True to her word, Monnie Donnelley had already delivered some material on James Truscott. Very simply, he checked out. He was ambitious, could be considered ruthless at times, but he was a respected member of the Fourth Estate. He didn’t appear to have any connection to the Mary Smith murders.

I looked at my watch, muttered a curse, then dialed home, hoping to catch Jannie and Damon before they went off to bed.

“Hello, Cross residence. Jannie Cross speaking.”

I found myself smiling. “Is this the hugs-and-kisses store? I’d like to place an order, please.”

“Hi, Daddy. I knew you’d call.”

“Am I that predictable? Never mind. You two getting ready for bed, I hope? Ask Damon to get on the other line.”

“I’m already on. I figured it was you, Dad. You are kind of predictable. That’s a good thing.”

I caught up with the kids briefly. Damon tried to wheedle me into letting him buy a CD with a parental advisory label. No sale there, and still no word from him on the mystery girlfriend. Jannie was gearing up for her first science fair and wanted to know if I could hook her friends up to a polygraph. “Sure thing. Right after we hook up you and Damon.”

Then Jannie told me something that bothered me a lot. “That writer was here again. Nana chased him off. She gave him a good tongue-lashing, called him a ‘disgrace to his profession.’”

After I finished with the kids, I talked to Nana, and then I ordered room service. Finally, I called Jamilla in San Francisco. I was making the calls in reverse stress order, I knew, leaving the hard ones for last. Of course, there was also the issue of time zones to consider.

“This whole Mary Smith thing has gone national in a hurry,” Jamilla said. “Word up here is the LAPD isn’t even close to catching her.”

“Let’s talk about something besides work,” I said. “That okay with you?”

“Actually, I have to leave, Alex. I’m meeting a friend . . . just a friend,” she added a little too quickly. “Don’t worry about it.” But that sounded to me like code for worry about it.

“Sure, go,” I said.

“Talk to you tomorrow?” she asked. “Sorry. I have to run. Tomorrow, Alex?”

I promised, and then hung up. Just a friend, I thought. Well, two calls down, one to go. The really hard one. I picked up the phone again and punched in numbers I knew by heart.

“Hello?”

“It’s me. Alex.”

Christine paused—another undecipherable response. “Hi,” she finally said.

“Could I talk to Alex?”

“Of course. Hang on, I’ll get him. He just finished his dinner. He’s in the playroom.”

I heard a rustling and then Christine’s muted voice. “It’s Daddy.” The word gave me a strange pang—warm and regretful at the same time.