"Sir, I have a message from the Grainger camp in the form of a request for a meeting."

"A meeting, hmm, are we seeing white flags, Peter? Did our little video production blow the pins out from under them?"

"Mr. Cooper seemed oddly composed and confident on the phone, sir. He said it would be in your best interest to oblige. I'm to let him know within the hour."

"Within the hour! Or what?" Bradford began to steam.

"He didn't say, other than there wouldn't be another chance in this lifetime."

The threat, while delivered with blatant temerity, carried with it an uncomfortable air of authenticity, and Bradford hesitated. He ran over a number of possibilities in his mind, positive they had left no holes in the plan . . . still . . .

"Tell Mr. Cooper I will meet at his convenience. Has this man Sabbi found that couple yet?"

"I believe he's closing in, sir." Peter recognized the shadow crossing Bradford's face, and he fled the room.

****

Sabbi paced back and forth punching a fist into his palm. The search had provided nothing of value and, as he kept hearing from Peter, time was running out. He racked his brain for another source he could exploit, some record somewhere . . .

"Bloody idiot!" The thought flashed on like a cartoon light bulb. He sat back at his computer and began searching furiously. At the same time he called the cab company and tried cajoling the dispatcher into telling him the trips Lynne Kirk had made on one particular night.

The policy reminder was delivered, but she gave in and told him the last trip reported that night. All the while, Sabbi was burning up his keyboard pouring through the company records for that time, that night.

"Gotcha!" He sat back and stared at the result; nine-twenty-nine, St. Leonard. It was an apartment building, but Sabbi knew that would be no problem for him. "Miss Kirk, you and your boyfriend are mine." He punched the air, shut off the computer, and headed for the door.

****

Peter entered Bradford's office and stood well back – again.

"Mr. Cooper says he will meet you right here at two-thirty this afternoon."

Bradford pursed his lips. Not making me come to him? He was puzzled, it wasn't a strategy he would use if he had an upper hand.

"Is that it?"

"Yes, sir. Just the two of you."

"Was there something else, Peter?"

"Our man has confirmed the identity of the body in the hotel."

Bradford waved an impatient hand. "It was already a bloody mystery, Peter, don't make it another one! Who was it?"

"Wendell Parkhurst."

Bradford froze mid-gesture, his eyes almost crossed and he felt a sharp pain in his chest. In slow motion, he lowered his arms, fingers clawing at his shirt front, mouth moving like a gasping fish. Peter rushed to his side, yanking open the desk drawer and fumbling one of the nitro-glycerine pills from the container inside, and forcing it into Bradford's mouth.

It took several minutes but he finally began breathing normally and was able to drink some water. Peter had loosened his tie and was still fussing when Bradford gave an annoyed snarl, and he backed off.

"That's enough, Peter . . . thank you. Sorry."

"Can I get you anything else? Should I call your doctor?"

"I'll be fine. I just need to rest a bit."

"What about this meeting, sir, is it wise, considering?"

"I'll meet Proctor." The voice was hard and Peter knew when he was dismissed.

Bradford leaned on his forearms, fingers laced, and murmured the name Parkhurst with venom as harsh as his chest pain had been. He felt he knew what Proctor might know, and suddenly he was filled with a dreaded emptiness.

****

"I thought I would move some of my stuff to the front hall closet. Give you room to hang some of your stuff."

"I'm not moving in, Warren."

"Well, you wouldn't know it with all the clothes and- and other things you brought."

"Look—"

"No, you look. I don't have a problem with being displaced," he waved toward the sofa and the clothes he'd taken out of his bedroom closet, "I want you to feel comfortable being here until we can sort out if anyone is still really looking for you."

"My apartment was searched."

"Right. Well, like I said, I want you to be comfortable here as long as it takes."

Lynne ran her fingers through her hair and sank onto the sofa, Warren was using as his bed. She thought back over the past few days and how quickly her life had gone from a relatively happy taxi driver to a character in some crazy political, criminal, bizarre relationship affair.

Warren sat sideways beside her with his hands together, prayer-like.

"Lynne, I know it sucks to be here or in this situation, I suppose I'd feel the same in your shoes. But for now it's the smart thing to do until—"

"Until what, Warren?" She turned toward him. "This is my life that's gone to pot. Other than sleeping on this instead of your bed, nothing has to change for you. You can go to work, read your damn detective stories, do whatever you like." Her voice began to crack.

He saw the vulnerability in her eyes and he was drawn to their beauty. Without a second thought, Warren took her arms and pulled her close, lips to lips, and kissed her gently. The reaction was fast, uncertain. She pulled back but only a little. Their noses were only inches apart.

"I'm not going to apologize." His voice was husky.

"Me either." She leaned into him, her mouth finding his, and her weight pushed him back against the cushion he used for a pillow.

****

Sabbi parked down the block and studied the apartment he'd pegged as that of the Kirk woman's friend. The area was busier than he liked and he sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, considering an approach.

Entry to the building was with an electronic key, he discovered, watching people coming and going. Service people had to be buzzed in, and there was a camera on a convenience store across the road covering the street.

Definitely night would be the smart time. Time. He cursed under his breath, time was running out to get this put to bed. He got out of the car and went to the store, picking up some chips and asking the owner about rental space in the neighbourhood.

"I haven't seen anything in the paper but I thought maybe talking among your customers it might have come up. That place across the road, there's no sign but you think they might have something for rent?"

"That's where I live and it's full, with long termers."

"Aah, pity. Tenants all young like you?"

The woman poked at the unravelling bun on the back of her head and grinned. "Mostly. A few widows and widowers, some couples and a lot of singles – mostly men." Her grin widened.

Sabbi smiled back, paid for the chips and left. Mostly men, he groaned inwardly, that won't help to make things easy. Back in his car he, shook some crumbs into his mouth and tossed the empty bag into the back. Tonight he would try his luck.

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