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  Hearing her voice again, Puckett couldn't help himself. He picked up the hefty Chicago phone book on the seat next to him, looked up the number of the station where Anne was, and then called the place and left a phone number for her to call—and the name of the hotel where he was staying. The receptionist treated him about the way he'd expected—as an unholy masher.

  Twenty minutes later, Puckett's replacement showed up—the agency, thank God, had a working agreement with a Chicago investigative agency—and Puckett went and found himself a Hardee's drive-up. He did not exactly have gourmet tastes...

  2

  Around eleven, Puckett decided Anne was neither going to call or show up, so he took off his trousers and watched the second half of Jay Leno in his shorts.

  He also spent a lot more time than he wanted to thinking about Anne Addison.

  Two years ago, after the magazine she was writing for assigned her to interview a private detective, she spent a week with Puckett on the job. She was a bright, fetching woman with coppery hair, little-girl freckles and one of those great, odd smiles that seemed to contain both joy and sorrow.

  Their relationship lasted much longer than either of them planned, ending one night when she smashed up a good share of his living room after he told her, as gently as possible, that she was an alcoholic. She called him arrogant, smug and uncaring, all the things most alcoholics call people who try to point out the obvious.

  Puckett still felt sorry for her, of course. She was a thirty-one-year-old woman who'd endured an abusive first marriage and, four years earlier, had seen her five-year-old son dash out into the street and be struck by a car. Donny had died six days later, having never emerged from the darkness of his coma.

  So Anne drank: at first just to kill the pain, but then out of habit and, finally, out of overwhelming need. By the time Puckett had first met her, she had two distinct problems: the loss of her son and her alcoholism...

  Puckett had phoned her many times following their terrible, violent argument in his apartment but it had done no good. She wouldn't return any of his calls. He'd even written her twice. She wrote RETURN TO SENDER on the front of the envelopes and mailed them back. He wanted to know how she was doing. He cared about her, more than he imagined he might. Hell, he'd been half-assed in love with her when they'd had the shootout that night. If they'd kept on seeing each other...

  Toward the end, things had gotten pretty crazy, her drinking taking more and more of her sanity, her anger becoming more frequent and more strange...until one night in the parking lot of a cocktail lounge, trying to steer her into his car, Puckett had watched as Anne raised a gin bottle she'd stolen from the lounge—and smashed Puckett's windshield in, shattering both safety glass and bottle as she did so.

  As he tried again to grab her, she startled him by pushing the jagged edge of the gin bottle right in his face.

  "You want me to cut you up, you sonofabitch?" she'd screamed. "Then keep your fucking hands off me!"

  She spent the next day calling to apologize for the night before, but by then Puckett knew that their relationship was quickly and grimly coming to a close...

  Not long after that he told her she was an alcoholic. That was the last time they'd gotten together.

  But now, as he thought about Anne, the worst of the memories faded. And he thought, instead, of her little-girl laugh, of her gentleness after lovemaking, of the sad, yet dignified way she dealt with troubles when she wasn't drinking...

  It was good to think of her again, sweet and tender to remember the clean scent of her as she stepped from the shower...and the quick, melancholy brilliance of her smile.

  The phone rang.

  He grabbed it immediately, knowing with a rush of exhilaration who it would be.

  "God. I couldn't believe it when I got out of the studio and saw the note from you," she said. "Why're you in Chicago?"

  "Work."

  "Figures. You still haven't learned how to relax, have you?"

  He laughed. "I guess not."

  "Are you decent?"

  "Depends on who's asking."

  "I am. I'm downstairs in the lobby."

  Three minutes and seven floors later, she knocked on the door. As he opened the door, he caught himself sniffing the air and felt ashamed of himself. He was already assuming she was drunk.

  "Hi, Puckett."

  "Hi, Anne."

  "Surprised to see me?"

  "Very."

  She wore a Dodgers T-shirt under a rust-colored suede car coat. Her white jeans hugged her neat little bottom and her long, slender legs very nicely.

  "I've missed you, Puckett."

  "Ditto."

  She laughed. "Same old 'ditto' routine, huh?"

  Then she was in his arms.

  Neither of them made a move to kiss; they just stood there in the doorway, holding each other, as if they weren't quite sure if they were lovers or just friends.

  She sure felt good, Puckett thought. He'd always been comfortable with her sexually because they liked the same things and liked sex at about the same rate. But it was more than that, of course. He knew, now, just how lonely for her he'd really been.

  He closed his eyes and just held her, liking the familiar smells of her, too, the baby shampoo in the hair, the sweet, subtle perfume, the warm, clean aroma of her flesh.

  "This is really nice," she said.

  "This is better than nice. It's great."

  She giggled. "I just wish we didn't have to go and ruin it all by closing the door."

  God—he'd actually forgotten all about standing in the doorway.

  He led her inside the pleasant but unremarkable room with its pleasant but unremarkable furniture and its pleasant but unremarkable atmosphere.

  Then he just stood there staring at her, a dumb, love-smitten junior at his first high school prom.

  Anne Addison had come back into his life.

  The name of the treatment center was St. Francis Xavier and the name of the priest there, himself a recovering alcoholic, was Father Doheny. Anne had stayed there four months, until she had just about run out of insurance money. At least twice a week she'd started to call Puckett, but always stopped at the last moment because her memory of trashing his living room was too acute. She'd done many things in her drinking years that embarrassed her, but none as much as that. So she hadn't called.

  After she got out of the treatment center, she went home and stayed in her apartment for a full month without leaving or even calling anybody. She was afraid to go out, afraid she wouldn't be strong enough to pass by a bar without going inside and ruining her five months of sobriety.

  Then an editor called one day and gave her a freelance assignment, an interview with a European director staying in Malibu. Anne specialized in serious journalism about the film industry.

  The interview was a real trial. Besides the fact that the director spent almost their entire time together trying to seduce her, she watched as he consumed nearly two bottles of wine. This was the closest she'd come to alcohol since leaving the treatment center.

  The tangy smell of the wine frightened her. He offered her a glass. Not wanting to go into her drinking problem, she declined without elaboration. But he kept offering. Finally, she saw her hand reach out and her fingers touch the stem of the glass. Her whole body shook. She would take one glass, just one glass, but no more. But then—and here was where she started believing in Father Doheny's guardian angels again—something stopped her at the last moment. She said no.

  The director looked crestfallen. His best and last seduction ploy had failed. She completed the interview and got out of there and it was now eleven months, three weeks and four days since she'd last had a drink.

  She leaned over and tapped her knuckles on the top of Puckett's forehead. "Knock on wood that I never take another drink again."

  Puckett felt the way he had when he saw the first Rocky picture. Nothing was more inspiring than real people overcoming great obstacles. He wanted to stand up an
d cheer. Figuring that that might be a little embarrassing, he settled for leaning over and kissing her tenderly on the mouth. "I'm really proud of you."

  "Thanks. I've been dreaming about this for months. Telling you that I was sober, I mean. And then tonight a good excuse fell into my lap."

  He held up his can of Diet 7-Up. "Want one?"

  "Please."

  He stood up and walked to the bathroom where he had some cans of Diet 7-Up stashed in a stylish Styrofoam ice bucket.

  "You want a plastic glass?" he called from the bathroom.

  "Gee, Puckett, after all the dates we had drinking out of cans, why spoil our record now?"

  "I guess you've got a point there," he smiled.

  He came out and handed her her very own can and then sat down on the couch next to her. He'd hit the "mute" button and now David Letterman babbled silently.

  "Didn't you interview Cobey Daniels once before?" he said, remembering the reason she'd given on the talk show for being in Chicago.

  "I wrote a long piece about him just after—" She hesitated. "Just after Donny was killed."

  He reached over and took her long, narrow hand in his blunt, wide one.

  She went on, "I suppose, in some way, I used him as a substitute for my son. Remember all the trouble he got in? The time he stole the car and the Highway Patrol chased him across half the state? The time he was arrested for possession of drugs? And that time in the mall with the underage girl?"

  He nodded. "Right. Not that anybody ever got the story straight. She said he was trying to strangle her and he said he was just playing and—" He shrugged. "Anyway, that security guard came in and broke it up before anything happened."

  She sighed. "That was Cobey. But look at him now."

  "I've got to admit, he seems to have done the impossible. That one-man show of his is doing very well." Like many people on the periphery of show biz, Puckett read the trades to keep up with the news. Because he worked so many celebrity cases, the trades—Daily Variety especially—were an important part of his job.

  "Most child stars never make a comeback, but people are talking a Tony award when Cobey finally brings the show into New York."

  She took her hand from his. "Anyway, a week ago I got an assignment to do an update on Cobey for a very big magazine. The editor wants me to dig into his background and make it a really major piece. She has a whole file of stuff on Cobey that she's never been able to use." She sipped her 7-Up and then said, "Say, I'm going to see his show tomorrow night. Why don't you go with me?"

  "That'd be great. I'd enjoy seeing it."

  "And you can protect me from Lilly Carlyle."

  "His manager?"

  "Right. She hated me back then and she still hates me. Cobey and I developed a very intense relationship during the two weeks I was doing my research and she was very—jealous. I don't know any other way to put it. She really hassled me. My last day on the set, she ordered me off and then slapped me across the mouth before I even had time to turn around."

  He thought back. "Yeah, you know what her nickname is? The Iron Maiden. A very tough lady. And mean when the occasion warrants."

  "And incredibly possessive of Cobey. Do you know that he lived with her from the time he was six? She took him from his parents and just sent them checks." She laughed. "So I figure you can handle Lilly while I sneak off and interview Cobey."

  "Gee, thanks. Lilly is my kind of woman, all right."

  And then the silence fell. It was inevitable, both of them being essentially reticent types.

  "You kind of nervous, Puckett?"

  "Yeah. Are you?"

  She nodded.

  The silence again.

  "I don't want to make love tonight, Puckett."

  "All right."

  "I'm sorry if that hurts your feelings. Or your pride."

  "I'll survive."

  "I feel a whole lot of things. Confusing things. Contradictory things."

  "I understand."

  "You look so sad."

  "I'm just kind of confused, too."

  "You are?" she said.

  He nodded.

  "I guess we could always sort of compromise," she said.

  "Huh?"

  "And just sort of hold each other and sleep together and not make love."

  "Do you think we're adult enough to actually do that?"

  "I know I am—but I don't know about you."

  "Wise ass."

  And then she was in his arms again.

  4

  It wasn't easy, but somehow they did not actually make love. It was sort of like high school. First he got to first base, and then he got to second base, and then, just when he started sliding into third, she said, soft and unseen in the darkness, "Please, Puckett. For both our sakes. Let's wait, all right?"

  She was well worth waiting for, Anne Addison.

  5

  Sometime in the middle of the night, it began to rain. Wind blew beads of water against the window so hard they sounded like BBs. Behind the drawn white curtains, jagged daggers of silver lightning played across the sky, and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.

  The storm had awakened them both.

  They lay naked in each other's arms beneath the warm covers. They felt snug and safe and happy as children.

  "I've missed you, Puckett," she said.

  She didn't need to say anything else.

  Chapter Three

  I

  They spent the next day visiting places on a list a friend of Puckett's had given him a while back—lunch at Rocky's on the Navy Pier where they had white codfish sandwiches—then taking a tour of the Elks National Memorial Building with its huge rotunda, 100 feet tall and made of marble; then the Adler Planetarium; and finally a stop at Topper's Recordtown, where they saw such goodies as original 45s by such artists as Elvis, Chuck Berry and the Beatles.

  And where, in a stack labeled "TV tie-ins," Puckett found a 45 with a sleeve that showed a young Cobey Daniels in crew-neck sweater and Beatle haircut grinning right out at you. The name of the song was "I'm Your Baby, Yes I Am!" and it was billed as "TV's No 1 Star Now Sings America's No 1 Hit!" Cobey had had several hits.

  Anne was busy looking at albums, but when she came by again, Puckett waggled the record at her and said, "Who's this?"

  "Who's who?" she said, taking the record and looking at it and smiling. "God, look how young he is."

  They spent another twenty minutes in the store. The place was nirvana for nostalgia buffs. So many memories...so many eras...so many huge stars who were now utterly forgotten... and all the dance songs...The Stroll...The Mashed Potato...The Twist...The Frug.

  Puckett almost blushed, recalling that he'd clumsily tried to dance each and every one of them, desperately trying to please this or that girl...

  Anne ended up buying a Connie Francis soundtrack album, Where The Boys Are.

  "My sister took me to this when I was eight," Anne said as they walked up to the cash register. "I still remember feeling sorry for Connie Francis."

  "Feeling sorry for her? Why? She was a huge star," Puckett said, puzzled.

  "Yes, but in the movies she was surrounded by all these gorgeous starlets—and face it, Connie wasn't any beauty."

  He leaned over and kissed her chastely on the cheek. Feeling sorry for Connie Francis...God!

  2

  While Puckett and Anne were sightseeing, a police detective named Cozzens was trying to gulp down the last of his submarine sandwich before speaking into the telephone receiver he'd picked up.

  "'lo."

  "Detective Cozzens?"

  "Ummmhmmm."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  There. One last lumpy, bumpy swallow and the rest of the sandwich—wedge of salami, wedge of turkey, onions, hamburger dills, lettuce, catsup, mustard—managed to get sucked down into his esophagus and into the roiling cauldron that was his stomach.

  He was already reaching in his desk drawer for some Pepto-Bismol.

  "Sorr
y. I was just finishing my lunch."

  "Oh." Hesitation. "This is Mrs. Swallows again, Detective. From North Carolina?"

  "Right, Mrs. Swallows. I remember you."

  "It's been three days."

  "No word from her at all?"

  "Nothing. And I tried her friends at the clinic several times. She hasn't called in there, either."

  "How about other friends?"

  "I tried those, too. At least, the ones Beth mentioned in her letters."

  So maybe there was trouble, Cozzens thought glumly. If it was his daughter involved, he'd probably assume the worst, too.

  "You can do something now, Detective Cozzens?" There was just a hint of anger in the woman's voice. The law in Chicago dictated that if an adult is reported missing, seventy-two hours must pass before the police can act on the report.

  "Now I can do something, Mrs. Swallows," he agreed.

  "You'll go out to her apartment house?"

  "This afternoon, Mrs. Swallows. Soon as I can, in fact."

  "I'm trying to be optimistic," she said.

  "I know it's difficult, Mrs. Swallows, but there could be a very logical explanation for this."

  "I suppose you're right."

  "There's always the possibility that she met somebody and went somewhere with him."

  "She'd call first."

  "You're sure of that?"

  Mrs. Swallows sounded irritated again. "I don't have any illusions about my daughter being an angel, Detective Cozzens, but she is very, very responsible. She'd never miss work without calling in, and she'd call me, too. She knows how I worry."

  "I've got your phone number here, Mrs. Swallows. I'll let you know what I find out. In the meantime—"

  "—in the meantime, I'm praying."

  "That's a good idea, Mrs. Swallows. A very good idea."

  After he hung up, Cozzens sat staring out at the squad room, realizing he hadn't been very good with Mrs. Swallows. He should have been more consoling. Hell, if it was his daughter missing, he'd be ten times more hysterical than Mrs. Swallows.

  His phone rang again and, as he grabbed for the receiver, he looked out at the squad room.