"I shoulda"-more heavy interference, like they're driving past an airport radar tower-"when I had the chance."

"Put her on the phone," I tell him.

"No, dickhead. She don't wanna talk anymore."

"Not Cleo. Your guest."

"She ain't here," Jerry informs me.

"That's convenient."

"She's alive, okay? Just like I told you."

"I'd love to take your word for it, Jer, but that would require me having an IQ no higher than my shoe size. So I won't be making another move until I hear the lady's voice."

Out of the corner of my eye I spy the eavesdropping opossum man, loping nimbly away. From the end of the phone line comes a muffled rustling-Jerry, covering the receiver while he and Jimmy's widow debate strategy. Then: "Okay. The girl, she'll call you at three-thirty. Gimme a number."

"It's 555-2169."

"Where the hell's that?"

"Brad and Jennifer's place. We play rummy every Thursday," I say. "It's my office phone, you ass-scratching baboon."

Jerry unleashes a string of bilious epithets. It's possible I've offended him. In the background, the former Cynthia Jane Zigler is yowling like a bobcat caught in a belt sander.

"They should make a movie about you two," I tell Jerry. "Whitney Houston could play Cleo. For you I'm thinking either Kevin Costner or Ru Paul."

"Blow me," he responds, then hangs up.

Instantly I feel drained and fuzzy-headed. Frightened, too, mostly for Janet. I rest on the bait bench, drying my sweaty palms on my trousers. Ninety-two-year-old Ike is chasing a larcenous pelican down the length of the pier. He's my new hero. Buying a fresh set of teeth at the dawn of one's tenth decade-talk about a positive outlook! He returns triumphant from the pursuit, brandishing a slimy handful of mushed pilchards. He alights next to me, saying, "Jack, that was the ballsiest half of an interview I ever heard."

"Sorry. I got caught up in the moment."

"Don't be sorry, it was priceless. All my years in the business, I could've never gotten away with something like that."

Putting an arm around his spindly shoulders, I hear myself say, "What makes you think I'll get away with it?"

26.

A cardinal rule of the business is that reporters should never become part of the story. I'm hopelessly up to my nuts in this one. And while I'm dying to tell Emma about the telephone call from Cleo, I know she'd want me to call the cops.

But here's what would happen: Hill and Goldman or some equally unsmooth detectives would show up at Jizz to confront Jimmy's widow. Indignantly she would deny drowning her husband or snuffing Jay Burns or kidnapping her sister-in-law. She'd claim to have no interest in obtaining the master copy of Jimmy's recording sessions, and insist she didn't even know it was missing. And she'd say that meeting at the nightclub was my idea, and she had no idea what we were to discuss. The detectives would bluff, badger and ask a series of uninformed questions before calling it a night. Tomorrow Cleo would quietly start shopping for a songwriter to hammer out a new version of "Shipwrecked Heart," Janet Thrush would never be seen again and I'd have no story for the newspaper.

On the other hand, it won't be my story anyway if I meet with Cleo and things get ugly. Griffin, the crime reporter, would be writing about me, possibly followed by young Evan, which is no less than I deserve: an obituary penned by a college intern. At least the kid would get a front-page byline, which might be enough to change his mind about law school.

Dying is not in my plans, though it would certainly elevate my profile at the Union-Register. American journalists are rarely slain in pursuit of a story, so the paper would trumpet my heroic demise with moonwalk-type headlines. Abkazion, smelling a Pulitzer, would unleash a squad of all-stars to unravel the crime. Emma, stoically overcoming her grief, would volunteer to edit the project...

I wouldn't be so worried if Cleo Rio were smart, because a smart criminal would never bother to kill a reporter. It's easier, and infinitely more effective, to discredit them. Killing one only brings out an infestation of others, banging on doors, asking impertinent questions. In fact, dying in the line of duty is one of the few ways for an obscure middle-aged obituary writer to make a splash, the last thing Cleo should want. Tonight I'll explain to her the downside of murdering me, in case she and Jerry haven't thought that far ahead.

In the meantime, I'll tell Emma that I spoke to Jimmy's widow but she admitted nothing, which is true. I'll also tell her that the blood samples we took from Janet's house matched up, and that I shared our information with a state prosecutor who found it "highly suspicious." I will not tell her of my plan to trade Jimmy's music for the release of his sister, as I haven't yet figured out how to pull that off. The less anyone at the paper knows about tonight's summit, the better for me.

No sign of Emma when I arrive at the newsroom, but young Evan is eagerly waiting. He crowds my desk, whispering, "Well? Did it work?"

"Like a charm. She called at noon sharp."

"How cool is that! I guess she found the CD."

"Unfortunately, she also figured out who it came from."

Evan blanches. "It wasn't me, Jack! Swear to God."

"My fault. The deli guys probably went back and got the phone number off the original order."

"So what'd Cleo have to say?"

"Nothing that a howler monkey on acid couldn't understand. Evan, let's not mention our infiltration scheme to anybody, okay?"

"Why? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, buddy, you were perfect. But Abkazion's got a thing about reporters 'misrepresenting' themselves."

Evan's face goes gray. "You mean like pretending to be a delivery man."

"You're new here. You didn't know any better."

"But you asked me to do it!" he splutters. "You trying to get me in trouble?"

"No, I'm trying to save a woman's life. Sometimes rules need to be twisted, Evan. This can't possibly come as a shock, given your choice of a future career."

"But Emma knew!"

"Don't blame Emma-lately she's been under my ambrosial spell. Is she still at lunch, our fearless leader?"

"Haven't seen her all day. You sure I'm not in trouble?"

"For God's sake, you're an intern. Newspapers don't fire interns," I assure him. "Worst that could happen, they'll move you to the Food and Fine Dining section. You'll spend the rest of the summer fact-checking matzo ball recipes." I pause while Evan shudders. "Just the same, I don't see why anyone except you, me and Emma needs to know about the deli caper."

Evan agrees wholeheartedly as he backpedals toward his desk. I wish I felt worse about using him, but at least the kid had some fun. A nubile MTV starlet rubbed an unfettered breast against his flesh-how many pre-law majors can make that claim?

Time crawls toward three-thirty. My eyes tick between the phone on my desk and the clock on the newsroom wall. Two o'clock. Two-twenty. Two forty-three.

Ridiculous. Emma must be stuck in a meeting.

Now I remember: It's Thursday, and Thursdays are a marathon day for meetings at the Union-Register. Emma has come to hate them, which is a positive sign. All good editors hate meetings because they steal precious hours from the hectic task of putting out a paper. It's the very same reason bad editors love meetings; some Thursdays they can make it through an entire news cycle without having to make an independent decision or interact with an actual reporter.

Looking around the place now, I see a few stiffs and climbers but also plenty of authentic talent; as good as Emma could be if she ignores my advice and sticks with the business. Nobody with a living brain cell goes into the newspaper business for the money. They're in it because digging up the truth is interesting and consequential work, and for sheer entertainment it beats the hell out of humping product for GE or Microsoft. Done well, journalism brings to light chicanery, oppression and injustice, though such concerns seldom weigh heavily on those who own the newspapers. Race Maggad III, for instance, believes hard-hitting stories are fine as long as they don't encroach upon valuable advertising space or, worse, affront an advertiser.

It's pleasing to report that since Maggad-Feist acquired the Union-Register, circulation has declined commensurately with each swing of the budget ax. This trend suggests newspaper readers expect some genuine news along with their coupons and crosswords. Young Race Maggad will tolerate losing readers only as long as profits rise, which he achieves by the aforementioned paring of the budget, shrinking of the staff and cold-blooded gouging of local retailers. Eventually, however, Wall Street will take note of the sliding circulation numbers and react in a manner that could jeopardize young Race Maggad's blond and breezy lifestyle. His trepidation over this prospect has leached into the management ranks of all the company's newspapers, including ours. The result has been the urgent convening of even more newsroom meetings, one of which undoubtedly imprisons Emma at this moment.

Quarter past three on Thursday afternoon.

Phone rings. Eddie Bell from the Bellmark Funeral Home.

"Jack, you been out sick, or what? I miss your stuff in the paper lately. That Evan kid, he's okay but-"

"I can't talk now, Eddie. I'm waiting on a call."

"This'll just take a sec. I got one cries out for your golden touch, Jack. I'm so glad you're not sick, God forbid," he says. "Remember a few years back, widow lady shot some dirtbag that was breaking into her condo? Eighty-four years old, she popped him like five times point-blank. Pow! Blew his gourd off."

"Yeah, I remember, Eddie. Let me call you back-"

"Made all the networks. Maury Povich, too." One thing about Eddie Bell, he loves the hype. "Lady name of Audrey Feiffer?"

"How could I forget."

The burglar had gotten stuck sneaking into Mrs. Feiffer's kitchen through the kitty door. She thought he was the neighbor's chow, trying to get at her Siamese, and emptied her late husband's revolver into him. Then she fixed herself a cup of chicken broth and lay down for a nap.

"Well, she finally passed on," Eddie says. "Natural causes, God bless her. We happen to be handling the arrangements-"

"Evan'll do a nice job on the story."

"Wait, wait! The best part, she asked to be buried with her NRA patches-the ones they sent her after she wasted that guy." Eddie is breathless. "She was so proud, she stitched 'em to the front of her favorite housedress. By hand!"

"Patches," I say.

"Plus an autographed picture of Charlton Heston-she wanted that in the casket, too. Come on, Jack. This one cries out for your touch, no?"

"I'll have Evan call you."

Two beats after I hang up, the phone rings again.

"Jack?"

It's Emma. What lousy timing.

"Where are you?" I ask. "I can't talk now-Janet's supposed to call on this line any second."

"I don't think so," she says dully.

"What does that mean?"

"This is your phone call, Jack. The one you're waiting for."

I'm telling myself no, it can't be.

But in a chilling monotone she says: "Do whatever they tell you. Please." Then the line goes dead.

"Emma?" a tremulous voice repeats. My own.

"Emma!" My hand is shaking as I hang up the receiver. Almost instantly the phone rings again, and I jump like a mouse.

"Hello." It feels like I'm shouting though I can barely hear myself. I seem to have forgotten how to inhale.

"So, dickhead." It's Jerry on the other end, gloating. "What d'you think now?"

"I think maybe we can work something out."

"Okay then. Be there tonight."

"Not so fast." I've lost my relish for smart-ass banter, so this won't be easy. "Let me speak to the boss."

"She ain't available."

"Jer, please don't make me hurt you again."

"I shoulda killed you when I had the chance."

"Yeah, and I should've bought Amazon at fifteen and a quarter."

Cleo's bodyguard hangs up. I turn to see the approach of Rhineman, our eternally queasy Metro editor.

"I was looking for Emma," he says. "The diversity committee meets at four."

This is a group that convenes regularly to suggest ways for the Union-Register to become more ethnically diverse. To date, its only useful recommendation is that the paper shouldn't employ so many white people.

Rhineman asks me to remind Emma about the meeting. "Four o'clock in the executive conference room."

She's not here, I tell him. She called in sick.

I entrusted the thing to Carla, who entrusted it to a young woman known on the club circuit as Thurma, a breeder and keeper of exotic wildlife. It was from Thurma's private collection that Carla had procured my Savannah monitor, the late Colonel Tom. Thurma lives in the piney glades on the western edge of the county, and in my agitated condition I'm pleased to let Carla do the driving. She is mercifully casual with her questions, even though she knows there's a shitstorm in the works. Today her hair is the color of watermelon, arranged in whimsical cornrows.

"Mom called last night, half out of her skull. Derek's written a poem to read at the reception Saturday. It's three frigging pages!" Carla reports delightedly. "He's having it printed up special and handed out to all the guests-hey, Blackjack? Wake up. This is for your benefit, pal."

"Sorry. Go on."

"Guess what it's called, Derek's matrimonial poem."

"Got to be an ode to something," I say absently. "Ode to a princess. Ode to a maiden... "

Carla crows, banging her hands on the steering wheel. "You are goodl It's 'Ode to a Brown-Eyed Goddess.' I swear to Christ, if he goes through with this, the wedding's gonna be a pukefest."

"Hey, your mom's happy. That's all that counts."

"Don't go soft on me now, you gnarly old fart."

"Carla, I need a favor." "What else."

"Something happens to me"-I've got my notebook open, trying to scribble Rick Tarkington's name and number-"if something happens to me, you call this guy. Tell him I went to meet the merry widow tonight at Jizz."