Part 200 (1/2)

thinking that s.l.u.t would take you in.”

Conroy glanced over, burped, and went back to his fleas.

”One trip to the vet,” Michael muttered as he spooned up cereal. ”Just

one trip and a couple of snips, and your letching days are over.”

Pleased that he'd had the last word, Michael opened the paper.

There was the usual business about the Middle East, the latest in

terrorism. Some routine b.i.t.c.hing about the economy. Beneath the fold

in section B was an article about the capture and arrest of one Nick

Axelrod, a small-time second-story man who had hopped himself up on PCP

and axed his lover.

”Here's the guy,” Michael said, holding out the paper for Conroy's

perusal. ”Found him in an apartment downtown, shooting up the walls and

screaming for Jesus. See, here's my name. Detective Michael

Kettlerung. Yeah, I know, I know, but it's supposed to be my name. If

you're not interested in current events, why don't you do something

useful, like getting my cigarettes. Go on, fetch.”

Moaning, Conroy started off. He tried a limp, but Michael had gone back

to the paper and wasn't paying attention. Scratching his bare chest,

Michael turned to the Entertainment section.

His fingers curled in, fisted, and held against his heart as he stared

at the picture.

It was Emma. She looked-G.o.d, he thought, she looked outrageous. That

shy little smile, those huge, quiet eyes. She was wearing

some skimpy strapless dress, and her hair was down, raining over her

shoulders in thick, wild waves.

There was an arm over her shoulders as well, and the arm was attached to