“I’ve had another idea. What about a prominent reporter for the Sentinel?”
“You mean Asa Dean? Wouldn’t he be compromising his objectivity if he got behind us?”
“Well, yeah, I suppose he would. But Whitney knows him, and I think I’ll have a talk with the director tomorrow when I’m at Sunrise.”
“Couldn’t hurt, I guess.”
During the conversation, I’d forgotten to put the pasta in. So we had another glass of wine while it cooked.
Once during dinner I noticed that Frank appeared to be in pain.
“Something wrong?”
He grinned. “No, just a twinge. I’m getting stiff in the back. Must be age. I’ll need to work on that at the gym Saturday.”
I was awakened by a loud thump. The green digital readout on the bedside clock said 2:12.
When I noticed that Frank wasn’t beside me in the bed, I got up.
