I took a moment, studied Bucky. “Do you also know where he lives?”

“Sure.”

I pointed to the crayons and paper on the table. “Write his address down.” I reached into my pocket and dug out my cell. “What’s your number?” I dialed while Bucky recited it, and then waited while the phone rang. Folded notes, disappearing delivery boys, spacey messengers, there wasn’t this much intrigue in a le Carré novel.

“Yeah?” It was Jung.

“Jung, what are you doing? Forget it. Whatever it is, stop doing it.”

“Did you change your mind? Will you take my case?”

“Jung, you have no case. Look, I asked around as a favor to you. Your friend’s death was a tragic accident, and you’re just going to have to accept it. But since we’re on it, you conveniently left out a few things about Tim, like the fact that he was dying of cancer.”

There was a long pause before Jung spoke again. “If I’d told you that, you never would have listened in the first place.”

I looked over the table at Bucky. He was back to the shake, his cheeks sunken in midway through a long draw, but seemingly mesmerized by the call. “Jung, there is no murderer out there.”

“You’re wrong. The police are wrong. I told you—”

I cut him off. “Jung, you are going to get yourself in trouble. Where are you?”

“No way. If you’re not in, then you’re out, and don’t need to know. I’ve got this.”

“You’ve got nothing,” I shot back, my voice rising. “Your friend had a history of depression and anxiety, not to mention the fact that he was OCD. Stop and think—”

Jung interrupted me. “‘OCD’? Who told you that?”

“It came from someone who ought to know, his own brother.”

Bucky had almost finished his shake and was sweeping the straw along the bottom of the cup to pick up any last remnants. I glared at him. He stopped. “This is news to you?”

“I gotta go,” Jung snapped.

“What? No.”

The line went dead.

“Jung!” I dialed right back, but the call went to voice mail and I got Bucky’s dopey message asking me to “leave my digits.”

“That was some major intensity,” Bucky said. “Mind if I borrow some of that?”

I glared at him. “What?”

“I’m an actor. Third year. I positively breathe character.” He eased into his pocket and pulled out a blue flyer. “See? ‘Bucky T. Scanlon, MacGuffins Theatre Troupe, U of C.’ I’m playing the hostess with the mostess in our latest revue. I nail it, by the by.”