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the noted trauma expert, who was later held for questioning by the police.”
    Jesus. I clicked it off, sat calmly with the mug on my knee, and waited for the phone to start ringing. It did.
    The first call was from my cousin Johnny. “Shit, man, now I know why you didn’t show up at the restaurant last night. You were busy gettin’ on the news.”
    “That’s one way of looking at it.”
    “Screw it. Not for nothin’, though, but you coulda called. Aren’t they supposed to allow you one phone call?”
    “That’s if you’re a suspect. I’m not.”
    Johnny laughed on the other end of the line. Ten years younger than me, he always tried to come off as cool and cynical, a player’s player. The Sammy Glick of CPAs.
    “Listen, Danny, if you think you ain’t a suspect, you’re nuttier than one of your patients. The cops don’t turn up some poor mook for this thing soon, you’re it!”
    “You’re a goddam ray of sunshine, you know that?” I yawned despite the coffee. I could feel the fatigue settling over me now. The bone-weariness of a sleepless night. The long hours of daylight ahead. Shit.
    Johnny’s voice hardened. “Trust me, man. You gotta move fast. Hang up with me and call a friggin’ lawyer.”
    “Good advice,” I said, hanging up. Almost immediately the phone rang again. I let the answering machine take it.
    “This is Stan Brody, WWSW News Radio. Can you just—”
    I turned down the volume and went upstairs. Stretched out on the bed, I listened to the phone ringing again and again. The remorseless clicks as the machine recorded the silent messages. I knew who’d they’d be from. The press. Worried colleagues and friends. Probably a couple attorneys offering their services.
    Finally, I roused myself and reached for the extension phone. I had some calls to make, too.
    As I flipped through my patient roster, I realized I was about to repeat the same steps I’d taken, in almost the exact same sequence, six years before…
    Calling my patients and canceling their sessions for the next two weeks. Explaining my need for some personal time. Some responded with sympathy; others got angry. As I expected, a few claimed it was fine with them. No big deal. I knew I’d have the hardest time with them when I got back.
    Then I called Paul Atwood, another therapist in my office building, to see if he could cover for me. Luckily, he’d seen the morning news and didn’t have to ask why.
    “Look, Dan, if you need anything…” His voice grew thick. “You know, I had a patient once who—”
    “Thanks,” I said, cutting him off. “I’m fine.”
    A pause. “Right.”
    ***
     
    The doorbell rang, waking me. I must have lain back on the bed and fallen asleep. Groggily, I turned over, pulled the bedside table clock closer. 3:15 p.m.
    The bell rang again. More reporters? Damn.
    I clambered out of bed, eyes adjusting to the afternoon light slanting into the room, and looked out the window. There was a patrol unit parked at the curb. My own green Mustang was parked behind it.
    I went downstairs and opened the door. Two uniforms stood there, both young and wearing mustaches. One of them dangled my car keys in his hand. The other had a clipboard.
    “Brought your car back, sir,” the latter said, offering me the clipboard and a pen. “You have to sign for it.”
    “No problem.” So I did.
    As I pocketed my keys, the other cop said, “Sergeant Polk said to tell you to meet him downtown at nine tonight. The Old County Building. They need you there.”
    “Okay.” What the hell was going on?
    “He says to just stay put till then. We gotta pull the surveillance on your place. Manpower’s short.”
    “Tell Sergeant Polk I’ll sit tight.”
    “Great. You have a nice day.”
    Given the circumstances, a strange comment. I stood in the open doorway and watched them drive off. As soon as the patrol car rounded the corner, I went back inside, dressed, locked up the house, and got in my car.
    I was not going to