Warren soaked another pair of shoes before he got home, but his attention was on the papers he took from the hotel. With a box of cookies and a tall vodka and lime, he sat at the kitchen table, reading what looked like notes from a meeting, only they were just a series of random jottings. He saw reference to some days, times, and a couple of names, one he knew from the evening newscasts – Lawrence Grainger, leader of the progressive reform party.

He set them aside and wandered into the living room. The envelope lay on the coffee table, daring him to look, and he fought back the urge; something just didn't feel good about it. Realizing he'd been at it for a couple of hours, he finished his drink, and stretched mightily. A final glance at the envelope that had started the bizarre evening, then he shut out the lights and went to bed.

Sleep didn't come right away as images of the body flitted across his mind along with Lynne's scowl, and her smile. Who was the dead guy? Did Lynne have anyone special in her life? He rolled over and imagined she didn't.

****

Cabinet Minister Bradford Aitkens sat quietly and listened to his aide report on the previous night's events at the Shropshire Hotel. He focused on the sterling letter opener on his desk, a gift from a donor, watching the tiny reflections caused by his pacing assistant. The upstart head of the dove heavy Progressive Reform Party, Lawrence Grainger, had been the topic of the secret meeting at the Shropshire. How to stop his growing opposition to Bradford's defence bill – how to stop him.

That nothing in the report pleased him was a huge understatement. The aide stopped talking and Bradford took a deep breath.

"You are telling me, that a total stranger was murdered in that room after we left, and we saw nothing on the recording?"

"The camera didn't catch the act, no." The aide shuffled his feet.

"Wasn't the meeting recorded as planned?"

"Uhm . . . no . . . Sabbi mentioned something about a glitch in the electronics . . ."

"A glitch. I pay a handsome sum for a professional technician to record an important meeting and I get a glitch in return!" Bradford shook his hands, unable to find something handy to throttle; his aide had retreated to the centre of the room. He made a gasping sound and swivelled his chair toward the window, the information curdling in his stomach.

"There is some positive news, sir," the aide ventured. "Nyles, the desk clerk, recognized the man in the couple from the hotel lobby video."

"And nobody else saw anything? What about the body, what did your professional do about that?"

The aide edged closer to the door. "We uhm- we kept the room a little longer until arrangements could be made."

"So a dead body continues to lie there in a room a number of members of parliament recently vacated, two more total strangers walk into the hotel, go straight to that room, go in and take the papers that were so carelessly left behind by someone at the meeting, walk out - and we have no record!"

"Sir, we're trying to put together a plan—"

"A plan . . . we had a plan, Peter, remember? Now, not only did that fail, but also we had a killing in a room we're all connected with. I want that couple found and that body identified and disposed of – no excuses. Are we clear?"

"Clear, sir."

"There is less than two weeks before the bill reaches the house and I want all this resolved, and Grainger and his mob silenced."

"Sabbi already has a man on it, sir."

"His man better deliver or there will be a lot more silencing around here."

****

Morning arrived far too soon, and as Warren picked sleep from his eyes he groaned over the time on his clock. Work. He had to get to work. A rushed visit to the bathroom, washing, shaving, glaring at his stubborn hair and then into his clothes. Breakfast was a quick shot of orange juice, and handful of dried cranberries as he hurried down the block to find a cab.

On his way across the outer office of the publishing house, he saw his manager looking at his watch, head slowly shaking. Warren waved and gave a weak smile. before slipping into his own office and glancing at the few messages stuck all over his phone by the office secretary.

One made him pause and re-read. It was from Lynne Kirk. Just a phone number and the word, urgent. It had come in when the office first opened – over an hour ago. He shut his door and dialled the number, standing until he heard it answered.

"Lynne? It's Warren, what's up?"

"My dander. The company got a call asking if they had a driver named Lynne."

Warren rubbed his jaw, recalling her comments in the diner. "What happened?"

"It's a policy here not to give out names, but my lovely dispatcher, instead of just saying no, started asking why. If I was the caller that would be a dead giveaway."

"Did you find out who it was?"

"No. But you can bet your wet socks it has something to do with our antics last night."

He twisted the phone wire and tried to think of something helpful to say. This needed more investigation, he decided, he'd speak to his manager about getting some time off.

"Are you still there, Daly?"

Last name. Not good. "Yes, I was thinking . . ."

"I am not at work. I can't go in, in case they have my cab number."

"They?"

"Whoever, Warren! Dammit. The people you obviously upset."

"Okay, look, let's calm down and think this through. Actually, we need to meet. I've got something you should see. Can I come to you or can we meet somewhere. I can get away at lunch—"

"Lunch! You've put me out of work and you want to wait to have a conversation when it's your lunchtime!"

"Pick a spot. I'll come right away."

Warren spotted her sitting by a pillar in the food court of the large mall. He stopped and studied her for a moment. Last night, it seemed, he'd never registered a face, just a person who was with him. Now he saw the woman without the cap and the baseball jacket. A woman who appeared like an emerging butterfly . . . he stopped himself from imposing the crap he edited all day onto his real observations.

She looked around and spotted him, raising her hand briefly.

"Hi." He pulled out a chair and joined her. "I'm sorry about the phone business."

"Doesn't matter, what does matter is what do I do?"

"Did you call in to see if anyone had been around?"

"No. I was afraid to. That idiot might say I had, if anyone asked. I don't know what to do. I'm even unsure about going home." She fiddled with her serviette. "You said you had something to show me. Did you open the envelope?"

"No, I haven't. Something just keeps whispering no in my ear." She sucked her teeth and looked away. "Hey, what if it's some kind of deadly powder or something?"

"That from one of your manuscripts?" The statement shut down conversation and they both just drank their coffee.

"Those papers were random notes from a meeting of some kind." Warren said, trying to restart their communication.

"You think they belonged to the dead guy?"

"Could we speak lower." He glanced at the adjoining tables. "I don't know. I can't figure that one out. If they were his, then whoever shot him wasn't interested, or he was stealing them and got caught."

"But they were still just left there?"

"Yeah. I don't know." He tapped his coffee spoon on the rim of his mug.

"You need to open that envelope. We need answers."

"Oh, we need answers but I get to open the envelope."

"Fine. Give it to me, I'll open the damn thing."

"It's at my place."

They locked eyes across the small table until Lynne leaned closer.

"We'll go to your place but any hint of you—"

"Oh, for God's sake. Look at the time now, I'm on my lunch hour." He knew the minute the words were out how foolish they sounded, and that was hammered home when Lynne snorted a loud laugh.

She reached across and took his hand, still shaking with laughter, and told him they'd better hurry.