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.“ASAP!”Stan grabbed the phone from me.“Never mind, Joan,” he said, and cradled the phone.“Christ, Turner, you got a problem, you know that?”“Problem, Stan? Problem? I’m finding corpses in cars and on boats.What next? Greyhound? I have some sicko trashing my car—well, actually Taylor’s car—the same sicko trashing my mobile home—well, actually Gramma’s mobile home—using poor defenseless family pets as behavior modification props, and leaving not-so-nice greeting cards for me that imply great bodily harm.I’m stalked by a guy who’d make a carny worker look like Mother Teresa.The guy ends up dead, and my fingerprints are on the murder weapon.Yeah, I guess that qualifies as having a problem, Stan.But the big problem here is that the cops don’t believe most of what I’ve told them and that leaves me where? Exposed, Stan.Exposed and vulnerable.If the cops aren’t going to do their job, then someone has to get out, pound the pavement and build a case against this perp so the good people of Grandville can sleep peacefully in their beds again and I can get on with my life, or what purports to be a life.”“Geez, Turner.” Stan ran a hand through what was left of his hair.“You’ve been watching too much Cops.Besides, the good people of Grandville are sleeping peacefully in their beds.They don’t have a clue what the hell you’re talking about.”“My point exactly.We’ve got to warn them there is a murderer in their midst.”“And start a public panic based on what? The cops haven’t even acknowledged a crime has been committed.”I leaned across the desk and snagged a foil-wrapped chocolate kiss from his candy dish.“Doesn’t that seem strange to you? What is law enforcement hiding? And why? I have the inside track here, Stan, but I need an ‘in’ that only press credentials can give me.I need access to information.Sources only you have.What do you say?” I stuck my hand out.“Partner?”Stan looked at my hand, crossed himself, and stuck his hand in mine.“You report directly to me.No one else, hear? And the Gazette retains all rights to your stories and photographs.Exclusive rights.Got it? Oh, and one more thing.” He squeezed my hand.“For Christ’s sake, Turner, use Spell Check & Grammar Wizard.”“Yes, sir, boss man.” I pumped his hand.“Now, about my salary.”An hour later, I had my new press pass, conditional part-time employment (conditional on my not screwing up), and a new respect for my boss.He’d outlined our article, highlighted what we knew, and how we knew it, and where we could obtain further confirmation or corroboration to tighten the story.He pointed out gaps and ways we could attempt to fill them.He promised me a photo and dossier on the inmate who’d fingered Palmer in the drugs-for-order charge.I had a to-do list that made a “honey-do” list look tame in comparison.Be professional.Be discreet, Stan warned me.Operate below the radar.In other words, don’t open him up to public scorn or liability.Gotcha.“And don’t get shot,” Stan called out to me as I left his office.That piece of advice I could’ve done without.I left the newspaper office with a new sense of worth, a vastly improved outlook on my life, and every reason to want to hold on to it.I walked to my car, spotted my Taco John’s evidence bag, and, on impulse, entered the offices of Palmer 8& Hamilton, Attorneys-at-Law.The receptionist’s desk was empty.When the boss was away.I peeked down the hall toward the offices.If I could just get a look at Palmer’s files.The low hum of voices came from behind a closed door past the reception area.I moseyed down the hall away from the hushed voices.The first office I came to was a conference room.Dennis Hamilton’s office was next.It was dark and unoccupied at present.At the far end of the hall was a copy room, restroom, and Peyton Palmer’s office.I stepped into that and quietly closed the door.The armpits of my shirt were wet.I hurried to Palmer’s desk and opened drawers.I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but the opportunity to nose around was too good to pass up.I was tempted to turn on the computer and access his files, but to be honest, I’m technologically challenged.I have trouble zapping customers’ credit cards through the machine.I’m always happy when they choose to do it themselves and all I have to do is press the appropriate key when prompted.A door opened out in the hallway.I froze.Then, “There’s no one out here.” A female voice.The click of a door shutting.Then giggling.Hello.I was intruding on a little bit of office nooky.I couldn’t even get any on regular date nights.This gave a whole new meaning to “I gave at the office.”I continued my search of the office, stopping short of using the letter opener to pry open the locked desk drawer; I decided I’d pressed my luck enough.I cracked the door and peeked out.All clear.I crept down the hall toward the front door.I’d just made it to the reception area when the door opened.Rick Townsend walked in.He seemed surprised (not pleasantly) to see me.The feeling was mutual.“Tressa, what are you doing here? They’re waiting for you over at the courthouse.I think they may be ready to send out the posse.You better get a move on.”“I’m going, I’m going.I just wanted to check something out.” I gave him the once-over.“What are you doing here?”“Rick! What a nice surprise! I didn’t know you were going to stop by today!”My olfactory senses came under assault from a potent whiff of cologne I was sure was way more expensive than the Bargain City Fresh Blossom Body Spray I had splashed on earlier.Annette Felders, legal sexretary, attired in a white vest top trimmed in navy and a navy skirt, wiggled toward us.Her brunette hair was swept up on her head, with two perfectly matching tendrils falling in front of each delicate ear, just so.The delighted grin with which she greeted Townsend transformed into a just-sucked-a-lemon grimace when her eyes came to rest on me.“Tressa.” She eyeballed me like I’d just let a particularly loud, offensive gasser
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