a lie.

A photo of the woman, a gal about forty with a friendly smile and a round face, sat on my dashboard. She never showed. I was inclined to hope she wasn't lying and that the insurance company would have to pay.

At home, after my exciting day, I made the mistake of telling Maggie about the dope and breaking and entering charges the sheriff had filed against me.

She put down the book she had been reading, looked at me from the couch for a few seconds, frowned, and said, "I'm glad you didn't tell me about this sooner. I would have worried about it all day. This is just the kind of thing I ran away from. My ex was always getting himself in some kind of financial bind or other trouble. I don't need this."

"Well, hey. I'm sorry I mentioned it. It's over now. The sheriff as much as admitted he's not going to press this thing. Why get so upset?"

"I don't know. Forget it. It's just that ... I've got to get myself a job, get back to a life of my own. I'm glad you're okay. How come you don't kiss me when you come home?"

So I kissed her, resisted the urge to ask "What's for supper," and sat beside her. We stayed there for a while, me with my arm carefully placed around her shoulder, she holding my free hand.

It took her an hour to change clothes and do whatever it is women do to get ready to go out to eat.

"Let's go some place beside Chester's. Some place where they have tables, waitresses, real food."

Her face lit up. Apparently I had said the right thing. We settled, after discussing it for a few minutes, on a Chinese restaurant a block from Chester's.

"So, tell me about your plans."

She finished chewing and said, "That's what's bothering me. I don't have any plans. A person should have plans. I've looked forward for years to being free of the responsibility of raising my kids, of supporting my husband, and now, now that I'm free, what do I do? This has nothing to do with us. I'm happy, for now at least, with us, but there's got to be more to me than just that."

I ignored the blow to my ego. After all, wasn't I enough for any woman? Of course not. I thought of how it would be for me if I sat at home all day waiting for Maggie to return from some job. My God, I was beginning to think I actually understood a woman, at least this part of this particular woman.

"Let's talk about your interests, your desires, your goals, anything to get some ideas flowing on what would add to your life."

She said, "Are you serious?"

"Sure, why not? Talk to me."

We discussed starting her own business, the problems of capital and if she really wanted that. We discussed her volunteer work at the library where she read to children during the summer a couple of days a week.

"How about a book store? Or how about writing."

"No, that's not for me," she said. "Too lonely. I want to be among people, people doing things. A book store, maybe. But I've been thinking about getting involved in some kind of social work, something that counts."

"The reading at the library counts," I said.

She pushed hair back from her forehead and smiled, "I know and I love it, but what about the rest of the week?"

I said, "I did a story once on a group of women who ran classes for girls. Basics, I think they called it. They taught the girls hygiene, how to dress and take care of their hair, basic stuff. The kind of stuff these girls never got from home for one reason or another. Do you think you would be interested? There's no money in it but those women got a lot of satisfaction out of helping the girls."

A couple of days later she said, "Nick, I could just hug you. I've talked to the people at Basics. They are real nice and need all the help they can get. I'm going to work with them after school three days a week. I know I'll love it. I always wanted a girl. Now it will be like having several of them. These poor girls need help.

"I can keep your books in just a couple of hours a week. I'm going back to work, too," Maggie said. "I feel so much better. I was afraid I was falling back into the same old domestic trap I was in before. Thanks, Nick."

Chapter Thirty-Six

In the midst of this domestic tranquility I was arrested by US Customs agent Ronald Wilder and accused of being involved in a child pornography ring.

Maggie had gone to her job as office manager for an attorney, and I was sitting at my desk in my office, drinking a last cup of coffee. The door was open for business although I seldom get new clients through walk-ins. It's usually done over the phone. Wilder and two other guys walked in and surrounded my desk.

"Raise your hands so I can see them," Wilder said. "You're under arrest."

"For what?"

"How about child pornography? Or obstructing justice? We'll worry about that later. For now we just want you out of the way. Is that your computer?"

One of the guys unplugged the thing and was busy disconnecting lead-in wires. I stood up. Wilder pushed me back down.

"What the hell do you want with my computer? If you idiots screw up my business records I'll sue your asses. I'll sue anyway for false arrest."

"Of course you will. Everyone does. Be careful, Joe, we don't want to screw up Mister Bancroft's records. Be sure you get all the discs."

Joe nodded and the other guy stood by my side, ready apparently to stop me, if I tried to get up. Later they allowed me to lock the door before they hauled me and my computer away.

At the police station Brown watched, shaking his head occasionally, as I was fingerprinted and tossed into a private cell. It happened so fast I still was trying to figure it out when Brown appeared.

"They've gone," he said.

"Gone where? What the hell's going on? He said something about child pornography, then something about obstructing justice. They took my computer."

"I hope you don't have any embarrassing stuff on your tapes or in the computer. They might look at it."

"Damn it! Andy, tell me what this is all about."

"I don't know much. I think they're pulling a raid on one or more child pornographers. It has something to do with computers and the Internet. They aren't using any local police, not even state. I suspect they arrested you so you wouldn't interfere with the raid, if that's what it is."

"I'll sue their asses, the bastards."

"Sure you will. Forget it. Nobody gets anywhere trying to sue the feds."

It was almost noon when I was released without explanation. I took a cab back to my office and was pleased to see my computer and discs where all back in place. The phone rang.

"You got a porno raid down there? We hear there is a nationwide raid of child pornographers going on. Associated Press reports a man and woman in Central City are among those arrested. This thing is big, Bancroft. Get on it. We'll cover the big picture. It's even international. I guess. Get back to me as soon as you can. The story is still breaking."

I assured the guy, an editor on the state desk of the Chicago Times, that I would get on it. I called Brown. It took forever for him to answer. He still didn't know much.

"They apparently haven't arrested anyone in the city. If they had I assume they would be housed in our jail. Maybe the county. Check with the sheriff's office. Sorry I wasn't here to escort you to freedom."

"Yeah, thanks. I'm sure the sheriff will break his butt giving me information. I'll have to go out there, I guess."

I managed to stay within ten miles, maybe fifteen, of the speed limit as I raced to the sheriff's office. If that little bastard held out on me, if he knew anything ... I'd do ... what? I'd work day and night to make sure he never got elected again, that's what I'd do.

A car with "US Customs" on the license plate was in the parking lot in one of the deputy spots. I tried for dignity when I slowed to a walk as I entered the building. Wilder was talking to the sheriff, giving him some kind of instructions apparently, when I entered the office.

The sheriff puffed up like a strutting bird when he saw me and said, "Bancroft, I want you out of here. This is none of your business."

"Now, sheriff," Wilder said. "Mister Bancroft is a member of the press. We have to deal with the press. Since Mister Bancroft was good enough to stay out of our way when we conducted our business, I think you can tell him who we arrested and the charges. We'll be back later to take the prisoners to Springfield."

Wilder left before I could reply. The sheriff glared at me, "Well, Dud," I said.

"They arrested Charles Slavens and his wife, Lydia. Brought them in here and told me to lock them up. Said they are charged with child pornography. Wouldn't tell me anything more. Don't know why they insist I tell you. What am I supposed to do when the other reporters show up. Do I tell them?"

"I wouldn't if I were you. You don't want to step on any federal toes. They might arrest you."

I added what background I knew about Slavens and his wife to the Chicago Times report, including the information from southern Illinois. In the next issue of the Times credit for the front page story was given to the Associated Press, other news agencies and members of the Chicago Times staff, and yours truly.

"You're big time now, real hot shot," Maggie said. "I can see you're happy and proud. I don't see you showing happiness much, Nick – it looks good on you."

"Yeah, I am pleased. I hope that asshole of a sheriff reads my name on the Chicago story. He keeps telling everyone the Central City Press fired me."

The story was a major topic in Central City, including patrons of Chester's Bar and Grill, for several days. Otto said, as we drank a couple of beers with him a day after the story broke, "Imagine, right here in our little old town. Photos from here going all over the world on those computers."

"It isn't something to be proud of," Maggie said, "Those people who bought the photos of children engaged in sex are evil. Imagine! And so many of them, according to the report, appeared to be normal, successful people, like lawyers, accountants, businessmen. Several of them committed suicide before they could be arrested."

"Yeah, it's nothing to be proud of," Otto agreed. He took a sip of beer. "But just think, those evil photos that came from that old farm house right outside of town ... all over the world."

Chapter Thirty-Seven

I got several assignments from Chicago because of the story. One was to interview Charles Slavens, the beekeeper.

"You should be happy," Maggie said at breakfast the next morning, "with all these assignments."

"Yeah, I know. But look what's happened to those kids. They have become wards of the state. And the mothers may face charges, although no one seems to be in a hurry to charge them. There's evidence the photos were taken at night and all the mothers won't have any trouble proving they were at work."

Maggie said, "That group I work with, Basics, they are talking about forming a class for the mothers. The woman who heads it, Mrs. Waters, seems to think they can be rehabilitated. She says they just need training, like the girls we work with. I don't know. These women are prostitutes. Do you think they can be rehabilitated?"

"Maybe, some of them. I've got to get going. Let's do something tonight, go out and eat, whatever, to get our minds off of this business."

"That's going to be hard to do," Maggie said. We stood and embraced. "While you're writing about it," she added.

My depression continued as I drove to Springfield. I wasn't worried about getting in to interview Slavens. The state editor said arrangements already had been made. They wanted me to interview him because I knew a lot of his background, and they figured he might open up more to me than to one of their reporters.

I worried about the kids, and their mothers, but there was more to it than that. The murder of Vicki Fowler had been forgotten. The people in Chicago were assuming she was murdered because she had threatened to reveal the porn business. Even Brown had said he figured that probably was it. The sheriff wouldn't say anything on the subject.

"Suppose they are right," I said aloud as my car rolled over the miles. "But on the other hand, why should I assume anything? I just can't drop it without knowing for sure. The hell with supposing. I want to know. What about Blaine, where does he fit into all of this?"

I turned on the radio. It seemed a little more sane to be listening to it instead of talking to myself.

When I entered his cell Slavens attempted a smile but didn't quite make it. Wrinkles on his face were deeper than I remembered. The skin was pale and shriveled like a partially deflated balloon. His hand was limp and cold when I shook it.

"Do you want to talk about this business? I've been assigned to interview you. Report whatever you want to say about it."

"What is there to say? Lydia took pictures of the kids doing sex stuff. She gave them candy, sometimes threatened them, to get them to do what she wanted. Sick stuff, you know, oral sex, closeups of their privates.

"I didn't know she was selling the pictures. We had long since lost interest in sex between ourselves. I just thought it had replaced that. I should have left her, but what good would that do? At least, sometimes. I could keep her from being so hard on the kids."

Slavens said he knew nothing about who bought the photos or the Internet.

"She did all of that Internet stuff when I was outside working with my bees, I guess. Don't know how much money she got, why she thought she needed it. We had all we needed with what Blaine paid us for taking care of the kids and providing housing for the mothers."

Silence as I slipped a new tape into the recorder.

"Am I going to be on television?" Slavens asked.

"No, in the paper, the Chicago Times. What about the murder of Vicki Fowler, anything you can tell me about that? Did you ever hear her threaten to expose the porno business?"

He insisted he didn't know anything about the death of Vicki Fowler. I left with the impression he was telling the truth.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

"When you interview those women, those mothers, ask them if they are interested in counseling from our group," Maggie said. "Maybe we could help them. Mrs. Waters asked me to ask you."

"I don't even know if they'll talk to me. It would be good copy. After I get some other stuff done. I'll go out to the Good Shepherd Home and see if they're still there."

Maggie eased out from under the kitchen table, gave me a peck on the forehead and said, "See you tonight, got to get to work."

"Sure, now that you're employed again you don't need me. You look like a million dollars in your form-fitting suit and white blouse, your matching shoes and purse, what do you need with me? Come woman, give me a proper kiss."

Later, at the home, the grass in front was still unmowed, the windows remained dirty, the paint on the house had peeled a little more. I knocked on the door. No one answered. I had turned and was nearly off the porch when a voice stopped me.

"Yes, what do you want?"

I turned back. Rita, the one who I thought had called me, stood with the screen door open. She was wearing a faded housecoat and no shoes.

"You remember me; I met you at the Sunshine Club. You called me."

"I called you. That's what you say. I didn't call anybody. What do you want?"

"Can I come in? I'd like to interview you and the other mothers. Tell your side of the story. I'll bet you didn't know what Mrs. Slavens was doing to your children."

"Of course we didn't know. We're down, got a kid to take care of, these bastards offer us what looks like a good deal, but we didn't know. Who's going to care about us?"

I moved to the door, and when she didn't protest, went inside. Four other women were sitting at a table in the room where I had seen the children before. The mats the children had napped on were piled in a corner. The photo lights and camcorder were gone. The room was bare except for the table.

"This guy's a reporter, girls, so watch out what you say."

Rita sat down, pulling her housecoat around her after it fell open revealing her breasts. One of the women got up, went into the kitchen, and came back with a folding chair. She offered it to me. I thanked her and sat.

"I want to write a story for the Chicago Times from your angle. All of you. I know a little about how you were offered a home and care for your child if you worked at the Sunshine Club. You want your kids back. Maybe I can help."

"Shit, ain't you something? Come in here and say you can help us get our kids back. Shit."

"I said maybe, who are you?"

"I'm Little Red Riding Hood," the woman said. Her round, puffy face wrinkled as she worked her mouth into a bitter laugh.

Rita raised her hand, pushed brown straight hair from her face, and said, "I trusted this guy once and he didn't screw me. Maybe he could help."

"Yeah, help us get our asses in jail for bein' prostitutes. We make any noise, Blaine will throw us to the wolves," a skinny woman with thick lips said.

Another woman, possibly a weight lifter, said, "Alice, shut up."

"I don't know what your priorities are ladies, but if you want to get your children back..."

"Look," Rita said, "what could it hurt? The club they held over us was the kids. Now what? Are they going to beat us, fire us. What's so great about the work anyway? Blaine keeps most of the money. I want my kid back and I'm willing to take a few chances. That's why we're here, right. For a home for our kids?"

"Okay, mouth, you go ahead and talk to this jerk. I'm just listening," Miss Husky said.

"Well, Mister Bancroft, you know how it was. We all are single mothers. We were given a place to live, someone to take care of our kids while we worked. I didn't know at first the work including being a prostitute, but hey, I been giving it away too long, why not charge for it even if the biggest chunk of the money goes to Blaine?"

Another women, young and slight, with watery eyes and a runny nose, said, "Rita, if you are quoted in the paper saying what you just said you will be in big trouble."

"Who cares? I'm in big trouble now. They took my girl away from me. What kind of trouble can be bigger than that?"

"How many of you want to continue to work for Blaine, now that all this has happened?" I asked.

No one volunteered an answer.

"Does this porno stuff have anything to do with Vicki Fowler's murder?"

Rita said, "I don't know nothin' bout Vicki's murder, but I do know I don't wanna work for Blaine no more. The thing is, where do I find a job? Guess I could work a couple of fast-food jobs now that I don't have a kid. Maybe I could make ends meet, if I could find a cheap place to live. I'm staying right here in Central City until I get my girl back."

I had kept my notebook and pencil in my pocket. I got it out and looked up the names I had recorded at the Majestic Motel.

"How about you, Beverly – what do you plan to do?" I looked at the sullen faces. "Which one is Beverly?"

"She's gone," Rita said. "Left as soon as they took the kids. Think she went back to Chicago."

I looked at my notes again. "Is Andrea here?"

"Ya, I'm here but don't write no quotes from me. I ain't saying nothing."

And so it went. Of the five that were there, only Rita cooperated. I stayed for another half hour, using my interviewing skills. Not a word. I thanked them for their time, offered condolences on their losses and left business cards. "In case any of you want to give me more information or need help. I don't know what I could do, but I'll try."

The piece, a real tearjerker, appeared in the Chicago Times the next day with plenty of description and quotes from Rita.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

I met Mrs. Waters, Helen Waters, at Maggie's insistence.

"Maggie tells me you know these women, that you might be able to help us make contact with them, offer to help. What do you think?"

I shrugged. I figured, from looking at this determined little woman with wire-rimmed glasses below a perpetual frown, that she would get her way.

"Well?"

"Mrs. Waters, these women have had a rough time, been treated badly by society and, I suppose, themselves. Certainly by the people at the Good Shepherd Home and the Sunshine Club. I could only get one of them to talk. I'll ask them if they are interested in your, er, what, counseling?"

"They'll be interested, you just help us offer them the opportunity. That's what they need, opportunity."

"Don't we all," I mumbled to Maggie.

"What?" Mrs. Helen Waters said.

"Nothing, just a personal comment to Maggie."

"I see," she said as she stood, offered her small hand for me to shake, and left.

"You didn't make any points with Mrs. Waters," Maggie said, "but then you didn't want to, did you? I hope she doesn't blame me."

"Look, she may be doing a world of good, but I just shy away from people who want to impose their will on everyone else."

"You've got her all wrong, she just wants to help. She's forceful about it, but I suppose she's learned she has to be if she's going to make a difference."

We got off the subject eventually, and I did talk to the women again. By then there were only three of the originals still living at Good Shepherd. Two new ones, this time without children, had moved in.

All except Rita ignored me. Rita said she would think about it. She assured me she still had my card. Two days later, she called.

"Do you think this Waters dame could help me get a job. Blaine had Roxy fire me. They gave me a week to find another job and get out of their damned house. What am I going to do?"

Maggie and I went to see her that night after the other women had gone to work at the Sunshine Club.

"I can't even fill out a job application. I quit school and ran away when I was fourteen. What do I know? I worked as a waitress, but never at one of those hamburger joints."

Maggie encouraged her, and promised she would help. I snooped around. It was a waste of time. Police had cleaned the place out. Maggie promised to take Rita in until she could get settled and on her own.

As soon as we got outside I asked, "Is she going to sleep with us?"

"No need to get sarcastic, Nick. She's going to sleep in my apartment. I rented the one Mrs. Swanson moved out of. Remember, I told you she was moving."

"Yeah, but you didn't tell me you were moving. How long have you ... why didn't you tell me?"

"I've been trying to work up the courage. I knew you would be like this. It's only upstairs on the third floor. We won't be that far away from each other. And you can have you're damned freedom. You can start bowling in tournaments again. Maybe even squander your life in a pool hall like you told me you did when you were going to college."

I watched her anger rise as she fought to keep from crying.

"This isn't about my freedom, is it? It's about yours. You want to have me whenever you feel the urge and then go back to your private life, don't you?"

I had accused her of having such an attitude before and she had always laughed. This time all it evoked was a sad smile.

We moved her stuff upstairs the next day, and a day later, Rita moved in with Maggie.

Chapter Forty

"Well, what do you think now, was it smart to take her in? What do you really know about her?"

Maggie was in my kitchen stacking cereal bowls, coffee cups and silverware that were scattered on the counter near the kitchen sink. She finished and turned to face me.

"She's had a hard life. I think I'm going to be able to help her. Nothing wrong with that, is there? I do miss you. Once she and I get settled in, I'll be able to be with you more."

"Do you lie awake nights missing me like I do you?"

"Ha, I'll bet you lie awake. If you do it would be because someone beat you at one of your silly games. I'm not going to do your dishes. Why do you want to live in such a mess?"

We had covered this ground before, and it had been agreed I was a slob. I didn't argue then and didn't answer now.

"I'm worried about it, too," she said.

"About what, my being a slob?"

"No, taking Rita in. I know it's something I may regret for any number of reasons but..."

I got up from the kitchen table, offered her a chair. She sat while I did the dishes, wiped off the table and counter space and swept the floor. Maggie watched. The cat was in her lap, purring and watching.

"There," I said when I finished. "Cleaned up for another week, okay?"

"She's had a terrible time. Her stepfather raped her, her mother wouldn't do anything about it, she ran away from home when she was fourteen, lived on the streets, wonder she didn't contact some horrible disease, and then she got pregnant. That's when she heard about the Good Shepherd Home.

"She was introduced to Roxy in Chicago and came down here to have her baby. She wasn't told she would have to work at the Sunshine Club and be a prostitute, but, she said, she wasn't surprised. She had learned, she said, there is always a price."

"Do you believe her story? Want me to make some coffee?"

"No thanks. Of course I believe her story. Why wouldn't I?"

"Maybe she's just after your sympathy. Some people get by much of the time by playing on other people's sympathy."

"Always the cynic, aren't you," Maggie said. "I'm going to try to help her, see if Mrs. Waters can help her. I've never had a daughter. Maybe it's time I did."

"Maybe you would feel better if we took a shower?"

"No, I've got a lot on my mind. Besides, I feel ... good. It's going to be challenging, trying to help her. Imagine how awful it must be, losing your baby. Just imagine. Maybe, if she gets straightened out, she can get her baby back. Good night."

At the Sunshine Club, Rita, in the skimpy costume and high heels, had appeared sexy. The image was of long, slender legs, big boobs and piles of hair.

When Maggie brought her to my office later she was wearing baggy jeans, no makeup. Her black hair was short and ruffled. She looked at her hands when Maggie introduced us and talked so quietly I had trouble hearing her.

Within the next week I learned that her name wasn't Rita, it was Mary Jo Morgan, that she came from the south side of Chicago, that her daughter was going to be six in three months, that she was working days at McDonald's a couple of blocks away and that she was going to start a waitress job at night at Chester's.

I also was aware that she was following Maggie around, when she wasn't working, like an abandoned pup that has just found a friend. It was frustrating, never being alone with Maggie, but although I would never admit it to Maggie, there was an inner satisfaction involved in watching Mary Jo gradually gain confidence.

Maggie, Mary Jo, and I were at Chester's visiting Otto the night Mary Jo said Vicki Fowler kept asking for trouble, the way she batted her eyes at any guy who looked like he had a buck. I should have paid more attention, but Otto and I were talking sports.

Chapter Forty-One

"You look better than the last time I saw you," Brown said as I sat in front of his desk at the police station.

"Still not too good though, right?

"I didn't say that. I might have been thinking it."

"Well, anyway," I said, "the bruises on my face are gone and they ripped all that tape from around my ribs. I can bowl again, although I haven't done much of it lately."

"Whatever happened to your bowling career? Didn't you win a tournament once, or something?"

"Yeah, I won a couple in fact. Only regional stuff though, never anything national. I'm not here to talk about my so called bowling career."

"What then?

"I'm not convinced this child porno business explains the murder of Vicki Fowler. The sheriff has dropped the case, as far as I can tell, and I'm left with only a suspicion or two."

"Why come to me? It's not my case."

"Right, but I thought you might have some ideas. Once in a while you do, have an idea, that is."

Brown remove his feet from the desk, stretched his arms, stood up, and paced the floor behind me.

"I'm telling you this strictly on the proposition that if you repeat it I'll deny it, understand?

"You know I think our sheriff stinks, that he is a political hack who never should have been elected sheriff. Therefore, I might be prejudiced. I am prejudiced. But it looks to me like Dud and this Blaine guy might be partners of sorts. Why doesn't the sheriff do something about that whorehouse Blaine is running? My guess is, Blaine is paying him off."

"That would explain a lot, wouldn't it," I agreed. "Was Rita Fowler a threat to the sheriff or Blaine?"

"It doesn't seem to make sense. Supposedly she was there to have a home ready when her baby was born. Her background seemed to fit in with the rest of the women involved. Why would she louse up the deal?"

"Maybe she didn't," I said. "Thanks. It's nice to know you've been worrying about me."

"Did I say that?" Brown asked as I left.

At the sheriff's office Yocum Smith was sitting on a chair propped against the wall. My inclination was to kick the legs out from under him. His right hand held the remains of a hamburger. The butterfly tattoo was on the back of the hand, as before, only now, instead of being faded as it was when I first saw it, it was bright, like the color had been restored somehow.

"That's a beauty," I said, indicating the tattoo.

He rolled his weight forward, stood up and pushed the rest of the hamburger into his mouth.

"What ya want?" he said before he started chewing.

"Tell me how I can get one of those things," I said, indicating the tattoo again.

"You playing dumb with me again. You buy them at a store, press them on, what do you think?"

"How long do they last?"

"I don't know. Who cares? When they fade, if you want another, you just go buy it. What ya want?"

"I wanted to see the sheriff, but it's nice talking to you too, Yocum."

"Don't give me shit. The sheriff is in the can, he'll be out in a minute, but I doubt he wants to talk to you."

Sheriff Dud came into the office from the room marked private, hitching up his pants as he entered. His hat was on as usual, and the disgusting imagine of him sitting on the john with his hat on flickered through my mind like a bad movie.

"Ain't nothin' here for you, Bancroft," the sheriff said as he brushed past me and sat behind his desk.

"Well, then, I guess the rumors I've been hearing are wrong."

"What rumors?"

"You must have heard them. The ones about Blaine paying you off so you won't shut down his prostitution business."

"Now, see here, Bancroft. I don't have to take this – this insult from you. I don't know what you're talking about. Get him out of here, Yocum."

"You lay a hand on me again like you and your buddy did before, and I'll rip your nuts out and stuff them in your mouth."

Yocum's eyes lit up. He knew, as well as I did, that there was no way I was going to do any such thing. He would have the fun of beating the stuffing out of me again.

I held up a hand, he paused, and I said. "Only kidding, Yocum. I wouldn't hurt you if you attack me again. Oh, maybe I'd get excited and shoot you in the knees, but you know how some people are when they get excited."

"You better have a proper permit if you carry a gun. I'll check on that, you can bet on it, mister," the sheriff said. He turned to Yocum and said, "You leave Mister Bancroft alone for now. He's leaving, ain't ya, Mister troublemaker Bancroft?"

"Guess I might as well since you didn't answer my question about the rumors. I'll have to ask Blaine. He's in a heap of trouble, maybe he'll want to talk?"

"Who says he's in trouble?" the sheriff asked.

"I do," I said as I left.

Chapter Forty-Two

Yocum came out of the county building fifteen minutes before the official end of his shift. He was supposed to work from eight a.m. to four p.m.

He got into a late-model Buick and headed toward town. I followed. He stopped at a MacDonald's, got a hamburger, and ate it as he drove through town to the Sunshine Club. Was he going to see Blaine?

I drove past as he parked near the front door. A block or so down the road I turned and was headed back when he came out of the club, got into his car and drove back into town. I followed.

On the south side, near the railroad tracks, he parked in the lot behind Snooker's Bar. I parked on a side street as he headed through the back door into the tavern. He was carrying a cased pool cue.

After waiting a few minutes I walked around to the front and entered. I stood for a moment as my eyes adjusted to the dim, smoky room. A bar stretched along the wall to my left. To my right booths lined the wall, and in back red neons designated "His" and "Hers."

Two pool tables sat under light fixtures. One light was lit and cast slanting rays through the smoke. Yocum sat on a high chair, a glass of beer in his hand. His opponent, a guy with a scraggly beard who was wearing a soiled baseball cap backward, bent over the table, concentrating on his shot. Another guy leaned against the wall near Yocum, a cue in his hand. I ordered a glass of beer, sat at the bar near the front door, and watched. The guy leaning against the wall was Alfred, the ape from the Sunshine Club.

After gulping the beer I slipped off the bar stool, and headed for the door. I stopped and looked back. Yocum, his game over, was watching me. I took a deep breath, returned to the bar and ordered another glass of beer.

My stomach constricted. It joined my brain in remembering the pain from the beating these two brutes had administered on me. I walked as casually as I could toward them.

The ape was engrossed in a game with the bearded guy. Yocum glared at me as I approached. A smile, slight at first, but then as wide as a shark's, spread across his beefy face.

"Well, lookahere, Mister Nosy. You followin' me?"

"Naw, Yocum. I just dropped in for a beer, maybe a game of pool. Do you play pool, Yocum?"

"None of your business, if I do."

I watched the game. They were playing eight ball. Alfred was down to two balls, as was the other guy. Whoever pocketed his remaining balls first, and then made the eight ball after calling the shot, would be the winner. Neither appeared to be an above-average player, but appearances can be deceiving in the world of pool gambling.

"Do you get to play next?" I asked Yocum.

"Don't see any quarters up there, do ya?"

"Oh," I said. "Is that how you get to play? Just put the quarters by the slots on the side there, where the money is?"

Two five-dollar bills were sitting on the edge of the table.

"You don't know how to challenge the table, you better get going. Don't want you around anyway. Bad enough at the sheriff's office."

"Aw, come on, Yocum. I just do my job like you do. Maybe we could play a game."

"Why? I play for money. Don't give lessons. You want to play, put the quarters up."

I set my glass on a ledge near Yocum, put two quarters on the side of the pool table, and sat beside him. Alfred won the game, making the eight ball in a side pocket after his opponent missed. The loser went to the bar, and I pushed the two quarters into the machine, gathered the balls that rolled underneath the table to the back, racked them with the eight ball in the middle and waited for Alfred to break. When I asked for the house rules of this particular eight ball game I was informed that the winner breaks, and any eight ball shot, including combinations, had to be called.

"Put up your five bucks," Alfred insisted as he picked up one five-dollar bill and left the other.

I offered my hand, and said, "Hi, my name's Nick, Nick Bancroft."

"I know who you are."

He lined up the cue ball, hit it hard with his cue. It smashed into the racked balls as I took a cue from a holder on the wall near Yocum. Alfred made the one and the two balls before he missed on the three, leaving me the stripes, or the nine through fifteen balls.

I had an almost straight in shot on the nine, and could have got position on the ten, but I shot hard, made the nine, and left the cue ball behind several others so that I had to bank it to even touch the ten. If I missed the ten, my opponent could pick up the cue ball and place it where he wanted.

I purposely missed the ten, taking a chance that Alfred wasn't any better than he appeared. He made two more balls. I made a couple, missed, but made sure I didn't leave him a shot. During my next turn I made the remaining stripes, and then left him behind the eight ball so he couldn't make a clean shot at his remaining balls.

When it was my turn again, the eight ball was in the middle of the table and the cue ball was just off the back cushion. It was an easy shot to the far corner. I crouched over the table, lined up the shot, stopped, chalked my cue again, and finally made the shot, hitting the edge of the pocket on purpose to make it look as though I almost missed.

"Lucky shit," Alfred said as he hung up his cue and went to the bar.

"Want to play?" I asked Yocum.

"For what?"

"The same, five dollars."

"How about fifty?"

"Fifty dollars? Are you crazy?"

"I ain't crazy, you turkey. If you want to play put up some real money."

I thought of all the times I had lost in the past, but then there were the times I had won. They were much more often than the losses. I'd worked hard at it, got some expert instruction from some of the guys who had defeated me, and thought I was ready for a muscle-bound clod like Yocum. Could he really be as good as he thought he was?

"Gosh, I don't know. Fifty dollars. Let me see if I have that much."

I did, and put two twenties and a ten on the table, folding the bills together to make sure they didn't fall to the floor. Yocum slid down from the chair, put his fifty on the table, returned to the chair and opened his cue case with care. He hefted the cue, which looked like a twig in his big mitt, leaned it against the table and racked the balls.

I broke and the eight ball almost went in the side pocket on the break. The one ball was an easy shot in a corner pocket. It was a simple matter to make it, put lower left English on the cue ball, so it would roll out and behind the two, and so on.

The five ball was the problem. It was almost touching the seven. If I could make the four, and at the same time break up the five and seven, I could run the table. When I got to the shot by making the three I was in trouble. If I made the four and drove the cue ball into the seven so as to free the five, there was danger of scratching. If I scratched the cue ball it would be Yocum's shot.

I studied the shot, walking around the table as I chalked the cue tip.

"Come on hot shot, ya gonna shoot or what?"

I smiled at Yocum, put spin on the cue ball so it would back up instead of heading for a corner pocket, made the four ball, and wound up with a shot on the five. The rest was easy.

I smiled again as he fidgeted in his chair, holding his cue at the ready. The eight ball, after I made the others, would have been a simple shot into a corner pocket. I was tempted to make it that way but could not resist grandstanding.

"Eight ball in the corner pocket down there," I said, pointing at the other end of the table, "off two rails."

Not an easy shot but not as hard as it looked either for a player who had learned the angles involved in bouncing a pool ball off the cushions. The problem was two of Yocum's balls were in the way. I had to send the eight ball between them.

How good was Yocum? Did I dare do this? Why not just knock the eight ball in the nearest pocket and be satisfied?

Yocum watched as I went around the table. He appeared astonished. Good. I announced my intention again, lined up the shot and drove the cue ball gently into the eight.

That beautiful black eight ball hit the end cushion, caromed into the side cushion and began its journey back toward me and the pocket I had called. As it rolled toward the two balls it had to go between I feared I hadn't hit it hard enough. It missed both balls by an eyelash and rolled toward the designated corner pocket. It was on its last revolution when it dropped in.

For an instant Yocum and I stared at each other. I picked up the money and walked out of the bar. I fought an urge to run.

Chapter Forty-Three

"Otto is having a fish fry at Chester's and we're all invited," Maggie said over the phone.

"A fish fry? Otto is having a fish fry?"

"It's no joke, Nick. He and some of those cronies of his have been fishing for a month or more, off and on, at that strip mine north of town. He said they have a bunch of pan fish, and they've talked the cook at Chester's into frying them. They're going to have fried potatoes, coleslaw – I don't know what else. Do you want to go? It's tomorrow night."

"Will Mary Jo be there?"

"Yes, of course. She starts her waitress job there next week. Don't be angry at Mary Jo. She's such a sweet person, really. Just had a lot of bad breaks. I know I've neglected you, but when she starts working there she'll be gone most of the time. I'll have time for you then. Of course, I have to work too, you know."

"Of course. I don't know about the fish. Maybe. Tomorrow night, huh? I'll check my schedule."

I hung up and felt lousy for doing it. Maggie sounded good, alive and interested. That's what she wanted. I couldn't blame her for that. Wasn't that what I wanted, too? I should start dating some brainless woman, a young one, that would be satisfied with taking care of my needs, and then letting me alone. Even as I thought about it I knew it was out of the question.

The fish fry was scheduled to start with drinks at six – buy your own – and then all the fish you could eat free, starting at seven. I waited until seven-thirty before I showed up. I went to the bar, got a glass of beer, and watched Maggie, Mary Jo, Otto and several of his cronies at a long table near the back. They were laughing and eating.

Maggie saw me and waved. Mary Jo saw me and waved. Otto saw me and waved ... a fist. As I approached the table Maggie made room for me between her and Mary Jo.

"Sit down, Nick," she said, patting the chair next to her. "Aren't you hungry? I'll bet you are. I know how you eat, just that junk stuff. Sit down and have a real meal. This fish is delicious."

I sat down. Mary Jo nodded, and I nodded back. Otto stood and tapped his glass with a spoon. All heads turned toward him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to welcome my good friend and fellow bullshitter, Mister Nick Bancroft, who, although late, is welcome to these festivities."

A chorus of "Welcome Nicks" followed.

Otto grinned.

"Sit down before you fall, you old fart," a guy who looked to be older than Otto said. Otto sat down, took a bite of fish, and sipped his beer.

Maggie handed me a plate covered with small chunks of batter-covered fish, fried potatoes and coleslaw. I picked up a piece of fish with my fingers, tasted it, cleaned off the plate and handed it to her for more.

"You'll allow me to feed you, but you're not talking, is that it?" Maggie said as I started eating again.

"Pass the bread and butter ... please," I said.

"Go ahead and pout. I'm not going to apologize for having a life of my own."

"Want me to get you another beer?" I asked.

"Yeah, sure. Get Mary Jo one too. Why not everybody? Why don't you buy a round for everybody? I'll help get the beers."

"You're so generous. Okay, a round of beer for everybody." There were seven of us. I handed Maggie two twenty-dollar bills.

I tried to play it cool, not let Maggie know how much I missed her. In spite of myself, I had a good time. The difficult part was when we parted. She and Mary Jo took the elevator to the third floor. I returned to my apartment.

"Tell the cat hello for me," were Maggie's cheerful words as we parted.

Chapter Forty-Four

The next time I was at Chester's in the evening Mary Jo waited on me. She smiled, took my order, went to the bar, returned with a tray loaded with drinks, put mine down, collected the money, smiled again, and said, "Enjoy your drink, Nick," and glided to the next table.

I was impressed. Was this the same women who only recently talked so quietly you could hardly hear her? Whatever part Maggie played in this, she had reason to be proud. Who can help but take pleasure is seeing another human go from deep despair to hope and confidence?

I was admiring the froth in my beer glass, thinking deep thoughts, when Maggie slid into the booth.

"Thought I might find you here," she said. "I came to see how Mary Jo is doing. Did she wait on you?"

"She's doing fine. I was just thinking how confident she appears. She looks like a different person. You should be proud."

"Oh, I am, I am. More than I should be. She's the one who should be proud, though. All I did was give her a chance. Yet, when she doesn't know I'm watching, I can see the sadness creep over her face. I don't have to ask her what's wrong. I know she's thinking about her daughter. She won't be complete until she gets her daughter back."

Maggie brushed hair from her forehead and gazed into my eyes. I smiled.

"I suppose that will take awhile, but she's headed in the right direction. The state should recognize she is doing everything she can to provide a home for the kid. Want something to drink?"

"No, you have another if you want. I just want to say hello to Mary Jo and then, if you want, we could go back to your apartment and ... well, I won't be able to stay all night. I want to be in my apartment when Mary Jo gets home."

"I don't think I want another drink," I said.

It was raining lightly when we left Chester's. We walked hand in hand, not talking much. The rain did nothing to cool the nervous energy created by her touch.

"Mary Jo has started to trust me, I think," Maggie said. "She's been talking about Blaine, that woman Roxy, some of the other women she lived with. I'm not pushing her. It just seems to help when she talks about it. Sometimes it's as if she isn't really talking to me, just herself."

I tugged at her arm, and, like a couple of eager rabbits, we ran toward my apartment. We arrived dripping and panting. I struggled getting the door open as Maggie tried to pull me away from it. She laughed when I dropped the key in my haste.

Once inside we were confronted by the cat. It demanded attention from both of us. When we hit the bed the cat was there with us, and did not want to stay in its appointed place.

All in all, however, it was a satisfying experience.

Chapter Forty-Five

Standing in a cornfield at night aiming a telescopic lens at the license plates of guys who parked in front of the Majestic Motel was not my idea of a good time. Especially now that Maggie was available again, available, that is, when she wanted to be.

It was misting, just enough to soak me, and enough that I had to keep the camera covered. I didn't understand how the night vision part of the camera worked, but the clerk at the shop where I rented it assured me the film would reproduce images of shots I made in semi-darkness.

So I wound up with fifteen photos of license plates on cars parked at the Majestic Motel. The motel showed enough in the background of each photo to place the car there. Hardly concrete proof of hanky panky on the part of the car owner, but it turned out to be threatening enough to them for my purposes. What I was after was some way of pressuring important males to speak to the governor about directing state police to close the Majestic Motel, and more importantly, the Sunshine Club.

It wasn't that I was on a campaign to end prostitution. What I wanted was someone to put some pressure on Andre Blaine, his operation, and his connection with Sheriff Dudley Hudson, if there was any.

I got the names of the car owners through a contact I have within the state licensing bureau. I sent copies of the photos to each of the individuals warning them that the photos would be given to television stations and newspapers if they did not pressure the state to do something about the prostitution operation. A week later nothing had happened. The Sunshine Club and the motel still were operating.

"Be patient, Nick. It's only been a week. You took an awful chance anyway, shooting those pictures. Suppose someone figures out who took them. You might be in real danger," Maggie said.

"I'm in danger all right. In danger of dying from frustration. I want to nail that damned sheriff. And I wouldn't mind nailing Blaine either."

"Calm down. Talk to the cat. That always seems to help. I'll get us something to eat. Since Mary Jo is working nights I hate it, sometimes, staying up there in my apartment alone."

Something to eat turned out to be a TV dinner. When I didn't show the proper appreciation for Maggie's culinary skills I was told what I was eating was better for me than greasy French fries and hamburger at Chester's.

"What time does Mary Jo get home from work at Chester's?"

"Usually about one. Sometimes it's a little later, when they have a real busy night. Why?"

"I've got to question her about Blaine. Do you think she'll tell me anything? Let's go to Chester's now and I'll question her there."

I stood up and was headed for the closet to get a shirt.

"Don't you dare start questioning her while she's working. Do you want to get her fired? Sometimes, Nick, I don't think you have a brain in your head."

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

"You're going to admit I was right?"

I said, "What'll we do until she gets home. Let's go up to your apartment. I haven't seen it yet, you know."

"Of course I know. And you're not going to see it until I get the place cleaned up and looking the way I want. I'll go work on your books. Watch television, or read something besides the sports pages."

"You got any dirty books, like those romances you women are always reading?"

"I know. Go clean the kitchen. I don't mean just do the dishes. Wash the walls, clean out the cupboards, and, for heaven's sake, for the whole neighborhoods' sake, clean out that refrigerator."

I settled for talking to the cat. It was domesticated by then and getting fat. It played with a ball that had appeared from nowhere. Probably something it swiped from a kid. It didn't jump upon the desk and wait to be petted any more. It demanded. Maybe I enjoyed the petting as much as the cat did.

Maggie intercepted Mary Jo when she entered the apartment building and brought her down to my place where she accepted a cup of coffee and a stale doughnut.

"Do you mind if I take my shoes off, Mister Bancroft, my feet hurt."

Assured I didn't mind, she shoved her chair away from the table, bent and untied her shoes, slipped them off, stretched her legs forward and sighed.

I gave her a minute to relax and asked, "Did you ever see Dudley Hudson, the sheriff, at the Sunshine Club? He's a squat guy who wears a big cowboy hat."

"No. I'd remember a guy like that. Mister Blaine had a back door to his office, though. Anyone could visit him that way and no one in front would know. A deputy hung around quite a bit, though. Big guy named Hokum or something."

"Yocum?"

"Yes, that's the one. He took several of the girls to the motel. I'm glad he never asked me. I heard he was pretty rough."

As we talked Mary Jo seemed to relax. She drank another cup of coffee. "Normally I wouldn't drink coffee this late, but nothing is going to keep me awake tonight. We were busy. Made thirty dollars in tips."

She moved her legs so she could rub her feet.

"You should talk to that reporter, Wayne Foster, if you want to know what goes on at the Sunshine Club. He hung around all the time. His wife was always with him. He played grab ass with Vicki some, and I heard he took her to the motel once and left his wife at the Sunshine Club by herself. I don't know about that, but I waited on her that night. She was alone for a long time. She even went out to the parking lot looking for him. She came back and spilled her drink when she slammed it down on the table. I had to wipe it up."

"When was this?"

"I don't remember, exactly. One night dragged on like any other in that place. I'm tired now from working, but it's a good tired. Working at the Sunshine Club was a drag. The filthy feeling stayed with me all the time. I still wake up sometimes feeling like I should take another shower."

Chapter Forty-Six

I had a theory that sometimes got me in trouble. It suggested that the way to get information, if all else failed, was to stir things up by suggesting to the persons involved that you knew more than you did. Hardly an original idea, but then not much of my thinking is.

I also have noted that the Serbs and Bosnians accused of all those atrocities look an awful lot like you and me. Later, when it was the Serbs and Albanians who were slaughtering each other the same thing occurred to me. How far removed are we from being savages? Not far, apparently. I did this heavy thinking on the way to the Sunshine Club. I wanted to talk to Andre Blaine. It was a slow night there, a Tuesday, when I entered the place and asked Roxy to tell Blaine I wanted to see him.

She said, "No."

"Why not?"

"Because he told you to stay out of here, remember? He'll be on my back if I tell him you're here. He'll want to know why I didn't have Alfred throw you out."

"Alfred?"

"Yeah, Alfred, Andre's muscle. You don't want to tangle with him, mister."

"I think I already have."

"I doubt that. You'd be bent more than you are."

"Oh. I was bent, all right."

Roxy stepped back, an alarmed look on her face. I turned and looked into the menacing eyes of Andre Blaine.

"Why are you talking to this piece of shit, Roxy? I thought I told you to stay the fuck out of here," Blaine said.

"I just got here ... sir... She hasn't had a chance to throw me out yet, but she said she was going to."

"Well, get your ass out of here then."

"I'll go, but I thought you might want to talk about your arrangement with the sheriff. He's getting nervous. Doesn't think the payoff is big enough for the risks involved."

"He what? The sheriff? You mean that little guy with the big hat. I met him once. You're bluffing. He never told you shit. Even if he did, he's lying. Why would I pay off that twerp?"

"I guess you'd pay him off because you're running a prostitution business between the Sunshine Club and the Majestic Motel. I hear the state guys have photos of the johns going into the motel. I don't know. I'm trying to find out. I'm a reporter."

"I'll give you something to report. I'll break your fuckin' neck, Alfred!"

The few customers in the place that hadn't already noted our conversation turned when Blaine shouted for his Neanderthal. I held up a hand and said, "Guess you don't want to talk to me then."

Walking to my car. I expected, at any moment, to feel Alfred's strong arms encircle my chest again. But if he was watching, I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me look back. I didn't relax until I was moving down the highway in my car.

I stopped at Chester's on the way home and talked to Otto.

"Are you anxious to get your head busted?" Otto said after I told him what I told Blaine.

"I'm anxious all right. But not to get my head busted. I'm after a story. These bastards think they can get away with anything. Murder, anything! And keep me from getting the story? They can't. I can't let them get away with it."

"Does Maggie know you're doing this?"

"No. No need. I'll tell her when it's over, if it ever is. Seems to me I've been on this story since you were young."

"Ha! That's a laugh. When I was young, ha!"

I finished my beer, bought Otto another one, and went home. The cat greeted me, and reminded me that it was time to eat. I fed it, cooked a magnificent chicken and rice TV dinner, and waited. Maggie didn't show up so, after watching the Cubs lose to the Dodgers in the eleventh inning, I went to bed.

Chapter Forty-Seven

At the sheriff's office the next day Yocum was sitting in his usual spot, his chair tilted against the wall, and fast food wrappers nearby. The sheriff hitched up his pants as he came into the room. He started ranting at me immediately. I interrupted.

"Andre Blaine is getting anxious," I said, annoyed that Otto had me using one of his favorite words.

"Anxious? So who cares?" Yocum said.

The sheriff had started to sit behind his desk. He stood and said, "Shut up Yocum, and pick up that garbage around your chair. How many times have I told you..."

Turning to me, the sheriff said, "Why are you telling me this? I don't want to talk to you. You have no business here."

"Funny, I thought you'd want to know. I hear Blaine is talking to the state guys. I hear he's trying to negotiate a deal for himself. I hear he's naming names, talking about payoffs, stuff like that. I hear he may even be telling what he knows about the murder ... and the pornography."

"You got big ears, Bancroft, but I don't believe all this bull you're handing out. Don't know what you're up to, but it ain't nothing to me. Just run along. Go do you're dirty work some place else."

"Dirty work? I thought you and Blaine had a corner on that."

Yocum had finished picking up the food wrappers, had put them in a wastebasket, and glared at me, "I hear he mentioned you too, Yocum."

Yocum opened his mouth, and pointed a beefy finger at me.

"Shut up, Yocum," the sheriff said.

I left the office, got in my car and drove into a parking space on the side of the building where I could see the front of the parking lot. After a few minutes the sheriff came out, got in his car, and drove away. I followed. It didn't take long to realize he was headed for the Sunshine Club.

After the sheriff drove into the club parking lot I cruised by and took my time turning around in a farm driveway. I almost took too much time. When I returned the sheriff was driving away. I followed him back to his office. How I wished I could have heard his conversation with Blaine. Or maybe Blaine wasn't there. Did the sheriff go there to face Blaine because of what I'd told him? Was he scared? No answers, only more questions, so I drove to Chester's and had a beer. Always a great solution.

Otto and a couple of his buddies made a splash when they came into the place. One guy had on a pair of rubber boots that came up to his crotch. Otto wore a faded hat that had a fishing fly snagged on top. He spotted me while he was buying draft beers for the three of them. He delivered two to the table where the other guys were sitting. He huffed and puffed his way to me.

"Hi mister detective, did you find any bodies today?" he said as he handed me his glass while he struggled into the booth.

"Are you drunk?"

"I might have been, a little, an hour ago when we were fishing, but I'm sure as hell not now," Otto said. "I suppose you've seen a body after it has been dead in the water for a long time. Well, it's something new to me, and I'm not anxious to see another one."

"You mean a floater, human floater? Sure, I've seen one or two. Not a pleasant sight. You saw one?"

"We were fishing at the strip mine, you know, where we caught all those fish before when we had that fish fry. George spotted it. There was some moss covering her back, but George got a stick, waded out a ways, almost fell, but caught the moss on the tip of the stick and dragged it away from the body. Then he got the stick under her armpit and dragged her toward shore. Some of the skin pulled away and the body rolled over. It was a woman, her face puffed and marred where fish or something had eaten at it."

"Calm down, Otto, you'll have a heart attack."

"I wasn't anxious to look at it, the body, I'll tell you that, but I couldn't stop staring. I'll remember that face, or part of a face, for a long time. I can tell you that."

"Did you call the police?"

"Of course we called police. We called city police, but they said to wait for the sheriff department. It must have been half an hour before that cowboy sheriff and his big deputy got there."

"What did they do?"

"They took our names and told us to leave."

"Didn't they question you at all? Ask you how you found the body, when?"

"No, They were anxious to get us out of there. Some guys were fishing clear on the other side of the lake. The big guy went over there and must have told them to leave. Anyway they did, drove out of there right behind us."

"Want to go back there now, pretend we are fishing?"

"You nuts? I can still see that piece of rotted rope floating on the water from where it was tied to her ankle. I'll have nightmares about it. I'm not anxious to go back, at least not for awhile."

There still was plenty of daylight so I drove out to the strip mine. A faded sign posted on the busted gate said, "Private Property." A rutted dirt road leads to the lake, only a couple of blocks from the gate. The lake was partially hidden by young trees, mostly locusts.

I didn't see anyone as I got out of my car and walked to a steep bank, perhaps ten feet high, above the water. A path through waist-high weeds led to the left. I followed it down and came out on a small sandy beach. Wooden and aluminum boats were placed near trees away from the water. Lines, some rope, some wire, ran from the boats to the trees. Some were just tied to trees. Others were secured by padlocks. Seven out of the nine boats had names or initials painted on the bows. One was labeled Y. Smith. Footprints, lots of them, marred the sand. I could see wheel tracks where I supposed the body was pulled out of the water and transported on a gurney to a waiting coroner's van.

Where were the crime-scene tapes? The place was not marked off in any way. The public is kept away from most crime scenes long after it seems necessary. Here, where the body had been found only a few hours before, I stood still. Occasionally a fish broke water, a crow cawed at the world, but mostly it was still. The sun went under a cloud. Even thought the temperature was about eighty degrees, I shivered.

Chapter Forty-Eight

The next day, after giving him time to do his work, I went to the coroner's office and asked about the body found in the lake.

Art Grawley sighed, raised his eyebrows for an instant, and said, "It was an accident; haven't you heard. The paper quoted the sheriff in today's edition. He said it was an accident."

"Who was it? Have you been able to identify her yet?"

"No, I've called in the state guys. The sheriff didn't like it, but it's my decision."

"How could it be an accident? Does the sheriff think she tied that rope around her ankle?"

Art got up from behind his desk, walked around it and stood in front of me. "What rope? What do you know about this?"

I explained how a friend of mine, I didn't name him, happened to be at the lake fishing when the body was found. Art's reaction surprised me. He was generally easy going and took things as they came.

"Damn. The sheriff has gone too far this time. He didn't tell me he knew who found the body. He hasn't filed a report yet, but he was letting me think some unidentified person told his office about it. There are unexplained marks on the woman's ankle, but our sheriff didn't say anything about a rope. This is criminal. I'll have his ass. He's not going to make me look like a fool."

"Don't warn him," I said. "Let him file his report. See what he says. If he leaves out the rope, the names of the three guys who found the body, well, maybe he won't be able to squirm out of it."

"I'm not sure I want to do that. It's entrapment."

"C'mon, Art. How is it entrapment? Isn't there a law against concealing a crime. This woman was murdered. Are you going to let the sheriff get away with pretending it was an accident? What did your autopsy show?"

He took an ever-so-white handkerchief from his back pocket, wiped his brow, and said, "We found a large amount of the chemical used in sleeping pills. Not enough to kill her, but enough to knock her out. Her lungs were filled with water. She drowned."

"How long do you figure the body had been in the water?"

"At least three months, maybe more?"

The coroner went behind his desk, sat down, and said, "You can quote me on this stuff. The hell with the sheriff. I'm going to do my job."

I returned to my office and called the sheriff's office. A dispatcher answered and said the sheriff was busy. I told her to tell him I was calling about the body found in the strip-mine lake.

"Tell him I'm writing a piece for the Chicago Times, and if he wants to be quoted he should get in touch right away. Otherwise, tell him I'll report that he was unavailable for comment."

"You got no business stickin' your nose is this here case, Bancroft," the sheriff shouted when he called back just minutes after I hung up. "You'll make a big deal out of it, and ... and it was just an accident. How did you find out about it anyway? Who told you?"

"Never mind who told me. Is that your statement then, that it was an accident. The rope found tied to her ankle doesn't mean foul play then, is that your statement?"

"Goddam you, Bancroft. There was no rope. Where do you get all this shit? You just make it up. That's it, you just make it up so you'll have a better story. Someday I'll get you good."

I wrote the story and e-mailed it to the Chicago Times state desk. In a few minutes I got a couple of questions back and answered them as best I could.

"Why the smug look?" Maggie asked as she came into the office. I was petting the cat, my feet propped up, one hand behind my head. "I just scooped the mighty Central City Press. A floater was found at that strip-mine lake where Otto and his buddies fish. I doubt anybody at the Press even knows about it yet, unless the sheriff decided he'd better tell them."

"What's a floater?"

"A body. The body of a woman, in this case. It apparently had been in the water for a long time. Face all eaten away. Rope tied to her ankle. She must have floated up when it rotted."

"How awful. Did you see it?"

"No. Otto and his buddies did. The first ones to see it, apparently. They called the sheriff's office. Now the sheriff is saying there was no rope. I'm wondering if this is connected with Vicki Fowler's death."

Maggie shuddered.

"You'll get yourself killed, messing with whoever is doing the killing. Why wouldn't they kill you? What makes you think you're different? If these women were killed because they threatened to expose the connection between the Sunshine Club and the Majestic Motel, well..."

Maggie was holding a home video. "This is an old black and white movie I got at the library. Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald in Rose Marie. I just know you'll love it."

"Of course I will. I'm a romantic guy. Isn't that the one where he sings "I love you" until his horse gets hoarse?"

"I'd watch it by myself, smart ass, but you've got the VCR."

We watched. Maggie sighed as this Canadian mounted policeman kept telling Jeanette MacDonald how much he loved her, in song of course, and Jeanette replied in kind. In the end, I fooled with Maggie's anatomy. She pushed my hands away. I thought about the murder of Vicki Fowler, and if I ever was going get to the bottom of it. And who was the lady in the lake?

Chapter Forty-Nine

Mary Jo came in from work just as the movie ended. She sat down, took her shoes off as usual, and said, "When do you think I can start trying to get my baby back? Will I have to get a lawyer?"

Before either Maggie or I could answer Yocum Smith and Alfred the great banged into the room. Yocum pointed a gun at me.

"What the hell?" I said as I jumped to my feet.

"Now you listen good, mister. You three come with us, no bullshit. Do as we say or we'll hurt you. Got that?"

It was the longest speech I'd ever heard Yocum make.

"Now c'mon, Yocum. You drunk? You can't get away with a thing like this. You're not that dumb are you, Yocum?"

"Don't you worry none about how dumb I am. Leave through the front door nice and easy, or I smack you on the head, Bancroft, and then maybe the women, too. You want that?"

I smelled liquor. Yocum's eyes were clear. Maybe he'd taken a shot or two just to beef up his courage. With his gun hovering near my face I decided the wise thing to do, for the moment at least, was to play along.

I looked in every direction, hoping someone was on the street observing us being kidnapped – if that's what it was – but I saw nobody. It was crowded in Yocum's patrol car. He instructed me to sit in front. He gave Alfred the gun. Alfred and the women sat in back.

"You better think about this, Yocum. Kidnapping is a federal offense. Your shield won't protect you."

"Shut up, Bancroft. Just shut up. You ain't tellin' nobody you was kidnapped anyway."

I had complained, in my younger days, how the sidewalks folded up after eleven every night in Central City. It hadn't been a serious complaint, but now it was. Yocum was taking residential streets instead of main thoroughfares. We didn't see another person as he drove out of town. Headed for where? It wasn't the county jail. We were headed in the wrong direction.

I saw the faded "Private Property" sign loom up as we passed it. Fear settled in my stomach like sour milk. These idiots were taking us to the strip-mine lake. Were they trying to scare me? Why did they have to involve the women? How could Yocum think he could get away with this? I reached for the bastard's neck. My head exploded.

"Don't try that again, jerk." I felt Alfred's breath against my ear. I felt the back of my head. A lump was forming. My hand was wet. Blood? He must have whacked me with the butt of the gun. The car stopped, and I was dragged out and just managed to stand. Mary Jo was crying. Maggie stood beside me, steadied me. I could see her face in the eerie light from a moon partially obscured by clouds.

"What's going on, Nick?" she whispered.

I shrugged. No reason to frighten her with the thought that they were planning to drown us. I still hoped they were just out to scare the contents of my bowels into my pants. I rubbed my head and thought of trying to tackle Alfred as he stood before us with the gun pointed at me. Mary Jo bent down, held her stomach and groaned. Maggie started to comfort her.

"Stay where you are," Alfred said. The rattle of metal against metal broke the silence. Yocum had unlocked a boat. He dragged it to the edge of the lake and said, "The cement blocks were still under the boat. I told you nobody would notice them."

Mary Jo straightened up slowly, still moaning, and threw sand in Alfred's face. He stumbled backward and fired the gun into the air. She ran back toward the car, her bare feet thudding against the sand.

Alfred shouted, "The bitch, go after the bitch." Yocum raced after her. His heavy feet kicked up sand. The sound faded.

"Don't try anything, I'll shoot," Alfred said. "I don't like this shit, out here at night. All this quiet. Where I come from we don't go to all this trouble just to rub somebody."

I strained to hear, expecting Mary Jo's screams when Yocum caught her. He came stumbling out of the woods several minutes later. His gasps for air were the only sound.

"She can't get far. Lets drop these two. We'll find the whore before she gets back to town," Yocum said.

He took a roll of wide masking tape from a back pocket and wrapped strips of it around Maggie's wrists.

"Hurry, if that other one gets away we're in deep shit," Alfred said. "How come you don't put her hands behind her back?"

"What's the diff? They'll drown before they can get loose. Like you said, we gotta hurry. Here, tape Mister Bancroft's wrists while I get the blocks."

Yocum picked up the cement blocks, one in each hand. I hoped he would drop them and puncture a hole in the boat, but he placed them carefully. Each had a length of stiff new roped laced through the opening in the block and tied in a loose knot. He shoved the boat partially into the water. Alfred pushed Maggie toward the boat. She resisted. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled.

"Let go, you clumsy bastard. I'll get in the damned boat."

"C'mon, Bancroft," Yocum said. "You sit beside her in the back."

Alfred thrust the barrel of the gun into my ribs. I thought of turning, kicking the hell out of his chins and making a run for it, but I couldn't leave Maggie there. Yocum told Alfred to wade along side the boat and tie the blocks to our ankles.

"Why me, you da boss? Get your own pants wet."

After a brief argument they agreed to each wade in, one on each side, and tie the blocks to our ankles. Would I be able to untie mine before I drowned? What about Maggie?

They pushed the boat completely into the water. Yocum held the gun and steadied the boat while Alfred got in, then Alfred held the gun while Yocum got in. His weight tipped the boat and nearly flipped me out. Maggie leaned against me and whispered, "When I give you a shove, grab your cement block and roll over the side. You know, like divers do, just roll over the side of the boat."

"Shut up you two, you could go ahead and scream, no one would hear you, but just shut up," Yocum said as he put oars in position to row.

Alfred was in the bow holding the gun with one hand and the edge of the boat with the other. Yocum sliced the oars into the water and pulled, propelling us toward the middle. He did that one more time and was leaning back into the oars when Maggie pushed against me. I bent, picked up the cement block, took a deep breath, and rolled out of the boat. I sank as I struggled to get my hands on the knot in the rope around my ankle. By the time I hit bottom I was fighting the urge to breathe. I let a bit of air out of my lungs. The knot was tighter than I thought but I managed to loosen it some. Something nudged against me. I cringed until I realized it was Maggie. I felt for her ankles. If I could get her knot untied maybe she could escape. Her feet already were free. She pushed my hands away and worked on the knot on my ankle.

She untied it. I was frantic to get to the top and breathe but she held my leg and started swimming sideways, pulling me along. I let out the last of the air in my lungs and was desperate for air when she allowed us to float slowly to the surface. She rolled me on my back. I lifted my head above water. Her head popped up beside mine.

I breathed the blessed air. I was turning, looking for the boat, when Maggie pulled me under. She put a finger to my lips. We slipped back and forth from air to water, breathing and holding our breath. Gradually, as we hovered below the surface between gulps of air. Maggie swam, pulling me with her. My feet touched bottom. We could ease our faces up to breathe and slip back into the water. I was beginning to think we were going to make it. I lifted my head out of the water to breath, and heard the creak of the oars and the splash of water. The boat was near.

"They must have drowned. They couldn't last this long under water. We gotta get out of here and find that bitch."

It was Yocum talking. I slipped out of sight. Later Maggie and I came up for air at the same time. The sound of a car engine starting shattered the silence. Gears ground as the car pulled away.

"Don't get out of the water yet," I whispered. "One of them might have stayed behind. I held her face in my two hands and kissed her wet lips. "Thanks," I whispered.

"We aren't out of this yet," she replied as her lips brushed my ear.

We waited what seemed like at least five minutes and climbed out of the water. Our clothes sloshed as we walked in the shadows away from the lake. We stopped and removed our shoes, got as much water from them as we could and put them back on. We left the road the few times a car appeared, finding shelter behind trees or bushes, and in one case in a mosquito-infested ditch. We agreed that Yocum and Alfred probably thought we were at the bottom of the lake, but they still could be looking for Mary Jo. We also were looking for her, but mainly we were just trying to make it back to my apartment. Perhaps an hour later, we made it. Maggie leaned against me as we reached the building. I nearly fell. We stood for a few minutes, supporting each other. I managed to get her to the first step leading down to my office. We sat. I leaned over and kissed her neck several times.

In spite of my fatigue I jumped when I heard a noise from the dark at the bottom of the stairway leading into my office. I waited. There it was again, a moan, and then a voice whispered, "Nick, is that you? Maggie?"

It was Mary Jo. I struggled to my feet, got Maggie to hers, and assured Mary Jo that we were there. I wrestled keys from my soaked pants pocket. Maggie and I hobbled our way to the bottom of the stairs and embraced Mary Jo. She was shaking. Maybe we all were. We leaned together in the darkness. There was a light switch. I could have illuminated the stairway, but I decided against it. We warned each other to be quiet. For all we knew, Yocum and Alfred might be lurking nearby. I was trying to fit the key into the lock when Maggie opened the door. I'd forgotten it wasn't locked. We filed silently into the office. I locked the door. Maggie and Mary Jo collapsed on the floor as the cat made purring sounds, and got under my feet as I felt my way past their bodies and into the living room.

I sprawled in a chair. Eventually I regained enough energy to get Mary Jo to her feet. I helped her into the living room and laid her on the couch. I covered her with a spare sheet. She slept fitfully throughout my efforts.

Next I aroused Maggie, got her to her feet and guided her into my bedroom. I peeled her clothes off. Even in my exhausted condition I noted the sensuality of Maggie's being. After struggling out of my clothes I collapsed beside her. The feel of her wet body against mine kept me awake for an instant.

Chapter Fifty

"You're going to louse up the operation," Detective Andrew Brown said as Maggie, Mary Jo and I sat in his office the next morning after dictating our story to a stenographer.

"What!" Maggie said.

"Tell her, Bancroft, before she assaults an officer of the law."

"He was only kidding, I think."

"That's right, I was only kidding. We want to nail those two and the guys they work for. I want you people to go home and stay there. We'll keep an eye on your building."

"So what are your plans?"

"You don't need to know, Bancroft. We don't want to read about it before we do it."

"Yeah, like you can't trust me. What about all the times I sat on something until you gave me the okay? Besides, our lives are involved; we have a right to know."

"Charges will be filed on the basis of your statements, but not right now. You'll get your day in court later. This is complicated."

I took Mary Jo and Maggie back to Maggie's apartment after driving around the block once looking for a lurking Yocum or Alfred. We didn't see either of them. I had no trouble convincing the women to lock the door after we checked Maggie's apartment for uninvited guests. We agreed they would both call in sick and not go to work for at least a day.

Back at my office I fed the cat. I had kept my anger in check, not wanting Maggie to know I was going to do something. But what? I called the sheriff's office. Yocum wasn't there. I was informed. He had called in sick. I looked up his home number, called, and finally got an answer.

"Yeah," was his greeting.

I talked through a handkerchief, and said, "I know what you did last night." I hung up before he could reply.

A call to the Sunshine Club got a cleaning woman who said no one would be in until three p.m. I didn't know Alfred's last name so couldn't check for a home telephone number. I printed out the same message, "I know what you did last night," put it in an envelope addressed to Alfred, drove to the Sunshine Club and slid it under the front door.

There was a property title check I had to get done for a client. I went to the courthouse, parked off to the side of the building, and went up to the recorder's office and checked out the title. I returned to my car and left, apparently unnoticed by the sheriff. There was no way I was going to let him or Blaine keep me from my work, but I wasn't ready to face either of them. When I got back to the office, planning to catch up on some report work, Maggie and Mary Jo were there.

"Should I go back to your apartment?" Mary Jo said to Maggie as I entered.

"No, we are going to stay together. And you, Mister Bancroft, are going to stick around and protect us, aren't you?"

"Of course," I said.

"Where have you been?"

"I went to the courthouse, beat up Yocum, pissed in the sheriff's hat, but I couldn't find Blaine and Alfred. They probably suspected I was coming and ran back to Chicago."

"Nick, these idiots are serious. They'll kill you. And what about us?"

"They'll kill you, too," I said.

"This isn't a joke. I'm scared ... and what about Mary Jo? They'll be after her. They think she's still alive."

I almost admitted I too was scared, but couldn't overcome that stupid macho idea that a man never admits fear. Still, I agreed to stay put, and changed the subject to food.

We shared two TV dinners for lunch among the three of us, and Maggie agreed to take the leftovers from my refrigerator and hers to concoct something for dinner. It was a quick reminder that we were not prepared in case the grocery stores were suddenly wiped out, and we couldn't get to a restaurant.

"I'll get whatever leftovers you have in your refrigerator if you'll clean it out first. I'd rather starve than open that thing again before you clean it."

So I cleaned it, shelf by shelf. I got rid of crumbs, a bit of pizza that had lost its charm, and a bottle of sour milk. There was something in a bowl, covered by plastic wrap that had started to grow. I offered it to the cat, but the cat backed off once it got a whiff. By the time I finished, there were no leftovers. I checked my cupboards and found two cans of vegetable soup, a box of crackers, and three cans of cat food.

While I was involved in this disgusting task, I thought of my promise to stay put. No way. It took an hour of talk, but I finally convinced Maggie that I would be safe going out of the building and to my car if I disguised myself.

"What about us?" she demanded.

"Don't be so paranoid. Just keep the doors locked."

In her apartment I found a limp felt hat and, in a box, all neatly combed and placed on a Styrofoam head, a blonde wig. I put on the wig and hat, painted a fine-line mustache on my upper lip with an eyebrow liner, and, back downstairs, presented myself.

After the laughter died down I said, "I'll be back in a couple of hours." Maggie jumped up and said, "You can't be serious, Nick. Someone might kill you just for looking like that."

"You're right. This is silly. I'm not going around hiding from those two mugs. They can't do this to me, to us. This is a big story, going to get bigger. I've got to be there when it happens."

I left amid protests, mostly from Maggie, and urgent pleas to be careful. "Keep the door locked," I reminded them. I figured the only reason Yocum or Alfred would be hanging around was because of Mary Jo. After standing inside the front door for a few minutes watching for either of them, I went outside and walked down the street and around the block. I came at the parking lot in back of the building from the alley, watching and waiting until I was satisfied neither of the goons was lurking.

I slipped into my car and headed for the police station. Maybe I could learn what was going on, if anything. Maybe whatever was going to happen already had. Or maybe nothing was going to happen. I just had a feeling.

My mind was jerked from such thoughts when I discovered a black Chevy was following me. I drove around a block to make sure. The damned driver, whoever he was – he didn't look like Alfred or Yocum from what I could see in my rear view mirror – wasn't bashful. He stuck right with me as I made the turns that brought me right back where I had been.

Could this guy be an out-of-town hit man? I was headed for the police station. Why not go there? Surely the bastard wouldn't follow me there. But he did. I parked as close to the station as I could. The follower pulled up behind me.

I sat there for several minutes, watching in my rear view mirror. The guy just sat there, patient as an obedient husband waiting for his wife. I got out of the car, planning on going into the police station. But, damn it, I wasn't going to put up with this. I marched to the car, daring the bastard to pull his gun and whack me.

His window already was rolled down when I got there.

"Hi, Mister Bancroft," he said.

"Who the hell are you? Why are you following me?"

He had the face of a choirboy. A deadly choirboy? Had he planned this? Did he intend to just sit there until I got nervous and came to him? I watched his hands, expecting him to raise one of them, point a gun at me and blow me away.

"Captain Brown assigned me. I'm supposed to keep an eye on you for the next hour or so. Until..."

"Am I under arrest then?"

"Not exactly."

"Well, what exactly?"

"Don't get mad at me. I'm just doing what I was told. We sit here or you go back to your apartment. Whatever you want, as long as you don't go snooping around. Captain Brown said if you got huffy to tell you he would get in touch later."

"How long do you think it will be?"

"I have no idea?"

I went into the police station with the young guy right behind me, called Maggie and told her the situation, went back and waited, the cop in his car, me in mine. I had time to think. It didn't help. I went to sleep.

Chapter Fifty-One

I awoke when the young cop nudged me and said Brown wanted to see me. I glanced at my watch. We had been there for about half an hour. I rubbed my eyes and followed the guy into the station and back to Brown's office.

"Thanks, Randy," he said. Randy nodded and left. I sat down and waited. Brown smiled, rubbed his head and said, "You're awfully calm for a hotshot reporter who, I'm sure, thinks his rights have been violated."

"Damned right my rights have been violated. What the hell is going on?"

"Do you carry a pencil and paper with you, being a hotshot reporter and all? Surely you'll want to take notes."

I pulled my notepad and ballpoint from my shirt pocket and started writing.

"Wait a minute. I haven't given you the story yet. What are you writing?"

I looked at my watch, wrote down the time, and smiled back at Captain Brown. "I'm noting the time and the time you had me arrested illegally and now will record any quotes you care to give in defense of your outrageous, unlawful, and entirely uncalled for miscarriage of justice."

He picked up four sheets of paper from his desk, shuffled them, and said, "These are the names of the suspects we arrested tonight while you were safely out of the way. Charges will be filed in the proper courts in the morning. In the meantime we are holding the suspects as material witnesses to murder, prostitution, and a number of other things that are being discussed by the state's attorney, state officials and county board members at this very moment."

I glanced at the papers he gave me and gasped. Blaine, Sheriff Dudley Hudson, Alfred Arbisic and Yocum Smith. The charges involved prostitution, graft of an elected official, and murder by drowning.

"You arrested these guys?"

"State police made the arrests. Now run along and write your story. Don't forget to spell my name right. And if you want to file charges against somebody because you were so badly mistreated, you'll have to wait until tomorrow. Wayne Foster was at the Sunshine Club when we made the arrests there. He's hanging around. I had someone take him into the pressroom in back so he wouldn't see me talking to you. You'll get the story in that Chicago paper before the locals get it if you hurry."

I hurried. There was no problem beating the Central City Press since their next edition wouldn't come out until the next afternoon. It was the television stations, locally and statewide, that I had to beat. At home I ignored the cat's demand for attention and booted up my trusty computer. I wrote furiously, sent the story to the Chicago Times, opened myself a can of beer, and waited for the inevitable return questions from the state desk. When they came I replied that they had everything I knew at the moment and that there would be more in the morning when formal charges were filed. In the meantime, I reminded them, you have the most complete story anyone in the state will have because I'd been on the damned case so long.

I petted the cat, studied the sheets Brown had given me, and realized there was nothing suggesting a charge against anyone for the murder of Vicki Fowler.

In Maggie's apartment she, Mary Jo and I discussed the developments far into the night. Maggie popped popcorn and made me promise to do some grocery shopping in the morning. I reminded her that she and Mary Jo could resume their normal routines now that Alfred and Yocum were in jail.

"I'll give you a list of the groceries I need," I said.

She made an obscene gesture with one of her adorable fingers.

Chapter Fifty-Two

I obtained permission to interview Andre Blaine. Blaine, much to my surprise, agreed. I soon learned the reason why. He insisted he didn't murder Vicki Fowler, and said he'd be damned if he was going to take the rap for it.

"Vicki Fowler's death had nothing to do with me. I liked her. She could be bitchy and thought she could get anything she wanted by flippin' her ass, but she was okay. I didn't kill her. Or that woman they found in the lake. I hear they've identified her as a woman who worked at the Sunshine Club last year. Maybe she did. So what? That doesn't mean I killed her.

"And I didn't have anything to do with Alfred and that stupid Yocum and what they tried to do to you and the others. It must have been the damned sheriff who told them to do it. Neither one of 'em have enough brains to do anything on their own."

The interview made a good piece, which the Chicago Times published along with other daily reports I filed, including the one in which Yocum Smith said he was doing the bidding of the sheriff when he tried to drown me. Maggie and Mary Jo made the front page of the paper in the state edition.

Meanwhile no one, except me it appeared, had any interest in finding out who killed Vicki Fowler. I wanted to know because of the story, of course, but it was more than that. I had started out trying to find out who murdered her. I was determined to do it.

Mary Jo was making progress in establishing herself as a responsible person who could take care of a child. She was trying to find an apartment and make arrangements for someone to take care of the girl, Becky, while she worked. All this was in preparation for a hearing before the child welfare people.

Maggie surprised me by staying overnight in my apartment about three weeks after Yocum and Alfred tried to drown us.

"I thought maybe you might be getting lonely," she said, "What about moving back in, could I do that?"

"If you promise to keep the refrigerator clean and empty the garbage, sure."

I learned later that Mary Jo had not been able to find a decent apartment she could afford. Maggie offered hers and also offered herself as a baby sitter.

"What about your job?"

"I'm making it my job to help Mary Jo get back on her feet. She's got a mother and father in Chicago who will take her back after she proves she is interested in getting things straightened out. Then she can move back up there, her mother will take care of the girl, and Mary Jo can get on with her life. Maybe meet a nice guy and live happily ever after."

"What about you? Do you live happily ever after too?"

"I'm working on that by moving back in with you."

Looking back, it sounded like a tender trap for poor old Nick, but I was happy with the arrangement at the time. Still, there was the nagging unfinished business of Vicki Fowler's death. It was annoying. What did I owe her? She hadn't hired me. Nobody hired me. I was just in it for the story, and I'd made a fair amount of money out of it, and expected to make more during the trials.

It wasn't until after Mary Jo regained custody of Becky and her life had settled into a safe routine that she volunteered more information.

"I'm kinda surprised they never questioned Wayne Foster about Vicki's death, know what I mean?"

"No, I don't know what you mean. Why should they have questioned Wayne?"

"Because he was there with her at that crummy motel the night she was killed."

"He was there with her?"

"Yeah, as a customer, know what I mean? I was surprised when I saw Vicki taking him into one of the units. I wondered where his wife was. That woman that was with him most of the time."

Wayne Foster? Why would he kill Vicki? Maybe she threatened to tell Clare. I doubted if Wayne could function without Clare. She kept him in line just enough to hold his job. Without her I figured he would have been in the ditch long ago. But murder, was Wayne Foster capable of murder?

I called the Central City Press, asked for Wayne Foster when I was connected with the newsroom, and was informed he was on assignment. "Leave a note for him to call me, please," I told the young female voice that answered the newsroom phone. She promised she would.

An hour or so later I had stood as much as I could of the office and the paper work that Maggie hadn't gotten to, and was about to leave, when he called.

"What's up old buddy? Want to meet and have a few drinks for old time's sake?"

"As a matter of fact I do. Where are you hanging these days now that the Sunshine Club is closed."

"No place in particular. How about that place near you, Chester's? Anything in particular you want to chew the fat about? Kinda unexpected. Never mind. I don't care about the reason. It'll give me an excuse to get out after work. Clare will tag along, of course."

"How is she?"

"Clare? Oh, she's fine, I guess. Getting kinda sour in her old age, but aren't we all? See ya about seven then, okay?"

Maggie and I were sitting in a back booth at Chester's when Wayne and Clare showed up. Maggie waved. They joined us. When Mary Jo arrived a few seconds later I ordered a round of drinks, beer for me and Wayne, orange juice for Maggie and Clare.

"Good to see you guys," I said.

"Sure, you too. How ya been?"

Maggie said we'd been fine. Clare had turned and was watching Mary Jo walk away from our booth to the bar.

"I know that woman, the one who took your order. She looks familiar. Who is she, do you know?"

Maggie explained part of Mary Jo's recent history, her progress toward a new life, and how she was hoping to get her daughter back. She didn't mention the Sunshine Club, as we had agreed. I watched Wayne, wondering if he would show any concern about Mary Jo's presence, but he wasn't paying attention. He was talking about how I beat the local media on the arrests, and how I seemed to be in on the ground floor of everything that had happened since.

"I don't think it's fair, the way they give you all this information. We get the leftovers, half the time, after your story already has been printed."

"I've been on top of this story since it started. You guys just sit around and wait for somebody to give you a handout."

"Yeah, maybe. But you know how it is. They give you all of these shitty assignments. If you want to spend any time on a real story you have to do it on your own. No overtime. Screw them."

Clare and Maggie talked about hairdos, cosmetics, and the latest fashions. Clare seemed to be listening, but she was watching me.

"I'm still after the story I started out trying to get. Who killed Vicki Fowler? The police seem to have written it off as an accident. I don't believe that. Neither does the coroner. He won't make any statements for publication, but I know he thinks she was murdered. She had been drugged."

Wayne waved at Mary Jo, who was waiting on customers in a booth near the front. She saw him and waved back. My glass was still half full. Wayne's was empty.

"When you were on the Vicki Fowler story did you ever go out to the Majestic Motel? You know, that dump where the women at the Sunshine Club took their johns?" I asked Wayne.

"Me? No. Why would I go out there? Did that place have something to do with the murder? I thought she was found in a field. It was quite a ways from that dump ... wasn't it?"

Clare put her hand on Wayne's left arm. He looked at her hand and then me.

"What's this all about, Nick?" he asked. "I'm always glad to have a beer with an old buddy, but why the questions? What's up?"

"There must be a mistake. I have a witness who says you were at the Majestic Motel the night Vicki Fowler was murdered. It must be a mistake."

"You have a witness. Who the hell are you, the state's attorney? Why would I be at the Majestic Motel ... any time, let alone in the middle of the night? C'mon Nick, what you trying to do?"

Clare's eyes widened as she stared over my shoulder. She looked at me. I turned. Mary Jo walked past, a tray of drinks balanced on the palm of her upturned right hand. I watched as Mary Jo continued by us to a booth beyond. I didn't look directly at her, but I knew Clare still was glaring at me, and I was sure she remembered seeing Mary Jo working at the Sunshine Club.

She said, "Nick said it must have been a mistake, Wayne. Let it drop. We've got to go. It was nice seeing you guys again. Maybe we can do it again sometime."

Wayne said, "Wait a minute, we..." That was as far as he got. Clare must have kicked him hard because he limped a little as they left. Maggie and I were quiet for a moment.

"She knows," we both said at once.

"Knows what?" I said.

"She knows Mary Jo used to work at the Sunshine Club, and, you turkey, she also knows that your witness is Mary Jo. Have you put Mary Jo in danger? Is Wayne capable of harming her to keep her quiet if he thinks her testimony could harm him? What are you trying to do?"

"I don't think Wayne is going to do anything like that. It would only cast more suspicion on him. I just wanted him to know it wasn't over. That he wasn't going to get away with murder, if he's guilty. I just wanted to stir things up, see if anything happens."

A light mist fell as we walked out of the tavern. Streetlights highlighted moisture as it drifted to the ground. Maggie refused my offered hand.

"I'm going to stay up until Mary Jo gets off work. I'm going to be there to walk home with her. Damn you, Nick – you've got me scared for her."

"Hey, I'll be there with you. I never have liked the idea of her walking home alone. I offered to leave my car there at night so she could drive it home. She refused. I wonder if she knows how to drive."

"You did?"

"What? Offer the use of my car? Sure, why so surprised? I'm a good guy. Sensitive, sensuous and ... and annoyed because somebody is getting away with murder."

Inside the apartment, as she toweled herself off, Maggie said, "Did you see that chartreuse skirt Clare was wearing? I've always admired the way she dresses on what must be a limited budget. But that skirt had a piece missing from the hem. She just gathered the material together. It threw the hemline out of kilter. How could you not notice a thing like that? You're always looking at her legs."

"I am not always looking at her legs. Sometimes I look at her boobs. And what do I know about chartreuse? Wasn't her skirt green?"

We discussed the various shades of green, including jealousy, and fed the cat. I decided the cat's eyes were chartreuse, but, naturally, Maggie didn't agree. The cat didn't seem to care as long as one or both of us petted it. Later we walked back to the tavern and escorted Mary Jo home. She seemed embarrassed by the gesture, but assured us she appreciated our concern.

I got a call from Detective Andrew Brown the next day, just as I was about to leave to get some money-producing work done.

"How about stopping at the police station sometime today during your busy schedule, Mister Bancroft."

"Oh oh," I said. "What am I wanted for now?"

"If you were wanted I wouldn't call you. I'd just have you picked up. It's about that material you found when you were snooping around out by the Majestic Motel. Remember? You gave it to me. I kept a bit of it before I sent it to the sheriff."

"So?"

"I don't discuss murder evidence over the phone. If you are interested show up, if not, forget it."

"Okay, I've got a few things to do, and then I'll be there."

Clouds raced across the sky as I went to the back of the apartment building and my car. I remembered how mist glistened the night before on the bare roundness of Maggie's arms and legs. It occurred to me that it would be nice if it was raining gently when I finished for the day. We could go for a walk in the rain.

My first stop was at the courthouse where I checked on a couple of property titles and chatted with the people who worked there. I'm not much for socializing, but it made sense to be friendly with people who controlled access to information.

Later I was sitting in my Escort checking my notebook to see what was next on my schedule when Wayne Foster appeared. He opened the car door and slid in beside me. His tired, frightened eyes were bloodshot. His usual vest and bow tie were missing. His pants and soiled white shirt were rumpled, as though he had slept in them. He smelled like puke.

"You need to go home and sleep it off," I said. "Want me to drive you there?"

"You're going to drive me out to that damned motel. There's no one there now. It'll be just you and me. And maybe Mary Jo. We know who she is. Clare will take care of her."

"Does Clare know what you're doing? Where is she?"

"Don't worry about Clare. She'll take care of things. You just drive out to the motel, like I said."

"Look, Wayne–" I said as I turned toward him and stared into the barrel of a snub-nosed handgun. He waved it back and forth, up and down. He steadied his arm by holding his elbow with the other hand. Now the gun was directed toward my stomach.

"Okay, okay, take it easy. Give me room so I can start the car."

He moved back a little. My arm brushed against the gun as I shifted out of park. I thought of pushing the gun aside then, but the opportunity vanished. He hunched himself up in the seat, pulled the gun back against his chest to steady it, and kept it aimed more or less at my head.

I drove toward the police station. He didn't notice for a couple of blocks, but when he did he shouted, "You bastard! Think I'm too drunk to know where that motel is. You turn at the next corner and head toward it or I'll shoot you right now. I'm desperate, Nick. We used to be drinking buddies, but..."

I turned the corner and headed for the motel, still going less that twenty-five miles an hour. I was afraid to go any slower for fear he would notice.

"We had some good times, didn't we? You and me and Clare. We could have had more if you and your woman, what's her name, Maggie? That's it – Maggie – if you guys had hung out with us. What's gonna happen to Clare? Oh, I know, everyone thinks I need her so much, and I do, but she needs me, too. She was just a violet, shrinking violet, when I took her away from the farm. It was great for me, having someone who thought I was more that just a drunk shit, and it was great for her because I was the first guy outside the local yokels who ever paid any attention to her. I was her ticket to get away from the stink of the farm. We love each other, Nick. Why did you park? Where are we? This is just some side street. Drive to the motel, damn it."

"Okay, okay, I'm going. Just wanted to stop so I could concentrate on what you were saying. This is Fremont Street We're headed toward the motel."

"You better be, or else. Everybody thinks I'm just a drunk, but I can take care of things if I have to. Vicki Fowler, now she was something else. She didn't care about anything but herself. She made me think she cared about me. It was good to have someone besides Clare think I was something. I was a good reporter Nick, you know that."

"Yes, I do, Wayne. You were one of the best. Beat me a lot of times on stories."

"Yeah, sure I did. What stories? What stories did I beat you on, Nick? Hey, what the hell, you still sitting here? Get this damned car moving."

I put the car in reverse, pushed the pedal to the floor, and burned rubber before I hit the brake hard after a hundred feet. Wayne's head slammed back. The gun went off. The bullet zinged through the roof near the windshield. Gunpowder smell filled the car. I opened my door, ready to duck and run. Wayne slumped against the door on his side. Blood covered his forehead. He must have smacked it into the dashboard. The gun was on the floor. Wayne was unconscious. I grabbed the gun and drove to the police station. I turned him over to the desk sergeant, a guy named Henderson.

"Don't leave him alone. He'll figure out where he is and run out on you. He's dangerous. I don't have time to explain now. He was trying to kill me. Just book him on intox charges. I'll file a formal complaint later."

I got back in the car and raced to my apartment building. Maggie was there, safe and sound. I told her to stay put and took two steps at a time getting to the third floor. I pounded on Mary Jo's apartment door. She kept the security chain attached as she opened the door part way and peered at me with big, frightened eyes.

"You stay in your apartment, keep the door locked until I get back. You'll be okay as long as you do as I say." I panted between words, still gasping for air.

I jumped back into my car and raced toward Wayne and Clare's apartment. I slowed, not wanting to complicate things by getting a speeding ticket. Beside, I had to think, create a plan.

Clare answered the door when I knocked. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes red. She dabbled with a hanky at tears on her cheeks.

"Thank God you're here, Nick. I can't find Wayne. He was making all kinds of mumbled threats against you. I was fixing something to eat. I thought maybe that would sober him up, but it doesn't always work. Have you seen him?"

"Could we discuss this inside?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, come in. Have you seen him?"

"Yes, he's in jail. He came after me with a gun. Said he was going to have to kill me because I was trying to convict him of murdering Vicki Fowler. He admitted he did it, but said he wasn't going to let me and Mary Jo get him for it. Why would he kill Vicki Fowler?"

"The poor, confused darling. He didn't kill that tramp. He's not capable of killing anyone. He couldn't even watch when I slaughtered a pig on the farm. I've got to get him out of jail before he ... will you take me? Where is Wayne's car, do you know?"

"I suppose it's in the parking lot behind my apartment. That's where he jumped me."

She wanted to get the car first, but I took her to the jail. She wanted to see Wayne right away, and raised hell when I said we had to see Detective Andrew Brown first.

"Why would I want to see him? C'mon Nick, what's going on? I want to see my husband. Please!"

"He's going to have to stay long enough to dry out. In the meantime, I'm sure Brown will want to see you."

She protested. Wanted me to take her to pick up Wayne's car. Brown came out of his office, spotted me, and came to the counter.

"What's up now, Nick?" he said, after handing the desk sergeant a slip of paper.

"This is the wife of the murder suspect, captain. You know, the one suspected of killing Vicki Fowler."

Brown's stern eyes bored into mine. After a moment he nodded, said, "Okay," and added, "guess I've got time to talk to her."

Clare stepped back from the counter, extended her hands toward me and hissed like a cornered cat. "What's this? You told me he was in jail for being drunk. You didn't say anything about a murder charge. Why would he kill that slut?"

"Maybe you can tell us. All I know," Brown said, "is Bancroft brings the guy in here, says the guy tried to kill him. We jailed him for being drunk and disorderly. Until we can get this straightened out. In the meantime, he insisted on confessing to murder after we read him his rights."

Clare collapsed against the counter. I talked her into coming with me into the captain's office where she could sit down.

"Nick, why did you bring him here? Did he really threaten to kill you? When he was drunk he rambled on about confessing to murder ... but she wasn't murdered. It wasn't his fault. It was an accident."

"How was it an accident? Wait, maybe you shouldn't say any more, Clare. You need an attorney. Wayne needs to sleep it off. Leave him here for a while. When he sobers up I'll post bond and get him to your apartment."

"No, I want to tell what happened. Aren't you supposed to have someone taking down my statement?"

She looked at Brown, took a handkerchief from her purse and wiped at her eyes.

Brown grabbed the phone, talked to someone, and, in a couple of minutes a stenographer appeared, sat down, wiggled her fat butt into a comfortable position, poised one of those court room testimony recorders on her lap, and said, "Ready."

"I just want to say that Wayne didn't do it. He was in that awful motel those women took the men to. When I came to from the sleeping pills they must have given me, Vicki was saying goodnight to Wayne. I was on the back seat where they had left me. Vicki left. I pretended I still was asleep. Wayne drove us home. I didn't even tell him I knew he had shacked up with that woman."

Brown shrugged his shoulders. "Big deal. You set up an alibi for your husband. Who would have guessed?"

"What about your chartreuse skirt, Vicki? You were wearing it that night. You must have gone back to the motel, forced Vicki to swallow some of the leftover sleeping pills. The coroner's report shows she was drugged."

Clare stopped wiping her eyes, stood, and straightened her back.

"How would I remember what I was wearing that long ago? What is this? It's none of your business anyway."

"Wait a minute," Brown said. "What the hell is going on, Nick? What's all this crap about a chartreuse skirt?"

"Chartreuse is a shade of green. You have a piece of material, chartreuse material, that got caught on the barbed wire fence the night Vicki Fowler was killed."

Brown stared at me. Clare stared at me.

"Well, it's simple," I said. "All you have to do is get a search warrant, go to her apartment and pick up the skirt. She was wearing it the other night. There's a piece missing from the hem. A piece, I'm sure, that will match the one you have, Detective Brown."

Clare sagged back into the chair.

"Look, Clare, they're going to be able to prove you forced Vicki Fowler to go to those bee hives, that you shoved her into one of them. You and I both know you're not going to let Wayne confess to something you did. Why not just get it over with now?"

"It was an accident," she sobbed. "It really was. I just wanted to scare her. She was stealing my husband. I had to stop her, and Wayne is my life. I didn't know she would have a heart attack. How could I know that? I just wanted to scare her."

She stood again, grabbed me and cried into my neck.

"What's going to happen to Wayne now? He can't make it on his own."

I promised I would try to get him to seek help, get to Alcoholics Anonymous, or something. Clare's confession was turned over to the coroner who served as sheriff when Dudley was jailed. I got out of there, raced to my office, and pounded out the story, sent it to Chicago, and sat back. There was no satisfaction in finally getting the whole story. It was because of Clare. I knew she would worry about Wayne while she was in prison, and I had promised to try to help him. That wouldn't be easy.

I explained this to Maggie. She said, "Well, I'm committed to helping Mary Jo, you're committed to helping Wayne. Maybe we both should be committed. In the meantime, you deserve something for your good work. Is there any way I can reward you?"

"I'll try to think of something," I said.

OTHER DEERSTALKER MYSTERIES

THE NICK BANCROFT MYSTERIES

August is Murder

Death Sting

Murder by the Book

A Point of Murder

THE GILLIAN HAZELTINE COURTROOM MYSTERIES

The Diamond Bullet Murder Case – George F. Worts

The Hospital Homicides Murder Case – George F. Worts

The Gold Coffin Murder Case – George F. Worts

The Crime Circus Murder Case – George F. Worts

The High Seas Murder Case – George F. Worts

THE AMY BREWSTER MYSTERIES

A Knife in My Back – Sam Merwin Jr.

A Matter of Policy – Sam Merwin Jr.

Message to a Corpse – Sam Merwin Jr.

The Scarlet Pimpernel – Baroness Orczy

The Elusive Pimpernel – Baroness Orczy

THE SEMI-DUAL ASTROLOGICAL MYSTERIES

The Ledger of Life Mystery – Giesy and Smith

The House of Invisible Bondage Mystery Giesy and Smith

OTHER CLASSIC MYSTERIES

The Lone Wolf – Louis Joseph Vance

Doctor Syn, Alias the Scarecrow of Romney Marsh

Grey Shapes – Jack Mann

The Legendary Detectives: classic tales of the world's greatest sleuths – edited by Jean Marie Stine

The Legendary Detectives II – edited by Jean Marie Stine

eBook Info

Identifier:

1-58873-159-6

Title:

Death Sting

Creator:

Bob Liter

Date:

2/15/2003

Copyrights:

Copyright 2003 Bob Liter

Publisher:

Renaissance E Books

Subject:

Detective