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her pink lips, but this pleasant moment was cut short by two quick knocks on the imitation walnut door. "Come in," she said. The door opened. It was Stephen Finn, Ph.D. He stood about six-three and possessed a sinewy build. Maybe one hundred eighty pounds. Blond hair, parted on the left. Green eyes. Blue veins crisscrossed his forearms like roads on a map, and I guessed he was an athlete of some sort-a cycling enthusiast or perhaps a mountain climber. He wore a white alliga- tor shirt, tan slacks, and cordovan loafers. "I'm sorry," he said with another forced smile, "I didn't know you were with someone. I just wanted to see if we were still on for tonight?" The question was directed to her, but intended for me. He was marking his territory, claiming some form of ownership. "Yes," she said, "I'll meet you at seven." She did not introduce us and I made no effort to introduce mysclf. Clearly curious about my business with Jayne Smyers, he studied me briefly, apologized again for interrupting, and closed the door behind him. "I won't take much more of your time," I said. "That's all right," she said, "I want to give you as much infor- mation as I can." We talked for another twenty-five minutes. She told me what she knew about the three deaths and gave me some news clip- pings she'd obtained when she'd first discovered them. I asked if she'd received any threats since discovering the deaths, and she said no. She also assured me she had not received any unusual phone calls or letters. I told her I didn't think she was in any dan- ger, but gave her a pamphlet Scott and I had written on security for women. I requested a copy of the article she'd wanted the vic- tims to review and she provided one. Eventually we came to the subject of fees. One of the many things I'd hated about practicing law was hav- ing to constantly keep track of my time. No matter how accurate my records, there was always some asshole complaining he'd been