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over to the authorities. Got the deed transferred back in
Grandmas name. Ran background checks on the new live-in.
All's well that ends well."
I took a sip from my shake, regretting that I hadn't supersized it.
"What about researching Alex Madigen's accident?"
She wiped ketchup from her cheek, spreading it to her chin.
"Meeting Friday with the trooper who processed the scene. Got
that handled."
"And the marketing plans for the business? What happened to
those?"
She waved at me with her burger. "Still attending chamber
meetings and expanding the circle of influence. Don't you worry.
Got promo covered, full calendar of activities. Think of radio as
my new hobby."
"Your hobbies are more time-consuming than most people's
jobs. Fantasy football, snowboarding, golf. Now this!"
"Everything's under control," Fran said tranquilly. "You want to
hear about my babe-bagging opportunity or not?"
I replied with no enthusiasm, "Sure."
She brightened. "Have an interview next Monday. Look over my
list of topics, would you?" She reached under her blotter and
handed me a scrap of paper. "Which's your favorite?"
I scanned the short list. '"Lesbian bed death what to do.'"
She raised an eyebrow. "Any particular reason?"
"Because it applies to more women than "vegans living with meat
lovers what's the beef?' You need to come up with more than
two topics if you really want the job."
"Counting on you to add to the list," she said with a cajoling grin.
"Commitment ceremonies what to wear."
"Good, good," she said, fumbling to get the cap off her pen.
"Company picnics should girlfriends go?"
Fran nodded approval. "Timely, with barbeque season in full
swing. I like how you think. Hold on a sec, though. Bed death
jogged my memory. Did our decoy target call you back?"
I nodded. "Monday afternoon. I left a note on your desk."
She shuffled through mounds of papers. "Got it. Appointment
with Linda Palizzi, Thursday at lunchtime. Yikes, that's
tomorrow! How'd the initial contact go? Spill!"
"There's nothing to tell. She described the house for rent in
Bonnie Brae, and we agreed to meet there during her lunch
hour."
"No big deal, right?"
I eyed her warily. "So far."
"Told you." She leaned across the space between our desks and
smacked me on the arm. "You're a natural, kid. This could be
big. Bigger than big. Gargantuan. We'll put Test-A-Mate
franchises in every city. Am I good, or what?" She paused to pat
herself on the back. "Everything's unfolding according to plan.
Yes, it is."
Unfolding according to plan.
Easy for Fran Green to say when she didn't have to expose
potential cheaters.
potential cheaters.
What about me, the one doing all the work? How did I feel?
Truthfully?
I couldn't shake a sense of dread.
Dread followed me home that night, only lifting temporarily when
Destiny called from San Francisco. I laughed at her recap of
thirty lesbians spending sixty collective hours to construct a
solitary sentence on domestic partnerships and shared with her
Fran's broadcasting ambitions.
We spent twenty minutes chatting, and when I hung up, I
couldn't help but focus on the days to go before Destiny would
rejoin me, rather than on the ones that had passed since she left.
I hated coming home to an empty house and eating alone, and I
hated sleeping alone.
Destiny's presence helped alleviate my chronic insomnia, and
without it, more often than not, I was doomed to eight or ten
hours of restlessness, a pattern I repeated on this Wednesday
evening.
To get a head start on the process, I went to bed early, but as
the night crept into its darkest hours, I felt overwhelmed by what
lay ahead.
Sometime after sunrise, I would have to return to Alex
Madigen's room at Sinclair and attempt to extract more
information about a mysterious woman who, in all likelihood,
lived only in Alex's fantasies. And before sunset, I would have to
meet Linda Palizzi at her rental house in Bonnie Brae and
pretend I was a prospective tenant, all the while attempting to
record flirting or inappropriate behavior, information I would
record flirting or inappropriate behavior, information I would
pass on to her life partner, Roxanne Herbert.
Given the circumstances of the Thursday to come, it made sense
that I couldn't sleep.
I didn't want to wake up.
My deepest periods of slumber came between six and nine in the
morning, which meant I had to skip a thirty-minute workout in
the basement, and I yawned all the way to Sinclair, almost
missing the entrance to the grounds.
Skidding through a turn, I continued down the windy lane at a
crawl. Formerly the site of a girl's boarding school, the campus
had been transformed into a healthcare hub. Four modern stucco
buildings housed a medical center, nursing home, assisted living
facility and Sinclair, and they were sprinkled among turn-of-the-
century brick structures that served as administrative offices. Ten
acres of peaceful surroundings included walking paths and flower
beds, elms and silver maples and benches and picnic tables.
I parked in front of Sinclair and at the front desk exchanged
pleasantries with Melissa, the receptionist who had returned from
a Vegas vacation, and ignored Holly, the substitute who lurked in
the background. From there, I dropped by the activities room
and found a resident playing the piano, one agonizing note at a
time, but no sign of Alex.
After a brief debate over what to do next, I headed to the staff
wing to track down Kelly Nagle, to thank her for referring Alex's
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