He paused, looking over at me again, but with the first genuine interest I'd seen.

"I know the man whose death I'm dealing with and I have a personal stake in the outcome. I think he was murdered and it pisses me off Disease is neutral. Homicide's not."

"I think your feeling for Bobby is coloring your judgment His death was accidental."

"Maybe. Or maybe I can persuade Homicide that he died as a result of a murder attempt nine months ago."

"If you can prove that," he said. "So far I gather you don't have much to go on, which is where your work differs from mine. I can probably come up with something conclusive here and I won't have to leave the room."

"I do envy you that," I said. "I mean, I don't doubt Bobby was killed, but I don't have any idea who did it and I may never have any evidence."

"Then I have it all over you," he said. "For the most part, I deal in certainty. Once in a while, I'm stumped, but not often."

"You're lucky."

Marcy returned with Kelly's address and telephone number on a slip of paper, which she handed to me.

"I prefer to think I'm talented," he was saying wryly. "I better not keep you in any case. Let me know how it comes out."

"I'll do that. Thanks for this," I said, holding up the slip of paper.

It was now five o'clock. I found a pay phone in an offshoot of one of the hospital corridors and tried Kelly s number.

He picked up on the third ring. I identified myself, reminding him of Dr. Fraker's introduction.

"I know who you are."

"Listen," I said, "could I stop by and talk to you? There's something I need to check out."

He seemed to hesitate at first. "Sure, O.K. You know where I am?"

Kelly s apartment was on the west side of town, not far from St. Terry's. I trotted back to my car and drove over to an address on Castle. I parked in front of a frame duplex and walked down a long driveway to a small wooden outbuilding at the rear of the property. His place, like mine, had probably been a garage at one time.

As I rounded some shrubs, I spotted him sitting on his front step, smoking a joint. He wore jeans and a leather vest over a plaid shirt, feet bare. His hair was pulled back in the same neat braid, beard and mustache looking grayer somehow than I remembered. He seemed very mellow, except for his eyes, which were aquamarine and impossible to read. He held the joint out to me, but I declined with a shake of my head.

"Didn't I see you at Bobby's funeral?" I asked.