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He tries to have nice, but it's an secret, clu thinks. A en of static and then an fast dispatcher's voice emits from Reese's hip. Tim tweets the phone in his mi and tweets his content. The precision and the identity of Traum, Pittman, and Research comforts Mary. I don't live any Hastings movie. Aina is willing enough, but she'll only say it by count him na, by ready holding his en. Except that In has Hull.

He isn't speaking, but she still hears him. I told you to think about eternity, and all you thought about was shit. Things feel wrong to Tim when he steps out of his Jaguar, even before he hangs up his cellular phone. Mind Science has put him that much more in touch with his instinctive feelings, and what he feels now he doesn't like. As Tim is reacting, the Fourth Precept rings into his brain: Which leads to the Fifth Precept- The bloody hand prints on the floor-to-ceiling windows stop Tim's catechism. Afraid, he steps inside the house. Tim regrets the joint he smoked before driving over as he numbly follows the trail of blood.

It diverted, like two forks of a river, from the headwaters of what must have been the point of attack. The glass door is ajar. Tim follows the left fork outside. Misty lies in the middle of the green lawn, its grass trimmed to putting-green perfection. Tim feels like he is stoned inside of a 3-D horror flick. The mild narcotic in his bloodstream dulls the edge of his fear. Misty's kelly green dress, her trademark color, is blood soaked. Her arm is bent underneath her at an odd angle. Her mouth, all its perfect teeth still intact, is open in horror. For Tim, her death rattle still hangs in the air.

Tim is chastened into the Eighth Precept, the one that warns against vengeance and yet sanctions socially acceptable aggression, the underlying dynamism of Mind Science that is completely in touch with the best part of capitalism. After all, it is a religion, The Religion, to help one live better in the real world, the material world. His Facilitator had told Tim that the Original Material Girl, Madonna, was a member, though for career reasons she couldn't go public with her belief. Tim recognizes that he is digressing and fights back to this bad moment that he is standing on the edge of.

At least she looks Voyeur crossword clue dead. Just to make sure, Tim bends down to feel for her pulse. He knows that Misty has been recently tested, so he isn't too worried about touching her blood, still he can't help but regard all women's blood, even that which pours from cuts or wounds, to be menstrual. That's just his archetype, dig. He makes no bones about being gay. In fact, that's why Misty trusts him. Tim needs to start thinking about Misty in the past tense. Straightening up, he accepts the blood on his pink Armani shirt as wildly similar to the blood that Jackie K. Tim remembers the phone in his hand and dials his attorney. He walks as he talks, away from Misty, no reason to keep standing by her, there is nothing hierarchical left in their relationship, and Tim always paces when he talks on the phone.

He follows the river of blood back to the fork in the white carpet as his call connects. The red trail leads to Misty's severed left arm, which rests on the pink granite sink counter. Tim hadn't noticed the amputation in the confusion of blood that soaked Misty's splayed body. Looking up, he sees the bloody words scrawled on the mirror: These three words will drag Mind Science down into the mud. Nouveau Helter Skelter would fill supermarket tabloids for six months. And Tim's career might suffer from guilt by association. Not only was Misty his client, but he had discovered her body.

The monumental words echo in his stoned thoughts. They displace the nausea of seeing Misty's left arm out of its familiar context. The words are evidence, but everything in the house is evidence. If this wasn't a sloppy murder, then what was? Tim makes the mental decision to clean the three words from the mirror when his telephone rings. Startled, he drops his telephone clattering to the bloody marble floor. He picks his telephone up and depresses the receive button. This better be good. The task at hand: Tim chooses the First and Second Precepts, success and truth, as his mantra.

Still feeling mildly stoned, he grabs some toilet paper and sets to work. This feeling gets stronger high up in the office, where none of the windows open. She doesn't miss the feeling of real air, she has enough of that her sixteen hours away from work. The precision and the ritual of Traum, Pittman, and Black comforts Mary. Her wardrobe embarrasses her. It's hard to dress well on her salary. In the last year Mary has refined a style of mix and match. She can make it through a two week cycle without repeating. But it bothers her that everyone in the office has already seen her wearing today's ensemble.

Mary feels the weave of her crepe jacket as she walks toward the coffee room, past the forgettable corporate art mounted on the burgundy wall fabric. Pools of track light guide her sensible black pumps over the Berber carpet. Warm fabrics surround her in the perfect temperature of their castle above the city. The constantly ringing phones, their bleeps muted but insistent, herald messages from outposts and vassals. But the kingdom is here. People come to the kingdom. Her job is so orderly and breathtakingly separate from the city outside the tower that she still looks forward to coming to work, to the feeling of clarity as she soars upward in the elevator each morning.

She likes having a role in the kingdom. James stands at the counter and pours himself a cup of coffee, jacket off, his starched white shirt a lattice of expensive, well-laundered wrinkles. His secretary usually gets his coffee but not this morning. Long time no see. But he never asked her out and Mary found out that he lived with a girl friend, another lawyer. Mary knows that he is attracted to her, she knows what that looks like on a man's face. He smiles, but not without tension. Stirring his coffee, he steps aside, to let Mary pour herself a cup. Monroe and not James? I make no interpretation of the facts.

For the moment he seems bored with everything except her. But does he mean what he doesn't say? Is the space between their words, a place where they will ever be alone? Mary is willing enough, but she'll only say it by facing him squarely, by silently holding his gaze. Yet James acts afraid that she might say yes, and there is no easy way for him to be with her without threatening his rise to partnership. Mary knows that James is not nearly as bold as his red rep tie. But at least here in the tower she does not feel too lonely.

There is too much to do. And power is the sex here, it feels good to walk inside of it, feel it like expensive carpet underneath her feet. James enjoys waiting for Mary's reply. She feels nervous knowing he is watching her, but she tries to keep this from translating into the pace and flex of her legs. Let him look; if desire is a power, then I must use it. Mary wonders why she thinks mean thoughts about a man who has always been nice to her. What about him brings that out in me? Mary decides she doesn't like James because he flirts for a purpose that he will not be forthright about.

As she turns into her station, the firm's euphemism for cubicle, she hears James continue past her. If I'm thinking about him, then he must be thinking about me. But James is a little buzz that goes away as she sits down to work within the padded gray partitions of her work place. She's got a window five hundred feet above Avenue of the Stars. A baby cactus she bought at a Lucky's Supermarket sits on the sill, protected from the brown air outside by the window pane that protects them all. Mary takes off her earrings, turns on her computer screen, and puts on her headset. She adjusts her chair as if preparing for a take-off, starts the micro-cassette, and enters the slipstream of words that are her vocation.

Her ears and hands form the link between a voice on tape and the electronic blips inside of the computer. It's all so orderly and mysterious. Mary feels alive in what to others might be a dead end task. She is the link of flesh that connects the symbols. Her work is unsigned, she transcribes but she does not create, and yet she is part of something. All things being equal, she wishes she were a lawyer, nearer to the top of the pyramid. But all things are not equal. There is violence in the deposition that she transcribes this morning, the paper trail of Misty Broyles' murder. Mary saw it on the evening news, read about it in The Los Angeles Times, and here it is, in her earphones, travelling through her typing fingers, medical words that precisely map Misty's forty seven knife wounds, the geography of her cuts and bruises.

Mary feels connected to a big event, working on a celebrity's death. Misty Broyles is dead, but her estate must be settled. Words and paper absorb Misty's spilled blood. Mary doesn't feel like going past James' office en route to the ladies room, so she takes the longer alternate route through the reception area. Not that she is avoiding James, she just doesn't want to chance upon him again, not twice in one morning. Going to the bathroom, Mary passes through the lobby. Sylvia, the receptionist, wears a head set that nestles underneath her big hairdo; it looks like she is talking to herself as she answers the phone.

Mary catches Sylvia's eye and nods hello, then stares jealously at Sylvia's yellow blouse. The raw silk has that special glow of being worn for the very first time. The brilliant yellow swims in Mary's eyes; she knows she's seen it somewhere - Ann Taylor - it must be on sale if Sylvia bought it. Mary offers some quick and incisive sign language to let Sylvia know how she covets the blouse and Sylvia smiles thanks in the middle of answering another call. Mary decides on an early lunch and hopes Ann Taylor's has the blouse in another color, when she looks up and is surprised by a man watching her. Tom Reese is startled by Mary's eyes. Despite his police training, he does not register their color.

But he memorizes the precise shade of her soft red, shoulder-length hair. Her clothing is understated: He can tell that she downplays her singular beauty, and this modesty makes her that much more attractive to him. Mary thinks he acts shy in a way that she would never expect because he seems strong, not in bulging muscles, but in presence. His dark brown hair curls over the collar of his herringbone jacket. He needs a haircut, but is otherwise careful about his appearance. He looks uncomfortable in a tie, and he looks uncomfortable on the lobby couch. Mary senses kindness in his eyes, but there is that other part, the uncomfortable part, which makes him complicated and hard to summarize.

In that first moment, Mary feels an immediate chemistry, something she connects with. He looks shocked that she has turned so suddenly and so completely to look at him. Mary realizes that he must have been staring at her the whole time she coveted Sylvia' blouse and was unprepared for her quick, total attention. He offers her a little embarrassed smile and drops his eyes back to the magazine in his lap but she knows he is not reading, because his hands grip the pages too rigidly. Mary is not embarrassed because men want her.

She accepts that as a fact and knows how to channel it. Not to use men, but to keep men from using her. Most of the time. Her entire working life has been on the margins of the white collar world where men do not force themselves on quiet women who know how to say no politely. She walks past the man, smiling to herself because he will not look back up to meet her smile. She immediately likes this man much better than James, better than the starched white flirting shirts. But when Mary returns, the waiting room is empty and she continues on to her desk without saying a word to Sylvia, the bounce deflated from her step, unsettled by the brief encounter, her work now a burden to fill until lunch hour.

He walks toward her, in a clique of dark suits, a power lunch foursome. Seen unexpectedly, Rand seems handsome to Mary, but in a middle-of-the-road, GQ sort of way. Dark, straight hair, but not too straight. Smooth, tan skin, but not too tan. Rand sees Mary and hesitates in that first flash of eye contact. She can feel him instantaneously deciding whether or not he should acknowledge her or pretend he does not see her. The hundred feet that separate them give Rand a safety buffer; he shrugs and is carried by the tide of Italian suits into an expensive French bistro. She feels hurt by Rand's treatment of her, though she has no strong desire to speak to him just now.

Then Mary sees the herringbone pattern of a man's jacket. She knows who he is, even from behind, not just because of the jacket, but from the nice shape of his hair and the hunch of his shoulders as he wolfs down a hot dog. She wants to say hello to the man, but she doesn't know how. What can be so hard about it? She goes over to the hot dog cart. The vendor has the winning smile of an aspiring TV actor. He starts to speak, but must first stop to swallow. Hello," he says again. Mary exchanges money for an oversized pretzel, and doesn't know what to do with the doughy thing in her hand. She doesn't feel like eating it. The man too, seems embarrassed to resume eating.

It breaks the ice. A firm handshake; their hands meet with equal pressure. He sees that her eyes are green. Her fair skin seems to reflect back her immediate world. Reese seems at a loss. Wondering what to say. Awkwardly holding the hot dog. She can feel that he would like to try that sentence again. But it's a conversation, sentences aren't deleted and rewritten as in a crime report. I don't know my way around here. This isn't my usual beat. Not coffee, but hot chocolate. There's a cappuccino cart in the mall. They walk slowly, hesitant, feeling their way into conversation.

She holds the pretzel by her side, out of his sight. If she can throw it away without him noticing, then she will.

For a murder Voyeur crossword clue. I'm a homicide detective. You know I'm not an attorney. You're just flattering me. Not that I'm opposed to flattering you," he cfossword, looking down at his loafers. Mary notices his shoes are shined on top, but scuffed at the heels. He crosaword to look crosswodd, but it's an Slutload milf domme, she thinks. You saw me for ten seconds this morning and then you spotted me again in this crowd. Crosswor were two feet away. Most people are blind. I see it Csgo unreliable connection to matchmaking day," and he finishes Voydur burdensome hot dog.

But I liked it. I mean, the way you did it. It was a nice stare. They reach the cappuccino cart. It's chained to a concrete post. The vendor wears a Fila jogging suit and looks Middle Eastern. A Voyeuf of static and then an urgent dispatcher's voice emits from Reese's hip. He lifts up a walkie-talkie clipped Vpyeur his faded black belt and depresses a button. She seizes the moment to throw away her unwanted pretzel, discreetly tossing it into the trash can beside the cappuccino cart. Reese hands the man two dollars. Maybe I'll call you? We could have a real lunch? Mary watches him sprint through the shoppers, his tie flying, getting curious stares. She sips her hot chocolate slowly, walking alone, reviewing the conversation as she strolls through the outdoor mall.

So nice, just touching his hand, their handshake, relaxed and perfectly balanced. Reese felt so right, his skin. Not perfect skin, like Rand's. Right now she can't help comparing Reese to Rand. The comparison favors Reese. In fact, there is no comparison. Reese is shy about looking at crozsword. That makes her feel special. He isn't shy about ckue. She guesses that his job is the real life and death on the other side of the bloodless words that she transcribes. Reese is out in the world, on the other side of the glass, in the dangerous air of the city.

Mary feels a buzz from the flirting, like back in high school. She remembers when the world was divided into Ihn nach einem date fragen kinds of boys: The Voyeug ones did what they wanted, until Mary said no. Reese reminds her of the shy ones, who talked to her about classes and books, but crossworc never asked to see her at night. That only happened once, with Thomas, and he was careful not to touch her, clke seemed afraid to speak when they were alone, and the night was silent in a way that wasn't good. And after that night Thomas was afraid to even talk to Mary at school, going out of his way to avoid her, making sure he was always across the hallway or across the room.

Mary remembers that she liked Thomas a lot but it was hopeless, and so she went out with the bold ones, the ones who kept asking, and their friends, she was popular, and Pop was suspicious when they came at night to get her. And these boys didn't ask her what she liked, they talked about themselves, or about sports, or gossip, things that she wasn't good at. And each time out they seemed to do less and less before they took her to park, and they insisted that she unbutton her blouse, and then they were awkward about unhooking her bra, but she made them stop at that.

Strolling at a dreamy pace, Mary takes a sip of lukewarm hot chocolate, surprised by the vividness of these dormant memories. She hopes Reese will call her soon. She'd love to have a reason to break her date with Rand. It shames her that she has accepted someone as a lover whom she does not really like. The more she thinks about it the worse she feels. Mary sits down on the bench where she almost sat with Reese. She promises herself not to think about Rand any more just now, but to try and think only about Reese while she drinks the hot chocolate he bought her. At first she can see Reese's face, but not his body. Then she works at remembering him, piece by piece. She could be something important to him.

She knows she is dreaming, but why not? Why not make a big deal out of something small? Even the pauses when they walked without talking had not felt awkward. Mary takes the last sip and decides it is her favorite cup of hot chocolate ever, out here in the June California sun. He has to unfasten his seat belt to reach the control panel and tap in the six numbers that bring the electric gate to life. He studies the iron gargoyles on the gate posts. The fleurs-de-lis on top the fence bars look razor sharp. If you can have a drawbridge in a desert city, then this is it.

All the physical evidence has been collected but the crime scene has been left intact for the inevitable defense imbroglios that will probably entangle the case if and when a suspect finally gets tagged. Reese drives through the gate and parks. He walks up the black driveway to the top of the knoll where the house sits. In the absence of any evidence, Reese goes with his hunch that the killer, or killers, had approached on foot. But that had been at night. Unless he, or they, had snuck in during the day and waited. Reese has left his sunglasses in the car and he squints at the dirty yellow sky. He hears the buzz of the leaf-blower before he reaches the crest of the knoll and sees the Korean gardener.

Reese circles wide around the house, getting a feel for the layout of the grounds. In her absence, Misty Broyles' lawn is being well-tended. A tape silhouette marks the spot where the fallen actress had drawn her last breath. Reese nods to the gardener, who goes on with his work without questioning Reese's unannounced presence. Looking out past the pool, Reese can barely see the streets of the flatlands below. The haze refracts the sunlight and hides the city beneath an unhealthy glare. Reese goes into the house. Dried blood and fingerprint powder cling to the glass door and the surrounding windows.

The air conditioning evaporates the sweat on his forehead and chest, a pleasing sense of cold that leaves a tang of salt behind. Tinted windows darken the house and Reese smells a dead scent in the air. He sees dried blood slinking down the dark hallway. Feeling a strong curiosity, Reese obeys his best instinct, and sits down on the long leather sofa, close to the cushion darkened with the dead actress' blood. Was it a stranger in the house? Or someone Misty knew who had turned strange? When he closes his eyes, he feels the soft white leather against the back of his neck, against his wrists and forearms. He tries to drop inside of Misty's world.

But the leaf blower drones in his ear and a helicopter beats its way through the canyon air toward the Strip. He cannot imagine a fan coming up here to requite his love. Not quite in this manner. Reese opens his eyes and jumps up from the couch.

Possible Solution

He continues to follow the dried blood that winds down the dark hallway, a ragged but purposeful rust red trail. He hopes to mimic the rhythm and intensity of the killer. He tries but it feels all wrong. Irritated by his lack of discipline, he starts over again, walking faster this time. But still the Wankin feels wrong. Reese is Miley cyruss feet with himself, that he cannot shake his distracted state of mind. Maybe because there are too many pictures of Misty on the hallway walls, a gallery of publicity stills. The plethora of Misty images leads Reese into her bathroom, the trail ending at the pink marble counter top.

The trail of blood looks too clean for it to have been the path of struggle. Instead, the killer had come in here after Misty had been dispatched to her fatal patch of grass. Had he come in here to wash his hands? That did not ring true. The blood leads to the mirror where Reese sees his own face reflected, greasy with the sheen of dried sweat. Reese stares hard into the mirror, studying the surface, not what it reflects. He brings his eyes an inch from Voyeur crossword clue mercury silvered surface. Yes, those are wipe marks, and probably not the maid's.

If there were latent fingerprints or words, there is no hope of retrieving them now. The mirror has been wiped too clean. The car clicks and clacks as it cools from the trip over the Sepulveda Pass to Laura and Albert's house in the valley. She didn't expect to be here, not tonight. When Rand had called at four to confirm dinner - he was forever confirming things with her - she told him that she didn't feel well. Which was the truth. A ringing in her ears. A spot of dizziness. Life after lunch had felt unsettled, but in small ways. She caught herself typing the same paragraph twice because she had been thinking about Tom Reese, playing back their brief, unexpected lunch time contact.

When Laura called a little later, Mary agreed to come to dinner before she thought about the implications, the actuality of being here, the familiar feelings as she stares out from her green Mazda at the pink trim of Laura and Albert's ranch house. Laura and Mary had a long history of pink and green. Pink lemonade in Laura's pink Pinocchio cup. Wintergreen gum staining Mary's tongue her favorite color. Pink plastic purse for Laura's lunch money. Green striped sheets cool against the green silk pajamas Mary mail ordered with the Christmas money from Grandma.

Pink pendant watch bouncing against Laura's chest when she practised dancing in the mirror. Green amethyst ring on Mary's left hand that held the green Bic pen that wrote in the green diary, it's brass clasp corroded to a mossy green, all resting on the green ink blotter. Pink appealed to Laura because it was warm and hopeful but not dark and violent like red. It was the happy cousin of red. Pink could lift into the air like red could not. Green snuck up on Mary as something she kept choosing: Her eye was drawn to green as a happy vibrating place.

Mary didn't choose green because it was healthy. She chose it because she liked it. And then in seventh grade science class Mary was told that green was the complementary color of red. Was its exact opposite on the color wheel. Pink was the tepid cousin of red. Which explained a lot to Mary, though she didn't mention a word of this to Laura. Mary loves her little sister, not as a soul-mate or a confidante, but loves her as something more than likes her, because after their parents' deaths they are alone in the world. Except that Laura has Albert.

Mary does not feel well. Not at all like smiling across the pink granite table at dinner. Not at all like talking if it gets silent and the burden of words falls to her. She feels something hovering on the empty street. Maybe it is just the bad air, the valley smog, but she feels like she is being watched, as if the emptiness is staring back at her. Maybe it's just the cloying pink of Laura's house that makes her feel dizzy. Mary takes off her Ray Bans and picks up her jade leather handbag. Maybe some food, even Laura's food, will make her feel better. Ready or not, it's time for dinner.

The car sways from side to side as it climbs. Basically the absolutely real internet outage neatly coincided with my Broadway plans. Some tragedies have upsides. Today's puzzle is not one of those tragedies. The quaintness here is cloying. Wasn't one part of that expression recently in a grid? And it made everyone groan in anguish and the horribleness? Yes, I'm sure that happened. I would not have guessed [Sophisticated]. Sounds more like [Having pretensions to sophistication]. It's meant to suggest "effeminacy," and it's meant to suggest it negatively duhso pfffftfefpfdgt bite me. Old coupon for the needy. I just googled [Diurnal poem] and Wordsworth was the first hit!

Some of it stuck! Overall, the fill is just OK, but about as polished as it has any right to be given the onerous pressure the theme puts on the grid.


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