"I'm always home Sunday night. Got nowhere to go."

The TV in the living room was blaring beside a small air conditioner set in a window. It was placed in the corner so that Malone could watch from the well-worn recliner. The angle of vision beyond the TV overlooked the front-curb parking spot that Laura had used.

"Mind if I turn the volume down so we can talk," Chuck asked amiably. The old guy certainly couldn't have heard anything that night with the TV so loud.

"Go ahead," came the gruff reply.

Chuck headed to the set and turned the dial so he could hear himself speak. Then he walked across the room to confirm the recliner's view of the street. "Okay, Mr. Malone, we did this before, but it'd help me to go through everything you remember from that night."

Malone, still cradling the whisky bottle, began to loosen up. When Chuck exhausted his list of questions, Malone got out of his chair, walked into the kitchen, and returned with two gla.s.ses. He poured out three inches of the whisky in each and offered one to Chuck.

Chuck never drank while in the throes of an investigation, but he accepted the drink now. He was hot and sweaty from his efforts so far, and wanted to encourage the cooperation of this old man who, he had learned, had grown up in this house on Oregon and who knew every inch of the neighborhood.

"Everyone around here thinks I'm a crank. That's fine by me. Since Estelle pa.s.sed I just wanna live out my time. Neighbor kids get on me, but one, little Molly Palmer from a couple doors down, she brings me stuff she made at school, cookies her mom makes. She don't care if I'm an old grouch. We sit on the porch and don't say nothin'. Poor kid's a deaf mute. Guess when it comes down to it, she's the only living thing I care about. Got no kids, no dog, no nothin'."

"I know what you mean," said Chuck, rising from his chair. It was just past eight, about the same time Laura had arrived at Steve's. "Mr. Malone, will you let me sit in your chair for a minute?"

"What the h.e.l.l for?"

"Humor me. Step over to the window here and tell me if there's anything different about what you see out there now and what you saw that Sunday night."

"Well, that's about the dumbest thing -" Malone got up slowly, walking to the window as Chuck lowered himself onto the worn recliner. If he stared directly at the flickering TV set, he couldn't see much of the street. He would have to sit bolt upright and crane his neck severely to the right to see the outline of the curb. Anything routine in the street would probably go unnoticed by the old man. He got up and joined Malone at the window.

"I always keep an eye on what goes on around here, even if I don't go out much. Station wagon was parked too close to my driveway that night, I remember that. Meant to go out and give the owner a piece of my mind, but then I heard the cop cars and all h.e.l.l broke loose over there."

"But you didn't see anyone, man or woman, go into the house?" Chuck showed him the photos.

"Nope, no cigar. Don't recognize n.o.body."

Discouraged, Chuck offered his thanks and stood for a moment in front of Nelson's Oregon apartment. So far, n.o.body had seen anything but a few cars. He wondered how likely that was and then wondered how many times Kim Connor would have to show up in this neighborhood before she was recognized. Had it been only once? He was still uncertain about why she had come. Maybe Carmen Williams could answer that.

With a heavy step, Chuck moved to the last household on his list, the Palmer residence, a white clapboard house with green trim, next to Nelson's. A tall, rugged looking man in his mid-thirties with deep blue eyes and wavy light brown hair answered the doorbell after the first ring, giving Chuck just enough time to wipe the sweat from his face with his handkerchief.

"Good evening, Mr. Palmer," Chuck proffered his hand, "sorry to bother you again. Chuck Dimer, private investigator heading up the investigation on the incident next door."

"Good G.o.d, Dimer, how many times do we have to go through this?" Dirk Palmer stood solidly blocking the front door.

"It's two weeks tonight since the murder, Mr. Palmer," Chuck said matter-of-factly. "If you don't mind, there are some new questions I'd like to ask you. You and Mrs. Palmer." Remembering that Malone had mentioned a daughter, he added, "and your daughter."

"Look, mister, all we want is to raise our daughter in a safe neighborhood without being badgered by the police or people like you."

Chuck hadn't expected this belligerence. Dirk had seemed amiable and cooperative when they last spoke a week ago, and his wife, Sally, seemed all too anxious to unload any neighborhood information, real or otherwise.

"Just a few minutes with you and your wife would really help. Is she here?"

"She's already gone to bed."

"So early? It's only -"

"Who is it, dear?" came a singsong voice from within before Dirk could shut the door.

"d.a.m.n," Dirk grumbled. "It's not important," he called inside, finally closing the door behind him. "Now what do you want?"

"There are some details, Mr. Palmer. Uh, maybe we can include your wife?"

"She's busy, but go ahead and ask me what you want."

The front door flew open, practically knocking Dirk aside as Sally Palmer, fully dressed in a tailored blouse and an A-line skirt, appeared. She was almost as tall as her husband, with short auburn hair and large brown eyes. "Oh! Sorry to interrupt."

"Get back inside," her husband ordered. "It's that private investigator."

"You're not interrupting, Mrs. Palmer," Chuck hastened. "In fact, I'm here to talk to you too."

"No, no, I can't."

"Mr. Dimer -"

"Is it about next door? Did you find out something?" Sally Palmer blurted.

"Not yet. Maybe your daughter could help us."

There was no mistaking the look of alarm pa.s.sing between Dirk and Sally Palmer.

"There's no way I'll have you hara.s.sing my daughter," Dirk said, anger intensifying on his face. "She's gone through enough."

"I don't want to hara.s.s her. I've got some photos -"

Sally shook her head. "Mr. Dimer, our daughter couldn't talk with you if she wanted to. Unless, of course, you know sign language."

"I'm sorry," Chuck muttered. Not knowing what else to say, he quickly pulled out the pack of photos and mechanically ran through his list of questions. Dirk Palmer answered the questions curtly, barely glancing at each picture as Chuck presented them.

With the front door still open, Chuck saw a young girl peer through the pane of a narrow window in the entry hall. She wore a long, mint green nightgown, her dark brown hair worn in two braids down her back. She looked at Chuck only momentarily, but the look seemed plaintive, expectant. How could he get past her parents to her? And even if he could, he'd need an interpreter.

Carrie Diamond.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

The Nelson defense team met early Monday morning, only to face the disappointment of the previous night's efforts. It was clear, after the debriefing of Chuck's men, that nothing new had emerged. A few strange cars parked around the four-block area. Vague descriptions. No license plates. No positive I.D. of Frank Santiago or anybody else who seemed suspicious. Chuck's vague discomfort with Dirk and Sally Palmer's response was the only thread of a lead. Greg and Rob found Chuck's a.s.sessment of the Palmers' reaction intriguing. How could they approach the child to find out whether she'd seen anything relevant to Kim's murder?

Carrie was strangely silent until Greg asked, "What do you think, Carrie? I trust your instincts when it comes to legal ethics."

"Molly Palmer goes to the Tampa School for the Deaf," Carrie said slowly. "I don't know the child well. She's in the sixth grade, not in Elizabeth's cla.s.s, but I've met the parents."

"And -" Rob pressed.

"They're outgoing, quite active in the school. I think she's secretary of the PTA. Yes, she is."

"And how they treated me last night," Chuck asked, "does it seem out of character?"

Carrie nodded. "Sally is a nonstop talker, and Dirk has always been quite friendly."

"Well last night he was downright hostile."

"Carrie, is there any way we can get to talk to the girl?" Rob ventured. "Perhaps at the school?"

"I don't know," Carrie replied. "The Palmers sounded like they were adamant. We'd have to be very careful to avoid any real or perceived exploitation, especially with such strong parental objection."

"It could be important," Greg said. "Carrie, could you take the a.s.signment to try to reach the child in a way that would not compromise us or the school?"

"I'll give it a try. I realize how important this might be to Laura. But you know, if this were Elizabeth -"

"Thanks, Carrie," Greg said quickly. "Call Chuck if anything comes up."

After pa.s.sing the security cameras that flanked every corner of the main building, Carrie Diamond walked through the open door into the princ.i.p.al's office at ten o'clock. She found Randall Franklin poring through a thick, black binder full of charts and tables of numbers. A big man in his mid-fifties with black bushy eyebrows behind wire-rimmed gla.s.ses and a triangular beard that made his face seem too long, he looked formidable, yet he was known for his compa.s.sion. Carrie stood silently a few moments until the big man looked up with surprise.

"Why, Mrs. Diamond -"

"I didn't mean to startle you. You just looked so engrossed."

"Ick, budgets," he said with a smile as he rose from the swivel chair at his desk. "Didn't think I'd see you again so soon. Wasn't yesterday just grand?"

"Absolutely. Elizabeth was thrilled being in that skit. It's such a confidence builder for the kids to perform in front of an audience."

"Great turnout. Hope you parents know how much I appreciate everything. The proceeds from an event like yesterday let us do so much more for the kids, especially during our summer sessions when we can plan these types of performances."

"It was fun," answered Carrie. "It's great to spend time with the other parents. We have a lot in common."

"Of course. So how can I help you?" the princ.i.p.al asked, raising his bushy eyebrows. "Elizabeth seems to be doing well - excellent grades and a great att.i.tude. Is there a problem? Here, sit down."

"I don't know, Mr. Franklin ..." Carrie hesitated as she settled into the chair opposite his desk, "how to go about this, so I'll just be as honest as I can. There may be a problem, but it's not about Elizabeth."

"Go on, please." Randall Franklin removed his gla.s.ses and looked closely at Carrie.

"It's about Molly Palmer."

"Oh? Her father called me this morning, reluctant to send her to school. Said she'd been having some stomachaches."

"Oh? Anything else?"

"He asked me about our security. I reminded him that in addition to a morning and night patrol, our buildings are equipped with security cameras operating twenty-four hours a day. A little bit later, Mr. Palmer arrived with Molly and escorted her to her cla.s.sroom. It was odd."

"Hmm. Have you noticed anything else unusual," Carrie paused, "about Molly?"

"Well, now that you mention it, at the picnic yesterday, the Palmers seemed rather protective of her." He stopped abruptly. "Is something going on that I should know about?"

Carrie exhaled. "My law firm is representing Dr. Laura Nelson, the woman accused of shooting Kim Connor, the television newscaster, a couple of weeks ago. The murder took place next door to the Palmer's home. I wonder if the child may have seen something that's frightened her."

"I see." He paused. "Well, maybe you should talk to Janice Meyer. She's Molly's teacher. If the child is upset, we need to work with her parents."

"I understand. If this were about Elizabeth -" Carrie's voice trailed off, "well, I would appreciate help."

"I'll have Janice come over during recess." Franklin looked at his watch. "Which is in ten minutes."

"Mrs. Diamond, how nice to see you." Janice Meyer smiled as she rose from the table in the teachers' lounge and smoothed her red dress.

Carrie knew Janice from the volunteer work she'd done to help orient new families to the school. An attractive woman with red-brown hair and a creamy complexion, she was in her mid-forties with a deaf child of her own.

"I didn't get a chance to talk to you yesterday," Janice said. "Elizabeth was great in that skit."

"Thanks. She had a wonderful time."

"So what's happening? Randall said you wanted to talk to me about Molly Palmer?"

"Can we go outside?" Carrie antic.i.p.ated the influx of teachers who'd all want to say their h.e.l.los, particularly Tammy White, Elizabeth's young, enthusiastic teacher.

"Sure. There's an alcove over by the garden with plenty of shade. Let's grab a coffee or a soda first." She filled her ceramic Tampa Bay Buccaneer mug with hot coffee while Carrie chose a Diet c.o.ke from the vending machine.

Outside, they settled at a small wrought iron table tucked under one of the portico overhangs in a small garden amid a blaze of crimson azaleas.

"Randall said to help you the best I can. What's happening?"

"First, I want you to know that I represent Laura Nelson, the local surgeon accused of killing her husband's colleague, Kim Connor, the TV newscaster."

"Quite a story."

Carrie nodded. "I'll say. Did you know that Molly lives next door to Steve Nelson, Laura's husband, where Kim Connor was shot?"

"Uh, no." Janice's brown eyes narrowed. "Remind me, when did this happen?"

"Two weeks ago yesterday. On Sunday night, around eight. The police have investigated, of course, and talked to all of the neighbors. n.o.body saw anything."

"So what has this have to do with Molly," Janice asked softly, "if n.o.body saw anything?"

"Yesterday, her parents seemed strangely unwilling to cooperate with our investigator. It didn't seem like normal behavior for them. My instincts tell me that Molly might've seen something that's frightened her."

"That might fit with the behavior I've been seeing," Janice mused. "Molly hasn't been herself. When I mentioned it to the Palmers yesterday, they just brushed me off."

"I can understand their concern. But if the child saw something, if she doesn't confront it, well, I don't know how healthy that is."

"So you think that what she may have seen would help your client?"