As Mulrooney leaned his head back against his car seat, the damp morning breeze was a cool compress against his face. He was playing his favorite Ella Fitzgerald CD, knowing her voice could soothe his nerves like Valium. Periodically he munched on a fat free, flavor free muffin and sipped a cup of decaf as he watched the cars crawl up Ocean Avenue past Donna Blair"s home in the morning traffic congestion.
He was feeling the effects of less than three hours sleep. After popping two Tums, he checked his watch and wondered where Clarke was. They had agreed to meet at 7:30 A.M., and Clarke was seldom late.
As he closed his eyes, images of Anya Gallien filled his mind like a silent film. He considered all the reasons why anyone would want her dead. She must have known too much, he concluded.
