I chased his footsteps for a few seconds, but once I left the light I was blind. Sooner than I expected, I ran into a sheet-metal wall that rattled like thunder when I hit it. After the din died down, I couldn't hear Ted anymore, anywhere.

Cursing uselessly, I went back to the corpse.

Ted had done a thorough job of it. Last was about as dead as he could get without actively being cut up into pieces. At least three rounds hit him-two in the chest- and there was a hole I could've put my fist through where his face used to be. It might've made me sick if I hadn't already been too furious to give a rusty damn. Let him rot in his own blood. I just wanted to get my hands on Ted.

I'd lost my only lead to Last's partner. The asshole who actually took the girls.

I wanted to tear Ted Hangst into little pieces.

Unfortunately Last dead was as much of a problem as Last alive. Maybe more. Now I had a body on my hands. A body that was killed with my .45. If the cops caught me, I'd have one hell of a time explaining all this.

And explaining it would be the easy part. Getting the cops to release me would be a lot tougher. I'd probably have to sit in jail until they identified Ted's fingerprints on the gun.

I wasn't about to take this particular rap for Hangst. And I wasn't about to let the cops lock me away, even for a few hours. That meant I couldn't afford to leave the evidence behind. So I dug out a handkerchief and used it to pick up the .45. Instead of wiping it off like I wanted to, I carried it by the barrel while I groped my way out of the warehouse.

Out in the night, it was a relief to be able to see again. And an even bigger relief to find the Olds where I left it. In my usual brilliant fashion, I'd left the keys in the ignition. But Ted hadn't taken it. Apparently he hadn't been thinking about things like that. I was still mobile.

I still had a chance.

I got in, locked the .45 in the glove compartment, and drove out of the warehouse yard onto Trujillo without turning on my lights.

I didn't turn them on until I started to hit traffic, almost a mile back north in the direction of the city. But I still hadn't figured out where I was going.

Everything was too urgent. Mittie was in danger for her life, if she wasn't already dead. The cops would find Last's body pretty soon-I'd left the light on because I didn't know how to turn it off, and before long a patrol car would see the light and check it out. Ginny lay in the hospital with her hand blown off. Ted was running around completely bananas.

I couldn't relax, couldn't clear my head. I needed inspiration, and I as sure as hell wasn't getting it. After a while I caught myself pounding on the steering wheel with my fist.

Panting, I dropped my arm. All right, ace. You don't know what to do. What would Ginny do?

Good question. Concentration took so much effort that in five minutes the wheel was slick with sweat. Eventually, however, I dug deep enough to get hold of an idea. After which I spent a couple of miles looking for a phone booth-and wondering what I carried around in my skull instead of brains.

Last knew Alathea was in the hospital. His partner told him. How did his partner know? Through the school board somehow. Acton had called Stretto, left a message with one of the secretaries.

What I needed to know was basically simple. Which secretary? And who, exactly, did she tell? How many people got that particular piece of information?

Acton probably hadn't gotten that far yet. First he had to get a warrant, search the school board offices. Talk to Stretto. Maybe to Martha Scurvey. There was a good chance that I wouldn't run into him.

Finally I spotted a phone booth and pulled over. I used the directory to get Julian Kirke's address, then headed the Olds in that direction. Out toward the east side of town.

It seemed to take forever to get there, but actually it wasn't more than forty-five minutes. He lived in one of those fancy singles' apartment complexes that sits on a lot about four blocks long and has tennis courts and swimming pools as well as a "recreation center" for dancing and other predatory activities. This particular complex was called Encantada Square, and the apartments all had terraces and balconies with wrought-iron railings, arched entryways, redwood doors. Inside they probably had mirrors on the ceilings of the bedrooms. But the place didn't look all that expensive. The "swinging singles" usually aren't rich,

After a little trouble, I located Kirke's apartment. It had a modest little card that said j. kirke in a slot above the doorbell.

When I rang the bell, I was trembling. I didn't think I could handle it if Kirke wasn't in. I needed to talk to him. If I missed him- The way I was feeling, I'd probably sit down on the floor inside his nice arched entryway and start to cry.

At the moment I had absolutely no idea how I'd managed to function at all back in the days before I met Ginny. I missed her so much I was in danger of blubbering.

Then the door opened, and Kirke stood in front of me. He kept one hand on the doorknob. In the other, he held a drink, which I identified instantaneously as scotch on the rocks. He wasn't wearing a shirt. I could see that he was a lot stronger than he looked with all his clothes on. He had the kind of muscles you get from lifting weights.

I could also see the bruises I'd made on his upper arm.

Two or three different varieties of surprise and anger twitched across his face as he looked at me. I took advantage of them by brushing past him and walking into his apartment.

His living room was designed to look nicer than it really was. Sunken floor two steps down. Soft, supposedly seductive colors. A thick cheap carpet, plastic potted plants here and there. A picture window with a clear view of the next-door neighbor's picture window. And not much in the way of furniture. Just one recliner, a stool, and a sofa big enough to sleep three or four swingers at the same time.

I paused in the center of the room for a minute and tried to figure out how to handle Kirke. I had too many priorities-protect Alathea, get information, stay out of jail, find Mittie alive. And nothing but terrible consequences in all directions if I failed. I was looking for some really devastating way to curse my lack of inspiration when Kirke broke the silence.

"Mr. Axbrewder," he said. "What an unexpected pleasure." He sounded like a beaker of sulfuric acid that he intended to throw in my face. But he hadn't done it yet. Civility and sarcasm were doing some kind of balancing act.

"Yeah." I turned to face him.

He stood at the top of the steps, which gave him a chance to look down on me. His hand cradled his drink as if he knew what it could do to me. He'd regained his self-control-his anger and surprise were gone. He was master of the situation.

"That's the story of my life," I said. "One unexpected pleasure after another."

He studied me for a moment. Then he said, "You've had  a rough day. You need a drink." He started toward a sideboard bar behind the sofa.

"I don't need a drink," I snapped. My nerves were in worse shape than I thought. "I need some answers."

He waved his glass at me. "You sure?"

"I don't drink while I'm working."

He shrugged and sat down sidesaddle on the back of the sofa. The perfect host, showing me he didn't need to look down on me.

He sipped his scotch.

I waited.

By then you would've thought I was ready for anything, but he still managed to catch me off guard.

"I heard what happened to your partner," he said. "Too bad. It must be tough for you."

"My partner?" I asked stupidly. I had the horrible feeling that I was completely out of my depth.

"Getting her hand shattered like that." He looked thoughtfully into his glass. "Messy.

"But it shows one thing, Axbrewder. You're smarter than I thought. Most of the big tall he-men I know have an irresistible compulsion to protect helpless little women. You don't have that problem. I admire that. Let them take their chances, like anybody else.

"Of course"-his civility slipped a notch-"your partner isn't much of a woman." He took another swallow of scotch. "She should've been born a man."

I must've been staring at him like a lunatic, because the next thing he said was, "Are you sure you're all right?"

"No. Ginny is the brains of this team." Why was I telling him that? "Without her, I'm in lousy shape."

I practically had to clap my hands over my mouth to make myself shut up. It was like trying to cork a bottle you're holding upside down.

"What can I do to help?" he asked.

He   sounded  civil  again,   but   the   sneer  on  his  face   would've turned butter rancid at fifty paces.

Suddenly everything went cold inside me, and I was calm again. Still mad enough to knock down walls with my forehead-but calm. The muscles of my face and shoulders relaxed. "Answer a few questions," I said evenly.

"If I can." He was looking me straight in the eye.

"How did you know about Ginny?"

"Chairman Stretto called me this evening. He told me all about it. He wanted to brag to somebody. But bragging isn't good politics, so he used your partner as an excuse to mention his display of courage. I suspect that by now he's called most of the school board, the mayor, and half the city council."

I groaned dishonestly. "Wonderful. With help like that, I'm going to need a fucking Ouija board to crack this case."

"Why? What's the problem?" he asked. Mildly interested.

"Oh, hell," I said. "Why not?" I didn't look at him. I was afraid that my expression might warn him. "This is an 'information' case, Kirke. It all comes down to who knows what when. And how they found out. Like, how did Stretto know that Alathea was in the hospital in the first place?"

"That's easy. A cop called our office, a Detective Acton."

"Did Stretto talk to him?"

"No, he wasn't in. Acton left a message with one of the secretaries."

"Which one?"

He grinned maliciously. "Sondra." He liked hurting her.

Sondra. The innocent one. "And she gave the message to Stretto?"

"No. She gave it to me. I run that office."

"Were you alone?"

"Are you kidding?" He snorted. "Nobody is ever alone in there. Half the office heard her."

"Like who?"

"Let me see," he mused. "Mabel and Joan. Connie. I'm sure of them. There may've been a few others."

"And what did you do with the message?"

Keep it going, Axbrewder, Don't give him time to think.

"I gave it to Chairman Stretto, of course."

"As soon as he came back in?"

"Sure."

"Was he alone?"

"No. Astin Greenling was with him."

"Who did they tell?"

Kirke paused for a moment, stared at me. Then he said, "How the hell should I know?"

Apparently he didn't need time to think. He must've been as innocent as skim milk. Or else he was too smart for me.

I sighed. "Yeah. Well, you see my problem. Someone on the school board is leaking information to the bastard who set that bomb. But finding out exactly who is starting to look impossible."

He asked, "Are you sure it's the school board?"

I went on looking out the window. The man in the next-door apartment sprawled on his sofa reading his book.

"I am," I said. "The cops aren't."

He considered that for a minute. "I know what your trouble is, Axbrewder," he said finally. "You're too tense. You need to relax, get your mind off it for a while."

I turned around. "How am I supposed to do that?"

He got to his feet. "Change your mind. Have a drink. I have some scotch here that's to die for. It will make you kiss all your troubles good-bye."

I glared at him. He sounded like he was making fun of me. "I told you-" But if he knew about my drinking problem, he didn't show it. He sounded almost sincere. I made an effort to swallow my anger. "The problem is, I'm an alcoholic. I have a hard enough time staying sober as it is."

His jaw dropped. "You're kidding."

"No."

"Oh, come on. A man like you? I don't believe it."

Now I had the distinct impression that he was sneering at me.

"Believe it," I growled. I was in no mood to put up with his scorn. Abruptly I started for the door.

He caught my arm. Something in his face looked too earnest to be a sneer. Too earnest-or too urgent. "Come on. That woman you call a partner has been putting you through the wringer. Now she's convinced you that you can't even have a few drinks. You're no alcoholic. She just tells you that to keep you in line.

"Stick around. We'll put our feet up, have a few drinks, tell each other secrets. I know some things about the school board that will give you hives."

He was making me sick. I said, "No, thanks." For some reason, I didn't break his hand. Instead I stepped past him toward the door.

Right then, all the decisions that I hadn't been able to make were made for me. Something in my head shifted, and I knew what I had to do.

When I reached the door, I turned to face Kirke.

He was still watching me. He held his hand out, offering me his glass. He was trying to smile.

I said, "I had a talk with a guy named Last tonight."

He didn't even blink. The way he said, "Oh, yes?" you would've thought we were discussing the weather.

"He's the guy who set the bomb. Unfortunately he got shot before he could tell me anything useful."

That made Kirke look curious. "Did you shoot him?"

"No. But I wish I had."

Then I left his apartment. Got out of there before my anger made me shake hard enough to stutter. When I reached the Olds, I had to lean against it and hold my head in my hands to steady my heart.

I'd done what I could for Mittie. I'd planted the information that Last was dead. If Kirke talked to anyone on    the school board, anyone at all, word might get around. Then the bastard I was after might think that he didn't need to kill Ted's daughter. At least not right away.

That was the easy part. A quick gamble that might improve Mittie's chances. It wasn't why I'd started to shake.

I had the shakes because I was afraid.

Because now I knew what I had to do.

I had to talk to el Señor.