Death Before Facebook

every day on the TOWN.
    She went to a few conferences and realized she was just killing time. Finally, she called Pearce.
    He wasn’t home.
    She was starting to get a headache, yet she was far too anxious to go to bed. She poured herself another shot of bourbon, then another glass of wine. She went back to the TOWN.
    She E-mailed Pearce—“Love to see you if you don’t get home too late.”
    To her amazement, he got back to her in less than an hour: “Still up for a visitor?”
    “Couldn’t be more delighted,” she answered, not even worrying about her typos. He was there in fifteen minutes.
    In the meantime, she had managed to change into a floor-length sea-green robe that she had made for a Beltane ritual last spring. It was some kind of chiffon stuff that was more or less transparent, and really pretty intriguing, she thought. Especially with what she wore under it—a black garter belt and whorey mesh stockings. She had pulled her hair up into a kind of Grecian ponytail—what she thought of as a Helen of Troy look.
    When the bell rang, she didn’t even bother to look out the peephole—simply tore open the door and flung out her arms.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
     
    THERE WAS AN earthquake somewhere.
    Here. In Skip’s apartment.
    Her bed was shaking. In a minute, the ceiling would crack and fall on her.
    She sat up, trying to orient herself, and realized it was only a pounding, a great crashing somewhere outside.
    The pounding was followed by the shrillness of her doorbell—apparently she had a visitor who was alternately trying both wake-up methods.
    Maybe the building was on fire.
    What else could be so urgent?
she wondered as she sniffed for smoke.
    The air was not only pristine, she thought she could see her breath.
    A little fire could only be a good thing.
    She struggled over to her intercom. “This better be good.”
    “Skip. It’s Pearce Randolph.”
    “What the hell are you doing here in the middle of the night? How do you even know where I live, for Christ’s sake?”
    The aftereffects of her evening were coming out in her mood.
    “Lenore’s dead.”
    “What?”
    “Lenore Marquer has been murdered.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I saw her. I was just at her house. She’s floating in her swimming pool.”
    Skip was already pulling on clothes.
    “Did you call the police?”
    “What the hell do you think I’m doing now?”
    “Where’s Caitlin?”
    “Caitlin?”
    “Her baby, goddammit. Where is she?”
    “How the hell would I know that?”
    “Stay there, Pearce. I’ll be down as soon as I call it in.” She heard the fury in her voice. Didn’t this man have a brain in his head?
    She called for backup, saying there was probably a young child in the house and asking for at least two officers.
    The gate with the intercom, a high wooden one, was on the side of the house. She couldn’t see through it and for all she knew Pearce was standing on the other side with an AK-47.
    “Pearce, are you armed?”
    “Of course not.”
    “Would you mind putting your hands up?”
    “Why?”
    “Let’s not waste time, all right?”
    Seeing empty hands, she went through the gate.
    “Mind if I pat you down?”
    “No.” He was grinning now, apparently beginning to enjoy himself.
    Cold bastard
.
    “Come on. Let’s go in my car.”
    She didn’t speak after that, her silence letting him know how angry she was.
    “Did I do something wrong?”
    A lot. For openers: “You don’t come banging on a police officer’s door at two A.M. It makes us paranoid.”
    “Well, look—did you ever think about me? I find a body and I’m terrified. What am I supposed to do?”
    “Go to the nearest pay phone and call 911. You know that. Everybody knows that. Why didn’t you do it?”
    “I thought you were my friend.”
    She sighed. “I have a feeling thereon hangs a tale.”
    “You don’t know the half of it.”
    “How’d you know my address?”
    He grinned again, making her want to kick him. “I’m an investigative reporter.”
    She had her red light on and she was going far too fast for city driving. But the district car beat her.
    A uniformed officer, slightly wet, was just rounding the house. She identified herself.
    He said, “There was a body in the pool all right, but it’s real ugly. She wasn’t exactly floating—she’s got a concrete block tied to her foot.”
    Skip winced.
    She ran up the steps and rang the doorbell. As expected, there was no answer. She tried the back door and found