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says, adopting a cockney accent and dropping the H on the name. “I’m your local newsboy, which seems appropriate at the moment because Alison Miller is out front asking if she can come back and get some information on your latest victim.”
    Alison Miller is Sorenson’s ace reporter and photographer, and she and I share a long, and recently turbulent history. I’ve known her since high school and over the past month or so she has also been my chief competition for Hurley’s affections. Fortunately she seems to have given up on this latest pursuit. When Hurley was injured and on his way to the OR drugged up on morphine with Alison at his side, he kept mumbling my name. Alison didn’t take it very well and as a result she has quit hound-dogging Hurley and speaking to me.
    “Let her come back,” Izzy tells Cass. “Maybe she can help us identify our victim.”
    “What are you going to do?” Richmond says as Cass leaves the room. “Put a dead woman’s picture in the paper?”
    “No,” Izzy says with an admirable degree of patience. “But the handle on this knife is quite unique and a picture of it might give us some leads. As might a picture of this tattoo on her ankle,” he adds, pushing one of the woman’s trouser legs up and revealing a colorful butterfly.
    Not one to tolerate a public reprimand very well, Richmond tries to save pride by going on the offensive. “You have cross-dressers working your front desk?” he says, shaking his head with dismay. “What the hell is this office coming to, anyway?”
    Colbert gives Richmond a wary look and does a little sidestep, as if to separate himself from the other man’s insanity.
    “Cass isn’t a cross-dresser,” Izzy says, his voice tight. “But if she was I would still hire her, as long as she did her job.”
    Richmond clucks his tongue and shakes his head woefully. “What a fine impression she must make on the public.”
    Since most of our “public” is dead on arrival, I’m with Izzy; I don’t see what the big deal is. I start to say so but Izzy speaks before I can.
    “Cass is an actor,” he says. “And I see no harm in letting her practice some of her roles while she’s working.”
    “An actor,” Richmond harrumphs. “ That explains a lot.”
    “Yes, an actor,” Izzy repeats. His eyes have narrowed and I can tell he’s starting to lose his patience. “She works with the same thespian group my partner, Dom, does. He’s an actor, too. And gay. As am I. Do you have a problem with any of that?”
    Despite the fact that Izzy is shorter than most twelve-year-olds and you could fit at least three of him into Richmond’s mass, he looks quite intimidating. The two men have a little stare down—quite literally down, in Richmond’s case since Izzy is only chest high to him—before the bigger man backs off.
    “No,” Richmond mutters finally, looking down at his feet. “No problem.”
    A long, tension-filled moment follows, during which I can hear water dripping from the faucet in one of the sinks. Everyone finally breathes again when Alison breezes into the room, her ubiquitous camera hanging around her neck. She glares briefly in my direction, then dismisses me and addresses Izzy.
    “Whatcha got?” she asks. She walks toward the table, stopping when she’s about a foot away. “Oh, my,” she says, paling. “That’s Callie Dunkirk.”
    “You know her?” Izzy says.
    “Know her? Hell, I want to be her,” Alison says. Then she winces and adds, “Well, except for the dead part.”
    “Are you sure it’s her?” Izzy asks.
    “Oh yeah,” Alison says with a definitive nod. “I’d know her anywhere. Aside from her obvious physical attributes, the woman is . . . was one of the best investigative reporters in Chicago. She used to do a beat for the Trib, but about a year ago she got hired by that TV news show, Behind the Scenes. What is she doing up here?”
    “We have no idea,” Izzy says. “Until you got here, we didn’t even know