“Your husband has a point, Mrs. Stone. Maybe you ought to leave the investigating to the police.”

“Well, I would,” said Lucy, defending herself, “but the police don’t seem to be doing a very good job, do they? I was the one who identified the homeless guy, and I’m going to find out who killed him and Mimi. Those boys have lost their mother but they deserve to have a father.”

So there it was. Lucy hadn’t realized it herself, but that was the reason she wasn’t about to give up.

“It’s not your responsibility,” said Bill, softly.

“That’s right,” said Horowitz. “We have social services, foster care…they’ll be taken care of.”

Lucy rolled her eyes in disgust. “Who are you kidding? Don’t you read the newspapers? The whole system’s messed up.”

“That’s not true,” insisted Horowitz. “You only read about the tragedies. Believe me, there are hundreds of success stories every day, but reporters like you only want to write about the sensational stories.”

Lucy had heard it all before: it was the media’s fault. Never mind the corrupt officials, the lives destroyed, bad news was always the fault of the reporter. Kill the messenger. “Oh, puh-lease,” she moaned.

“I’ll admit you have uncovered some interesting information,” said Horowitz.

Lucy’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“And I’m going to take another look at the case against Fred Stanton.”

“That’s great,” said Lucy.

“But I have to warn you,” he continued in his sad monotone, “that if you continue to investigate on your own, you’re taking a very big risk.” He shook his head mournfully. “Our resources are stretched to the breaking point. Next time you call, I can’t promise we’ll be able to respond.”

Lucy remembered how frightened she was when the window broke, she thought of how vulnerable little Zoe was, and she was tempted to promise she would leave the investigating to the pros, but she couldn’t do it.

“I’ll be careful,” she said.

Chapter 19

Lucy was up bright and early Saturday morning, eager to get to her computer and Google the bank robbery that resulted in Officer O’Toole’s death. She didn’t even bother with breakfast but poured herself a cup of coffee. The dog didn’t think much of this change in schedule but after pacing around the kitchen, nails clicking on the wood floor, she finally curled up on the floor next to Lucy’s computer desk with a big sigh.