The Given by Vicki Pettersson Page A

could practically see the mid-century scrawl of the signage that had once flanked the neighborhood’s entry. THE FUTURE IS NOW , TOMORROW HAS ARRIVED .
    The phone rang just as they pulled into the restored carport.
    â€œOh, yeah.” Grif dug it from his pocket. “I grabbed your phone before leaving Barbara’s.”
    Kit just looked at it. Then she lifted her identical one from the center console. “Mine.”
    â€œThen whose—?”
    Gasping, Kit lunged for the device but fumbled it, so it fell in the footwell. By the time Grif located it again, the ring had gone silent. “Shit!”
    She snatched Barbara’s phone from his hands and lifted it so she could see the lighted screen. She pushed a series of buttons, then sighed. “It’s password-protected. We’ll have to wait until someone—”
    And the phone rang again. Kit answered before she could even think what she was doing. There was a moment of silence after she put the phone to her ear, when Grif and she both held their breaths, and Kit was trying to work out how the irascible Barbara McCoy would answer the call. She finally answered with a terse, “What?”
    Silence, and Kit’s eyes flashed on Grif’s. She’d blown it.
    â€œHello?” came the tentative response. Male, Kit mouthed to Grif.
    â€œYeah?” Kit said immediately, pitching her voice lower than her normal tone. Grif shot her a dead-eyed stare, as if to say, That’s what she sounded like? Kit just shrugged.
    â€œIs it done?”
    Kit just bit her lip. Barbara was dead, though, so something had definitely been “done.”
    â€œBarbara, I asked if it was done. It’s been crickets over here. I’m going crazy.”
    â€œUh-huh,” Kit said, wordlessly trying to draw more out of the caller.
    But apparently Barbara hadn’t been a reticent woman. A long silence passed, then the man’s voice dropped low as well. “Who is this?”
    Slapping a hand to her forehead, Kit tried to think fast, but the line went dead before she opened her mouth, and her answer swerved into a growl. Squinting at the phone, she began pushing more buttons.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Grif asked.
    â€œWorking the home button before the screen times out. She’s got it set so you can’t get into this thing after you hang up, but once a call is answered you can work the functions.” The first thing Kit did was remove the password protection. Then she clicked over to the contacts. It was growing chilly in the car, but both the cold and her fatigue were well-forgotten. “Still carry your Moleskine with you?”
    Grif pulled the notebook from his inner suit pocket.
    â€œOkay, we’re going to write down every number in her contacts just in case we can’t get into this thing again, starting with our mysterious caller.” There was no name displayed on the incoming screen, just an uppercase X, but Kit rattled it off anyway, then did the same with the rest. Grif scribbled fast, but was barely keeping up until she paused. “How the hell did Loony Uncle Al get in Barbara McCoy’s address book?”
    Grif’s pencil fell still. “That’s what she named her contact?”
    â€œNope. But that was his pet name around the paper back when he was chasing bylines.” She flashed Grif the screen long enough to show the name, and this time Grif jolted in his seat.
    â€œAl Zicaro,” he said, suddenly wide-eyed as well. He circled the name and number after writing them down on his pad. “How does Barbara know that old newshound?”
    Zicaro had worked at Kit’s paper in the sixties and seventies, even though any mid-century bookie worth his salt would’ve laid odds on Zicaro getting rubbed out before Grif. The man had covered the crime beat, and was a thorn in the side of the boys, including and especially the DiMartinos. Kit had combed through the archives and