"Yes, but you're not listening to me. You've got to get some help to this guy right away! It's a matter of life and death."

"An EMT is on the way, Mr. Fabian. Can you tell me how the shooting occurred?"

"What?"

"Do you know who did the shooting?"

"Well, ah . . . see . . . this isn't easy."

"Can you give me a name?"

"It was . . . he's, like . . . see . . . like my brother-"

In the background, the dispatcher could hear another voice-an angry, demanding, male voice-but she couldn't make out what he was saying. "Mr. Fabian? Are you still there?"

"Just calm down, okay?" said Fabian. There was a fumbling noise.

The dispatcher ordered two squad cars-lights and sirens-to the address.

The next time Robert Fabian spoke, his voice was muffled: "Put it down, okay? Come on. Don't get crazy on me."

The dispatcher continued to try to get him back on the line. "Mr. Fabian? Are you all right? Can you tell me what's going on?"

"I wasn't doing that," Fabian cried. "I swear . . . Just let me explain!"

The dispatcher could hear him talking, but she couldn't make out his words. She assumed he'd moved farther away from the phone. "Mr. Fabian?" she kept calling. "Are you all right?"

A gunshot rang out.

"Mr. Fabian? Are you still there?" She waited. Five seconds, ten seconds, fifteen. But all she heard on the other end of the line now was silence.

5.

Five days later, at the same hour but in different parts of the Cities, Kenneth Loy and Robert Fabian were laid to rest. Sophie and Bram didn't know Ken Loy, but they did attend Bob's funeral. As the whitest sunlight descended from the bluest sky, Pastor Clarence Ewald led the assembled crowd in reciting the Lord's Prayer.

Sophie held on to Bram's hand and bowed her head. It was a sad day in the Twin Cities. Bob had been a friend to so many people. Several hundred mourners stood around the lake at the west end of Lakewood Cemetery, their whispered voices joined with those closer to the casket.

Just a little over a year ago, Sophie and Bram had come to this same cemetery for Valerie Fabian's funeral. Valerie had been a joyous, vibrant woman, an artist whose paintings were exhibited at galleries and bought by private collectors all over the country. Sophie had served on the board of a number of charity events with her and knew her well. She'd accomplished a great deal in her forty-six years, but nothing was more important to her than her marriage. When Bob lost her, the light went out of his eyes. Grief made him ill, created a barrier around him that he couldn't seem to escape and others couldn't enter, no matter how hard they tried.

Valerie's sudden death came as a complete shock to everyone. She'd just left an appointment with her lawyer on the west side of St. Paul, when she failed to stop her VW Beetle at a stop sign and was broadsided by another car. The man in the second car, Kenneth Loy, was talking on his cell phone at the time. Both cars were badly damaged, but while Loy walked away from the accident with only a bruised shoulder and a sprained ankle, Valerie was taken to the emergency room with life-threatening injuries. She died two days later.

Even though Valerie was the one who'd failed to stop, Ken Loy was deemed, at least by Valerie's friends and family, to be partially at fault. If he hadn't been talking on the cell phone, with his attention compromised, he might have been able to stop in time, thus preventing her death. No criminal charges were ever brought against him. Valerie's older brother, Phil Banks, had begun a civil lawsuit, hoping to sue Loy for every dime he had, but nothing had gone to trial so far. And now that Ken was dead, it never would. Both Ken and Bob had been murdered the same night-and, according to the police report, the same gun had been used in both shootings. It was the talk of the town.

When the Lord's Prayer was over, Sophie looked up and saw Andy Gladstone, Bob's half brother, wipe a hand across his eyes. Andy stood with his arm around Anika, all trace of the irritation Sophie had seen the other night on Anika's face now gone.

Andy was a gentle-looking man with a brooding ethereality that made women want to mother him and men want to dismiss him. His sweet, pale face was surrounded by softly curling hair as black as boot polish. He was in his early forties, but looked ten years younger. Standing beside him, Anika seemed sad but radiant, her honey gold skin and wheat blond hair a lovely counterpoint to her husband's darkness. Together, they made a striking couple.

Charles Andrew Gladstone was now the owner of the Minneapolis Times Register. Bob and Valerie had no children, and Andy was Bob's closest relative. Andy had been an editor at the paper for the past two years. Sophie wasn't entirely clear on the details of his journalistic background-Anika never wanted to talk about his past-but if Bob had left the paper to him, he clearly not only loved but trusted him.

Sophie sensed that Andy was a good man, but she wasn't sure he was up to running a large metropolitan newspaper, especially one with a national reputation for being a political pressure cooker. The ownership seemed to sit heavily on his shoulders. He looked worn out. Sophie knew for a fact that he'd been having almost round-the-clock meetings with the editorial staff. One minute he was an editor himself, and the next he was in charge. His head must be spinning- his and Anika's. Not only had they inherited the paper, but Bob Fabian was a multimillionaire. After living a middle-class existence, Andy and Anika were suddenly wealthy. Andy had yet to call a full staff meeting, although Sophie expected it would come soon. The employees at the paper were starting to wonder what changes he might make-and whether it would affect their jobs. Not a great working environment.

Phil Banks, Valerie's brother, stood on the other side of Anika. He'd brought his latest girlfriend, Chris Parillo, to the service. Phil hadn't repeated the Lord's Prayer with the rest of the crowd, but instead had looked around, apparently more interested in who had come to mourn than in a show of piety. As far as Sophie could see, he was the only man at the funeral who wasn't wearing a suit. Sophie didn't know him well. He was a building contractor with financial interests in several restaurants in the Twin Cities. With his floppy silver pompadour and his well-muscled, leather-jacket-clad body, he looked like an aging movie star. But where Valerie had been cultured, Phil struck Sophie as crude.

Chris was the niece of Vince Parillo, kitchen manager and executive chef at the Rookery Club, and a cook in her own right. Bram told Sophie that Chris was a line chef at one of Phil's restaurants when she and Phil first met. Bram had gotten to know her because she liked to spend time with her uncle Vince at the club, liked to help out in the kitchen. Bram thought the world of her.

"And now, may the Lord bless you and keep you," said Pastor Ewald, repeating a familiar benediction as he raised his arms to the heavens. "May the Lord make His face shine upon you and be gracious unto you. May the Lord lift up His countenance upon you and give you peace."

"Amen," said the crowd.

"Amen," repeated Sophie, closing her eyes. She was still unable to get her mind around the fact that Bob was gone. When she looked up, she saw Vince and Lyle Boerichter standing by the coffin, their heads still bowed. Lyle was a pilot for Sunrise Airlines. Vince, Lyle, and Bob had all served together in Viet Nam. Bob once told Sophie that Lyle and Vince were like brothers to him.

"Look over there," whispered Bram, bending down close to Sophie's ear and pointing to a tree at the top of a small rise.

"Who is it?" asked Sophie, shielding her eyes from the sun.

"Al Lundquist." Al was a homicide cop, an old friend of Bram's.

"What's he doing here?" asked Sophie.

Bram scanned the crowd, then put his arm protectively around Sophie's shoulders. "My guess is, he thinks one of Bob's friends or family may also be his killer. He's here to check out the suspects."

As they walked back to their car, Sophie couldn't help but shiver.

6.

Most weekdays, before his afternoon radio show, Bram took several hours to peruse various newspapers-from the New York Times to the Minneapolis Times Register, and dozens of other papers from all over the country. Now that his program was in so many national markets, he couldn't just talk about Minnesota anymore. Nonetheless, like Garrison Keillor, Bram had developed a certain "Minnesota take" on national and world events.

With his deep, expressive radio voice, Bram hosted several daily features. One of the most popular was a segment called "The Bold and the Bashful," a run-down of colorful local news stories. There was no dearth of those in the land of ten thousand lakes- and ten billion mosquitoes. Bram put his usual ironic spin on each. He also had two running characters: Ole Bumquist, an old sugar beet farmer who gave advice to the lovelorn, and Senator Gunder Tweet. Gunder allowed Bram to comment on one of his major interests-local and national politics. What had Bram currently dialed up to high dudgeon was the Minnesota legislature's decision to allow the good people of the state to carry concealed weapons-at the same time extending bar hours and cutting law enforcement budgets. If that didn't say it all about conservative politics, nothing did.

Bram also spent one of his three on-air hours interviewing a guest. Today he would interview an expert from the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension in St. Paul, a man who'd written a book on Internet crime. He expected it to be a lively hour.

Bram had just put down the Detroit Free Press and was ready to dive into the Milwaukee whatever when he heard a knock on his office door. It wasn't much of an office, and what there was was cluttered with books, magazines, and old newspapers. Although he was organized, Bram never made anything other than chaos out of his dusty chamber.

"Enter at your own risk," he shouted.

The door opened and Al Lundquist, his buddy the homicide cop, stuck his head inside. "The coffeepot on?"

"Isn't it always?"

Al had been a friend of Bram's since childhood. Both men had grown up on Chicago's South Side. Al looked like it, even cultivated the toughness, while Bram had tried hard to leave the rougher parts of his childhood behind.

Several years ago, Al advanced to the rank of lieutenant in the homicide division. He was plainclothes now, strictly an off-the-rack kind of guy. In that, he and Bram also departed company. Whereas Bram spent an inordinate amount of money on his appearance, Al had only one look: cheap. He was tall and lanky, with sandy blond hair, a long face, and innocent blue eyes that probably conned the hell out of evildoers everywhere.

As he entered, Bram nodded to the table next to the window. His office might be a dump, but he always kept good coffee on hand-one reason Al visited him so often. That and the stash of gourmet cookies Bram always kept in his top desk drawer.

"What's the brew of the day?"

"Ethiopian Harrar. The bean that started the world on its coffee craze."

"You amaze me, Baldric. You do everything with such style." He poured himself a mug, then sat down on a threadbare chair in front of Bram's desk. "So, tell me again, why don't you get someone to clean this pit up?"

"I like it like this," said Bram, tossing a sack of fresh chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies across the desktop. "It helps me think."

"Right. I should take some photos when you're not here and sell them to Minnesota Monthly. They'd love to skewer Mr. Suave with the real deal."

"Is that a blackmail threat?"

Al cracked his knuckles, then opened the sack. "Maybe. I hear you're interviewing Joel Hellstrom this afternoon. Internet crime." He dunked the cookie in the coffee.

"You heard right."

Al took a bite, then leaned back and made himself more comfortable.

Bram eyed him for a second. "I don't suppose you'd like to tell me everything you know about Robert Fabian's murder." It had been the topic of conversation around his house since the night it happened.

"Can't."

"You mean you won't."

"I'm involved in an ongoing investigation, Baldric. Meg Corrigan and I are the primaries on the case." Al crossed one long leg over the other. "I took charge of the crime scene at Fabian's house. Meg was over at the Shepard Road scene. I assume you've heard that Fabian and Loy were shot with the same gun."

"I don't spend my days in a hermetically sealed vault, Al. Yes, I've heard. With Fabian's connections to the community, you're probably getting leaned on pretty hard to come up with an arrest. Sophie adored him, you know. She's been listening to the news every night hoping to hear more details. Got any hot suspects?"

Al coughed into his fist. "All I can say is what I've told everyone else. The matter is under investigation."

"Al, it's me. Your old buddy. Whatever you say won't leave this room."

"Sorry."

"Okay, then I'll talk. You listen. I've got a few ideas. Why don't I tell you what they are. You might learn something."

"Sure, pal. Whatever you say." He finished his first cookie, then started on a second, pushing the sack back across the desk.

"One of the reports I read said Bob's house hadn't been broken into. That means he must have let his killer in, so he probably knew him."

"Could be."

"Might have been a friend, or a member of his family."

"Okay."

"That's it? You won't confirm anything?"

"Nope. Can't."

Bram drummed his fingers on the desk for a second. "All right. Let's change gears, then. Who had a motive for Loy's murder?"

"It's your dime, Baldric. You tell me."

"Valerie Fabian's family, that's who. They all thought Loy was responsible for her death."

"It's kind of a stretch to suggest that this family member, whoever he was, was so angry that he was willing to whack Loy."

"He? It was a man? A male relative?"

"No comment."

But Bram could see he'd struck pay dirt. "All right, let's just say for a moment that whoever shot Loy went straight to Bob's house. Maybe Bob was in on it. Maybe he paid this guy to do it. Whatever the case, they got together and they got into a fight. Suppose our bad boy walked in and announced what he'd done, and Bob thought, Hell, I've got to call the police. Maybe he threatened to turn the murderer in."

"Possible."

Bram watched Al's face for hints that he was going in the right direction. "So this man, this . . . relative . . . shoots Bob."

"Someone sure did."

"Bob's taken to the emergency room, where he dies of the gunshot wound."

Al just stared at him.

"What?"

"I didn't say a word."

Bram could tell he'd taken a wrong turn, but couldn't for the life of him figure out what it was. "I'm missing something."

"You're missing a lot."

"Have you talked to any of the suspects yet?"

"No comment."

"Come on, Al. Give me a crumb. What would it cost you?"

"Well, let's see. My job?"

"You've got to be all over Bob's family. You're the one who's always saying that the colder the trail becomes, the harder it is to nail the perpetrator."