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for almost a year now, after spending a few years writing commercially unsuccessful science fiction novels. Okay, the first one did reasonably well, which had given me the confidence to quit a salaried job and write fiction full-time. But as most people who write fiction understand, unless they happen to be Tom Clancy, or a former president penning his memoirs, you can’t support a family and pay a mortgage without a regular job. And I was back at one.
    The Metropolitan
offered me a feature-writing position. Given my experience, coupled with the fact I’d written four novels, the editors in charge seemed to feel I had graduated beyond the level of general assignment. To my surprise, and Sarah’s, they put me among the stable of city feature writers who reported to her. Although she wouldn’t admit this to me, I’d heard through the newsroom grapevine that she’d fired off a memo to the managing editor, Bertrand Magnuson, expressing some concern, something along the lines of “I can’t get him to do anything I say at home, so what makes you think I can do it here?”
    The problem was, the newsroom has a long history of people who sleep together—spouses, and non-spouses, and a few spouses with non-spouses—being thrown into the mix together, and Sarah’s superior probably wrote her back with a note consisting of three letters—“DWI”—which in the
Metropolitan
newsroom meant “deal with it.”
    Moving on, I said, “You know about this Trevor Wylie kid?”
    Sarah thought a moment. “The one calling Angie? Not much. He the one had a face like a pizza?”
    “No.”
    “Then I don’t know anything.”
    “I just don’t like the sounds of this guy.”
    “Has he done anything?”
    “He’s calling Angie all the time, shows up where she is, like maybe he’s following her.”
    “You mean, like when you were interested in me?”
    “I just don’t like him. You should talk to Angie, find out more about this guy, tell her to be careful.”
    “You talk to her.”
    “I think she’s still mad at me, over the Pool Boy incident.”
    “Yeah, well, who can blame her. I can’t believe Harley didn’t give you a prescription. You ask me, you need to be on something.”
     
4
     
    THE PHONE RANG as I sat down at my desk. “Zack Walker,” I said.
    “Lawrence here. You get any sleep?”
    “Not much. You?”
    “No. I ended up going back to the scene, talking to Trimble a bit more, trying for more information, but there wasn’t much to get.”
    “What’s the deal with you two? I didn’t sense a whole lot of mutual admiration there.”
    “We used to be partners. When I was still on the force.”
    “Partners? You were partners?”
    “Yeah, well, maybe sometime I’ll tell you all about it. We still on for tonight?”
    “Of course. I was afraid, after what happened to Miles, maybe you wouldn’t let me tag along.”
    “No, it’s okay. Meet me at ten, doughnut shop around the corner from Brentwood’s. Still too much traffic that time of night for anyone to try anything. Anything happens, it’ll be later.”
    “You think they’ll come out, the night after they hit a store and ended up killing a guy?”
    “Honestly, no.”
    “I hate to ask, but you go anywhere near Crandall on your way?” If he wasn’t able to pick me up at home, I’d have to grab a cab, what with Angie needing the car.
    Lawrence said nothing for a moment. He was probably consulting one of several mental maps he kept upstairs. “Yeah, sure, why?”
    “No car tonight. But if it’s out of your way, I can get a cab, bill the paper—”
    “No, no, that’s fine. Give me your address.” I did. “See you round nine forty-five.”
     
     
    We were parked in the same place we’d been the night before, on Garvin, half a block down from Brentwood’s.
    Although we’d not had to meet at the doughnut shop, Lawrence and I still pulled in there. He still had the old Buick, what Lawrence called his “business” car, at least the one he used