The modernistic interior with its cold metal-and-glass furniture was as Gurney remembered it. Getz was snapping his fingers as though his level of nervous energy demanded it. He pointed to the same oval, acrylic coffee table and cluster of chairs where they’d had their first meeting. “Grab a seat. Time for a drink. Love helicopters, love ’em to death. RAM’s got a fleet of them. We’re famous for it. The Ram-copters. Every major news event, a Ramcopter is always the first one there. Really big event, we send two. No one else has the resources to send two. Point of pride. But whenever I go up, I always land thirsty. Join me in a drink?”

Before Gurney or Kim could answer, Getz put two fingers to his lips and whistled—a loud, sharp note that outdoors would have been audible at five hundred yards. Almost immediately the Rollerblader entered from a doorway on the far side of the room. Gurney recognized the skates, the black leotard stretched over the eye-catching body, the deep blue gel-spiked hair, the eyes as blue and shocking as the hair.

“You ever have Stoli Elit?” asked Getz.

“I’ll just have a glass of water, if that’s okay,” said Kim.

“You, Detective Gurney?”

“Water.”

“Too bad. Stoli Elit is really special. Costs a fortune.” He looked at the Rollerblader. “Claudia, sweetheart, bring me three fingers, neat.” He held up three fingers horizontally, to show her how much he wanted in his glass.

She pivoted on the tips of her skates and glided out through the far doorway.

“So we’re all here. Let’s sit down and talk.” Getz motioned again to the chairs.

Kim and Gurney sat on one side of the table, Getz on the other side.

Claudia came gliding back and placed a glass in front of Getz. He picked it up, sipped some clear liquid from it, and smiled. “Perfect.”

She gave Gurney an appraising glance and again disappeared through the far doorway.

“Okay,” said Getz. “Business.” He set his gleaming eyes on Kim. “Sweetheart, I know you got stuff you want to say. Let’s get that out of the way first. Talk to me.”

Kim looked lost for a moment before speaking. “I don’t know what to say—other than that I’m horrified. Horrified by what’s happened. I feel responsible. These people who were killed—they were killed because of me. Because of The Orphans of Murder. It has to be stopped. Ended.”

Getz stared at her. “That’s it?” He seemed taken aback, as though he’d been auditioning an actress who stopped speaking after her first line.

“That and the whole tone of the program. It wasn’t what I was expecting. The way it was edited, that hokey opening on the dark country road, the so-called experts who were asked for their opinions—to be honest, I thought it was trashy.”

“Trashy?”

“Bottom line, I want the series canceled.”