PI On A Hot Tin Roof

street, and the next one, and even the next one. No shots heard, just one teenaged girl who said she thought she might have heard one, though at the time she’d thought a raccoon had simply overturned a garbage can. There’d been some kind of strange noise, anyhow.
    The best thing she got was a man who’d taken his dog out shortly after midnight, and he was adamant that he’d heard nothing and would have if there’d been anything to hear. But Talba didn’t think the coroner could fix the time of death within the half-hour period he’d have been out. She’d have to ask.
    If the judge had been shot at the marina, someone had to have heard it. So you had to wonder if he’d really been shot there.
    Yet he’d called Wesley Burrell and announced he’d be there soon. What to make of that? It was a distinctly unsatisfying exercise.
    But one good thing—about halfway through it, Jane Storey called and asked her if they could meet for a drink. She had big news.
    And Talba could really use a drink.
    They met at the Loa Bar at the International House, a pretty fancy watering hole for Talba’s taste, but Jane had a date there later. She seemed to have a pretty active social life these days.
    Indeed, the reporter seemed to have taken more care with her appearance than usual. Her highlighted hair was piled on her head and she had on a crisp white blouse with silky black pants.
    “Hey, you look great. What’s going on behind my back?”
    “You’re the detective.”
    “At first glance, I’d say true love.”
    “Try a second glance.”
    Talba thought a minute. “Okay, you’re not wearing a slinky dress, and you’re having a drink, not dinner. So, first date, maybe. And you had a date the other night that obviously wasn’t a first date. So more than one guy. Lots of dates. Elementary, my dear—Match.com.”
    “Actually, no. But you’re close.”
    “Okay, okay. I got the idea right but not the right service. What kind of guy would you want to meet? Someone smart, that goes without saying. And creative. So, a specialized service.”
    Jane was laughing. “One for writers. Writeyourheartout.com.”
    “Damn, I’m good.”
    “Uh-uh. It is elementary. If you’re not Internet dating, you’re not cool.”
    “And I’ll bet it’s really easy to get dates—because every writer on it’s doing a story about it. You work for the
T-P,
your date probably works for
Gambit
—or one of the TV stations. Better be careful—you might be about to find out what it’s like to be a source.”
    The reporter blushed. “Omigod, I never thought about that!”
    “You
are
doing a story.”
    “I’m a reporter, right? Of course I am. It’s a great assignment—what the old guys call a four-bagger.”
    “A baseball term, I presume—so what’s a home run?”
    “You get fed, get drunk, get laid, and then boot the story.”
    “Boot the story? You mean you’re not going to write it?”
    Jane sighed. “Well, I was until you mentioned that counterespionage thing.” She sipped her cosmopolitan. “Gives one pause. Maybe I ought to quit while I’m ahead.”
    “Oh, go through with this one anyhow. Might turn out to be true love.”
    “Yeah, and it might turn out to be George Clooney.” She tried looking world-weary, but it didn’t fly on her girl-next-door face. “What are you drinking?”
    Talba looked around at the sleek surroundings. “Campari and soda.”
    “What? Not Chardonnay?”
    “Doesn’t go with the decor.”
    “Cool place, huh?”
    “Damn near cold. But I like it, I like it. What’s this really big news you’ve got?” The bartender brought her drink.
    Jane said, “Did you know about the lawsuit over one of Warren LaGarde’s otels?”
    “Before Buddy, you mean. Old news, girlfriend. Two suits, by the way.”
    Jane leaned back and widened her eyes, showing a lot of sparkly eye shadow. “Okay, I take it back. You are good.”
    Talba shrugged. “With Buddy’s record, it figures, right? I knew it had to be there and I found it.”
    “But this is big. How can you be so cavalier? It argues for some kind of merger. Or at the very least, a strategic alliance—between a huge corporation and a judge. Meaning Kristin and Buddy’s ill-fated nuptials.”
    “You journalists talk like you write.” Talba tasted her drink. “I forget how good these things are. But about Kristin and Buddy—I just don’t see it that way. I was there when Buddy proposed, remember? And so was Daddy Warren. Believe me, he