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didn’t get up to answer it. The second time was at one-fifteen, and Claudia still wasn’t home.

5
    â€œK IERNAN O’C ONNOR ?”
    The woman on Claudia’s stoop couldn’t have been more than twenty-three, with mink-black hair and expensive department store makeup all over her pretty face.
    â€œAre you Kiernan?”
    â€œKieran,” I corrected her reflexively, leaning against the door frame. It wasn’t even eight o’clock, and I’d been awake all of forty-five seconds.
    â€œKieran. I’m sorry. I’m Shelly Nguyen.” She slipped me a business card that read SHELLY NGUYEN • SEGMENT PRODUCER • HEADLINE JOURNAL . Under it was a mini-directory of contact information: office, home, mobile, fax, E-mail. This was a woman who couldn’t afford to be out of touch for a single minute. “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”
    â€œâ€™S okay. I was just sleeping.”
    â€œRight. Hey, you’re funny. I was just working on a story? About the Felina Lopez case? And I’d love to interview you.”
    â€œWhen?” I was still dopey.
    â€œNow.” She pointed down at the curb, where a black stretch limousine was waiting.
    Suddenly it all made sense. This was a standard maneuver that the tabloid-TV shows used when they were trying to get an interview out of a noncelebrity: show up at the house with a shiny black limo and treat ’em like a star.
    â€œYou could have skipped the car,” I said. “I’m not a dismissed juror. Or the sole survivor of an air disaster.”
    â€œI know,” said Shelly Nguyen. “You’re a writer, and a good one. Of course, we’d want to pay you for your time and insights.” She handed me an envelope. I opened it.
    Inside was a bank draft made payable to Kiernan O’Connor.
    â€œOkay,” I said after a brief pause. “I’ll do it. On the condition that you answer me one thing.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHow did you find me?”
    Shelly Nguyen smiled. “We have our ways.”
    â€œI know. I’m a reporter, too. But how’d you get the address where I was staying?”
    Her smile flickered. “I don’t know. I didn’t get it myself. My assistant did.”
    â€œTell me. I don’t care. I’m just curious.”
    â€œIt could have been the phone book, or voter registration rolls.”
    â€œNope. My place was destroyed during the earthquake. And this isn’t my permanent residence.”
    â€œMaybe the DMV.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “The Rebecca Schaeffer law.”
    â€œHmm?” Her head looked up from her clipboard.
    â€œNot the DMV. You might be too young to remember, but a few years ago there was a young actress who got murdered. The guy got her address from the DMV. They passed a law in the California legislature, and now you can’t get home addresses from the DMV. Legally, at least.”
    Something in the air between us shifted. Shelly Nguyen had the business suit and the cashier’s check, but it was me, in my T-shirt and Halloween boxers, who had control of the situation.
    â€œSo come on, Shelly,” I said. “Just tell me and I’ll get dressed and go with you.”
    Shelly rolled her eyes. She took a piece of paper from her clipboard and handed it to me.
    It was a Xerox of my last pay stub from the newspaper, which had Claudia’s address printed right under the pay-to line.
    Someone at my own paper had ratted me out. For their own Headline Journal bank draft, no doubt.
    â€œWell, Shelly, I guess that makes us both liars.”
    â€œHuh?” She was still smiling.
    I smiled back and handed her the bank draft. “You and Headline Journal can go fuck yourselves.”
    And then I slammed the door in Shelly Nguyen’s face.
    *   *   *
    â€œThey think I know something!” I was crouched on the living room floor, my back to the wall.
    â€œGet out