The Edge

a minute, Ted. I'm going to put you on speaker. There are some other folk here who need to hear what you've got to say."

    "Okay. Mac, you were right about that. We found some sort of drug in his system. It appears to be an opiate or related to an opiate. At least it tested positive on the opiate screen. I haven't been able to identify it yet. It's maybe some sort of drug we've never seen before. Weird, huh?"

    "Not really," I said. "It's very possible it's a brand-new drug that isn't on the market yet. When will you be able to give me more information, Ted?" "Give me a couple more days. Call me on Friday. If I find out anything sooner I'll let you know." "Stop smoking, you moron." "What did you say? I can't hear you, Mac." I hung up the phone, turned, and looked at everybody.

    "Charlie was on to them. He had some sort of drug in his system."

    "He either found out about it and wanted to see what it was, or someone forced it down him," Laura said. "Remember what he said when he was dying-'a big wallop, too much, then they got me.' "

    Savich was scratching Grubster's ears. "Or maybe lots of people around here want to try it and damn the side effects."

    "More likely he discovered something and that's why he wanted to talk to me. But he didn't think it was all that urgent."

    "He was wrong," Laura said.

    "Yes, the poor old man," I said. "Now we know that they killed Charlie Duck. The drug in his system pretty well proves that. Damn, I wish I'd collared him that first day, but you know, I just thought he had some fishing stories to tell me. I was an idiot."

    "He did try to tell the doctor what had happened," Laura said. "It's too bad he couldn't say more before he died."

    I picked up the phone again. "Just maybe he's got some friends he still talks to in the Chicago Police Department." I identified myself to three indifferent people at the Chicago Police Department, in three different departments, including Internal Affairs, and finally ended up in Personnel, where I identified myself to yet another indifferent person. Finally, I got hold of Liz Taylor. She was a real charmer, no sarcasm, she really was.

    "Nope," she said cheerfully, first thing off the bat, "I'm no relation at all, so you don't have to wonder. Now, you say you want to know about Charlie Duck?"

    "Yes, please. I understand he was a detective with the CPD until about fifteen years ago?"

    "Yeah, I remember Charlie well. He was a homicide detective, sharp as a tack. It's funny, you know? Usually, the bosses want the old guys to retire just as soon as they can plunk a gold watch on their wrist and push them out the door. But not Charlie. Everybody wanted him to stay. I bet he could have continued here until he croaked, but he wanted to leave. I'll never forget on his sixtieth birthday, he gave me a big kiss and said he was out of here, no more dealing with scum bags, no more weeping over plea bargains that let criminals back out on the streets faster than it took the cops to catch them. He didn't want any more winters in Chicago, either. They aged his skin, he said. He was gone by the following week. Hey, who are you anyway? I know you're FBI, but why do you want to know about Charlie?"

    "Charlie's dead," I said. "He was murdered. I'm trying to find out who killed him and why."

    "Oh no," Liz Taylor said. "Oh no. I got a Christmas card from him just this last December. Sweet, sweet old Charlie." I heard her sniff.

    "Tell me about him," I said. "I heard he wasn't exactly the trusting type."

    "That was Charlie," Liz said, sniffing some more. "Some people didn't like him, called him a snoop and a son of a bitch, and I guess he was. But he'd never hurt you if you hadn't done anything wrong. He had the highest homicide clearance rate of any detective in the department. In fact, he still holds the record. Poor Charlie. I'll tell you, nothing could stop him if he smelled something rotten."

    Not only had he been a detective, he'd been in homicide. He was smart and relentless. It had been a deadly mix for the old man.

    "I need the names of friends he's still close to in Chicago. Some other cops. Can you give me some names?"

    "Wait. Is that what happened? He smelled something rotten? And that's why someone killed him?"

    "Probably," I said. "Do you know of any family or friends he still kept up with? Maybe confided in?"

    "No family left," she said. "His wife died before he left the force. Breast cancer, poor woman. He went out west somewhere when he