Razzamatazz

she'd told him no because of some group she held on Sunday nights. He found himself wondering if it was true, but she didn't seem to be the lying type. They'd made a date for the next night. She'd offered to cook dinner for him again. He hadn't refused.

Then Sarah had called, inviting him up for dinner. But he couldn't face Mark. Not yet. Maybe never.

What the hell was he going to do? When Hallock called he'd told him about his fruitless interviews with the Higbees and the Carrolls, saying nothing about Mark or Amy. But just how long could he keep it from Hallock? And what the hell did it prove anyway?

He wished he'd never gone to Amy's. But he'd had to go. His doubts had left him no choice. Still, he'd wanted Amy to confirm what Mark had told him, not the other way around. He mashed out his cigarette, took a long swig from his Tab, then lay back on the pillows.

It was impossible to think that Mark was the killer. But he'd had the opportunity in at least three cases. Colin had gone to the office after leaving Amy's and checked Mark's calendar again. The night Gloria Danowski disappeared Mark had written on his calendar 'shopping in East Hampton for Sarah's birthday present.' So he'd been in the area of the murder, yet said nothing. Perhaps he'd forgotten he'd written that on his calendar. Or maybe he'd put it there on purpose in case anyone saw him. Christ, this was awful.

As for Mary Beth's murder, Colin knew Mark had been at the band concert when the child was killed. He couldn't remember if he'd seen him leave his family at any point. And then there was the lie Friday morning, saying he was with Amy when Joe Carroll was killed. Why would Mark tell him that unless he had something to hide, something desperate?

The fourth one, Ruth Cooper, happened on a Sunday morning when he'd been with Mark. Well, not exactly. The time of her death was figured at between noon and two, and Colin had left Mark at quarter to twelve. He would have had time to go to Bay View and kill Ruth Cooper and still get back to his house to wait for the police call. If he left the house at all.

Colin had to find out what Mark had done that day after he'd left, and it wasn't going to be easy. Certainly he couldn't ask Mark. Maybe he could find out from Sarah, although that wouldn't be a cinch either. It was two weeks ago, and unless he came up with something pretty clever, Sarah would get suspicious.

He lit another cigarette. Jesus, this was lousy. Mark was one of his oldest friends. Wouldn't he know if there was something off about him? And what possible motive would Mark have? But maybe you never really knew anyone.

Then he remembered his friends in Chicago. So many of them turning their backs on him, thinking he'd killed his family. He'd wondered at the time how friends could be like that. Now he was doing the same thing. Maybe he should drop it. He had no hard evidence. Still, Mark's lie about Amy bothered him. And then there was Hallock's warning not to tell Mark what they were doing. When Hallock got back he'd confront him about Mark, exchange information, and if it looked bad he'd go after Mark just the way he would if he were a complete stranger.

He had no choice.

LOOKING BACK-25 YEARS AGO

Royal Toner, 65, one of Seaville's best known businessmen and a man who, during his busy life, did much to publicize the oyster industry, passed away May 15. Mr. Toner, one of the world's largest producers of oysters, was known in the industry as 'The Voice of the Oyster.' His 6,000 acre oyster beds in Peconic Bay have for years been a mecca for gourmets and food writers.

TWENTY-EIGHT

The story appeared in Newsline Monday morning, with Babe Parkinson's byline. The first Colin knew of it was a phone call at eight-thirty waking him from a deep sleep. When he reached for the receiver he dropped it. Leaning over the side of the bed, he picked it up by the cord. It swung freely, banging against the nightstand and the metal spring of his brass bed. He finally got it to his ear and said hello.

'Okay, buster,' a deep male voice said, 'we got your number now. You better get outta Seaville or else.'

'Who is this?'

'Never mind who. Just know this. If the police don't put you away where you belong, the rest of us will.'

Colin started to speak, then heard the click breaking the connection. He'd had a terrible night, dreaming of people chasing him, Mark laughing, then Mark swinging from a noose. Then he thought about the phone call and suddenly understood. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, reached for his robe. Newsline was delivered to him; he hoped it would be on time.

The second call came as he was going down the stairs. He ignored it. The paper, in its yellow wrapper, was on the lawn at the far edge of the property. Colin was convinced that the delivery guy tried his damnedest to throw the paper as far from the house as possible.

Back in the house the phone was still ringing. He picked it up, cradling it between ear and shoulder while he unfolded the newspaper. A male voice said, 'This Colin Maguire?'

'Yes.'

'We don't want your kind here, Mister. Go back to Chicago where you belong. You can't go killing your wife and kids and then-'

Colin slammed down the phone. Almost immediately it began to ring again. He took it off the hook and laid it on the chair.

From the receiver came, 'Colin? Colin, are you there? It's Mark.'

He picked it up. 'Mark?'

'You okay?'

'Yeah, I guess.'

'Don't come in, Colin. I'm coming over there.'

Mark hung up before Colin could tell him not to come. He pushed down the cradle and it rang again.

This time it was a woman. He didn't listen, hung it up, got a dial tone, and rang the paper. The line was busy. He broke the connection and laid the phone on the chair again. After putting on the kettle he sat at the table and opened the paper. He found it on the third page. There was a picture of him taken the day after the murders. He looked insane. The headline was CHICAGO MURDER SUSPECT IN SEAVILLE. Shaking with anger, he read the story.

Colin Maguire, a suspect three years ago in the murders in Chicago of his wife and two children, is now residing in Seaville, New York, where four slayings have occurred in the past three weeks. The Chicago murders are still unsolved.

Maguire, a former crime reporter for the Chicago Tribune and now managing editor of the Seaville Gazette, was discovered after his family's slaying running through the streets near his home covered with blood. He was unable to account for his whereabouts the previous evening during which the murders took place. He said he had been drinking in a neighborhood bar and 'blacked out' for a period of several hours. Charges against Maguire were eventually dropped for lack of evidence.

The rest of the article was a rehash of the Seaville murders. It was all innuendo. But that's all it took. The kettle whistled. He made a cup of instant coffee, lit a cigarette. In the background a man's voice told him to put his phone back on the hook. He didn't. The voice repeated the message; then there was silence.

He felt numb. He wasn't going to run, start over again. But maybe he'd have to, at least for awhile. And what was he going to do about Mark? He wished like hell that Hallock wasn't in Florida.

Loud knocking made him jump. He went to the door.

'Who is it?'

'Mark.'

Unsnapping the lock, he thought Mark was the last person he wanted to see.

Wearing a red Ralph Lauren polo, chinos, and blue Adidas sneakers, his gray hair perfectly groomed, Mark took