"He did. I said I'd think about it."

"Good answer. It tells me that money isn't what makes you tick." Chickle keeps talking as he leafs intently through more papers. "When Mr. Polk dies, all his shares of Maggad-Feist will automatically be put into a trust. As trustee, your duties would be relatively simple: Keep the stock away from Race Maggad. Throw away his letters. Ignore his phone calls. And when the proxy notices arrive, always vote the opposite of what the Maggad-Feist board recommends. The job description, in a nutshell, is to make Mr. Maggad miserable. Jerk him around at every available opportunity. Does that appeal to you?"

"For a hundred grand a year-he was serious about that, too?"

"Trustees are entitled to a fee, Jack. Some banks would charge much more."

I'm enjoying this conversation, as surreal as it is.

"Why can't his wife be the trustee?"

"Oh, she could," Charlie Chickle replies. "Ellen is a real spitfire. But Mac doesn't want her hassled day and night about selling the stock. He says you, on the other hand, shouldn't mind. He says your opinion of Race Maggad is almost as low as his."

"And I have been chosen because... ?"

"Because it will infuriate Mr. Maggad. I'm given to understand that he loathes you."

"Intensely," I say.

"Mac has no children, as you know. That means Ellen will be the ultimate beneficiary of the trust, when and if the stock is sold. What's so funny?"

"I'm trying to imagine the circumstances under which the old man would want me to sell his shares to young Master Race."

"As a matter of fact, the circumstances are quite specific. I could tell you what they are"-Chickle checks his wristwatch-"but that's for another day, when we're farther along."

"Charlie, tell me what you think of all this."

The lawyer rubs a pudgy knuckle across his chin. "Mr. Polk knows my opinion of his little scheme and he's chosen to march ahead. Oh, it's perfectly legal, Jack, if that's your concern. And I'd be lying if I said it hasn't been amusing, drawing up these papers. Probate work isn't usually a laugh riot. Neither is your job, I imagine, writing obituaries all day long."

Chickle intends no insult, but I feel my neck flush. "You've got a real nice touch," he adds. "You've given a few of my favorite clients a lovely send-off. I'm sure you'll do the same for Mac."

"He may outlive all of us."

"Ha. I doubt it," Chickle says mirthlessly. He rises and I do the same. "It was a pleasure, Jack. Call me when you make up your mind."

"There's one other matter."

He frowns apologetically. "Is it super important? Because I'm really short on time-"

"It's life or death, Charlie. I'm working on a story about Janet Thrush's brother."

The lawyer's face crinkles around the eyes. "What kinda story?"

"Not a happy one. We're looking into the circumstances of his drowning in the Bahamas."

"But your paper said it was an accident."

"Right. And we never, ever make mistakes. Sit down, Charlie." And, by God, he does. "Somebody broke into Janet's house this weekend, somebody who thought she had something of Jimmy's. Now she's missing and-"

"No she's not."

My turn to sit down. "What?"

"She called this morning, Jack. Said some guy she'd been seeing got bombed and busted up her place. She's staying with friends down in Lauderdale or Boca somewhere. Said whatever I do, don't send the inheritance check to her house while she's gone, in case the asshole is still hangin' around." The lawyer chuckles. "I've only told that young woman about a hundred times that her brother's money won't be available for months."

"Did you speak to Janet yourself?"

"One of my secretaries did."

"And they know her voice?"

"Oh, come on."

"Charlie, how many clients do you have-a couple hundred? And your secretaries know each and every voice."

"No, son," he says, "but I've got no reason to suspect it was anyone but Ms. Thrush who phoned my office." The pause is an invitation for me to spit out my theory. I won't.

"Did she leave a phone number?"

"As a matter of fact, no. She told Mary she'll call back," Chickle says. "Now, why don't you tell me what you think you know-"

"I can't." The words catch in my throat like a hairball.

And before he sends me on my way, Charlie Chickle says, "Don't let your imagination run off with you, Jack. Sometimes things are exactly what they seem."

Emma wants to go to lunch and she insists on driving. She takes me to a darkly lit Italian joint, where we choose a booth in the back. She looks exhausted and says she, too, didn't sleep all night. Twenty-seven years old-I'm trying not to obsess about that. It's inconsiderate to project one's loony death phobias onto others; I'll have my plate full with Senor Kerouac soon enough.

The restaurant is chilly and Emma is rubbing her hands to warm up. I switch to her side of the booth and put an arm around her, a courtly deed that improves my mood more than hers. She does perk up when I tell her about that phone call to Charles Chickle-like me, she wants to believe it was really Janet. Neither of us mentions the blood on the carpet. Neither of us touches our wine, either.

In a flat voice she says, "You might be right. Maybe I'm not cut out for newspaper work."

"This kind of stuff doesn't happen every day." Still talking about Jimmy's sister.

"What if she's dead, Jack?"

"Then... I don't know. We chase it down. We get the damn story."

I'm not fooling Emma one bit. She knows I'm rattled.

"Besides the widow, you have any idea where all this might lead? Why people are dying and disappearing?"

"Give me some time," I say.

"A rock singer who hasn't been heard from in years, an out-of-work piano player-"

It sounds as if she's losing her nerve. I tell her we can't give up now. Especially now.

Emma says, "I just don't want anything awful to happen to you. I'm sorry but that's the truth."

She locks on with the jade-green eyes. I hear myself saying, "I wonder who'd write my obituary."

"Write it yourself, smart-ass. We'll keep it in the can."

"All right, but I'll need a good quote from you. Being my boss and all."

"Fine," says Emma. " 'Jack Tagger was a deeply disturbed individual-' "

"-'but a gifted and much-admired reporter. All of us in the newsroom will miss him terribly-' "

"-'for about five minutes-' " Emma re-interjects.

" 'Especially Emma Cole, since she never got to sleep with him and heard he was absolutely spectacular... ' "

"Agghh!" She slaps my arm and pokes me with an elbow and now we're sort of wrestling in the lunch booth, laughing and holding each other loosely. It's nice, bordering on comfortable. Who besides Evan would have imagined-me and my bold plans! The most casual of flirtations and, instead of trying to save Emma, I'm now trying to seduce her. Or hoping to be seduced. In any case, questions of character could be raised.

Emma is saying she phoned her father and told him about the Jimmy Stoma story and Janet's disappearance. He told her to be careful, told her to stay in the newsroom and leave the hairy stuff to the reporters. She says she got mildly annoyed, and I tell her not to take it the wrong way. If I were her dad, I'd have given the same advice.

"Let's talk about something else," Emma says.

"All right. Now don't get upset, but lately I've been having lascivious thoughts about you. And I mean 'lascivious' in the healthiest and most wholesome sense."

"In other words, you want to have sex," she says. "I haven't made up my mind about that yet. Let's try another subject."

"Fair enough. How about this: I no longer have a frozen lizard in my refrigerator."

"Oh?"

"Ever since the night of my burglary. I used it to clobber the guy."

"You're not serious."

"Oh yes. This was one jumbo lizard, too. I'm hoping it messed him up real good."

Emma says, "What's wrong with a good old-fashioned handgun?"

"Hell, anybody can defend themselves with one of those."

Upon returning to the newsroom I find a message on my desk from Griffin, who doesn't believe in e-mail. The coffee-stained note is scrawled in pencil, entirely in capital letters: COPS DIDN'T GO TO THRUSH HOUSE AFTER 911 BECAUSE SHE'D CALLED THE DAY BEFORE + TOLD THEM NOT TO. SAID IT WAS DRUNK BOYFRIEND WHO TORE UP THE PLACE + IT WAS OVER + SHE DIDN'T WANT TO PRESS CHGS. IF U NEED MORE, LET ME KNOW. G.

When I show the note to Emma, she exclaims: "So she is alive!"

I'm not so optimistic. Janet never spoke of having a boyfriend. She mentioned her ex-husband and her pervo Web-crawlers but no particular guy in her life.

"Maybe she's all right," I tell Emma, "or maybe these phone calls are being made by someone pretending to be her."

"Like who?"

"The widow Stomarti springs to mind. Young Evan's going to do some sniffing around."

Emma emits a worried peep. "Evan? Our Evan?"

20.

The kid's name is Dominic Dominguez but he goes by Dommie. His mother leads us to the inner sanctum.

"G'bye," Dommie calls out, having heard us coming down the hall.

His mother knocks lightly. "It's Juan Rodriguez, honey. He had an appointment, remember?"

"What's he got on?" Dommie inquires from behind the door.

Juan has forewarned me that the kid is quirky and short-fused, so I should lay off the wisecracks.

"A Ralph Lauren shirt," Dommie's mother reports, "a nice pale blue. And no neckwear, sweetheart."

The kid has a healthy phobia about grownups in neckties. My Jack Webb model is at the cleaner's. Juan removed his in the car.

"Come on in," Dommie says.

Before slipping away, his mother touches Juan's sleeve. "Would you mind asking if he's ready for din-din?"

Inside Dommie's room it feels about ninety-seven degrees because of all the electronics. There's a low-grade static hum that sounds like one of those coin-operated bed vibrators. I know next to nothing about computers but clearly Dommie is loaded for bear. Walled in by hardware, he toils intently at one of several PCs, his bony back to die door.

Juan says, "Hey, buddy."

The kid doesn't turn around. "Gimme a minute," he mumbles. "Who's that with you?"

"My friend Jack. The one I told you about on the phone."

"Yojack."

"Hi, Dommie."

The kid's speed-shifting a joystick for a video game: dueling skateboarders, set to the vocal stylings of Anthrax. Juan glances my way and shrugs. There's no place to sit. The bed is littered with open boxes: Dell, Hewlett-Packard, Apple. I'm sweating like a stevedore.

Juan says, "Your mom wanted to know if you'd like some dinner."

"Not now!" The skateboarders on the kid's monitor are battling each other on a half-pipe, twirling and seesawing in midair. "Kill him!" Dommie rasps at the animated characters. "Kill that little bastard, Tony!"

I nudge Juan, whose face registers concern.

"Get outta here! Seriously, dudes!" Dommie screeches, apparently at us.

We retreat into the hallway. "You neglected to mention he was a psychopath," I whisper to Juan.

"He's just a little high-strung."

From inside the kid's bedroom we hear a feral yelp, then a sharp crack that sounds like a gun. I lunge for the doorknob but Juan snags my arm. Moments later Dommie's standing there, cool as ice. Now I can see he's wearing Oakley cutaways, baggy surf shorts and an oversized Ken Griffey Jr. jersey. His black hair is buzzed in wedding-cake layers, and a gold stud glints in one pale nostril. He weighs all of eighty-five pounds. He motions us back into his bedroom, where I notice a chemical tinge in the air. Dommie has shot out the tube of his PC with a Daisy pellet rifle. For now he seems at peace.