had turned out ugly-not homely but down-to-the ground ugly. This little

trick of nature didn't bother the dog, either.

Conroy continued to grin as he lifted a paw in what both he and Michael

knew had nothing to do with subservience.

"I'm not going to shake that paw. I don't know where it's been. You

went back to that s.l.u.t again, didn't you?"

Conroy slid his eyes to the left. If he could have whistled between his

teeth, he would have.

"Don't try to deny it. You've spent all weekend rolling in the dirt and

s...o...b..ring over that half-breed beagle tramp. Never a thought to the

consequences or my feelings." Turning away, Michael rooted in the

refrigerator. "If you knock her up again, you're on your own. If I've

told you once, I've told you a thousand times. Safe s.e.x. It's the

eighties, bucko."

He tossed over a slice of bologna, which Conroy caught nimbly and

swallowed in one gulp. Softening, Michael tossed him two more before he

settled down with his coffee-soaked shredded wheat.

He liked his life. Moving to the burbs had been the right decision for

him. It had exactly what he wanted: A nice patch of lawn he could

grumble about mowing, a few leafy trees, and what remained of the

previous owner's flower bed.

He'd given gardening a shot, but when he'd proven inept, had abandoned

it. That suited Conroy as well. No one got antsy when he dug up the

snapdragons.

He'd bought the small brick rancher on impulse, right after the end of

his brief and ill-advised affair with Angie Parks. He'd learned

something from her, other than kinky s.e.x. And that was that Michael

Kesseiring was and always would be middle cla.s.s.

It had been strange to watch her on the screen after he'd been replaced

with a twenty-year-old hockey player. It had given him an eerie, almost

creepy feeling to see her depiction of Jane Palmer, and to realize that

she'd played that part with hith all during the three frenzied months

they'd been lovers.

He'd gone alone to the theater. A kind of test to make certain he'd

gotten rid of any residual, and unhealthy, attraction for her. When

she'd bared those beautiful b.r.e.a.s.t.s, he'd felt nothing but discomfort.

Though it had been by proxy, he knew he had been to bed with Emma's

mother.

And he had wondered, sitting under the dark cloak of the theater, if

Emma would see the movie.

But he didn't like to think of Emma.

There had been other women. No one serious, but other women. He had his

work. It no longer amazed him that he had both a talent and an

affection for law enforcement. Perhaps he didn't have his father's

patience and skill with paperwork, but he thought well on his feet,

accepted the long, often monotonous hours of legwork and stakeouts, and

had a healthy enough respect for his life not to be trigger-happy.

"I got shot at yesterday," he said conversationally to Conroy. The dog

began, disinterestedly, to scratch for fleas. "If that pervert had

gotten lucky, you'd be out in the cold, pal. Don't delude yourself into