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came back last night,” he said.
    “So am I. Be careful out there, all right?”
    “You watch too much television.”

Chapter 4
    Despite my protests to Andy, I was kind of excited about opening day in the new stadium. I left for work before I had to, because I was itchy to get going. Besides, I wanted to drive my car for the first time in two months.
    I traded my aging sports car in on a reconditioned Citroën Deux Chevaux when the snows came last fall. With its snail-shaped body and peculiar gearshift, it looks more like a toy than a car. I’ve had people pat it when I’m stopped at crosswalk.
    It coughed a bit, the way I do on a bad morning, before the engine caught. I kept the rag top closed. It was mild for Toronto in April, but my blood had thinned in Florida.
    I had decided to pay a rare visit to the office on the way to the ballpark. I hadn’t seen the boys in a while, and my mailbox could probably stand emptying. Besides, Jake Watson, my editor, likes to see me in the flesh from time to time to make sure there isn’t an imposter cashing my cheques.
    I don’t spend much time at the paper because most of my work is done at the ballpark or at home, thanks to my handy-dandy micro-computer and modem, but that suits me fine. The
Planet
offices always depress me. At the risk of sounding like a terrible old fart, newspapers aren’t what they used to be.
    It’s the quiet that bothers me. There’s no shouting for copyboys (there are no copyboys, even, just office persons), no typewriters clattering or phones ringing; just the eerie clicking of computer keys and the muted warbling of the phones I still don’t know how to use. Besides, they won’t let me smoke any more.
    It was just 10:30 when I arrived. The toy department, as some call our corner of the world, was pretty empty, but the coffee wagon which makes its daily stop right next to my desk had drawn a crowd.
    This meant that catching up on all the office gossip was easy. There was also the usual advice tendered about how the Titans could turn things around. And I wasn’t at all surprised when the beautiful and ambitious Margaret Papadakis parked her shapely butt on the corner of my desk.
    “Andy Munro’s a pretty tough case,” she tried, for openers.
    “He sure is,” I smiled.
    “Have you talked to him since the latest murder?”
    “We’ve had words,” I said.
    “Did he tell you about it? It was pretty gruesome.”
    “The old faithful ‘grisly discovery,’ eh? What would you police reporters do without that phrase?”
    “Come on, Kate. Whose side are you on?”
    “In this instance, I don’t believe I’m on anyone’s side, Margaret. I didn’t know there were sides.”
    I felt slightly torn, in fact. The journalist in me identified with Margaret. Cops, including Andy, as I well know from frustrating experience, don’t trust reporters, and the sensationalist coverage we give crimes like these doesn’t help the situation.
    Sometimes, obviously, it is in their interest to get publicity. The problem for reporters like Margaret is that when they do decide it is in their interest to let go of some information, they do it in convoluted police-speak. Try making lively copy out of doubletalk about “alleged perpetrators” and “probable assailants” when your readers are screaming for the blood of the Daylight Stalker.
    On the other hand, hard work overcomes all sorts of adversity. I had ended up getting the story myself. If a lowly sports reporter, looked down upon by hotshots like her, had done it, why couldn’t she?
    “Sorry, Margaret. I’d like to help you, but I’ve got a conflict. I’m sure you understand.”
    She reached across my desk and dropped her empty coffee cup in my wastepaper basket. Then she smiled and stood up, smoothing her snug leather skirt over her hips.
    “I guess I’ll have to see if I can develop some sources of my own,” she said, before gliding across the room.
    Bitch. Worse, a gorgeous bitch under thirty who