Chapter 10

My ringing phone dragged me from sleep hours before I was ready. I brought it to my ear and said hello, or something resembling the word.

“Monroe, dear? Did I wake you?”

Katie’s mom, Corrine. I sat up and swiped a hand over my face, wincing when the pain in my jaw protested the action. “No, you didn’t wake me.”

“Can you come over? Right away?”

Straight to the point. No, “How are you, hon, how’s the love life, the family?” All the usual chit chat before the inevitable, “Have you learned anything about my Katie?”

“What’s wrong?” Monroe asked as she suppressed a yawn.

“I need to see you. Please. I’ll cook breakfast.”

So, she really meant now. Something had to have happened. But what? Couldn’t be a development in Katie’s murder—Corrine was no Jessica Fletcher—so what could have her so worked up?

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I hung up the phone and crawled out of bed, crying out at the sharp pain in my tail bone, my knees, my head, pretty much everywhere.

I started the coffee and took a quick shower, then filled a travel cup and went to my car. The officer was still there, his squad car parked along the curb between my house and Linus’s. He waved at me as I pulled out of the driveway. It was seven a.m. Linus would be awake. I dialed his number from my cell.

“Hello,” he answered, sounding kind of perky for an eighty-two year old who’d nearly been attacked by a violent drug addict less than ten hours ago.

“Hey, Linus. It’s me. You okay?”

“I’m good. How about you? What you doing up so early on a Sunday morning?”

“A friend called and needed to see me. I’m heading over there now.”

“Everything all right? You’re not messing with that Josie girl so soon after her punk boyfriend pulled that stunt, are you?”

“No. A different friend.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

After Linus extracted another promise that I’d be careful and that I’d let him know if I needed anything, we ended the call.

As I drove, I pondered Corrine’s call. I couldn’t imagine what it was about. Corrine and her husband, Vic, still held out the hope, even after all these years, that their daughter’s killer would be found. Ten years ago, we’d pooled our money and hired a private detective. A year passed and he didn’t find anything. The money ran out, so we had to let him go.

Since I was a journalist, Katie’s parents thought I could solve the murder. I wanted to. I’d tried, but so far, not a clue. Not that the police had done much better. Although there’d been a suspect in both Katie’s murder, and the one that happened the year before—a man who’d been released from prison after serving time for rape—no arrest had been made. Apparently, there hadn’t been enough evidence to file charges.

Corrine and Victor Broussard lived a mile from my parents, in the same house they’d lived in when I was a child.

I knocked on the door, and it opened to the smell of bacon and Corrine’s embrace. Corrine was short, blonde, and pretty. She constantly wore a warm, beaming smile. The only time it had gone missing was in the years following Katie’s death. It had slowly returned, but never had quite the same vitality. Since then, it seemed a little forced, brittle.

“My dear,” Corrine said when she released me. “What happened to you?”

I knew she was referring to the bruise along my jaw line. I’d seen it in the mirror that morning.

“I fell,” I said, uttering the standard cliché Josie, and most battered women, used.

“Come in. Vic’s in the kitchen.”

We walked through the living room where I tried to avert my eyes from the neon orange scrap of material draped over an easy chair. It was Katie’s jacket. She’d slung it over the chair, probably just a few days before she died. Corrine hadn’t gotten rid of it. Nor had she taken anything out of Katie’s room. I’d been up there a few times since Katie died. Clothing was still scattered on the floor, although Corrine moved it from time to time to clean. Posters of a young Matt Dillon and Van Halen hung on the wall. Katie’s favorite sparkly lip gloss still sat atop her dresser. I found it both endearing and worrisome.

Vic stood when I entered the kitchen and wrapped me in a bear hug. Out of our group of friends, Katie’s dad had been the ‘fine’ dad we’d all had a bit of a crush on. He was tall and dark-haired with hazel eyes and the ‘aquiline’ nose and broad shoulders of the heroes in the category romances I read at the time. Now, although only in his mid-fifties, the looks were gone, worn away by time and grief. The height had given way to stooped shoulders, the hair gone gray, the hazel eyes marred by hopelessness.

“How do you want your eggs?” Corrine asked after I’d taken a seat at the Formica table.

“Scrambled.”

She brought over a plate filled with eggs, toast, and bacon and set it in front of me, along with a glass of orange juice.

“Aren’t you guys going to eat?” I asked.

“Already did,” said Vic.

“We’ve been up for a while. Just waited to call so we didn’t disturb you too early.”

I almost asked what her definition of ‘too early’ would be on a Sunday after the hell night I’d had, but didn’t.

The breakfast was good, and I was hungry. “So,” I asked after I’d cleaned my plate, “what’s this about?”

Corrine reached into the pocket of her slacks. She plunked down a penny on the table in front of me.

When no explanation followed, I looked up at her. “Yes?”

“Look at the year.”

I did. 1971.

“Okay.”

“That’s the year Katie was born.” I waited. “I found it on the day of her funeral. In her room. I’ve kept it close to me since. It brings me comfort.”

Corrine had never told me this before. I didn’t know why she was telling me now. I nodded and waited some more.

“You know the pennies from heaven story, right?”

“Yes. I read about it in Ann Landers. How people find pennies after losing a loved one. Pennies with a significant date. They feel it’s a message from beyond the grave.”

“Right.”

“Okay. So, you waited twenty-five years to tell me you’ve been holding onto a penny from the year Katie was born?”

“It’s not that,” Vic said.

I glanced at him. Until now, he’d been sitting quietly, listening to his wife.

When he didn’t offer more, Corrine spoke again. “I went to visit Katie’s grave this morning.”

“How early was that? You called me before seven.” I felt guilty as soon as I said it. Didn’t matter, though. Neither of them seemed to notice.

“I found this on her grave.” She placed another penny in front of me. Without being told to, I picked it up and looked at the date. 1983. The year she died. I admit, it gave me a little chill. “Then, as I was leaving, right next to her tombstone—” Corrine stopped, her voice choked with tears. I didn’t offer a hug. I knew if I did, that’d be it for both of us. We’d be lost in a torrent of sobbing. “Right next to her tombstone, was this.” Another penny appeared.

I looked down, for some reason not wanting to touch it. She’d placed it head’s up so I could still see the date. 1969.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “So…?”

Her face paled. She wrung her hands together, staring down at the penny. “It wasn’t there when I arrived,” she said in a whisper. “I’m sure of it. I always clear everything around my little girl’s resting place. I would have seen it.”

“A penny is pretty small, maybe—”

“I would have seen it,” she cut in sharply, stunning me into silence. “I’m sorry. But I know. This is a sign.”

“What kind of sign?”

“About her murder. I’m not sure exactly what it means. Maybe the killer was born in 1969.”

I quickly did the math. “So, you think a fourteen-year-old boy killed Katie?”

Of course, it wasn’t impossible. Kids younger than that committed murder. It was less common in 1983, but not unheard of. Still, it didn’t seem right to me. In my mind, I’d created an image of the killer. He was huge and mean and dirty and dark, with harsh features and menacing eyes. It didn’t jive with a fresh-faced, pimply adolescent.

“It could have been,” Corrine insisted. “There were some rough boys in the neighborhood.”

“Rough boys?”

A nod. “The Simpsons, for one.” She ticked it off on her finger like she was going to name more but didn’t.

“The Simpsons?” I almost laughed, but this wasn’t the time for amusement. The Simpsons were three brothers, Eric, Josh, and Steven. They were around mine and Katie’s age, although the oldest one might have been fourteen, which would match the date of birth on the penny. They ran the neighborhood all hours of the night and were notorious for practical jokes. The worst thing I knew of them doing was lighting a bag of excrement on Mr. Gruber’s porch, hiding, and watching while the man rushed out and stomped on it. Not exactly saintly, but a far cry from murdering a twelve-year-old girl. Katie and I had thought it was funny.

“I’m not sure if any of this means anything,” I said, then remembered something that might be relevant. “The suspect they had back then. Wasn’t his first victim fourteen?” As I uttered the words, I realized it sounded as though I was actually buying into the ‘pennies from heaven’ angle.

Corrine nodded slowly, looking at me as though I’d parted the Red Sea. “You’re right. You’re so smart, Monroe. I knew I should come to you. This will help you figure it out.”

“I’m not so sure about that, but I’ll do what I can. You know I will.”

Corrine nodded again and stared at a spot over my shoulder. “You know, we almost lost Katie at birth.” I did know. I’d heard the story before about how Katie had been premature, her lungs not fully developed, and the doctors gave her a fifty-fifty chance of survival. I also knew that Corrine hadn’t been able to conceive after. Katie was their only child and she’d been brutally ripped from them. “I’m not sure why God would take her from us when she was a miracle baby, but it’s not up to me to question. I do, however, question why her killer would get by with it. Why he is free to live his life when my baby isn’t.” Tears welled, then spilled down her cheeks. “Every day, I expect her to walk through the door, to tell me it was all some kind of horrible joke and she’s home for good. Funny thing is, even though it was twenty-five years ago, I expect her to still be twelve.” She looked at me now and her voice dropped to a tortured whisper. “She’ll always be twelve.”

I nodded, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.

“We can’t rest until the person who did this is caught. Until he pays for taking my baby girl.” She put a finger on the penny, pushing it toward me. “Take this. It might help.”

I regarded it as I would a brown recluse spider. “I don’t need it. I’ll remember 1969.”

She shook her head vigorously and said, “You keep it. I don’t want it in my house.”

****

Cobra located Teresa, the girl who’d heard Ramirez shooting off his mouth. He set up a meeting at a tiny, dimly lit café on Troost Avenue. When Lane and Tony went inside, Cobra was already there, sitting at a table with an overweight Asian and a malnourished female who could have been any age from fifteen to fifty. The other four tables were empty.

The café held no food smells, only the odors of urine, unwashed bodies, and incense that did a poor job of covering the scent of weed.

“This here’s Big Eddie,” Cobra said after they’d taken seats around the scarred table.

Lane turned to the woman. “You Teresa?”

“No one talks to her less they go through me,” Big Eddie said, his voice much softer than Lane would have expected, coming from such a large body.

Lane considered ignoring the command, then decided the quickest way to get information was to play along.

“You weren’t there the day the guy was spouting off about the shooting, right?” Lane asked Big Eddie. When Eddie shook his head, Lane said, “Then I need you to ask her about it. We need to know who else was around.”

Big Eddie turned to the woman and repeated the question, as if she hadn’t just heard Lane say the same thing. Lane wondered—if Big Eddie was her keeper, her spokesperson—how she had managed to be without him when she was hanging with Ramirez. Maybe the no speaking rule only extended to cops.

Teresa stared off for a few seconds, thin fingers picking at the scab on her lower lip. She turned dull, red-streaked eyes to Eddie. “Don’t remember.”

“You better remember.” Big Eddie’s soft voice rose to a menacing growl.

Eyes coming into focus long enough to appear frightened, Teresa squinted. “Some old guy. A few more… a chick came at the end.” She shrugged. “Don’t know names. They’re just… you know… bodies and shit.”

Big Eddie reached out and gripped her upper arm and Teresa flinched, her face showing pain, the first emotion Lane had seen her display.

“Hey, let her go, man,” Tony said. “She’s doing her best.”

Big Eddie turned his mean, small eyes on Tony. “Don’t tell me how to deal with my woman.”

He lifted a large hand, clenching it in a fist and pulling back as if to punch her.

Lane’s arm shot out and he gripped Big Eddie by the wrist. Big Eddie turned his piggish eyes on Lane. “What the fuck? You come into my crib and disrespect me?” He released Teresa and started to stand.

Before the big man knew what happened, Lane snaked his grip from Eddie’s wrist to his throat, digging into the fleshy neck and squeezing. Eddie’s hands grappled with Lane’s as he dropped back into his chair, his face turning a reddish purple. He couldn’t budge Lane’s hold and, after a second, gave up, wheezing and staring at Lane with the eyes of a dying fish.

Bringing his face close enough to smell Eddie’s rancid breath, Lane said, “We came here to talk to your girl. Don’t want any trouble, but if you touch her, that’s exactly what you’ll get. Now, give the lady a chance to speak, show her some respect, and we’ll be out of your hair. Screw with us, and I’ll yank your larynx right out of your fat throat.”

Big Eddie might not have known what a larynx was, but he nodded as vigorously as Lane’s grip would allow, eager to please.

Lane let him go. Big Eddie massaged his throat with both beefy hands, glaring.

“In case you’re thinking of teaching her a lesson after we’re gone, my good friend, Cobra, here is going to keep an eye on you both. Word gets back to me you’ve so much as wrinkled her clothing, I’ll be on you harder than a pit bull on a pork chop.”

Although his eyes spewed hatred, Big Eddie’s voice was conciliatory. “Sure, yeah. Just got a little carried away. Teresa,” he looked at the woman, “anything you can remember to help these dudes… just say.”

Teresa shrugged, looking from Lane to Tony, then to Big Eddie. “Told you all I can. Dude was running his mouth. Some freaks was around. ‘sall I know.”

“Thanks for your time.” Tony looked at Cobra. “You hear anything, let us know.”

“You got it.” Cobra nodded. “You da man.”

Tony and Lane left and as they slid into the car, Tony said, “You know he’s not gonna stop, right?”

“What?” Lane squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Being around dimwitted assholes always gave him a headache.

“Wailin’ on the girl. You know your threat didn’t mean diddly shit to him. It’s in his blood.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“So, other than giving you a chance to exercise your machismo, that was pretty much a waste. Still have no idea if or how the killer got wind of Ramirez’s bullshit.”

Lane sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face, regretting it instantly when he once again smelled the stink of the café…of Big Eddie.

He pulled an anti-bacterial towelette out of the canister they kept in the Crown Vic and wiped his hands with it, then tucked it into the cup holder.

“Maybe she’ll remember something later,” he said without conviction.

Tony slid a stick of gum into his mouth and chewed. “Yeah, right. Bet it’s been a while since that chick remembered anything.”

Lane thought of her wasted body, her spaced out gaze, her perpetual confusion. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Most likely a long while.”

****

Although I was preoccupied with the thing with Matt, the thing with Josie, my looming unemployment, and the thing with the pennies, I remembered to do something I’d thought about since meeting Headphone. Well, I hadn’t exactly ‘met’ him, but I still felt acquainted.

I dug out some of my CD’s I seldom listened to and took those, along with a sixteen-pack of double A batteries, with me when I left for work on Monday morning. There were no Elvis CD’s in the batch, but I justified this with the idea that he probably didn’t care for Elvis, rather than admit I didn’t want to part with them.

Professor and Headphone were, predictably, sitting next to the fountain in front of the newspaper.

As I approached, I heard a song coming from Headphone’s headphones, but couldn’t distinguish which one it was.

After saying good morning to him and the professor, I extended the plastic Wal-Mart bag that held my gifts toward Headphone. He didn’t look up.

“What’s that you have there?” the professor asked.

“I brought him some CD’s and batteries.”

“Bless you,” the professor said. “He plays this same tiring song over and over.”

“What is it?”

“‘Escape’ by Rupert Holmes.”

“Not familiar with that,” I said.

“Oh, but I’m sure you are. Most people call it the “Pina Colada Song” and think Jimmy Buffet did it. But, they’re incorrect.”

“Right,” I said. “Now I know the song. It’s his favorite?”

The professor shrugged. “His current favorite. The previous one was some hootenanny country music CD. I never thought I’d say this, but I long for those days again.”

“Hey,” I said. “I like country music.”

He grinned. “I promise not to hold it against you, my dear.” He nodded toward Headphone. “He’s played that continually since he got it. He told me some man who was passing by gave it to him. I’d like to give his benefactor a piece of my mind.”

“He told you that?” I asked, unable to imagine the man speaking to anyone.

“He communicates from time to time.” The professor took the bag from me. “I’m sure he’ll enjoy these as soon as he’s worn that one out. Or, as soon as I get sick enough of it that I rip it from the player and smash it to pieces.” He smiled. “He’ll certainly make use of the batteries. That’s very kind of you. I’ll thank you for him since he is either incapable or simply rude.”

I grinned and said goodbye, heading into the office.

Asia went ballistic when she saw my face.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Sighing, I recounted the details of Matt’s assault.

“That sorry little prick. Wait ‘til I tell Darion. He’ll pound his hippie ass to dust.”

I had no doubt that Darion could do just that and allowed myself a few moments fantasizing about it before shaking my head. “No one can seem to find him. He comes and goes at will, then disappears into his hidey-hole whenever the cops come around.”

“Speaking of cops. Lane Brody came to your rescue? How romantic.”

I rolled my eyes, even though a thrill of warmth crept through me at the memory of his touch. “Didn’t exactly come to my rescue. Linus did. The worst was pretty much over by the time Lane arrived.”

“You have your version, I have mine.” She smiled widely. “Mine is much sexier, believe me.”

“Jesus, Asia, he’s married. Let it go.”

“Screw ‘married.’ I hear there’s something wonky about his marriage. His wife is mental or something. Besides, how married is anybody these days, really?”

At my raised eyebrows, she said, “Oh, not me. Darion and I are doing fine, in spite of my occasional fantasies. I just look around and, you know, marriage is pretty fleeting in most cases.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, my dear.”

“I mean, take A-hole Adam’s little woman. She screwed around on her man, left him for another guy, and now has a restraining order against him. Ask me, he’s the one needs a VPO against that crazy bitch.”

“She has a restraining order against her ex? Why?”

Asia shrugged. “Hell, why does anybody? Maybe he stalked her or maybe she just doesn’t want him around. I can’t figure out what crazy bitches are thinking.”

“How did you even know about it?”

Another shrug. “What can I say? I know things.”

“Is there anything that goes on that you don’t know about?”

“Let’s just say if I don’t know about it, it ain’t worth knowing.” She looked over my shoulder. “Speak of the Devil Bitch.”

I turned to see Tabitha come in with Adam, leaning her head toward him to listen intently to whatever he was saying. When Adam saw me, he left Tabitha’s side and rushed over.

He peered down at me, his gaze trained on my jaw. “Monroe. Good God, what happened?”

I heaved a sigh, already weary of repeating the story. I did it anyway.

“Did the police catch the son of a bitch?” Adam asked, his voice sharp with concern.

“No. Not yet.”

I glanced at Tabitha, who’d caught up to Adam in time to hear our conversation. I noted a glimpse of resentment on her face before it was masked. “That’s just awful, Monroe. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry’s right,” Asia muttered under her breath, and I cut her a look.

“Thanks, Tabitha,” I said.

“You know,” Tabitha turned to Adam, “this is why you need to do something about those creeps hanging around outside.”

“Creeps?” Adam said.

“Those nasty homeless people. You never know when someone might go off. I could be the next one hurt. You need to keep them away from here.”

“It’s a free sidewalk, hon,” Adam said distractedly, still gazing at me with a look of sympathy. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” I said, a little uncomfortable at his attention, and peeved at Tabitha’s remarks. “Those people out there aren’t hurting anyone,” I told her. “They’re not dangerous.”

Her lips curved. If she was trying for a smile, she failed miserably. But she would get an A plus if a derisive sneer was her aim. “With the company you keep, Monroe dear, I’m afraid you’re not exactly the one to decide who is and isn’t dangerous.” She said this as if I’d been blithely, willingly entertaining Matt when something went horribly wrong.

Asia cut a look at Adam. “Yes, we’re all guilty of slumming with the dregs of society from time to time.” Her gaze went back to Tabitha. “No accounting for taste, right?”

Red dots of fury appeared on Tabitha’s cheeks, but Asia took me by the arm and swept me away to my cubicle before she could respond.

****

Lane pulled a chair next to Tony’s desk and straddled it, waiting for him to get off the phone. Tony cocked his head and tugged upward with a clenched fist next to his neck, pantomiming hanging himself. Must be talking to the ex.

“No,” he said patiently into the phone. “I did not call you a cunt. I would never do that. I like cunts.” At her response, he flinched and held the phone away from his ear. Lane could hear Amy’s high-pitched tirade but couldn’t make out the words. Pulling the receiver back to his ear, Tony scratched his fingers along the mouthpiece. “Huh? Sorry, can’t… bad sig… talk… later…” Drawing the phone away once more, he punched the end button.

Lane clapped his hands. “Bravo. Magnificent performance.”

“Hey, I do what I can for the fans.” Tony leaned back and linked his hands behind his head. “We’ve been going at it for months. She says I should only get the kids every other weekend, no holidays, and no phone calls between my visits. Hell, my kids moved to Wichita. You think I’m gonna not even call ‘em?” Tony had two kids, a boy and a girl. The boy was ten and the girl was around thirteen or fourteen. She would soon be at the age where she no longer wanted to spend time with her dad, so Lane could understand Tony wanting to take advantage of every opportunity. “The ex wants the house but doesn’t want to pay me my part of the equity. She wants to keep the truck and me to take the Cavalier. I told her I wasn’t driving a woman’s car. She also wants the boat.”

“Jesus. You’re going to pay out the ass in attorney fees if you keep going back and forth. Can’t you make some kind of counter offer? Come to some kind of terms?”

Tony shook his head. “Nope. I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

Lane chuckled. Oddly, he was envious of Tony’s bitter, vicious, Ali-Frazier style divorce. It was preferable to the way his marriage had ended.

“How’s Monroe Donovan?” Tony asked.

Lane shrugged. “Haven’t talked to her.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “You haven’t checked on her since Lovell nearly killed her? Jesus, Huck. Some knight in shining armor you are.”

Lane let it pass. He’d given Tony a rundown of what had taken place, leaving out his near fatal hard-on.

“The bastard is slicker than greased bat shit,” Lane said. “Faded right back into the woodwork. Can’t get a bead on him. Not even a hint of where he might be.”

Leaning forward, Tony picked up the file on the B and B killing. “Yeah, and we’ve got this one yanking our nads, too.” He flipped through the paperwork, reading the notes aloud, even though Lane already knew most of what was there. “Ramirez’s roommates knew nothing. Said, let’s see… on Tuesday, the night before he bought it, Ramirez told them the same story he told the street people. Saw two guys approach Hebringer.” He sighed. “Maybe we are looking for two shooters.”

“Bay seemed certain Garrett was making it up. Nothing points to two shooters, other than his story. Hell, I’d settle for finding one shooter at the moment.”

“If the same guy did Hebringer and Ramirez, he’s not always a shooter. Likes knives, too.”

“Probably uses whatever fits the circumstances. A gunshot outside of Ziggy’s would have drawn attention.”

Still flipping through the file, Tony said, “Ran a list of construction workers in the area, checking for anyone with a record. Plenty of hits, but not any with this guy’s M.O. Not many to do with firearms at all.”

“Did the footprint cast come back?”

“Yeah. Size ten and a half.” Tony looked up. “My size. Whew! Case solved.” He slapped the file closed. “We got shit, Huck. Diddly shit.”

Lane tapped his fingers on the back of the chair, thinking. “Okay, we know what we don’t have. Let’s talk about what we do have. Construction dust at the scene. The message painted on a tree. Ballistics report confirms the weapon was a Smith and Wesson .38 special. Nothing came up through NIBIN.” NIBIN was the National Integrated Ballistics Information Network that searched ballistics data for links to other crimes. The gun used in Hebringer’s death didn’t get a hit. “And, this homicide is possibly linked to the murder of a homosexual man who was a guest at the bed and breakfast the night Hebringer was killed—”

“Possibly?”

Lane shrugged. “If we’re dealing with only what we know, it’s just a ‘possible’ link. The murder weapon was different. No messages left at the scene.”

Tony nodded. “And, since Teresa didn’t know her own name, let alone who else was around at the time, we don’t know how many people might have heard Ramirez’s story. The killer could have been in the group, listening.”

“Yeah. Or, the way word gets around on the streets, he could have heard it the same way Dupree did. Through the grapevine.”

“Limitless possibilities and no cold, hard, facts. No evidence, no eye witnesses.” Tony’s face took on an expression of rapturous delight. “This is starting to be my most favorite kind of case.”

****

“Did they find the prick yet?” Asia asked.

Matt was ‘the prick,’ Adam was ‘the asshole,’ so I knew who she was referring to. Besides, unfortunately, Adam wasn’t missing.

“Not that I know of.”

“Any word from Josie?”

I shook my head, not looking at her. I was trying to get the last of the obits in before deadline and there were many. It seemed people had been keeping themselves busy dying lately.

“You know,” Asia said. “If you weren’t friends with her, this would never have happened.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. “No lectures right now, ‘kay? I’m kind of busy.”

“Darion’s been itching to get hold of the prick ever since I told him what happened.”

“If I find him, Darion will be the first one I call,” I murmured distractedly.

Asia said more, but I didn’t catch it. My eyes were riveted on my computer screen. The obituary I was working on listed the date of death as November seventh. Today was the fifth.

Weird. In all the time I’d done this, I’d never received an obit with the wrong date. Now I’d gotten two within a couple of weeks?

A trickle of unease wound through my body, but I wasn’t sure why. Nothing menacing about a typo.

I sent a reply email to the person who’d submitted the obit, letting them know they’d listed an incorrect date. The deadline was looming, though, so I didn’t expect to hear back from them in time. I picked up the phone to call Adam.

“Hey, you listening to me?” Asia again.

“Sorry, actually, I’m not. I’m trying to get some work done. Maybe you should, too.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “I’ll save my pearls of wisdom for someone who appreciates them.”

She stalked away, managing to look regal even when she was pissed.

I dialed Adam’s extension. “Yes?” he answered briskly.

“I received an emailed obituary with the wrong date listed.”

“What? Another one?”

“Yeah. The date of death is listed as this coming Friday.”

“Did you email them about it?”

“I did. But, just now. I just discovered it. I doubt we’ll hear back before this has to go in. Want me to hold off or print it without the date?”

“Shit.” I heard him sigh. “If you don’t hear back, print it without the date. The family will be more upset if it doesn’t go in than if it goes in without a date. They won’t have much right to be pissed, since it’s their error.”

“Okay. I’ll give them a few minutes. If I don’t hear back in time, I’ll send it through minus the date.”

He hung up without saying goodbye. Geez. Like he was the only busy one around here.

I finished up the other obituaries and still hadn’t heard from the Lohman family, so I removed the date and sent the obit through.

As I did, I wondered why my trepidation lingered.