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  "DD. What's going on?"

  "Thank God it's you, Phil. David's dead. He's been shot. The apartment's been ransacked, and I've been cracked on the head." "

  "Are you okay?"

  I think so. Just dizzy and a little cloudy. Look, I'm hanging up. I've got to call 911."

  I got hold of a live operator and concisely relayed what I'd observed.

  "Are you a doctor?" the operator asked.

  "No," I said, watching the stain continue to expand on the carpet. "I'm in insurance." I knew this would shut her up, because nobody wants to carry on a conversation with somebody in insurance.

  SEVEN

  Don't ask me a lot of fool questions if you don't like the answers.

  -ERNEST HEMINGWAY

  THE COPS DESCENDED ON David's apartment like locusts over Utah. Murder in Chicago isn't all that rare, and the cops performed their awful tasks with the patina of gallows humor they apply to keep sane.

  After David's body was finally removed, the photographers took more shots of the empty, bloody bed. I was interviewed by a series of faces, and as they shepherded me out the door to district headquarters, other cops continued to triangulate, measure, and sketch throughout the apartment.

  They took me through a rear door into an inner-city police station that was clearly falling apart. Built in the 1940s, it had none of the Officer Friendly feeling. It was painted gritty gray and stank of urine, sweat, and fear. I noted they had installed bullet-proof glass and cameras everywhere, their concession to modern times.

  I soon lost track of time as well as the number of bad cups of coffee I'd drunk. My head hurt, and I was having trouble comprehending that David had been killed. Over and over they asked me to explain why my fingerprints were everywhere in the apartment and why strands of my hair had been found in David's bed and bathroom. They'd found my Dyno-tool and suspected I'd used it to break in the apartment. When they asked what I'd done with the weapon, it dawned on me how someone perfectly innocent might confess to a heinous crime just to be done with it all.

  "So you're sticking by your story you were there the night before. Let's say I might believe you. Tell me again, when did you leave?"

  "I left at six o'clock or thereabouts. I already told you that."

  "So you stayed the night. You left at six. But you didn't kill him, and you didn't search his place?" Detective Brewer asked for the umpteenth time, his chair creaking loudly as he shifted position.

  "You know," he said, "we can tell a lot from the way a room was searched." "

  I told you before, I did not kill him, and I didn't search his apartment."

  "Then why'd you take off your shoes? And what was that Dynotool for except to break in? And why'd you use that phone in the bedroom? If you're such a hot-shot insurance investigator, you oughta know a damn sight better," he admonished.

  "I do. But I was in a fog. What did you find out from the way his place was searched?"

  "Well, we're positive it was no professional job. And that makes it look bad for you, because it seems we got your prints ...," he rummaged through some papers I couldn't read upside down, "and the boys tell me only your prints, on the door to the apart ment and on his phone. And we got your knee prints all over the blood on the bedroom carpet. So where does that leave us?"

  Despite the horror of it all, I wondered how they could correlate knee prints. The coffee hadn't quenched my thirst, and I was thinking about a cold beer when the door banged open.

  "Detective Brewer? They told me I'd find you here. I'm Phil Richy. Here's my card."

  I looked up, the bump on my head giving me triple vision.

  "Phil," I croaked. "Thanks for coming. Help me get sprung, will you?"

  Brewer studied the card. "This says you're an attorney." He gave Phil the regulation once-over. "Are you representing-?"

  "Oh, no," Phil interrupted. "I'm not in criminal law. I'm in property law."

  "Oh, yeah. Property law." Brewer nodded and smiled. "That's where, like Elvis dies and his estate is worth four million bucks, but today it's worth over four hundred million. Right?"

  "Look, Detective, I'm here because she was in my office talking on the phone to David Barnes, the deceased, when the shots were fired."

  "So you heard the shots, too, Mr.-" Brewer glanced down at the card. "Mr. Richy?"

  "Well, not exactly. I mean she wasn't on the speaker phone. But Miss McGil got disconnected after she heard shots. When we tried to call again, there was no answer. And an important point is that somebody on David's end hung up the phone. Then she left, and later she picked up the phone when I called there to find out what had happened."

  Detective Brewer cocked his big head to one side and looked at the ceiling. "Counselor," he told Phil, "there's a coupla alternative theories here to explain all that. Maybe Miss McGil here wasn't really speaking to Mr. Barnes at all over the phone in your office. Maybe she'd already killed him before she arrived at your office. We know she was there earlier."

  Phil glared at me. I knew I was going to have hell to pay for not telling him I'd spent the night with David.

  Brewer continued. "Maybe this was all a set up, and he was never on the other end of that phone call at all. Or maybe..."

  "Look, Detective," Phil interrupted.

  Brewer cut him off. "And maybe you're involved in this somehow, too."

  Phil put his hands on his hips and shifted into Lawyer Mode. "First of all, have you got the murder weapon? Are her prints on it?"

  "The gun wasn't found," Brewer said, smiling. "Yet. We know we're looking for a .32. We recovered both bullets-soft lead, 85 grains, all consistent with the small entrance wounds and the massive internal injuries. We're checking right now to see if she's registered, so it would be a lot better if she told us straight out."

  "Oh, come on, Detective. There are millions of Saturday Night Specials in circulation. Has she been checked yet for particle residue? And what about the tool used to gain entry to the apartment?"

  "That wasn't found yet either, Counselor," Brewer admitted. "But we'll get ahold of it."

  "In fact, Detective, you found DD at the scene. She was the one who called you. How do you explain how she got rid of these things?"

  "I don't have to explain that yet," Brewer said, rustling the papers in my file, then closing the file with a bang.

  Phil turned to me, hands on hips. "Have they read you your rights yet, DD?"

  No.

  "And, what about her head injury?" Phil continued full steam ahead on the Lawyer Express.

  "Maybe we're thinking she did that to herself, mister propertylaw- attorney-that's- not- acting- as-her- criminal- attorney-"

  I shivered, convinced the cops had me pegged as their prime suspect. Phil was no defense attorney. And every minute they wasted on me meant the real killer was getting farther and farther away.

  Phil glared at Brewer. "Has Miss McGil been given proper medical attention? And for my records, exactly what time did you bring her into the station?"

  Brewer blinked, twice, and his slight smile twisted into a slight frown. "Now don't go filing a harassment suit against me. I'm only doing the job they pay me for. We need to find out exactly what happened. There's a lot of inconsistencies in what she's tellin' us. This isn't some risky high-speed chase where Miss McGil here is just an innocent bystander."

  "You're wrong. That's exactly what she is-an innocent bystander." Phil turned to me. "DD, have you seen a doctor yet?"

  "No," I shot back, sensing he'd found a critical spot. "And Phil, I'm dizzy. I've got double, no, triple vision. And look at my hair. It's matted with blood."

  "All right," Brewer said. "I guess maybe somebody should look at her head."

  EIGHT

  There are some things which cannot be learned quickly.

  -ERNEST HEMINGWAY

  PHIL AGREED TO TAKE a taxi and retrieve my car from outside David's apartment. Meanwhile a black police medic with graying hair wearing thick glasses hurried in to examine me.<
br />
  "No stitches," he said after prodding the sore spot. "But you probably got a concussion. An' you need a head scan," he said, furrowing his brow as he hastily repacked his medical bag. "We don't carry that kind of equipment around with us," he said as he left.

  Brewer then led me to a different room for trace metal and gunpowder residue tests.

  "You got any objections, or you want an attorney present?" he asked.

  I said no, and he grinned like I'd just confessed to killing President Kennedy.

  A short, blocky female officer with bright red lipstick arrived to administer the test. Brewer leaned against the wall and never took his eyes off me.

  The efficient red-haired officer sprayed both my palms with an aerosol chemical. I'd seen this test for trace metal done and knew it would show if I'd held a gun in the last twenty-four hours. But I wasn't up on the new chemical she was using because the technology changed faster than a two-month-old's diaper.

  When she completed the drill, she picked up everything and left without a word. Then another field technician, this time a smiling young Hispanic with huge brown eyes and the remains of an acne problem, arrived to perform a residue test.

  Brewer, interested, stood over the technician's shoulder. "What kind you gonna give her?" he asked.

  "They tol' me to use the NAA test, Jack," the technician replied.

  "That's good." Brewer nodded, making another note in the file with my name on it.

  I raised my hands. "Wait a second. I want to know what the NAA test is and exactly why it's good."

  "She wants to know," Brewer smiled at the technician. "So I guess I'll give her the good news. See, Miss McGil, he's gonna administer the Neutron Activation Analysis test. It's a lot more expensive than the other powder residue test we generally do in the field. But we're gonna spend those extra bucks on you because it's gonna show up even the smallest traces of powder residue on your hands."

  He paused, letting the ramifications sink in.

  "Top quality weapons don't leave much residue," he said. "But this NAA test is capable of picking up anything that might be on your hands. See?"

  "But if David was killed with a .32 and nothing in that caliber remotely approaches being a precision weapon, why are you bothering?" I was interested in spite of myself.

  Brewer didn't answer, but nodded to the gangly technician who snapped on a pair of latex gloves and ordered me to hold out both hands.

  The technician dipped a swab in a 5 percent solution of nitric acid and nervously wiped it over my hands. His breath smelled of barbecue potato chips. He did know enough to concentrate the solution on my palms and on the webbing between my thumb and forefinger where any gunpowder residue would tend to collect. If they found anything, they'd compare it with traces the lab boys probably had found on the floor and the base of the bullets. The minutest remnant would allow them to determine the type of propellant power, which would help identify the bullet manufacturer and the age of the ammunition. If David had indeed been shot with a.32, the boys in the lab had undoubtedly found powder residue on the bullet, because the .32 is a short barrel, and the explosion continues even after the bullet leaves the barrel and coats it with residue.

  "There," the technician said. "That didn't take long." He put his kit away and asked Brewer, "You hear the latest about that axe murder?"

  "Nah, I've been tied up with this case all day," Brewer complained.

  "The rookie, Dolan, laid out the vic's bloody clothes to dry in the parkin' lot," the technician laughed. "He can't get used to the smell of blood, so he lays the wet stuff out to dry in the sun, an' they get to blowing all over the place. He's still out there somewheres looking for that effing shirt."

  After putting away the equipment, he and Brewer left together, trading stories like high school buddies.

  I was alone for the first time since the cops had arrived at David's apartment. I wiped my hands with the moist towelette they'd provided and tried to collect my thoughts. It was difficult enough to comprehend David's death, let alone the creeping certainty that the cops believed I had something to do with it. Innocent people do get caught up in the justice system, and some never come out in one piece. This was eerily reminiscent of the HI-Data killings I'd gotten involved in a year ago, and I wasn't eager for the cops to make that connection.

  For an instant, I considered calling my Aunt Elizabeth for help. But I knew she'd arrive in Buchanan colors, treat the cops like so many expendable bryophytes and sporophytes in her unending quest to dominate all lifeforms, and land me in an even worse mess.

  The door opened. Brewer entered, followed by a thin, older guy with pasty skin and eyes of no particular color.

  They sat down on either side of me at the small table. "This is Lieutenant Healy," Brewer said. He then turned on a tape recorder while Healy invited me to make a statement for the record.

  The harsh florescent bulbs cast the worst possible light. Lieutenant Healy's bald spot reflected the bulbs in the overhead lights, and Detective Brewer's untidy eyebrows and graying shirt were highlighted in the glare. I wondered which of my faults was sticking out like a sore thumb.

  "So Miss McGil," the lieutenant began as he slowly rifled through my file, opened before him on the table. "I see here your real name is Daphne December McGil. Funny name."

  So what if my name was funny. It was a sore point with me, the unfortunate result of an unresolved feud between the two sides of my family. Peace was finally declared when they settled on calling me DD. I still saw red if anyone dared call me Daffy, and I prayed these two cops weren't going to stoop that low.

  "Be sure you include every detail you can remember in your statement," the lieutenant warned, "no matter how small or insignificant it might seem."

  Up to now, both Phil and I had scrupulously avoided mentioning Matt King, our employer. But if it was going to be Matt or me, I didn't have to think twice. I told them the whole story and listened as the desk sergeant was ordered to locate Matt and get him in to make a statement. For once, Matt King was going to be the one inconvenienced.

  The lieutenant shut off the recorder and told Brewer to get it transcribed for me to sign. They both left, taking my file with them.

  Brewer returned alone. I signed the statement while he glared and said, "You're being let go for now. They weren't able to find any trace metal or particle residue on you. You're still a suspect though," he warned, "and you shouldn't leave the county. We'll be in touch." He left the room abruptly without wishing me a good day.

  Phil came in as Brewer left. After making sure the door was tightly closed, he leaned close and whispered, "Why the hell did you tell them about Matt? You could have left him out of it."

  I sat quietly, watching Phil pace around the table. "It wasn't like I asked you to lie," he said. "All you had to do was not mention him. We're in for it now."

  "I tried not to bring him into it, Phil. Really. But they wanted every little detail. Sorry," I lied.

  "And what did they mean, saying you were at David's earlier? Why didn't you tell us you'd been there?"

  "Do you tell me everything, Phil?"

  "This is different, DD. That Lieutenant Healy has his own theory. He told me he suspects Matt hired you to kill David"

  "Oh my God."

  "Keep it down, DD." Phil put his hands on my shoulders. "For all I know they're listening to us right now. I'm no criminal lawyer, but I know we can't legally anticipate privacy in a police station."

  "I can't believe it. Matt's a suspect, too?"

  "You two are it, DD, because they've got no one else."

  "What am I supposed to do now?"

  "Matt's on the way back here in the company jet," Phil replied, ignoring my peril and focusing on Matt's. "This isn't going to be pretty, and you're smack dab in the middle of it."

  From this point on, Phil wasn't going to be able to help me, so I changed the subject. "Did you bring back my car?"

  "Oh, yeah. The good news is she's here. The bad news i
s she had two parking tickets stuck under her wipers. Man, those things are up to eighty bucks a pop." He glanced at his watch as we left the office. "I better try to get in touch with Matt," he said and pulled out his cell. "Oh, by the way, I talked to that Medic. He said you needed a head scan. Maybe you shouldn't be driving."

  "DD! DD McGil," a voice called as we were exiting. I turned. It was Lieutenant Morgan Fernandez.

  "Morgan?"

  "Word came down you were here for questioning in the Barnes case. I got here as soon as I could." He waved a hello to Phil, still on his cell.

  Lt. Morgan Fernandez is on Chicago's cold case squad. We'd met through Phil, and he'd done me a big favor in connection with the HI-Data case. He helped me out then, but I doubted he could help me out now.

  "I checked with Healy and Brewer. I vouched for you, but they're convinced you're involved. They think you haven't told them everything you know."

  "And you're here to-what? Get it out of me somehow?"

  "Hey, DD. You know me better than that."

  "Yeah, I know. Sorry. It's been a rotten day. Look, I'm not involved."

  "But your being there last night and finding his corpse this morning puts you squarely on the suspect list. You do see that?" He bent and whispered in my ear, "Dammit, DD, you never should have talked to those guys without a criminal lawyer. Have you got a good one?"

  "It's that bad, huh?"

  "It's not gonna be any picnic. Do you know Karl Patrick? He's one of the best. Want me to call him?"

  "Thanks, Morgan. I know Karl. But I haven't got the bucks to pay a guy in his league."

  "I'll front it for you."

  "I may take you up on that, but I have some thinking to do first." Morgan was, I thought, a good guy. But I don't like to be beholden to anybody, even if we had dated in the past.

  "Promise?"

  "I promise."

  "And promise you'll have dinner with me. I haven't seen you since that great lunch we had at Boston Blackie's."

  "That wasn't my fault."

  "I know, I know. They kept me up in Wisconsin and Michigan for months digging out stuff in that serial killer case. But things are looking up and we got local leads so I'm free-free-er anyway-and I'm gonna call you."