At six thirty, after three hours of sleep, I staggered into the kitchen. An examination of my fridge revealed a deficit of orange juice, so I decided to make use of the market. As I walked down paths and stairs to the little market to pick up a carton of orange juice and the LA Times, I wished David had called to tell me the time of my appointment at police headquarters. Stressing that it might be at eight a.m. was what had me get up at so damn early.As if in answer to my thoughts my cell phone rang, but it wasn’t David, it was Caroline calling from New York. My first paranoid thought was for the cat.“Oh, God, is Gadzooks okay?”“He’s fine,” she said with that faint tone of impatience that she always had when she talked to me.“Then why are you calling?” I asked.“Don’t be dense! To check on you, of course.”“Oh, no. How did you find out? Is it in the New York papers. Tell me it’s not in the New York papers.”“The shooting is, but you’re not singled out. David called the senior partners, and the word got out.”“Wow, the vamps must be slipping.
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