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falsely nonchalant glance. “Heard something pretty nasty washed up on the Point today.”
    Rawlings clearly knew that he was being baited but couldn’t prevent the corners of his mouth from pulling down in irritation. “Has one of my men been tweeting about life on the Oyster Bay police force again?”
    He tried to keep his voice light, but Millay shook her head. “Nah. I heard it standing in line behind some grandma in Stop ’n’ Shop. She was whispering about it to one of her bingo buddies. It’s gotta be all over town by now. Those biddies don’t have anything better to do with their time.” She tossed her skull-covered messenger bag onto the sofa. “She also told me I looked like a child of Satan and asked me if my mom knew I dressed like this.”
    Instead of claiming the gossip to be false, Rawlings fixed Millay with a soft gaze. “We haven’t been able to ID the man. Will you keep an ear open to the talk circulating in Fish Nets over the next few days and let me know if anyone mentions a local having gone missing?” He leaned forward slightly, as though he and Millay were the only people in the room. “That woman may not understand your fashion sense, but I know you’re bright and observant no matter what you wear. I could use your help. Unofficially, of course.”
    “Yeah, sure. No sweat.” Millay’s eyes twinkled. She was clearly pleased to be given the chief’s trust but didn’t want to let it show. The patrons of her smoke-filled drinking den weren’t as loose-tongued as the senior citizens shopping at Stop ’n’ Shop, but they often shared confidences with Millay. The young woman pretended she was uncomfortable with her role as confidante and chalked it up as an occupational hazard. “Goes with the territory,” she’d told them months ago. “I hear stuff their wives, best buddies, and ministers don’t even know. You give a man enough to drink and suddenly he’s your best friend.”
    Olivia supposed there was some truth to that, but she also imagined that Millay’s beauty had more than a little to do with the number of secrets she became privy to over her eight P.M. to two A.M. shift.
    “Did I miss anything?” Harris asked as he walked in and helped himself to a beer.
    Olivia pointed at the pages she held in her hand and shot Laurel a warning look. It was time to get down to business. “We were just jawing a bit, but now that you’re here we can begin. Grab some food and settle in.”
    Harris took an unusually large slug of beer and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The science fiction writer was thirty but didn’t look a day over twenty-one. Boyishly handsome, he had ginger hair, an angular chin, rose red lips, and a playful laugh. He reminded Olivia of Peter Pan. Harris was more bashful than the leader of the Lost Boys, however, due to a chronic case of rosacea. As a result, he spent too much time alone with only cyber friends as company.
    Over the summer Olivia had convinced Harris to try a new laser treatment offered by her aesthetician, with excellent results. The skin on Harris’s face now resembled a blush instead of an angry crimson. He’d already attended a few social functions with coworkers from the computer software company where he worked developing background graphics for video games. Harris had another treatment scheduled in two weeks and Olivia hoped he’d continue to fall for the aesthetician’s assurances that his treatments were free because she was conducting a clinical trial.
    “Should I strap on my suit of armor?” Harris asked the other writers nervously and opened a notebook featuring UFOs on the cover.
    As soon as Olivia set a platter of desserts on the coffee table, Harris lurched forward and loaded up on chocolate mousse served in white chocolate cups, miniature key lime pies, and homemade shortbread.
    “I’ll go first,” Olivia began. “As you know, I am not a fan of science fiction. But it doesn’t matter that this story is set