Walking back toward Washington Square as snowflakes started to swirl out of the darkening sky, I couldn’t even find room inside me to hate Pop Grujdzak, not with thoughts of Stephanie filling me to bursting. But there were other things, so many other things which demanded attention in this cockeyed world. Was it only last night, less than twenty-four hours ago, that Jo-Anne had met me in the Madison Square Hotel? Was it this very morning that we had found Phyllis Kirk’s body?
There was a drugstore off one corner of the Square, its lights warm and bright through the snowy murk. Inside, I found a booth and called Dr. Kincaid’s number. A strange voice answered.
“This is Jason Chase,” I said. “Dr. Kincaid?”
“Speaking.”
“Doc, I hope you’re not too sore at Jo-Anne for walking out with those
