"He shouldn't have done that in front of you," he said.

"I've seen a naked bum before, Preacher. Don't worry about it. It's his big day."

"It's the kind of year you dream about."

"What about you? Hitting for the cycle isn't exactly an average day at the office."

"It's just a fluke, you know. You just get lucky one day. Not like twenty-three wins. Now, that's truly something. He was blessed this year."

"And it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. Do you think he'll stop being so gloomy?"

Kelsey's smile broke out again.

"Bony? Are you kidding? He wouldn't be happy if he wasn't unhappy!"

We both laughed.

"What did you think about at the plate during the last at bat?"

"To tell you the truth, I was worried I wouldn't even get the chance. Then Owl got that seeing-eye hit and I felt like it was meant to be. I've never felt so relaxed at the plate."

"And then you almost blew it by hitting a home run."

"Yeah, I was praying for it to go foul!" He stopped suddenly. "Don't put that in the paper. I don't really pray for things like that."

"I know. What about the service today? Did it help get the team back together?"

"I think it did. We put the tragedy behind us. Now we just have to win it for them."

"Think you will?"

"I don't see why not. But that's not the important thing."

"What's more important?"

"Finding the man who killed Sultan and Steve. And making sure he can't get anyone else."

"Of course. Sorry. It's just hard to remember that here tonight."

"We don't mean any disrespect, Kate."

"I know."

Constable Donny was waiting for me outside the clubhouse, so excited by the game that he couldn't shut up, even in the press box while I was writing. The story, under the circumstances, wrote itself, and we were out of there by midnight.

"What are your feelings about drinking on duty, Don?"

"I shouldn't, why?"

"We've got time to hit last call at the Fillet of Soul. Do you mind?"

"I'd like that. I've never been there."

"Let's just call it semi-duty, then."

"You're the boss."

He was grinning.

The bar was crowded. We found a table in the corner and the constable unbent enough to have a beer.

"One won't hurt," he said "I promise I won't let you drive drunk, okay?"

Sarah brought our drinks. I introduced her to my companion, with no explanation. She'd go nuts trying to figure out what kind of cradle-robbing I was into. It would do her good.

Like most fans, the constable had strong opinions about what was right and wrong with the team and its management. It was good to listen to him. We sometimes forget who we're writing for. But when our second round arrived, I changed the subject.

"How long have you been on the force?"

"Almost three years."

"Are you assigned to homicide?"

"No. This is my first time."

"Are you enjoying it?"

"Well, I wish I was more involved in the case."

"Have you worked with Staff Sergeant Munro before?"

"No. I've just heard about him."

"What have you heard?" Subtle, Kate, subtle.

"That he's tough. That you'd better not screw up. He's hard to work for, but he's the best."

"He has a bit of a temper, doesn't he?"

"I've never seen him really mad, but I've heard it's something."

"I know."

MacPherson shot me a sly look and smiled.

"He chewed you out pretty good, didn't he?"

"How do you know?"

"I saw him when he got there. He was steaming."

"No secrets, eh?"

"I shouldn't have said anything."

"On the contrary. I love gossip. What else do you hear about Munro? What about his personal life?"

"He doesn't have much, they say. He was married, but his wife left him. Since then, he's been a real loner. Too bad, he's pretty good looking, for an older guy."

I winced. He noticed.

"I don't mean old. It's just that . . ."

"How ancient is he? In his forties?"

"Oh, no. He's not that old."

"Well, I'm glad. I'd hate to think he'd have to retire before he solved these murders."

"I think I've said something wrong."

"Not at all. I used to think forty was old, too. I changed my mind my last birthday."

"Oh, gee. I thought you were a lot younger."

"Thank you, Donald. Maybe it's time to take this old bag home. It's way past my bedtime."

He apologized all the way there, and walked me to my door again.

"Miss Henry, you won't mention to Staff Sergeant Munro that we were talking about him, will you? I was out of line."

"I'm just old, Constable, not stupid. It will be our secret."

"Thanks. Good night."

I didn't notice the parcel at first. I was greeting Elwy and setting down my things. It was a large manila envelope with the rest of my mail on a small table just inside my door. Sally had left a note with it.

"This was waiting when I got home at six. It's not ticking."

It might as well have been. A sheaf of papers was held together with a paper clip. On top was a clipping from a paper in Nashville, Tennessee, dated in June, 1982. It was the report on a raid of a homosexual bath house. Listed among the found-ins was one Kelsey, Joseph Baines.

"Oh, God. Poor Preacher."

The second page was a photocopy of a confidential memorandum from the security chief of the Southwestern Inter-Collegiate Baseball Association. It stated that during the 1973 season, a number of players from Oak Park College in Texas had thrown games for a payoff. As the offenders had graduated, the report suggested that no action be taken. The first name on the list was Steve Thorson.

"I don't really want to know this," I told Elwy.

The third document was a photocopy of a year-old police incident report filed in Toronto. It described an assault by David Sloane against the persons of Marie Sloane, Merlin Sloane, and David Sloane, Junior. The final notation, following a pedantic description of the incident, was that the charges had been dropped by Mrs. Sloane.

"That sanctimonious bastard!"

Elwy's response was to roll over on his back for a stomach scratch.

"And what am I supposed to do with this?"

He warbled an interrogatory half-purr, half-meow.

I drew myself a hot bath. A half-hour soak later, I wasn't sure what I had learned, except some pretty juicy answers to a few questions. All I knew was that things didn't look too good for one David Sloane. Or Joe Kelsey, for that matter. But who had sent the parcel? And why?

Chapter 22.

In the cold sober light of day it became obvious that I had to call Andy Munro. He came right over, showing his gratitude in the oddest way.

"When did you get this?" he shouted.

"Last night, late. It was here when I got home."

"Where was that idiot MacPherson?"

"He'd already left. And he's not an idiot. I didn't even see it until I'd been home for five minutes."

"And you opened it. Just like that. You didn't think to call me first, of course."

"How did I know what was in it? I would have felt like a prize dope if it had been a letter from my mother and I got you out of bed at one o'clock in the morning."

"What were you doing out so late?"

"What's it to you?"

"When was the game over?"

I decided not to tell him about luring his constable from the straight and narrow.

"I had a story to write. Do you mind?"

"Don't you ever, ever, pull a stunt like this again."

He'd stopped shouting, but he was spacing his words ominously, in a coldly controlled voice.

"Now I'm going to take this material to the lab, even though the chances of getting any useful fingerprints are nil now that you've pawed over them. And you're coming with me so I can get your fingerprints for comparison."