CHAPTER 8Mike Murphy had aged ten years in ten hours. His hair was rumpled, there were discolored sacs under his eyes and the dark shadow of a beard glinted on his chin as he opened the door to Liddell.
“Liddell! I’ve been trying to reach you. Did you hear about the redhead?”
Liddell nodded, walked into the apartment, closed the door behind him. “I heard. I’m also convinced it was no hit-and-run.”
The big man headed for the bar, found the bourbon bottle empty, settled for some scotch. He tossed it off. “You think it was murder?”
Liddell nodded. “A pretty sloppy murder, at that.”
Murphy nodded, paced the room. “Sloppy or neat, the result’s the same. The kid’s dead.” He stopped, stared at Liddell. “But why? She didn’t know a thing. I told you I didn’t tell her anything.”
“Maybe she ove
