Love Kills by Edna Buchanan

continue to do so, no matter what I wrote about him or how much trouble it caused him. He didn’t care what anybody wrote about him as long as they spelled his name right. We had no quarrel. He was happy. And so was I, for my own reasons. I was a rookie reporter. My interview with the Custody Crusader was one of my first stories picked up by the wire services. Larry King even talked about it on his show.”
    The detectives appeared unimpressed.
    â€œHow did you make positive ID?”
    â€œDental. Finally found a dentist he’d used in Waco,” Burch said. “His sister still lives there. Agreed to give us a DNA sample if we needed it. He was her only sibling, but they apparently weren’t close. Seemed relieved to hear he wasn’t coming back.”
    The detectives asked me to include their phone number in the story with an appeal to anyone who might have information.
    â€œThanks, Britt,” Stone said. “It took a lot of nerve for you to come back here like this.”
    I shrugged, my personal and professional thoughts all jumbled together. What could I say?
    K. C. Riley was still in her office as I left. I wanted to stop and say hello, but she didn’t look up. From where I stood, she looked red in the face. I knew why, but I knocked anyway, then tentatively edged her door open.
    She looked up at me and sighed. “What is it?”
    â€œThought I’d say hello.” Our eyes met.
    â€œWell, just look at you,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Bigger than life and back in town.”
    I did a double take at the framed photograph in a prominent place on her bookshelf. I had seen it before but was surprised to see it still displayed in her office. Blue sky above, liquid sky below. Two people aboard a boat. She was one of them, sunshine in her hair, in cut-off shorts and a bathing suit top. Laughing as she held up a puny grouper. Major Kendall McDonald, my fiancé, stood grinning beside her, wearing a Florida Marlins baseball cap, his right hand on her shoulder.
    My mouth felt dry and my eyes began to tear. “I just wanted to let you know that I got your message and did speak to your detectives about the York case.”
    â€œAnd I got your message. I’m busy, Britt.” She picked up the papers she’d been working on.
    â€œSorry to interrupt you.”
    â€œYou make it a habit. It’s as though it’s your life’s work,” she said, as I closed the door behind me.
    I left the station biting my lip. I forced myself to focus on the story, on Spencer York and how he had so eagerly anticipated his big moment in court. It never came. By his trial date he was a wanted man, a fugitive at the center of a media frenzy, the target of a high-profile manhunt.
    How he would have loved it. But he missed it all. He never got to star in his own courtroom drama. Instead, he knew nothing, saw nothing, wrapped in a tarp, doing the big dirt sleep, with only the heat and maggots for company. Ironic, almost sad. Life is sad, I thought, and full of broken dreams.
    My pager began to chirp. Lottie. Wants to apologize, I thought righteously. It’s about time.
    I didn’t answer.
    As I drove back to the News , my cell phone rang. The caller ID displayed the photo bureau number.
    I ignored it, still stung by her words. Let her regret them a little longer, I thought. Amid the cacophony of car horns, rumbles, and traffic noises, my beeper sounded again. Three cement mixers blocked the turn onto Biscayne Boulevard as I waited through three traffic light cycles. Drivers behind me cursed and leaned on their horns as their blood pressure climbed.
    How many would stroke out? I wondered with a sigh. How would an ambulance, or a victim trying to reach an emergency room, survive this traffic gulag?
    I examined my beeper. Lottie again. This time she had punched in 911. Emergency.
    Wow, I thought, she’s really sorry. I felt guilty. She is my dearest friend. I