Otto nodded, asked me to pull the lever inside that would pop the hood.

“Jesus,” he said. “There’s nothing here but a huge plastic cover. I got to get that off before I can see anything. Can you leave it with me? It might have something to do with the battery cells. It’s got a shitload of them. Loose wire, maybe. You could pick it up later in the afternoon.”

I grabbed a streetcar the rest of the way to work, and Nancy, the assignment editor who was filling in for Sarah while she was at her retreat, found me at my desk about five seconds after I’d sat down. She’d read Dan’s turnover note and wanted to be brought up to speed. I gave her the short version of events, enough details that she could answer questions from any editors further up the food chain, including Magnuson, who could be assured, I said, that I was not involved in any shootouts.

“Shootouts?”

“You can just tell him, if he asks.”

“Write your story,” she said. “Everything you’ve got. And figure out what likely follows you have.”

“If there are any follow-ups,” said Dick Colby, who had sneaked up behind Nancy, “they’re mine. This is my beat, you know.”

“I’m sorry, Dick,” I said. “Next time I find a guy who’s dying, I’ll phone you so you can come down and call the ambulance.”

Nancy took a step back from Colby, trying to get some air.

“All I’m saying is,” Colby said, “everyone should respect each other’s territory. You don’t see me writing science fiction stories.”

“You could do one,” I said, “about a planet where no one bathes.”

“Oh fuck,” Nancy said under her breath.

“What did you say?” Colby asked me.

“Look,” said Nancy, who hated confrontation and wanted to defuse uncomfortable situations as quickly as possible. “Dick, we can talk about this later, okay?”

Cheese Dick wandered off, grumbling.

“I can’t believe you said that,” Nancy said.

“I can’t believe we’re still breathing,” I said.

My desk phone rang. I gave Nancy my “I have to get this” smile, and put the receiver to my ear.

“Walker,” I said.

“Zack. It’s Trixie.”

My stomach flipped.

“Hey,” I said. “I was, uh, I was actually thinking of calling you today.”

“I heard, on the news, about Lawrence. Isn’t this the guy you told me about on the phone?”

By now, Lawrence’s name had been officially released by the police, and the story was on the radio. “Yeah,” I said.

“Sounds terrible. How is he?”

“Not good.”

“Listen, you sound kind of preoccupied, so I can let you go. But what were you going to call me about?”

Think. The truth? Or something less than the truth?