“He wants to talk to me. Let’s consider it a trial run, okay? I’ll do the preliminaries and help him see he can trust the Free Press to be fair and unbiased. I’ll make sure the door’s open when someone else takes over.”

He stared at me, considering. “You’ve seen the autopsy photos?”

I nodded.

“Whoever killed that young woman was a very angry person. An out of control person. Someone with no mercy.”

“I’ll meet him in broad daylight with other people around.”

He considered longer. “I’ll give you a list of questions. And don’t improvise. Basics. And leave him with the idea we’re on his side.”

“Even if we aren’t.”

He raised a brow. “I’ll be turning this over to somebody with absolutely no information about the case. Somebody who wasn’t here when the media went crazy.”

“Including the Free Press.”

“He may hold that against you. Make sure you have a lot of people around. More than a handful. And leave me information about where you’re meeting him and when.”

“Thank you.”

“You can say that afterward, if you still want to.” He dropped the Perry White mask. “Listen, I’m serious. Be careful. I have a gut feeling he did it. You won’t hear me say that again, okay? But I’ve been at this for a long time. I know what I know.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“Good, if your father sues for wrongful death, the Seabank Free Press would buckle at the knees.”

“Okay, now I see why you’re worried.”

“A good journalist takes everything into consideration.”

I left with his assurance that the list of allowed questions would be on my computer in an hour. I knew Grant really was concerned, but I also knew that despite his studied apathy, he still loved the news.

I emailed John Quayle and suggested we meet at a Starbucks downtown, not far from the Free Press, and he agreed immediately. We set six o’clock for the interview, and as promised, Grant’s questions arrived. They were uninspiring, clearly the opening salvo. Grant wanted me to make Quayle comfortable, kind of like a band no one has heard of warming the audience for the headliners at a rock concert. Being the warm-up act was not the way my particular journalistic talents ran, but there was no point in arguing. I left Grant a thank-you email and told him the interview was at six.

I was meeting Teo for lunch, and once we sat down with his fully loaded Cuban and my veggie pita, I told him my news.

He didn’t touch his sandwich. “You told me you wouldn’t be going near Quayle.”

I unwrapped mine. “That’s what I thought, too, Teo. But he contacted me.”

“Not a good thing.”

I looked up. We’d made no declarations of love, and certainly no future plans. But the signs were already there. And since I was head over heels for this guy, I thought I would be ready when the negotiations began.

“You know what I want to do with my life,” I said. “And my choices are a lot safer than yours. I would never ask you not to go out on patrol some night because I was afraid there was going to be more trouble than usual.”