Fruitcake
by
R. J. Kaiser

R. J. Kaiser 'scores a big hit with this action-packed adventure.

Publishers Weekly on Payback This Elmore Leonard-style combo of good
guys and bad .  has big screen written all over it.  " Publishers
Weekly on Lost Night in Rio

ISBN 1-55166-625-1

9N7815siNe66259N> |/vura

"Give me a figure, Mr.  Rose."

Gabriel cleared his throat.

"Five hundred dollars?"

"Five hundred?  You insult me, Mr.  Rose.  This is a case of national
and international proportions.  Indeed, the economic well-being of the
planet may be at stake.  I'm going to make it five thousand."

"Mr.  Pritchard, I don't think"

"Maybe I should make it ten."

"Please," Gabe said, "let's not jump the gun."

"What's money, when I won't be around to spend it?  It's the nation I'm
concerned about, Mr.  Rose.  These people have to be stopped!"

"Okay, five, but we may not spend anywhere near that much."

"If you do your job, this will just be the tip of the iceberg.  We
could be talking thousands, maybe millions in legal fees.  Class
action.  That might be the way to go.  Bring down the corrupt bastards
and all the crooked politicians and crooked lawyers that keep them in
business!  It's too late to save me.  I'm as good as dead.  But you can
still save America, Mr.  Rose."

Pritchard stopped and looked Gabe in the eyes.

"Mr.  Rose, this is big, trust me.  The mother of all cases."

R.

J.

Kaiser was a lawyer and a business consultant when he decided to write
full-time.  He has published non-fiction books and a number of plays.

R.

J.

Kaiser has also written suspense novels in collaboration with his wife
under the name of janice Kaiser.  Now, he is venturing in a new
direction under the R.

J.

Kaiser name.

Already available from R.

J.

Kaiser in MIRA Books

EASY VIRTUE PAYBACK JANE DOE

fruitcake

R|J|KAiSER

MIRK BOOKS

DID YOU PURCHASE THIS BOOK WITHOUT A COVER?

If you did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it was
reported unsold and destroyed by a retailer.  Neither the author nor
the publisher has received any payment for this book.

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the
imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone
bearing the same name or names.  They are not even distantly inspired
by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents
are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in
part in any form.  This edition is published by arrangement with
Harlequin Enterprises II B.

V.

The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
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MIRA is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited, used
under licence.

First published in Great Britain 2000 MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24
Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR

Belles-Lettres, Inc.

2000 ISBN 1 55166 625 1 58-1100

Printed and bound in Spain by Litografia Roses S.

A.

" Barcelona

For John Abbott Taylor Carey Rich Howard Bob Landry Eric Ross Clair
Umess Jeff Watson

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

A special thanks to Eric Ross, my good friend, and a criminal defense
attorney par excellence, for gently nudging my characters toward the
straight, the narrow and the true.

Friday, July 14

West Sacramento, California

\par Cjabriel Rose drummed his fingers on the ink-stained blotter,
waiting impatiently for the call from Hawaii.  The rays of the
late-afternoon sun angled through the dusty Venetian blinds as he
watched a stream of trucks out on the boulevard sweep past, one after
another, kicking up a swirl of dust or sending a paper soft-drink
container rolling along the pavement.

It was nearly seven.  Gabe gave the top of the desk an angry thump with
his fist and muttered, "Damn you, Rudy."  Then he stood to un kink his
body, frowning at the clock.  He'd promised Mona he'd be by the house
at seven to pick up the baby.  Now he'd be late.  She'd be pissed, of
course, but then Mona was always pissed.

Gabe prowled the office, his jaw taut with annoyance, frustration
percolating with each breath he took.  But there was nothing he could
do.  He had to be here for the call.  It was part of their deal.

Halting next to the tall, olive-colored file cabinet by the door, he
forced himself to calm down.  In looking for a distraction, he noticed
that the stenciled letters on the window cast a shadow onto the wall.

There, in an arch just below Rudy's framed diploma from Golden Gate
University, were the words Rudy Herman, Esq.  " Attorney at Law.

Looking at them from inside the office, the letters on the window were
backward, but projected onto the wall in shadow, they were again
forward.  A philosophical man by nature, Gabe thought there must be a
meaningful metaphor in that somewhere.  Truth in the law, like truth in
life, was entirely a matter of perspective, perhaps?  He smiled at his
own banal platitude, then began pacing again.  This felt like the first
of those long months he'd spent at Rio Cosumnes Correctional Center,
before he'd learned the rhythms of jail life, the incremental flow of
hours and days, the ability to take Garth Brooks and Shania Twain one
song at a time.

The music coming over Rudy's sound system evoked Gabe's jail
experience--KRAK-AM, "Gold Country," from dawn to lights out, starting
with "The Joey Mitchell Show" in the morning, and warbling and
lamenting through to the last ballad of the evening.  Not that he hated
country-and-western, he just liked having a choice.  But as long as
Tammy Miller was Rudy's secretary, it was "Gold Country" or it was
nothing twenty-four hours a day.

When he first arrived, Gabe had wondered why Rudy would choose to have
that piped in, rather than the more traditional elevator music.

"What's a nice Jewish boy like you doing listening to
country-and-western, anyway?"  Gabe had asked him.

"Is this West Sacramento, or is it not?"  Rudy had said.

"Besides, it's what Tammy and my clients like.  I consider letting her
pick the station part of her benefits package.  I found out early on,
sport, that keeping the help happy is the most important thing you can
do in a small practice."

Unless you 're in Hawaii getting laid and forget to call, Gabe thought
as he reflected on the conversation.  Checking the time again, he
returned to the desk, his patience rapidly abandoning him.

Rudy's lack of consideration aside, Gabe was in no position to
complain.  This stint with "The Scourge of West Sac," as Rudy playfully
called himself, would provide him with enough dough to buy groceries
and pay rent for a couple of months.  It was a far cry from the
sumptuous offices he'd occupied only two years ago, before his fall
from grace.

But that was ancient history.  This, like it or not, was now his lot in
life.  At least for the time being.

Rudy Herman's law offices were located on West Capital Avenue between a
hot-sheet motel and a muffler shop.  Two doors down was a bail bondsman
and a pawn shop-it was business synergy of the time-honored variety.
Within a city block a whore could pawn her jewelry, arrange bond for
her pimp, consult his attorney and turn a couple of tricks to get her
goodies back.  Rudy normally oversaw it all from the captain's chair
Gabriel now occupied.  At the moment, though, Rudy was away on his
honeymoon, and Gabe was the attorney in charge.

There weren't many law jobs that the Sacramento legal community would
consider of lower stature than Rudy Herman's vacation substitute, but
beggars couldn't be choosers, and Gabriel Rose was only a step up from
the homeless guys collecting coins and crumpled dollar bills on street
corners.

Life was not all bad, though.  He was a free man and he did have
Arabella--assuming Mona would let him close enough to the house to pick
her up.  Gabe knew that being late was no way to curry favor with his
ex.  Mona could be a real bitch when he did anything to inconvenience
her.

The bitterness of their divorce had carried over on both sides.

Theoretically, they should have split the community property down the
middle but, considering he'd done jail time and desperately wanted to
have joint custody of Bella, she'd had him by the balls, and she knew
it.  Gabe had walked away from the marriage with his clothes and
fifteen hundred in cash, enough to rent a furnished apartment downtown
and buy provisions for the baby.  But if the settlement made him
unhappy, it was nothing compared to Mona's rancor.

"Come on, lighten up," he'd said the last time she'd lit into him.

"You've bled me dry, and I've been struggling ever since just to make
ends meet.  Can't you cut me a little slack?"

"Slack?  While you were getting room and board from the county of
Sacramento, do you know what I was doing, Gabriel Rose?  I was feeding
your kid by writing ad copy for slave wages.  I worked my ass off
freelancing while I took care of Bella, too, just so I wouldn't have to
sell the house.  And you want me to cut you some slack?"  She'd glared
at him.  "I might have got the house, but you owed every goddamn penny
I wrung out of you.  And more!"

"There is no more," he rejoined, "Peter got it all.  Of course, if I'd
killed the sonovabitch, instead of just splitting his head in two,
you'd have gotten everything.  But the way it worked out, Peter cleaned
us out and got to fuck you besides.  Hell, I guess I shouldn't complain
because I only got screwed financially."

That was it.  She'd turned red and snatched Arabella from his arms,
slamming the door in his face.  Gabe hadn't even had a chance to kiss
his daughter goodbye.  But then, it was his own fault.  He should have
kept his big mouth shut.

Several weeks had passed since that last spat, but he knew that being
late tonight would send Mona into a fury.  The question was if he'd
respond "appropriately," as his court-mandated therapist, Constance
Wilegard, liked to say.  He had discussed that last incident with Dr.

Wilegard and she'd questioned him in that distinctive, high nasal voice
of hers.

"Tell me, Gabriel.  Were you angry?  How did you feel?

Were you on the verge of losing control?  " And then her favorite
line," Was your response appropriate?  "

What Gabriel Rose hated most about therapy was that it was always about
him.  Why was it so important that his behavior be appropriate?

Jesus, what about the inappropriate behavior of his enemies?  Why
didn't anyone ever worry about what they did to him?  Sure, he'd beaten
his law partner to a pulp, but why couldn't people take into
consideration the circumstances?  After all, he'd walked into his own
house and found Peter in bed with his wife, with Arabella sitting on
the floor not ten feet away, playing with the bastard's shoes.  Mona,
balling his bachelor law partner and best friend, Gabe could handle.

But letting the baby sit there and watch?

Just thinking about it set his heart to pounding, which was, of course,
just the thing he was not supposed to let happen.  But eight months in
the county jail had afforded him ample opportunity to develop a
first-class, A-Number- One attitude problem.  Mona had filed for
divorce even before he'd entered his guilty plea for felony assault
with intent to cause great bodily harm.  Peter had sued to dissolve
their partnership right on the heels of Mona's action.  He'd also filed
a civil suit for assault and battery, eventually winding up with Gabe's
share of their practice plus a hundred thousand cash in damages.  All
Gabe came away with was the satisfaction of seeing a six-inch scar on
the sonovabitch's face.

If he'd made a miscalculation, it was underestimating how difficult it
would be to bounce back.  Even though he'd managed to hang on to his
law license, work proved hard to come by and he got little help from
his colleagues.  Many attorneys would scarcely say hello.  The ladies
and gentlemen of the bar simply didn't abide the notion of one lawyer
splitting the skull of another, whether they were willing to say it to
his face or not.

There were exceptions, of course.  A few acted as though nothing had
changed, but nobody would send him even their schlock cases on
referral, and none of the judges were cooperative, either.  That had
been hard to take, because before Gabe had beaten the hell out of
Peter, they'd both been respected in the legal community.  Since Peter
was generally regarded as the victim, Gabe had the seemingly
insurmountable task of regaining a modicum of respectability.

Rudy Herman, who by nature swam against the stream,

anyway, couldn't have cared less how Gabe was regarded.  Not that he
was a great humanitarian or even a particularly good friend.  In fact,
they'd only had a passing acquaintance.  But Rudy was a sole
practitioner in need of a little cheap, temporary, but competent
help.

True, he could have gotten a contract attorney for less, but Rudy was
skeptical about the trustworthiness of other lawyers.  And he was smart
enough to know Gabe's violent blowup hadn't made him any less capable
or conscientious.  Rudy had a bargain and he knew it.

The opportunity had come along after a particularly difficult week for
Gabe.  His first promising case since his release, a medical
malpractice claim, had been jerked out from under him when the client
had suddenly changed his mind about representation.  Gabe couldn't
prove it, but he suspected someone had gotten the client's ear.  On the
heels of that, Rudy's offer had seemed like a godsend.

"I'm getting married and going on a honeymoon, sport," Rudy had told
him when he'd called.

"Need somebody to watch the shop.  Pay you a thousand a week."

Gabe had asked for two.  They settled on fifteen hundred.  Any amount
was manna from heaven.

Rudy's image in the profession wasn't the best, unfortunately.  A lot
of people considered him sleazy, but his negative reputation came
mostly from the clientele he had.  His personal values weren't any
worse than a lot of top- drawer lawyers.  Gabe would take him in a
blink for the likes of Peter Cashen.  Peter's fancy office, tailored
suits and flashy cars did not make him a decent human being, or an
honest man.  In fact, when Gabe was going through the books of the
partnership with his accountant during the settlement process, they'd
turned up some sleight of hand on Peter's part.

"And I can't even nail the sob's ass," Gabe had complained.

But if being shunned by his colleagues was his unofficial penance,
Judge Azumian had made sure the humiliation was complete by arranging
for Angela Little Deer to supervise Gabe's probation.  While ethical
and fair, Angela was the toughest probation officer in the county and
followed the rules to the letter.

If Gabe had caught a break, it was with Dr.  Wilegard, his shrink.  She
was a nice old lady, if earnest.  Best of all, she wasn't hard-nosed
about her fee.  He was two months behind in payments to the good
doctor, who'd gently reminded him her tolerance was not without limits.
But thus far, she hadn't really pressed him.  He hated being a
freeloader, but when the rent needed to be paid and the cupboard was
bare, he put Arabella first.

Not everybody had understood his fierce devotion to his child,
though.

Some, like Rudy and his new wife, Cynthia, thought he was nuts.

"What in the hell do you want with a kid?"  she'd asked when the three
of them had gone out for dinner just before Gabe had come on board.

This was a week ago.

"Bella's all I've got," Gabe told her.

"My net worth is negative.  I've lost my career and my home.  My
daughter keeps me going.  I love her to death."

"Yeah, but isn't it going to be kind of hard to get back on your feet
with a rug rat pulling on your pant leg?"  "My ex has her most of the
time.  I get her on weekends, but once I've got enough dough for a
nanny, we'll split Arabella's time equally.  It's in our settlement
agreement."

"I'd let your ex keep her," Rudy said.

"All of my ex's have-my kids.

It's cleaner.  "

"What can I say?  I'm a sucker for little girls.  This one in
particular.  Anyway, Mona's parenting skills leave a little to be
desired.  She's decided on a career in real estate and she's the type
who'll be out there hustling, day and night.  That's the way Mona is. I
really believe Bella's better off with me."

That was assuming he could dig himself out of the hole he was in.  And
that Mona didn't kill him before he was financially solvent.  Once
again, he checked the time, cursing Rudy under his breath.  Surely he
hadn't forgotten to call--not considering this little practice was his
life.  Though Rudy did joke about his clients, he cared deeply about
them.

The portly barrister also took his honeymoons seriously, too--this
would be his third or fourth, Gabe wasn't sure which.  And though Rudy
sometimes acted like a mindless workaholic, for each new bride he would
fly off to a tropical isle and spend a week screwing his brains out.
Tammy had joked that getting married was the only way Rudy ever got a
vacation.

Mercifully, the phone rang.  Gabe snatched up the receiver.

"Law offices."

"Beautiful.  Really beautiful," Rudy Herman said with a laugh.

"You're making my little operation sound really swank, sport."

"Rudy, for cris sakes you were supposed to call me forty-five minutes
ago.  I've got to pick up my daughter."

"Sorry, Gabe, the time got away from me.  You know how it is in
paradise."

"Actually, I don't.  The smell of hell is still in my nostrils.  And
I'm trying to get used to purgatory."

"Yeah, well, speaking of stench, how are our clientele doing?  No
unscheduled homicides or armed robberies, I hope."

Gabriel shook his head with amusement.  "No, but I did the bail hearing
for Donny Jackson this morning."

"And?"

"I got bail down to twenty-five."

"Hey, for a second possession for sale, that's not bad.  Judge must
have been shocked to see a lawyer with a decent suit and haircut
standing up with him."

"The suit, maybe, but not the haircut."

"So, is Donny free?"

"His family thought they'd have him out by this afternoon.  I didn't
get any calls from them, so I assume it went okay."

"That's great, Gabe.  The kid was shitting apples when I told him I
would be away on my honeymoon."

"I hope the streets will be just as safe with him on the outside," Gabe
said.

"Hey, that's not our concern now, is it, sport?  We're advocates,
remember?"

"Having lived with these guys for the better part of a year, I'm a
little more into the reality issue than legal philosophy, Rudy."  "Well
said, counselor.  But keep your eye on the grand and a half I'm paying
you."

"I never said I'd let my values get between me and rent money," Gabe
joked.

Actually the thing that bothered him most about his financial plight,
apart from any deprivation to his child-was the fact that he had to
think about it at all.  His whole career he'd always focused on the
work, serving the clients' needs and letting the money take care of
itself.  No more.

Rudy laughed, though, not realizing how painful it was for him.

"So, anything else?"  "Yeah, this afternoon some weirdo by the name of
Del Pritehard called."

"Oh, Jesus, what did he want?"

"To be honest, I don't know if I could tell you.  He wasn't very
coherent."

"That's because the poor bastard's a nutcase.  What did he say?"

"Well, he was babbling something about the FBI and the CIA and some
conspiracy to kill him.  He wanted to get his papers to safety.  But I
never did figure out what papers he was talking about."

"That's no surprise.  I'd bet he isn't sure himself.  So, where were
things left?"

"I told him you were in Hawaii on your honeymoon and you'd be back in a
week.  And he said he'd probably be dead by then, but if I talked to
you I should tell you to get on the first plane home.  He wanted to see
you immediately."

They both had a chuckle.

"Who is the guy, anyway?"  Gabe asked.

"Arlen Pritchard's son."

"The newspaper magnate?"

"Yeah.  The old man owned the Globe chain and kept the title of
chairman of the holding company until he was well into his eighties,
long after senility set in.  Died a few years ago."

"I remember."

"Well, Del is his crazy son.  Never moved out of his family home.  They
have a big place in the Fabulous Forties in East Sac.  Del still lives
there with his invalid mother.  Never done a damned thing in his life
but dabble in causes.  His father was glad he had no interest in
work-saved him from having to find a place for his kid in the family
business."

"So, how did you get connected with the guy?"

"Del's always been a rabble-rouser.  His old man kept him in check, but
once he died, Del went on a rampage.  Word's been going around the
legal community that he's bad news, totally off his rocker, and people
stopped talking to him.  Nobody wants to represent him these days.  I'm
surprised you haven't heard."

"Need I remind you, Rudy, I've been indisposed of late."

"Oh, yeah... of course."

"So, how did Del get hooked up with you?"

"They all come to me eventually, Gabe," Rudy said with a laugh.

"Anyway, I told him I'd need a retainer and couldn't guarantee I'd
represent him in every case he wanted to bring.  He was desperate
enough to accept that.  The only promise I made was that I'd look at
anything he had."

"Has he brought you anything?"

Rudy laughed.

"Christ, I think I earned the first month's retainer just sitting
listening to the sonovabitch babble.  To hear him tell it, the world's
formed a line for a chance to do him in.  He's got a list of enemies
longer than Richard Nixon's.  Frankly, I tuned out most of it."

Gabe hoped Rudy was engaging in a little hyperbole, but he wasn't going
to second-guess the guy's ethics.  Not under the circumstances.

"What do you want me to say if he phones back?"

Rudy paused for a moment or two.

"Why don't you tell him you'll represent him?"

"Oh, great.  Thanks a million, Rudy."

"I'm serious.  The guy's got money to burn.  Take a five or ten
thousand dollar retainer and then listen to the bastard when he needs
to moan.

Shrinks do it every day.  "

"Yes, I know all too well.  But to be honest, I really prefer
meaningful work."  "Hey, kid, what planet are you from?"

"Yeah, I know, idealism coming from me seems misplaced," Gabe said,
"but I really am a do-gooder at heart.  Besides, I don't think I could
handle another run-in with the bar association, and this guy sounds
like someone who wouldn't hesitate to make an official complaint if he
didn't get the result he wanted, I'd kind of like to keep my ticket."

"Who knows, maybe of' Del will show up with a legitimate cause of
action and you can spend his money in good conscience.  Sometimes
people are paranoid for good reason, you know.  If you can justify
filing a complaint from time to time, the sucker will be in hog
heaven."

Gabe was tempted.  His hunger pangs were strong, and besides, he had to
eat if he wanted to be around long enough to redeem himself in the
community and among his peers.  Not to mention support his child.

His problems were indeed pressing.  His landlady had been giving him a
hard time about bringing Arabella to the apartment because kids weren't
allowed.  When she cried at night his neighbors complained, never mind
the problem was with thin walls, not Bella.  And Mona had never liked
the idea of her kid staying in a dump in the first place.

"Surely you could afford better," she'd told him one day when she'd
come by to pick up Arabella.

"This building looks like it's full of drug addicts and child
molesters."

Nobody wanted him to move to a nicer place more than he did.  But
renting a decent house required a deposit and the first month's rent,
as a minimum.  And though Mona was quick enough to complain, she wasn't
prepared to loan him the money to get a new place.  She was actually in
a corner.  She loved Arabella but didn't want to care for her
full-time. Gabe knew it, and he also knew that Mona felt guilty about
that, which led her to resent him all the more.

"If Pritchard calls back, I'll talk to him," Gabe told Rudy.

"But I'm not making any promises."  "If you can endure him for a month,
you should be able to siphon off a few grand.  But I've got to warn
you, it won't be easy money.  The guy's a fruitcake and a real pain in
the ass."

"I appreciate the warning," Gabe said.

"But I think you've got better things to do than talk about Pritchard.
I know I do.  I've got to run."

"Okay.  Have a nice weekend.  I'll talk to you Monday."

"Give my best to Cynthia."

"Gabe, old buddy, she's been getting my best.  Several times a day!"

Rudy laughed and hung up.

Gabriel put the receiver back and glanced at the clock.  Mona, he knew,
would be waiting for him with a gun.  She almost certainly had a
date.

She and Peter hadn't even lasted until Gabe's sentence had been handed
down, and the gossip was that while he was in jail she'd cut a pretty
wide swath.  Every unattached lawyer in Sacramento had been calling
her, and half the married ones.  A woman's reputation moved fast
through legal circles.  Lately she seemed to have calmed down and was
dating one guy in particular, though Gabe didn't know who.

Picking up the phone, he began to dial his ex to let her know he was on
his way when he saw the weirdest looking character coming up the walk,
a large cardboard box in his arms.  The furtive glances, the unkempt
hair and rumpled wool sport coat--notwithstanding temperatures outside
that had to be in the nineties--were pretty good indications of the
guy's identity.  It had to be Del Pritchard.

Gabe put the receiver back in the cradle and stepped to the door
leading to the outer office.  The guy entered and put his box on the
receptionist's desk, then immediately peeked out the Venetian blinds at
the street, which he continued to stare at for at least a minute.

When he finally turned around, he saw Gabe for the first time and
jumped with fright.

"Oh!"  He was sweating profusely, his gray, strawlike hair standing on
end in the places where it wasn't plastered to his wet skin.  A scowl
rolled over his long, angular face.  "Who are you?"

"I'm Gabriel Rose.  And you're..."

The man gave him a wary look.  "You must be the one I talked to on the
phone."

"Then you're Del Pritchard."

Pritchard frowned as if he weren't so sure he wanted that particular
piece of intelligence bandied about.  Gabe would have been hard-pressed
to estimate the man's age.  Fifty would have been a good guess, though
his unkempt condition gave him the air of a much older man.  Pritchard
glanced about the room, then over his shoulder toward the front window.
When he looked at Gabe again his head twitched a couple of times and he
slid his jaw to the side, narrowing his eyes.

"You're a lawyer."

"Yes, I am."

Pritchard cleared his throat.

"You have identification?"

"Identification?"

"Yes, lawyers have identification.  If you were a real lawyer, you'd
have identification."

"You're saying you'd like to see my bar card."

Pritchard nodded, his head jerking to the side a couple of times,
involuntarily.

Gabriel thought he had his California State Bar membership card in his
wallet, but he wasn't certain.  In the twelve years since he'd been
sworn in, he couldn't recall ever being asked to present it to a
client.  Some years he didn't get around to taking it out of the
envelope it arrived in until months after he received it in the mail.

Pritchard watched guardedly as Gabe perused his wallet.  Finally, he
found the card.  He started across the office.  Pritchard, seemingly
alarmed, snatched up the box he'd brought and backed toward the door.

"Slowly!"

Gabriel opened his arms, showing he had nothing in his hands but his
wallet.

"I'm unarmed, Mr.  Pritchard."

The man, his unruly brows flying high with indignation, jabbed his
finger toward the reception desk.

"Put it down there."

Gabe, wondering if a call to the nearest mental health ward wasn't in
order, put his bar card on the desk and backed away a few steps.

Pritchard advanced, snatched the card and set the box back down on the
desktop.  He scrutinized the card.  "Have a picture ID, do you, Mr.
Rose?"

"California driver's license?"

"That'll do."

Gabriel didn't bother removing his license from the plastic window in
his wallet, instead holding it out for the man to see.  Pritchard
leaned forward, his head twitching as he nodded.

"Can't be too careful.  In one office they had me talking to a legal
researcher for a whole hour.  He wasn't even a lawyer!  Can you
imagine?"

Gabe thought about Mona and the hell fury she most certainly was saving
for him.

"I can imagine how disappointing that would be.  But I have a problem,
Mr.  Pritchard.  I'm late for an appointment and I don't have much
time.  You're dropping in unannounced so I assume"

"Oh, I had to come.  I knew you needed the evidence," he said, putting
his hand on the box.

"Evidence?"

"Yes, don't you remember what I told you?  They are trying to bring
down our whole economy with their dirty scheme!  They're ruining the
lives of honest Americans, as we speak, Mr.  Rose!  As we speak!"

Pritchard's eyes were round with horror.

"They?"

"It's so big even the government's in on it.  Money.  They can buy
anybody they want, including the government and the crooked lawyers.

How do you think they kept this from coming to light?  They're fighting
me at every turn, Mr.  Rose.  Don't doubt for a minute they know I can
sink their ship.  That's why they'll do anything and everything they
can to stop me.  "

"On the phone you mentioned the FBI.  Are you saying-" "Could be
they've been bought, too.  I don't know.  I can tell you this, I tried
to get them to investigate and they haven't done a thing, not one
thing!  My guess is this is a lot bigger than people realize.  Maybe
it's international.  Maybe the ClA's involved, too!"

The CIA

"You don't see them doing anything about it, do you?  It's not for lack
of effort on my part.  God knows I've tried.  What does the government
do?  Nothing.  Nothing!"  The last he nearly shouted.

"They won't even answer my letters.  Me, an honest American citizen. No
response from the government, Mr.  Rose.  Nothing.  Nothing!"

Gabe glanced at his watch.

"Look, Mr.  Pritchard, I'd invite you to come into the office so we
could discuss this further, but" -- "Oh, no, I couldn't do that,"
Pritchard said.

"I've got to keep my eye on the street.  I'm pretty sure I was
followed."

"Who, exactly, are we talking about?"  Gabe asked, growing impatient.

"It's all right here," the man said, tapping the box.

"Or most of it, anyway.  I had to leave home in a hurry so I couldn't
check every file.

But when you read this, you'll see.  "

Gabriel stroked his jaw, recalling his conversation with Rudy, but
eager to get the hell out of there.

"At the moment you're being represented by Mr.  Herman and" -- "I'll be
dead before he gets back, so forget him."

"Well, if you want my assistance we'll have to execute" -- "How much do
you need?"  Pritchard said, whipping out his checkbook.

Gabe was taken aback by the man's eagerness to proceed, especially
coming on the heels of such blatant paranoia.  The question was what to
do.  He agonized.  Pritchard was nutty as a fruitcake, all right.  That
was plain to see.  Gabe knew there were limits to what he could
reasonably and in good conscience take.  The words of a hearing
examiner at his disbarment proceeding were easy to imagine: "At what
point, Mr. Rose, did it become apparent to you that the subject was not
in possession of his mental faculties?"

The joy Gabe had felt at the prospect of easy money drained out of him
about as fast as a defendant's hope after a guilty verdict.  In recent
years, he'd come to understand there was no such thing as easy money,
only hidden costs.

"Maybe we should discuss this on another occasion," he told
Pritchard.

"Oh, no.  I'm not taking any chances.  We're doing this now."  Opening
his checkbook, Pritchard took a pen from his pocket and leaned over the
desk.

"It's Rose, is it?  Like the flower?"

"Yes, but... we'd need an agreement."

"You fill out the form while I write the check."  He waved his hand
toward a bank of filing cabinets.

"They're in one of those drawers.  That's where Herman got them.  The
middle cabinet, I think, middle drawer."

Gabe put his wallet back in his pocket.  Tom, he finally went over to
the cabinet, forming his statement to the hearing examiner in his
mind.

"The subject was obviously distressed, concerned about his personal
safety.  It was my judgment that I had an obligation to investigate. My
feeling at the time was that I could always return the check uncashed,
or refund the retainer at a future date when the situation became
clear."

Gabe found the retainer form.  Pritchard was watching him.

"Give me a figure, Mr.  Rose."

Gabriel cleared his throat.

"Five hundred dollars?"  "Five hundred?  You insult me, Mr.  Rose. 
This is a case of national and international proportions.  Indeed, the
economic well-being of the planet may be at stake.  I'm going to make
it five thousand."

"Mr.  Pritchard, I don't think" -- "Maybe I should make it ten."

"Please," Gabe said, "let's not jump the gun."

"What's money, when I won't be around to spend it?  It's the nation I'm
concerned about, Mr.  Rose.  These people have to be stopped!"  "Okay,
five, but we may not spend anywhere near that much."

"If you do your job, this will just be the tip of the iceberg.  We
could be talking thousands, maybe millions in legal fees.  Class
action.  That might be the way to go.  Bring down the corrupt bastards
and all the crooked politicians and crooked lawyers that keep them in
business!  It's too late to save me.  I'm as good as dead.  But you can
still save America, Mr.  Rose."

Gabe was losing his patience.  This guy could drive a person nuts.  On
the other hand, he could end up being a lifesaver, a means to an end.

Though Gabe himself had avoided the temptation in the past, a lot of
attorneys did take on questionable cases so that they could afford to
take the ones that really mattered, whether they involved a decent
payday or not.

But at the moment, his main concern was getting out of there so he
could pick up Arabella.  He decided to give Pritchard what he wanted
and sort it all out later.

"I'll put down three months," Gabe said, filling out the form.

"If your legal problems are resolved before then, you'll be entitled to
a refund."

"No chance of that."

"We'll see."

"Mr.  Rose, this is big, trust me.  The mother of all cases."

Gabe, seated at the receptionist's desk, scratched his signature on the
line at the bottom of the form, then pushed it across the desk for
Pritchard.  The man checked it carefully before signing his name.  Gabe
made a copy of the document and gave it to Pritchard, who in turn
reached across the desk and handed Gabe his check.

"My mother will have another check, just in case," Pritchard said.

"It'll be in the amount of twenty thousand dollars and it'll be made
out to you.  When they kill me, use the money to bring the bastards to
justice."  He drew a long breath.

"I've done everything within my power.  If they get me, as I expect
they will, it'll be up to you, Mr.

Rose.  "

"I'll do my best," Gabe said, managing somehow to look solemn.

Gabe came around the desk.  Pritchard picked up his cardboard box and
put it in Gabe's hands, his head ticking slightly.

"Check the evidence and you'll see just what I mean, Mr.  Rose."  Then,
after glancing through the window toward the street, he leaned toward
Gabe and said in a low, confidential tone, "Bankers, Mr.  Rose.  The
devil's playmates."  Then, his brow furrowing, he added, "Please don't
let me down like the others did.  Please."

With that Del Pritchard turned, went out the door and was gone.

Land Park, Sacramento

When he and Mona bought their little Tudor bungalow on Thirteenth
Avenue six years earlier, it was their first big step into the realm of
happy-ever-after.  or so Gabriel Rose had thought at the time.

They'd made the decision to buy a house and start a family after taking
baby steps in that direction for three years, the first of which they'd
lived in sin, the final two in what he could only describe as
not-so-blissful wedlock.  The marriage had been problematical almost
from the start, the only satisfying aspect being the sex.  The
difficulty was getting beyond mere physical pleasure.

In retrospect, Gabe realized he'd deluded himself.  Orgasms were not
the be-all and end-all of an intimate relationship.  And a wife who
liked screwing enough to invite a husband home for a nooner, was not,
perforce, virtuous.  Or, for that matter, necessarily redeemable.  Sex
to Mona, he'd come to discover, was nothing more than a desperate
attempt to find something where there was nothing.  And Gabe had to
admit it was pretty much the same with him.  His wife, the woman who
shared his bed, was actually a stranger and had been all along.

During those painful months he'd spent at the correctional center, he'd
thought long and hard about his life and, above all, his failings. 
Gabe had come to the conclusion his biggest mistake was in the spouse
he'd chosen.  He initially felt bitter toward Mona--cheated by her--but
in time it became clear that blaming her, or even himself, would
accomplish nothing.  If there was ever to be anyone again in his life,
she'd have to be someone who offered more than a sexual challenge,
someone he cherished for her heart, and who cherished him for his. 
That had never figured in his relationship with Mona, much less become
a reality.

Unfortunately, his ex had gotten pregnant before they had their
definitive epiphany.  So, living under the delusion that a baby might
accomplish what two adults had failed to do, they put their faith in
the notion of family, grinding through the ritual of playing husband
and wife while awaiting a miracle.  Arabella had come into this world
with the sins and omissions of her parents on her tiny shoulders.

Mona's subsequent infidelity, and Gabe's violent reaction to it, had
put an end to the Rose family's twisted version of the American dream,
once and for all.

Arriving in front of the sun-dappled bungalow where he'd once mowed the
lawn, emptied the garbage and split open Peter Cashen's skull, Gabriel
Rose climbed out of his aging Ford Escort, girding himself for Mona's
wrath.  But, as he made his way up the cobbled walk, he saw a slip of
paper taped to the front door.  That probably meant she'd given up on
him and left.  What remained to be determined was what she'd done with
Arabella.

Gabe snatched the folded note from the door, barely noticing that his
once beloved wife had scribbled "Asshole" on the outside.  Inside she'd
written, "If Arabella is so god damned important to you, why can't you
pick her up on time?  I'm not going to allow this to spoil my
evening.

Armand and I are dropping Arabella at Laurel's.  You can pick her up
there.  If this happens again, I'm getting the custody order changed.
"

The note was not signed.

"Armand?"  Gabe said aloud.  Was Mona dating Judge Armand Azumian, the
bastard who'd sentenced him?  Reflecting, he decided it was quite
possible.  Azumian was considered the randiest Superior Court judge on
the Sacramento County bench.  A fiftyish bachelor, Armand was the
consummate charmer, a terrific dancer and all-around bon vivant.  The
wags in the social set called him the "Swingin' Armenian."

As he thought about it, Gabe recalled that, on at least one occasion,
Mona had caught Azumian's eye.  It was at the Crocker Charity Ball,
three years ago.  She was five months pregnant and the two of them
danced at least three or four times.  Afterward, she'd gone on and on
about what a wonderful dancer Azumian was.  Gabe hadn't given it much
thought then, but the fact she could be dating the judge now cast a
whole new light on the situation.

Gabe's paranoia kicked in.  Was there any chance Ar- mand had been
involved with Mona before the sentencing?  he wondered.  He couldn't
believe the judge would be that stupid, but men did some pretty crazy
things when a woman was involved.  Gabe thought about it, trying to
reconstruct events.  Not that he cared whether or not Armand was
screwing Mona--he just hated to think that the judge's libido might
have been a factor in the case, especially if it was at his own
expense.

Azumian wasn't the presiding judge at the bail hearing.  That had been
Wally Collins, who was a hard-ass but still not in Azumian's league.

Armand, who was not so affectionately dubbed "Arm and Hammer" by the
bar, could have ridden with Judge Roy Bean.  Even so, Collins had
jacked bail so high Gabe hadn't been able to get out of jail,
especially since Mona refused to cooperate with the bail bondsmen.

That was when it became clear to him that his colleagues had formed a
lynch mob.  Gabe knew he was screwed.  State prison loomed as a virtual
certainty.  So, desperate, he'd put in a call to the legendary Cyrus
"Pug" 0"Conner, dean of the criminal defense bar.

Pug O'Conner was well into his seventies, an ex- prizefighter who'd
never attended law school, having read for the bar under the tutelage
of an old judge up in Chico.  No question, the guy was eccentric.  Pug
kept his own counsel, working out of a small two-room office downtown
near the bus station, which he shared with his long-time secretary, a
lady named Dot who wrote down his every word in shorthand.

Pug didn't believe in computers and electronic gadgets, though ten
years before he'd bought Dot an electric typewriter to replace the old
manual Smith-Corona, the venerable machine that had help save more than
one perpetrator from the gas chamber at San Quentin.  Pug's philosophy
about the information age was if he couldn't get answers from the books
on his shelves, he'd pay a law student to do the research for him.  The
wily old barrister cozied up to nobody, never socialized or played
politics, quietly going about his business of defending his clients
with zeal.

Though Pug professed to be semiretired, having gotten very selective
about who he'd take on as a client, he and Gabe had been friends for a
number of years--as friendly as Pug ever got with anyone in the legal
establishment.  They'd met when Gabe clerked for the crusty old lawyer
years earlier during Gabe's law school days.  But Pug's primary
interest in Gabe's case flowed from the fact that he fancied himself a
champion of the underdog and an anti establishment crusader.  Defending
Gabe, as Pug saw it, was sort of like defending Bruno Hauptmann.

Unpopular defendants were a challenge worthy of a true master of the
profession.

Gabe couldn't have been more pleased Pug was willing to take him on,
though there was little doubt it would be an uphill battle.  Pug had
made that clear when he paid his first visit to the jail.

"This is not a case for trial, son," he'd said.

"The jury will convict, even if we gain their sympathy.  And since
there's not a judge in Sacramento with an ounce of compassion for you,
you're basically screwed.  We've got Judge Azumian for pretrial and,
even though he's a son- ova bitch I might be able to work him to our
advantage.  But I'll have to talk to him and whatever kid we end up
with in the D.A."  s office.  This strikes me as a case for an early
admission.  We gotta cop a plea.  "

Gabe had demurred, arguing that Arm and Hammer would crucify him.

"Maybe," Pug replied.

"But at least he doesn't have anything to prove--like the next judge
you'd draw.  And if Armand doesn't play ball with me and the D.A." 
then we'll use a peremptory challenge to get him off the case.  "

"But what do we have for leverage?"  Gabe asked.

"The bar's sympathies are with your partner, kid.  If you agree to pay
him off, then I may be able to get Azumian and the D.A. into the
fold.

This is a case for the backroom if ever there was one.  "" You're
saying pay off Peter in exchange for leniency.  "

"It's either that or bank on a jury nullification.  I wouldn't bet
three years of my life on that."

Gabe knew Pug was right.  They had him by the cojones, and he had
nobody to blame but himself.  He'd agreed to Pug's plan.  They'd waived
the preliminary hearing.  Pug did his thing and hammered out an
agreement with the D.

A.

Gabe pleaded guilty and Azumian sentenced him to a year in the county
jail with one-third off for credit for time served.

Pug achieved their two major objectives--Gabe didn't have to do time in
the penitentiary and he got to keep his law license.  Peter got the
practice and Gabe's money.  Mona got the house and Gabe's retirement.

And now it looked like Azumian got Mona.  Justice in a nutshell.

Crumpling Mona's note and stuffing it in his pocket, Gabe returned to
his car.  In one brief note, Mona had succeeded in giving him the
double whammy.  Not only had she revealed she was involved with Armand
Azumian, she'd put him in the position of having to deal with Laurel
Seneker, as well.

Laurel Carson Baker Pitts Seneker was Mona's oft- married pal, her best
friend in high school and a lifelong confidante.  More importantly,
though, Gabe and Laurel had a sexual history.  sex.

being pretty much the beginning and the end of it.

Years ago, when he and Mona were first dating, they'd had a falling out
and didn't see each other for a few weeks.  One rainy Friday night
during the estrangement.  Laurel came to his door in a raincoat with a
bottle of Mumm's Red Label champagne under her arm.  She was between
marriages and frankly told Gabe she'd come to find out what all the
shouting was about.  When she proved to have nothing on under the
raincoat but her luscious DDs, the outcome of the evening became
inevitable.

Subsequently, he and Mona got back together, his night with Laurel
nearly forgotten.  Neither of them ever told Mona about their little
fling, and it had remained their secret through his marriage and
several of hers.  Laurel never made reference to it, though from time
to time there would be an arch of the brow or a coy smile that
indicated she might be remembering.  Naturally Gabe had stayed clear of
her.

Laurel, as best he knew, was between husbands at the moment, but he was
certain that was only temporary.  Finding guys with the right
credentials--which mostly meant sufficient wealth--was Laurel's
principal occupation.  She'd married for money.  Repeatedly.  Her most
recent ex- husband was the prominent Sacramento plastic surgeon, Joel
Seneker, who coincidentally Gabe and Peter had defended in a medical
malpractice suit several years before.  Knowing Laurel as he did, Gabe
figured she probably already had somebody else in her sights.

Because of that rainy night in their past.  Laurel had been one of the
women he'd fantasized about most during his stint behind bars.  Even
so, he'd had no intention of looking her up upon his release, if only
because she was so close to Mona.  The sad truth was, he hadn't been
seeing--or laying--anyone since he'd gotten out of prison.  He'd dated
some, but it wasn't easy to find a respectable woman willing to provide
a mercy fuck.  And he wasn't the kind of guy who'd profess love to get
laid.  The only solution, short of paying for it, was to find a woman
as needy as he.

Gabe started the engine and left the leafy neighborhood he'd once
called home, heading for Riverside Boulevard.  Laurel lived in a fancy
condo in one of those residential high-rises south of the Capitol
Building.  He'd be there in ten minutes.

As he passed the City Cemetery, Gabe's mind turned from Laurel to Del
Pritchard.  It still struck him as incredible the way the guy had all
but forced him to take a check for five thousand dollars.  Gabe figured
the chances were slim he would ever see much of the money, though.

Maybe he could justify spending an hour or two going through the box of
stuff sitting in the back seat, but no more.  Hungry as he was, his
self-respect wouldn't allow him to take advantage of the situation
further.  And that was really what his life was about at the
moment--finding self-respect.

Downtown

"Happy Bastille Day, Gabe," Laurel Seneker said, her tone surprisingly
friendly.

She stood at her door in a skimpy tennis skirt and white tank top, her
silvery hair piled on her head, a thin gold chain around her neck, her
collagen-enhanced lips succulent red, inviting.  He couldn't help but
be aware of her copious breasts.

"Geez," he said, "Bastille Day.  I forgot completely."

"It's one of my favorite holidays."

"Why's that?"

"I adore French wine."

"I might have known," he said with a smile.  He'd considered making
reference to the champagne she'd brought the night of their celebrated
tryst, but decided that might not be such a hot idea.  So far Laurel
was being friendly, even a bit flirtatious.  That was fine.  He wanted
to keep things pleasant.

"I understand you've got my favorite progeny."

"Yes, and you're in deep doodoo, Mr.  Rose."

The way she said it, the comment seemed more an observation than a
criticism, which came as a relief.  He'd been hoping Laurel didn't see
herself as Mona's stalking horse, but he couldn't yet tell how she
felt, which meant he had to be careful.

"I know," he replied.

"But it wasn't because I'm irresponsible, believe me.  I was tied up,
waiting for a call from Hawaii."

She shrugged.

"That's between you and Mona.  I'm just the baby-sitter."

Again, he was encouraged by her words, assuming she was being truthful.
And though he'd have liked her sympathy, at this point he'd settle for
neutrality.  But his primary concern at the moment was getting
Arabella, not winning Laurel's friendship.  Gabe looked past her into
the condo, surprised not to see Bella or at least hear her chatter.

"So, do I have to pay a ransom to get my kid, or what?"  he joked.

Laurel gave him a smile that bordered on coquettish.

"I guess, 'or what."  Come on in.  I put her down maybe fifteen minutes
ago.  "

"Already?"  "Mona said to give you until eight.  And Bella was tired.
She conked right away."

He followed Laurel into the condo, checking out her legs in spite of
himself.  The woman did have the smoothest, most velvety skin he'd ever
seen.  Or felt.  More than once during his incarceration he'd recalled
the sensation of those thighs wrapped around his ears.  It sent a
shiver through him, just thinking about it.

Gabe glanced around.  It was the first time he'd been here, though he
and Mona had been to the big house Laurel had lived in with Joel
Seneker.  But the condo certainly had the same feel as Laurel's other
homes.  It was white and peach with dried flowers and oriental stone
sculptures placed strategically for accent.  There were huge abstract
oil paintings, paid for with Joel's money no doubt.  Laurel's face was
also a product of Joel's largesse.  The flawless skin, according to
Mona, was the result of a laser job and Botox treatments.

Laurel's attorney had gotten Joel to agree to provide free plastic
surgery procedures for life as part of the divorce settlement.  After
three divorces under favorable terms, she was set for the duration,
meaning, as Mona once put it, the only other thing she needed in life
was a "willing cock."  "Really no plans for Bastille Day?"  Laurel
asked, turning to face him.

"No, I usually let Bastille Day pass quietly," he replied affably.

"Oh, maybe I read a little from the collected writings of Robespierre
or The Anatomy of a Revolution, but that's about it."

She laughed.

"Well, I'm having a glass of Bordeaux.  Care to join me?"

He felt a twinge in his groin.  My God, he thought, could she be coming
on to me?  Of course, he instantly looked for the catch, just as he had
with Del Pritchard.  But nothing jumped out at him.

Gabe checked his watch--not that time was particularly a factor, he
simply was at a loss for a response.  Basically, he hadn't anticipated
this kind of reception.  Laurel looked at him with open innocence.  He
did a quick assessment and concluded there was no harm in a glass of
wine and some conversation.

"Sure, why not?"  "Want to look in on Bella while I pour the wine?" 
she asked.

"She's in the guest room.  I have a crib which I keep for my niece when
she visits.  My younger sister's kid."  Laurel pointed.

"Back through there, first door on the left."

Gabe went into the darkened room, illuminated only by the faint light
of dusk coming through the curtains.  He saw his
two-and-a-half-year-old angel in the crib, an innocent cherub in
underpants and sleeveless undershirt.  She had a knuckle thrust in her
mouth, her fat brown curls framing her face.  He leaned over and kissed
her on the cheek, noticing her soft fresh scent, slightly flavored with
the smell of cookies.

He loved his daughter like he'd never loved another living thing.  Far
and away the most painful part of jail time had been his separation
from his child.  It had taken a little while for them to get
reacquainted following his release, but once they had, the bond they
formed was stronger than ever.  Arabella adored him as much as he
adored her, to Mona's chagrin.

If they had a problem now, it was that he couldn't provide for her the
way he wanted.  And because he couldn't afford a nanny, his time with
her was limited to weekends and the odd night when Mona wanted free
baby-sitting.  His child deserved better.  That, more than anything,
drove him to pull himself out of the hole he was in.  Caressing her
cheek, Gabe returned to the front room where Laurel, taut and tan, was
waiting with two wineglasses, each big enough to hold a pint of milk.

She handed him one.

"Vive la France," she said, touching her glass to his.  "Sante," he
replied.

They sipped their wine, then Laurel led the way to the two overstuffed
matching white sofas.  They sat opposite each other.  Laurel crossed
her legs, exposing enough thigh to make the cut in a Sharon Stone
movie.

Gabe, growing serious, wondered what she had in mind.  Was it just
innocent flirting for old times' sake, or was it more?

He tried the wine again.

"Not bad."

"I know my wines," she said.

"I remember."

"It was champagne that night, wasn't it?"

"I believe it was."

Laurel had that coquettish look again.

"As I recall, we had quite a night."

"Yeah," he said, "that's my recollection, too."

She didn't say anything more, nor did he.  But it was becoming apparent
she'd been thinking fondly of their en counter.  The question was, did
she intend more than just tender recollection?

Oddly, the notion was somewhat disconcerting.  Not that he wouldn't
have jumped at the chance if Bella wasn't sleeping in the next room.

Of course, that wasn't quite the same as what Mona and Peter had done,
she being married and her daughter sitting right there, watching the
whole thing.  Even so, it would bother him to make it with Laurel while
Bella was in the house.  Something about that smacked of hypocrisy.

Laurel wasn't 'making it easy, though.  The details of their celebrated
evening had faded, but he remembered her enthusiasm, her lusty
sensuality, her demands for a second and third round.  Between those
memories, the way she looked at him now and the way she was dressed, he
was getting a hard-on.  He quickly gulped some more wine.  "I should
probably gather up my kid and get out of your hair," he said, taking
another hasty drink.

"What's the rush?  She's sleeping peacefully, isn't she?"

"Well ... yeah, I guess."

"If you're hungry, I've got a couple of steaks in the fridge," she
said.

"You haven't eaten, have you?"

"No, I came right from work."

"I like to eat late myself."

As his eyes flickered over her chest, Gabe asked himself if there was
any harm in having dinner with the woman.  There wasn't, of course. 
And how long had it been since he'd had a decent meal?  Laurel was a
gourmet cook.  The real question was what it could lead to.

Gabe swallowed hard.  There were now two kinds of hunger working
against him.  But what was he afraid of?

"Actually, a steak sounds good."

"Come on, then," Laurel said, getting up, "you can toss the salad or
watch me cook, whatever you prefer."

He followed her to the kitchen, knowing that she couldn't possibly have
any serious interest in him.  Laurel

Seneker had her standards and they started at seven figures.  But a
fling wasn't out of the question.  He was a known quantity, after
all.

And.  well, she had to be aware of the fact he was needy after eight
months in jail.  Hell, it was probably written all over his face.

Gabe perched himself on a stool and pulled on his tie, loosening the
knot even more.  He'd left his suit jacket in the car, thinking he'd
only be in the condo a few minutes.  Laurel moved about the kitchen
with the precision of a chorus girl.  Damn, if this wasn't testing his
mettle.  He still didn't know what to think, but he was encouraged
enough to begin laying plans for another evening--one in which his
daughter wasn't sleeping in the next room.

"So, was jail tough?"  Laurel asked as she tossed the salad.

He wasn't particularly eager to talk about that, but he answered her
question.

"It was one of the less pleasant experiences of my life."

"But it wasn't disgusting, was it?"  She grimaced as she said it.

"I wasn't raped, Laurel, if that's what you mean."

She nodded with seeming relief and picked up her wineglass, taking a
drink.

"So, have you gotten laid since becoming a free man?"

"That's kind of a personal question, isn't it?"

"Yes, but I'd sort of like to know what I'm dealing with here."

Gabe assumed that meant she expected them to end up in bed, which
pleased him on the one hand, but was, at the same time, out of the
question.  At least for tonight.  He wasn't sure if he should disabuse
her of the notion directly or be a little more subtle so as not to
screw things up for another occasion.  He settled on the latter
course.

"Don't worry--I'm under control," he said.

Laurel didn't look like she believed him.  But, instead of saying so,
she carried the salad bowl over to the table and said, "Come sit down.
The steaks are just about ready."

Gabe went to the little kitchen table where in future months Laurel
would be snaring larger fish, the kind a marrying woman keeps.  She
nodded toward the wine and asked him to refill their glasses, then she
brought over the steaks.

After she'd taken her chair, she took her wineglass and offered a
toast.

"Robespierre?"

"Robespierre."

They each drank.

After they ate awhile, Laurel said, "You're fighting yourself, aren't
you, Gabe?"

"You're much too perceptive, my dear."  "Have you developed an aversion
to casual sex, or is it me?"

"Neither.  Any other night I'd love to party with you."

"But tonight..."

"It's Arabella."

"Because of what happened with Mona and Peter?"

"Yes."

"This is different, you know."

"I know.  Bella'd be in another room but ... well, irrational though it
may be, I just couldn't do it, Laurel.  I've been through a hell of a
lot because of that incident."

Laurel took a few bites.

"I don't know if that's necessarily admirable, but I think I
understand."

"It has nothing to do with you," he assured her.

She drank more wine.

Gabe felt like a fool.  And most men would say that was just what he
was.  This could be his best shot with Laurel, and he might very well
spend the rest of his life kicking himself for not taking advantage of
it.  But these were not normal times.  He'd had a rough year, though
the impact of his experience was more psychological than physical.

He'd aged a bit since his fall, but at thirty-seven, Gabe knew he still
had the fresh good-looks of a leading man.

His tawny hair, blue eyes, white teeth, even jaw and strong, narrow
nose would have worked nicely on a billboard or in a fashion
magazine.

More than one woman had told him that.  At five-ten, he was a tad
shorter than ideal-who under six feet didn't feel that way?  --and he
had a tendency to puff out around the middle if he didn't watch his
diet.  But he hadn't lost his appeal just yet.  There would be other
opportunities.  Maybe even with Laurel.

She maintained her silence and he figured he'd probably hurt her
feelings.

"Have any plans for Sunday night?"  he asked.

"I'm going to a concert with a friend."

"I see."

They ate for another minute or two, then he said, "Would you be adverse
to my dropping by one night this week.  Laurel?"  No sooner were the
words out of his mouth than Gabe knew it was weak.  She reacted
accordingly.

"Call me," she said.

He felt like a chump.  Just because she'd been willing to use him as
much as he'd been willing to use her, didn't make it a good thing.  Or
was he getting too goddamn idealistic for his own good?

Laurel got him a bowl of ice cream for dessert.  He tried to make light
conversation, but it didn't work too well.  She was clearly miffed.

The phone rang and Laurel went off to answer it.  He scraped the last
of the ice cream from the bowl and waited for what seemed like an
awfully long time.  He wondered if maybe a more promising beau had
called with a better offer.  It wasn't hard to imagine Laurel walking
in and saying, "Sorry, Gabe, something's come up.  You'll have to go
now."  Strangely enough, it would have come as a relief.  He'd left
himself in an untenable position.

After a few minutes.  Laurel reappeared.  "Sorry to take so long."

"No bad news, I hope."

"It was Mona, as a matter of fact.  Do you consider that bad news?"

She picked up his bowl and carried it to the sink.

"What did she want?"

"To make sure you showed up to pick up the baby."

"And she was relieved that I had."

"I didn't tell her you stayed for dinner ... or that you'd asked to
come by sometime later this week, if that's what you're wondering.  I'm
sure you've been trying to decide where my sympathies and loyalties
lie, so let me reassure you, Gabe.  Mona is my friend, but I'm my own
person with my own life and my own interests.  You're no longer married
to her and, as far as I'm concerned, that's all that matters."

Gabe didn't know whether to take heart or not.  One good thing--she did
seem to understand his discomfort about the issue.  But at the same
time, Laurel did not appear eager to engage in a big discussion about
it.  She looked at her watch.

"You know, Gabe, it's been a long day."

"Yeah, I'll grab my brat and head out.  But let me help you with the
dishes first."

"No, that's all right.  There's hardly anything."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

She started rinsing dishes in the sink, her back to him.  He heard her
say, "Call me sometime and we'll see what happens."

He took that as a mixed endorsement.  In any case, it was something.

"Okay," he said.

"But I want you to know I'd like to see you when we can be alone."

She didn't exactly embrace the suggestion, but she did nod.  Then she
dried her hands and said, "Come on, Gabe, let's get Bella."

He followed her into the guest bedroom.  Arabella was still asleep. 
She looked so peaceful, he hated to wake her.  With Laurel standing
next to him in the dark, her scent filling the room, he found himself
wanting to reconsider his decision.

But in his mind's eye he also saw Mona and Peter humping on the bed,
her shrieks of pleasure so loud it was amazing Bella hadn't been
alarmed.  And he saw another image, too--his own parents making love in
what seemed like such a violent, hurtful way.  He'd been maybe four at
the time.  His mother's cries, his father's groans, seemed so alarming
he'd become upset and began to cry.  His father had gotten annoyed by
the intrusion, rebuking him and shouting angrily at him to go to his
room, the angry sounds awakening Gabe's baby sister.  Worse, perhaps,
his parents had fought about it and he'd felt responsible, guilty for
having made everyone so unhappy.

He looked down at Bella, his little angel, her lashes lying on her pale
cheeks, her face faintly visible in the half light.  She made a mewing
sound in her sleep and Gabe picked her up.  His daughter hardly
protested, her body limp and warm against him.

As he turned to Laurel, prepared to say good-night, Gabe heard a noise,
loud pops coming from outside.  They both looked toward the window.
"What was that?"  she asked.

"I don't know.  Shots?"

They heard shouting, followed by a couple more gunshots.

"Those are guns," Laurel said, going to the window.

She peeked out the curtain.  Flashes of red light played on the ceiling
from the street below--light from an emergency vehicle.

"There's a police car down in the street, and somebody's on the
ground," she said.

"Look's like he's been shot.  I think it's a policeman."

Gabe went to the window.  Looking down over her shoulder he could see a
body on the pavement, someone in uniform.  Another officer was bending
over him.

In the distance the sound of a siren could be heard.  First one, then,
moments later, another.  As they watched, the sirens got louder.  Then
a cruiser swung around the corner, coming the wrong way up the one-way
street.  It screeched to a halt beside the other cop car.  The officers
began scurrying around as yet another police car arrived.  Soon there
were cops all over the place.

"I wonder what happened," Laurel murmured.

"God only knows."

Gabriel watched for a few more minutes and was about to turn away when
he noticed a couple of cops approach his car, which was parked directly
across the street, and peer inside it with their flashlights.

It was then that Gabe noticed papers scattered on the ground near the
rear of the Escort.  When he saw a cop stick his flashlight through the
rear side window, he realized that it had been knocked out.

"Jesus," he said, "that's my car."

"Where?"

"Across the street, where those two cops are."

An ambulance arrived then and most of the attention moved to the victim
lying in the street.  Gabe, though, was thinking about his car, the
broken window and the papers--Del Pritchard's "evidence."

"I've got to get down there.  Laurel," he said.

"Do you mind if I put Arabella back down for a few minutes?"

"No, not at all."  i He returned his daughter to the crib.  She was
still sound asleep, completely oblivious.

Two minutes later he was outside with a dozen other curious
onlookers.

When he started to cross the street to his car, a young cop stopped
him.

"Stay back, sir.  Stay on the sidewalk."

"That's my car over there, the one with the broken window."

"It's yours?"

"Yes."

"Hold on," the cop said.  Then he called to another officer.

The second cop, a huge black man, ambled over.  Even before Gabe could
see his name tag, he knew it was Rodney Brown, a highly decorated beat
cop and nose guard of the Sacramento P.

D.

football team.  Brown, who was six-five and 280 pounds, was the hero of
the annual Pig Bowl, the charity game played between the city force and
the Sacramento County Sheriff's Department every year around Super Bowl
time.

"This guy's the owner of the Escort, Sergeant Brown," the young cop
said.

Brown looked Gabe over.

"That right?"

"Yes, officer," Gabe said.

The sergeant took Gabe by the arm and they walked over to the Escort,
stopping a few feet from it.  The cardboard box with Pritchard's papers
was lying up the street, its contents strewn about.  Brown asked Gabe
for his ID.  He showed him his driver's license.  "What happened,
anyway?"  Gabe asked.

"Seems like a couple of my boys was on patrol and they come around the
corner up there and saw a guy breaking into your automobile.  Said he
was pulling that box out of the window when they spotted him.  The guy
had a gun and used it.  One of my boys was hit, the guy got away."

"Jesus Christ."  "We found some blood up the street in the direction he
went.  Could be the motherfucker was wounded."  Brown stared at the
license, holding it up to the light coming from the lamppost.

"You have any idea who that boy might have been, Mr.... Rose?"

"No, none."

"You didn't have no TV or stereo in the car, did you, Mr.  Rose?

Nothing like that?  "

"No."

"Nothing of value in the box?"

"No, I don't think so."

"You don't think so?"

"To the best of my knowledge they were just papers,"

Gabe said.

"I got them today from a client.  I'm an attorney."

"Attorney?"  The sergeant looked again at the driver's license.

"Gabriel Rose.  Why is that name familiar?"  He studied Gabe again.

"I

been in any of your cases, counselor?  "

Gabe shook his head.

"I don't think so."

"Hold on.  Aren't you the lawyer that beat the shit out of that other
lawyer a while back?  Practically killed the motherfucker."

"Yeah, that's me," Gabe said with a wan smile.

"When did you get out of jail?"

"A few months ago.  End of March."

"You're lucky.  You know that?"

"Yes, sergeant, I do."

"And they let you keep your law license?"

"Yes."

Brown shook his head.

"Woo-ee.  I so much as spit on some jerk-off and they'd bounce my ass
so fast your head would spin.  Don't matter if the sonovabitch is black
or white.  Why they let you keep your ticket, anyway?"

"The rationale is I'm not a danger to my clients.  My crime did not
involve dishonesty."

"No, but they not pay you and you'll kick the shit out of them, right?"
Brown howled with laughter.  He handed Gabe back his license, wiping
his eyes.

"No, offense, Mr.  Rose, just havin' a little fun.  The last thing we
need is to lose one of our lawyers, ain't that right?"

He chuckled again, shaking his head with amusement.  Then he put his
big hand on Gabe's shoulder reassuringly, his expression turning
sober.

"Seriously, counselor, what kind of papers were in your car that some
hood would feel the need to break in and steal them?"  He peered up the
litter-strewn street.

"I haven't had a chance to look at them," Gabe replied, 'but my
impression is they were financial records of some kind.  "

The sergeant's expression was skeptical.

"Well, maybe we should have a look."  He took a few steps up the street
and bent over to pick up a couple of pieces of paper.  As he examined
them, Gabe looked, too.

"Some kind of credit card statements, looks like to me," Brown said.

He walked along farther, picking up several more.  "Yep, more credit
card statements."  He pointed to the name of the addressee on one of
the sheets.

"This your client?"

Gabe looked at the name.

"Yeah, Del Pritehard."

Brown gave him a steely look.

"Del Pritehard, huh?"

"That's correct, sergeant.  He's a new client.  Just signed him up this
afternoon."

"Well, if he's the Del Pritehard I'm thinking, maybe you're goin' to
bed tonight with one less client, Mr.  Rose."

"What do you mean?"

"A guy named Del Pritehard got his ass shot a little while ago.  Shot
dead.  It was at his house out in East Sac.  Big place in the Fabulous
Forties."

"Shot dead?"

"Yes, sir.  In front of his invalid mother.  Lone gunman, wearing a
mask.  Didn't take nothin'.  Had all the earmarks of a professional
hit."

"Jesus Christ."  Gabe stared up the street at the empty cardboard box
lying on its side.  He recalled Del Pritehard's crazy insistence that
he was about to be killed.  Apparently the poor bastard wasn't as crazy
as he seemed.  Gabe was stunned.

"Jesus."

"I don't suppose you got any idea who could have wanted to kill him?"

Brown asked.

Gabe shook his head.

"No.  None."

"Or who would have wanted his papers?"

Again, he said, "No."

A light breeze came up, sending a couple of the sheets sliding along
the pavement.  The ambulance took off up the street, sucking more
papers along in its wake.  If a Delta breeze really kicked up, Gabe
realized, the contents of

Del's box could end up blocks away.  Brown was scratching his head,
pondering the situation.

"I'm going to have to give homicide a heads-up," he said.

"Would you mind if I gather Mr.  Pritchard's documents before they blow
away?"  Gabe asked.

"Yeah, I do mind, Mr.  Rose.  That's evidence.  I can't allow you to
touch nothin'."

"It's going to be long gone, if you don't do something about it."

"I'll do my job, counselor, and you do yours."  The sergeant got the
attention of one of his officers, signaling him to come over.

"So, how's Gonzales?"

"They got him stabilized.  It's serious, but they think he'll make it,"
the new arrival said.

Brown's grin was as wide as his face.

"That's good.  Now all we got to do is find the motherfucker who shot
him.  But meanwhile, we got a witness here to look after, son.  Mr.
Rose will be talking to homicide when they get here.  I think he'd be
more comfortable sitting in a squad car.  Would you mind seeing to
that?"  "Am I under arrest, sergeant?"  Gabe asked.  It was the steely
lawyer in him speaking--the one who knew his rights--but it was also
the former prisoner who'd been partially broken, infused with anger,
frustration, paranoia and fear.

"No, not unless you want to be."

"I'd just like to know what you have in mind."

"We'd like for you to tell the homicide detectives everything you know,
if that wouldn't be too much trouble."  "What about the papers?"

"I'll worry about that."  Brown turned to his officer.

"Caldwell, after Mr.  Rose is comfortably situated, get a couple of
people and gather all these papers before they blow away.  But don't
touch the box until the lab boys have gone over it."

"Right, sergeant."

"Excuse me.  Sergeant Brown," Gabe said.

"My little girl's upstairs.

Would you mind if I waited inside instead?  "

"This here your place?"  Brown asked, looking at the building.

"No, a friend lives here.  We were visiting."

"So your daughter's not alone?"

"No."

Brown scratched his head.

"How long you been visiting, if you don't mind me asking'?"

The sergeant was a lot more sly than he let on.

"An hour or two," Gabe replied.  He looked at his watch.

"An hour and a half."

"Since before Mr.  Pritchard got shot, in other words."

"If you say so."

Brown's smile was knowing.

"I suppose there's people inside who can vouch for you being' here the
last hour?"

"Yes."

"They got a name?"  he asked, retrieving a notebook from one pocket and
a pen from another.

"Laurel Seneker."

"Spell that."

"S-E-N-E-K-E-R."

"Seneker.  That's the name of the doc who put my face back together
after some piece of shit tried to take it off with a broken beer
bottle."  Brown turned his head and pointed to the narrow scar running
down the side of his face and across one cheek.

"Must be five years ago now."

"Joel Seneker," Gabe said.

"Plastic surgeon."

"He live here?"

"No, his ex-wife does."

"The wife is your friend."

"That's right."

Brown smiled his wide smile.  "You know the doc?"

"I defended him in a lawsuit once."

The sergeant shook his head with amusement.

"Small world."

"And getting smaller all the time."

"You got that right, brother.  Everybody seems to go bashin' in
everybody else's head, don't they?  Lawyers wupin' lawyers, lawyers
fuckin' clients' wives.  Who knows, maybe lawyers shootin' clients,
too.  It's a small world, all right."

The hair on the back of Gabe's neck stood on end.  He knew prejudice
when he heard it.

"Sergeant, you aren't suggesting I'm involved in Del Pritchard's
murder, are you?"

"Counselor, I'm not suggestin' nothin'.  Just doin' my job.  Fact is, a
man was shot and killed this evenin'.  I've got an officer wounded and
you seem to be connected to both the dead guy and these papers in the
street.  That's reason enough for homicide to want to talk to you,
don't you think?  Now, if you'll excuse me..."  He motioned to the
other officer.

"Caldwell, see that Mr.  Rose is comfortable, then pick up this
trash."

"One last question, if I may, sergeant," Gabe said.

"The fact that I just got out of jail wouldn't have anything to do with
your feelings, would it?"

Brown gave him a level stare.  "A lawyer just out of jail?  Do I look
like a man who'd hold that against somebody?  Lord, what is this world
comin' to if you could think a thing like that?"  The sergeant smiled
and walked away.

Stockton, California

Dakota Jones sat in one of the chairs facing the TV.  The set was on,
the volume low.  The woman in the picture was talking about the
weather. The high that day had been ninety-eight, she said.  Jones
considered that very hot, but he'd been told it got hotter than that in
the Great Central Valley.  He had no desire to hang around to find out.
 His plan had been to hop a plane to L.

A.

by midnight, but it didn't appear they'd make it.  Goblinski and Ortiz
were an hour late.  He was beginning to worry that something had gone
wrong.

Jones did not like TV, except for watching movies on the VCR.  He did
not like most technology.  Telephones, of course, were essential.

Occasionally he listened to the radio.  Computers, cell phones, pagers,
scanners, fax machines--all that was for kids and businessmen.  It
wasn't for him.  When he was alone, Jones preferred silence.  He liked
to read.  Books and movies were his principle forms of amusement,
though sometimes he'd feel the need for a woman.  But he had the TV on
now because, until his boys returned, he'd have no way to know what had
happened with the lawyer.  A news report was his only hope.  If he
didn't hear something by midnight, Jones decided he'd off into the
night.

When the newscaster announced that sports was next, Dakota Jones
groaned with disapproval and got up.  He went to the window.  Pulling
back the curtain, he peered out into the dark parking lot.  He saw no
activity apart from vehicles passing in the street.  But then, two
people appeared on foot, entering the parking lot from the street.  A
man and a woman.  The guy had his arm around his companion.  Jones
could hear her laugh.  She had on very high heels and a very short
skirt.  He figured she was a barfly and the guy had picked her up in
one of the lounges up the street.  A flicker of sexual desire went
through him.

Dakota Jones brushed it aside.  This wasn't the time.

Letting go of the curtain, he stepped away from the window.  Jones got
a glass of water from the bathroom and drank it down, his long,
straight, blue-black hair swinging back off his cheeks.  He returned to
the main room.

Outside, he heard the couple he'd seen in the parking lot.  It sounded
like they were entering the room next door.  He hoped the walls were
thick.  He didn't want to hear them fucking.  Dakota didn't like
distractions, especially not when he was worried.

No sooner had the couple gone inside their room than a car pulled up
outside.  Dakota heard a door open, then close.  He went to the window
and peered through the drapes.  It was Goblinski and Ortiz.  But
something was wrong.  Goblinski was at the passenger side, helping
Ortiz out of the car.  When Dakota saw the big Polack sling the smaller
man's arm around his shoulder and half carry him, Dakota realized
there'd been trouble.  He had the door open before they got there.

"What the fuck happened?"  Dakota demanded.  Seeing the way Danny Ortiz
was dragging his leg, he knew the answer before either of them spoke.

"I got shot," Ortiz replied, wincing.  His dark hair, normally slicked
back perfectly, was ruffled and spiky on one side of his head.

"Can't you see?"

Dakota slammed the door shut behind them.

"By who?"

Goblinski dropped the smaller man on the bed.  Ortiz clutched his
thigh, his face twisted with pain.  His hand and pant leg were soaked
with blood.

Goblinski looked over at Dakota woefully.

"Cops surprised us, boss."

"Cops?"

"Yeah, they just happened to come by while Danny was getting' the box
from the lawyer's car."

"You got into a shoot-out with the cops?"

"Yeah," Goblinski said, rubbing his fat nose with his beefy fist.

"Danny shot one of them."

"Shot a cop?  Fuck.  That's all we need!"  "What about my leg?"  Ortiz
cried, his mussed hair giving him a boyish air.

"Look at me, for cris sakes Jesus!"

Dakota Jones did look at him and he saw trouble.  What the hell were
they going to do with the sonovabitch?  They couldn't take him to a
hospital.  And how long would it be before he bled to death?

Ortiz must have seen the question in Dakota's eyes.

"What, man?  Why are you looking at me like that?"

"This is a problem, you know, Danny."

"Yeah, but what am I supposed to do about it?"

Dakota Jones was already coming to some conclusions about that, but he
couldn't tip his hand.  He needed Ortiz compliant and cooperative.

"We got to get back to L.A.," he said.

"Maybe even take you to Mexico."

"In my condition?"  "Obviously, we got to stop the bleeding.  Jerry,
get some towels," he said to the Polack.

The man lumbered off.  For the next fifteen minutes Dakota worked on
Ortiz.  He had to make it look like he was serious about helping him
through this thing, though he knew the only way to save him was to get
him medical assistance--and that meant putting all their necks on the
block.  He wasn't about to sacrifice everything for a dumb little
Mexican.

Dakota Jones had long since learned that a hit man couldn't compromise.
He had a reputation as one of the most cold-blooded professional
killers around.  The reasons for his success were not complicated.  He
never took unnecessary risks and he never let emotion get in the way of
doing what he had to do.  It was as simple as that.

Dakota knew he was the butt of jokes because of his heritage.  But he
didn't give a shit.  Nobody fucked with him and he always got paid.

That was his main rule.

By birth, Dakota Jones was a full-blooded Native American.  He was
known in the trade as that not-so-noble savage.  But so what?  He got
respect where it counted.  He got the big jobs.

Dakota had never known what it was like to have a normal life.  When he
was a kid, his father had beat his mother to death in a drunken rage.

He himself had had run-ins with the law from the time he was thirteen,
but his first serious trouble had come at nineteen when he'd killed a
man on the reservation back home in a fight over a woman.  The broad
wasn't all that important to him, but stepping on the other bastard's
face was.  Dakota had learned how good it felt to be the last man
standing.  The incident cost him four years in Walla Walla, and it gave
him his entry into the world of professional crime.

Upon his release, Jones went to L.

A.

at the invitation of a former cell mate and his only real friend in
prison, Ruben Lopez.  They went into business together, and Dakota
became an unofficial member of the Mexican Mafia.  Mostly the two
amigos killed for money.  That is until Ruben was shot in a bungled
Mafia hit in the early nineties.  Since then, Dakota operated alone. 
With a growing reputation, he soon moved into the big time.

As he worked on Ortiz's tourniquet, Dakota asked Gob- linski what
happened.

"We followed the sonovabitch lawyer to some apartment building
downtown, figuring maybe we'd jump him when he come out," Goblinski
explained.

"Well, he stayed inside forever, and when it started getting late, we
figured we'd just take the box from the car.  I went to get our wheels
while Danny busted the window to get the box."

"And just as I did, this fucking cop car shows up," Ortiz added.  '
"The cops was going to bust me, boss.  I had to shoot 'em."  He winced
with pain.

"So, where's the box?"

Ortiz hung his head.

"I dropped the sonovabitch when I got hit.  The fucking papers went
flying all over the place.  Boss, I didn't have no choice but to get
the hell out of there."

"All that and you didn't get anything?  No lawyer, no papers?  No
nothing?"

"There was nothing I could do, honest."

Jones gave a final yank on the tourniquet, eliciting a howl from
Ortiz.

"Jesus, boss!"

Jones stood, gazing down at the Mexican with disgust.

"You're lucky I don't do you, amigo.  I kill a guy this afternoon so he
won't talk and you can't even get a box of papers from a fucking
lawyer!  And worse, you leave 'em for the fucking cops to pick up."

"It wasn't Danny's fault, Dakota," Goblinski interjected.  "No way
nobody could know the cops would show up."

Jones continued to stare down at Ortiz, realizing the whole operation
had been bungled, whether by accident or incompetence.  But what
difference did it make at this point?  A problem was a problem.  And
now, to add insult to injury, he had a bleeding Mexican on his hands
and a Polack too stupid to know what a problem that was.

Danny Ortiz, who wasn't nearly as dumb as Goblinski, looked up at Jones
through eyes glistening with pain and said, "So, how are we getting
to

L.

A.

"

"We can't fly back, that's for sure," Jones said.

"At least not all of us.  I guess I'll have to drive you back myself.
Jerry can fly."

The Mexican looked at him warily.

"You're going to drive me, boss?"  "Yeah, Jerry can take my car to San
Jose and fly back from there.

We'll take the car you rented since it's probably full of blood,
anyway.  After I get you to L.

A.

" I'll ditch the sonovabitch."

"How'm I going to last long enough to drive all the way to L.A.?"

Ortiz moaned.

"I think I need a transfusion already."

"What choice do you got, Danny?"  Dakota replied.

"Besides, you aren't bleeding now.  You just gotta drink a lot of
liquids."  He tossed his head toward the bath.

"Get him some water.  Jerry."

While Goblinski did as he was told, Dakota Jones sat in the chair where
he'd waited earlier.  Ortiz lay back on the bed, groaning softly.

As Jones watched him, he heard the faint cries of a woman in pleasure
coming from the next room.  If the Mexican heard, he gave no sign.  The
woman let out a scream at the moment of climax.  The Mexican continued
to groan, oblivious.  Funny, Dakota thought, how a guy could risk his
life to get laid, but not give two licks about sex if he had a sliver
in his butt.

Goblinski returned with the water.  Ortiz sat up and gulped it down.

Jones watched the pair.  He knew his next problem was to decide where
and when to kill the Mexican and what to do with the body.

Fortunately, he had seven hours to figure it out.  He'd only need
one.

Saturday, July 15

Downtown Sacramento

1 en minutes after the detectives left the interrogation room.

Lieutenant Spencer Shimota entered, a manila folder in hand.  At
five-three, he was the smallest cop Gabriel Rose had ever known.

Shimota was also quite slight, and his nickname on the force was "The
Shinto Splinter."  A Japanese-American, he'd made it into law
enforcement during the affirmative action years when someone with a
modicum of intelligence and a willingness to work on the good side of
the law was almost an automatic shoe-in.  Shimota had a lot more than
his minority status going for him, though.  He was tough as well as
smart, and he had terrific instincts for police work.  Unfortunately,
Shimota and Gabe had a lot of history, none of it good.

Their first encounter had been in court.  Gabe had represented a
plaintiff in a civil assault case against the SPD.  Lieutenant Shimota
was a principal defendant.  The suit had cost the detective ten
thousand out of his own pocket.  If that wasn't enough, some years
later, Shimota had, by chance, been the lead investigator when Gabe
beat the hell out of Peter Cashen.  Shimota's zeal in making the case
had gone a long way toward the outcome.  There was little love lost
between them.

"Well, Mr.  Rose, we meet again," Spencer Shimota said, sitting at the
table across from Gabe.  He made no attempt to hide his pleasure at the
circumstances.

Gabe glanced at the clock on the wall.  It was twenty past midnight.

"Good morning, lieutenant.  Nice of you to come down."

Shimota gave him a less than amused smile, the ten thousand missing
from his savings account most likely at the forefront of his mind.  He
was in an open-neck white shirt, seersucker jacket and chinos.  Judging
by the black stubble on the end of his chin, he'd gotten out of bed
expressly to have this conversation.  Normally the part in Shimota's
hair ran down the upper left side of his crown with razor straight
precision, and he was neat as a pin, always wearing a tie, even in the
dog days of summer.  This evening his habiliments were more
approximate.

He carefully opened the manila file folder, perusing it a moment before
speaking.

"So, what's the story, Mr.  Rose?  Happen to be in the wrong place at
the wrong time, or are we in for another prosecution?"

"Was that prosecution or persecution, lieutenant?"  The detective
smiled thinly.

"Grumpy already?"

"Listen, I've got a daughter to look after and you guys have been
jacking me around for hours.  If you're going to arrest me, get it over
with.  Otherwise, I'm out of here."

"Anybody stopped you from leaving, counselor?"  Gabe stared at him
blankly.  He and the cops had been playing cat and mouse all evening.

Because he was on probation, he didn't want to be arrested--Angela
Little Deer being almost completely devoid of a sense of humor.  Not
that he felt he was in any danger of being charged.  They didn't have a
thing on him.  Laurel had corroborated his story that he was having
dinner with her at the time Pritchard was shot.  But the five thousand
dollar check drawn on Del's account that the cops had found in the suit
jacket Gabe had left in the car raised suspicions.  They wanted him to
stick around until Shimota, who was handling the Pritchard murder, had
a chance to talk to him.

"I stayed to accommodate you, Shimota," Gabe said, "so get on with
it."

"The boys tell me you and Del Pritchard met this afternoon for the
first time, shortly before he was killed."

"That's right.  Signed him up as a client.  The check is the retainer
fee."

"Tell me why Pritchard came to see you."

Gabe sighed woefully.  It was the third or fourth time he'd been
asked.

Besides, it was late and, between his fatigue and the wine he'd had
with Laurel, he wasn't in the clearest of mental states.

"Isn't it all there in the file?"

"I'd like to hear it from your own lips."

Gabe went through the story again, recounting everything that had
happened at Rudy Herman's office.

"Christ, call Rudy," he said.

"It's only nine-thirty in Hawaii.  He can confirm what I've said."

"Thanks for the suggestion, counselor," Shimota mumbled without looking
up from the file.

"Just might do that."  He turned a sheet of paper, finally glancing
up.

"So tell me, why is it you didn't look through the box of evidence?"

"I didn't have time.  I was late picking up my kid and my ex was
pissed."

"A man tells you he's about to be killed and you don't bother to check
the information that supposedly proves it?"

"Lieutenant, I thought the guy was nuts.  Rudy told me as much."

"But you took his five grand, just the same."

Gabe fought to keep the color from rising in his face.  He shrugged.  '
T was going to look into the matter, but it didn't strike me as urgent.
I even told him it wasn't likely I'd use up the entire retainer.  My
plan was to spend an hour or two looking at his papers and tell him
there was nothing there.  "

"In light of what happened, your judgment seems a little premature,
doesn't it, counselor?"

"Was it, lieutenant?  I don't know what is in that box.  The cops at
the scene showed me a couple of credit card bills.  Have your guys
bothered to look through the rest of it?"

Spencer Shimota nodded.

"Yeah, that's mostly what it is, credit card bills and general
correspondence from the various banks where Pritchard had accounts.
I've assigned a team to look through it, but looks like trash to me."

"There's your answer, then," Gabe said.

"The guy was nuts."

"That's your theory?  The guy was killed because he was nuts?"

' T have no idea why he was killed, but the reason may have nothing to
do with what was in that box.  Just because Pritchard thought so,
doesn't make it a fact.  "

"And by extension, the murder has nothing to do with you, right, Mr.

Rose?  "

"In the absence of proof to the contrary..."

"Tell me again who Pritchard said was after him."

Gabe rolled his eyes.

"Jesus, how many times do I have to say it?  The answer's not going to
change."

"Maybe I like the sound of your voice, counselor."

Gabriel Rose repressed his anger.

"Pritchard didn't say who.  It was 'they, them, the unknown
conspirators."  " " I thought it was the FBI and the CIA.  "

"Well, he didn't exactly say that.  It was more like the government in
general.  His complaint was that the FBI and CIA wouldn't
investigate.

He claimed he wrote them letters.  Maybe you'll find your answers
there. Why don't you contact the FBI and the CIA ask them what
Pritchard's claims were?  "" Thank you for the wonderful suggestion. 
You may be interested to know we've already made inquiries.  "

"Great minds, lieutenant," Gabe said dryly.

"Yeah, well, why is it I have this feeling your great mind is holding
something back?  Why does this thing smell?"

"I'm sure I haven't any idea."

"I'm sure you don't."

"Then don't you think you've played with me enough for one evening?"

Gabe said.

"I know it gives you great pleasure, but at some point your
self-respect has to kick in."

"I don't need your opinion about that, Mr.  Rose."

"Then can I go?"

"Just a couple more questions.  Why would Mrs.  Prit- chard, the
victim's mother, know you, counselor?  The two of you ever meet?"

"His mother?"

"That's right."

"Never met the woman in my life."

Spencer Shimota's brows rose.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Funny thing."

"What's that, lieutenant?"

"Well, Mrs.  Pritchard witnessed her son's murder, as you may have
heard.  And you know the name she mentioned when we asked who would
have reason to kill Del?"

"Not mine."

Shimota grinned.

"Gabriel Rose."

"Bullshit."  "Not at all, counselor.  Your name was the only one she
gave."

Gabe felt panic welling up.

"That's ridiculous."

"But it's a fact."

Gabe studied the diminutive detective for a moment, struggling to keep
control of his emotions.  especially his fear.

"So, does that mean you're going to charge me?"

"No.  At least not now."

The relief Gabe felt was palpable.

"Frankly, the woman wasn't very credible," Shimota went on.

"She was agitated, confused and, well, let's just say her receiver
seemed to be off the hook.  But I find it interesting that your name
was the first that popped into her addled mind."

"She didn't say I shot Pritchard."

"No.  She made no direct accusation."

"Thank God for that.  You'd have hung an innocent man."

Shimota grinned.

"Well, your success with the ladies helped your cause in this instance,
counselor.  Mrs.  Seneker was persuasive concerning your whereabouts at
the time of the murder.  And I confess she was a good deal more
coherent than the victim's mother.  You may be able to accomplish
incredible--and I do mean incredible--feats in the courtroom, but you
can't be in two places at once."

Gabe took a couple of breaths.  "Thank God for small favors," he
mumbled.  "Needless to say, though, we have a continuing interest in
your possible involvement in the matter.  But we can put that off till
another day."

They looked into each other's eyes.

"Unless I'm mistaken, I was just told I can leave," Gabe said.

"I don't plan to press charges at the moment," Shimota replied.

"You can go."

Gabe couldn't help smiling.  He got to his feet, his brain numb and a
bit woozy.  He started for the door, but then remembered.  "I almost
forgot.  I believe you have a check of mine."

Shimota took Del Pritchard's check from the file and handed to him.

"Don't you want to make a photocopy?"

"Already have, Mr.  Rose, but thanks for offering."

The men exchanged cold stares.

"I know you'd like nothing better than to nail my ass again, Shimota,"
Gabe told him.

"But you really are barking up the wrong tree this time."

"We'll see, counselor," the lieutenant said with a humorless grin.

"We'll see."

* :jS * .

Laurel Seneker had told Gabe that she'd look after Arabella as long as
necessary.  So he'd left the police station, gone home in a taxi and
crashed.  But despite being dead ;

tired, he hadn't been able to sleep.  He kept thinking of ';

poor Del Pritchard, twitching and looking through the blinds, babbling
on that he was going to be killed.  Gabe , hadn't taken it as a cry for
help, but he should have, which left him wondering if Pritchard's blood
was on his hands.  ;

He finally fell asleep and, when he awoke, his first :

thoughts were about the man he'd discounted as a nut.  Clearly, for all
his squirrelly behavior, Pritchard had had good reason to be paranoid,
despite what Gabe had said to Shimota.  And given the fact that Gabe
was probably one of the last people to speak with Del--perhaps the last
with a chance to save him--he had to shoulder at least some
responsibility for what happened.

According to Del Pritchard, that box of "evidence" was pivotal.  But
Gabe could see no reason why credit card statements and form letters
would be damning.  And Pritchard's conviction that they were didn't
make it so.  It was also possible Del had fooled all of them--filled
his evidence box with innocuous trash to throw the bad guys off the
scent. If so, then Gabe had been used, too.  But the .  bottom line
was, Pritchard was dead.  ;

Gabe asked himself if it was his problem.  He wanted to say no--that
he'd acted reasonably under the circum;

stances.  But the guy had told Gabe point-blank that he was relying on
him.  He couldn't get that out of his mind.  Not that he had the option
of walking away.  The cops had decided that he was involved.

Which brought him to the inexplicable fact that Pritchard's mother had
implicated him.  Why, he wondered, had his name been the first one out
of her mouth?

Gabe's own latent paranoia made him wonder if somehow he wasn't being
set up.  But by whom?  Pritchard?  His killer?  The cops?  The
possibilities were endless.  Mona would probably already have shot him
if she didn't need him for baby-sitting.  Then there was Peter Cashen,
of course. Christ.  It hit him that he had far too many enemies.

Gabe knew he wasn't going to accomplish anything by staying in bed, so
he got up and went to shower.  As he scrubbed himself, battling the
fluctuations in water temperature, he contemplated the challenges of
the day.  The police had impounded his car, hoping to get physical
evidence against whoever had shot the cop.  That meant he was without
wheels.  No small problem.  He had maybe eighty bucks in his checking
account, less bank service charges.  He'd used most of the cash he had
on him to pay the cab home from the police station.  He'd either have
to borrow a car or get a rental.

Rudy owed him fifteen hundred, but he wouldn't be paid until Rudy got
back from his honeymoon.  Gabe had a Visa with a few hundred dollars of
credit available, but he was running a couple of months behind on the
payments, and the last time he'd gone to the grocery store the card was
rejected.  Damn.

After he'd dressed, Gabe called Laurel, knowing that because of Bella,
she'd be up.

"Lord," she said, "I forgot how annoying an adorable little voice can
be at six in the morning."

"Laurel, I can't tell you how grateful I am to you for covering for
me."  "Hey, sometimes you have to look out for your friends.  Just
don't plan on making a habit of this."

"It'll be the last time, I promise."  "What happened with the cops?"

Gabe gave her the short, sweet version, portraying himself as a helpful
witness.  Most likely anything he said that was the least bit damning
would get back to Mona, and that could result in only one
thing--trouble.

"What, exactly, was the killer after?"  she asked.

"That, my sweet, is the great mystery."

"So, when are you coming for the baby?"  The eagerness in her voice was
only partially disguised.

"I'm going out to rent a car now."

It was then he realized the baby seat was in his car, which was locked
up in the police compound.  He sure as hell didn't want to buy another
one, but how else could he transport Arabella?  And with his luck, he'd
get pulled over and cited for not having her in a seat.

"Have you had breakfast?"  Laurel asked.

"No."

"Plan on having it with us, then."

"That's awfully nice of you," he said.

"Don't make anything of it, Gabe.  I just want everything to end on the
friendliest of terms."

He wasn't a hundred percent sure what she meant by "end," but he knew
this wasn't the time to go into it.

"I understand."

"How long before you get here?"  she asked.  "An hour?"

"Please don't dawdle.  I've got things to do today."

"I'm out of here."

After hanging up, he turned his thoughts back to the baby seat.  The
easiest solution was to borrow Mona's, even if it meant telling her
about his latest difficulties.  But he couldn't call her at this
hour.

She'd probably still be in bed with the Swingin' Armenian.  The image
of that, in contradistinction to Armand--gavel in hand, sanctimoniously
pronouncing his sentence--made his blood run hot.  But Gabe knew he
couldn't get carried away with something that was at best a hypothesis.
Better to think about the baby seat.  And better to wait until after he
had the rental car to call Mona.

As it turned out, getting a car was a major headache.  His Visa card
wouldn't go through, and the first two agencies wouldn't give him a
car.  Finally he found a Rent-A- Wreck outfit that was willing to give
him a car if he paid cash in advance.  That meant a six-block hike to a
Versa teller.  Once he had his wheels he called Mona, waking her up.
Judging by her tone, Armand was in bed next to her.  "What are you
doing asking to borrow my baby seat at this hour?"

"It's nine-thirty, Mona."

"Yes, and it's Saturday, my day off, remember?  While you were cooling
your heels in the county jail, I was changing diapers at the crack of
dawn.  Whether you see it or not, I deserve a break."

Gabe was tempted to ask if balling Armand was a newly found diversion
or if it had long been part of her revival regimen, but he settled for,
"I need the seat, Mona."

"Well, I needed you to show up when you were supposed to last night."

"Listen, I'm sorry.  Honest."

"Sorry?  When is sorry ever enough with you, Gabriel Rose?  If I had a
dime for every time you said" -- "Mona," he said, cutting her off, "the
fact that I'm an asshole is well established.  I don't want Arabella
thrown through the windshield.

Can you buy that?  "

There was a long, angry silence.

"I'll unlock the car before you get here," she said coldly.

"Just take the seat and don't disturb me."

"Deal.  I appreciate your cooperation.  Give my regards to Arm and
Hammer, by the way."

His ex-wife hung up without a reply.

Laurel, wisps of blond hair cascading to her shoulder tips, was in
another of her white tank tops when he arrived at her door.  Gabe tried
not to look at her boobs.  She was a little miffed at the tardiness of
his arrival.

"For your patience and understanding," he said, presenting her with a
rose he'd cut from the bush in front of Mona's.

Her expression immediately softened and she smiled.

"You're a hard man to be mad at," she said.

Gabe took heart in her response.  He'd half expected her to harden
against him, perhaps put off by being questioned by the police.  Before
he could broach the issue, Bella came running.

"Daddy, Daddy!"  Gabe swept his child up into his arms.

"Daddy, Doo."

Laurel had made a breakfast of sliced fresh fruit, muffins, scrambled
eggs and coffee served on fancy china in the dining room.  Bella had
eaten, but had some pudding, anyway.  Gabe found his eyes frequently
visiting the scooped neckline of Laurel's tank top as he regretted the
way the previous evening had gone--on several scores.  But, considering
the situation was unchanged with Bella there, he'd hold to his original
plan, be discreet and hope for a get-together later in the week.

"Umm," Laurel said, brushing her puffy lips with her napkin, "Before I
forget, when I woke up this morning, I remembered something.  Just
before you rang the bell I was at my window, looking down at the
street, and I saw a car pull up opposite the entrance.  I noticed
because it was the same kind of car as one that belonged to a guy I
dated a few months back.  He was a pain in the ass and I had trouble
getting rid of him.  He finally dropped out of sight, though, and
stopped calling me."

"But this wasn't him."

"No, there were two guys, actually.  I could see the driver.  He was
staring at the building.  You must have been at the door downstairs at
the time.  Anyway, the other man got out of the passenger side and the
car drove on.  The whole thing hardly registered.  I forgot all about
it until this morning as I was lying in bed."  "Do you think it could
have been the guys who broke into my car and shot the cop?"

"I have no idea.  That's all I saw.  It completely slipped my mind
until this morning."

"Then you didn't mention it to the cops."

"No, but maybe I should.  Do you think I should call them?"

Gabe thought for a moment.

"I'll be talking to them, I'm sure, so I can pass along the
information.  What did the guys look like?"

"I only had a glimpse, so it's hard to say.  The driver was white.  I
saw his bare arm sticking out the window.  He had a big tattoo.  The
man who got out was darker.  Latino, maybe.  But then you rang the bell
and I forgot about it."

"What kind of car?"

"Black Toyota Corolla."

"I don't suppose you saw the plate."

Laurel shook her head.

"Yeah, you're right.  The cops should know about this.  I'll pass it
on.

If they want to talk to you, they can.  "

Gabe was reluctant to involve Laurel any more than necessary because
Spencer Shimota was sure to find a way to jab him in the ass.  But it
was useful information.

The rest of the conversation was mostly chitchat.  Bella got a lot of
their attention.  Laurel kept saying how sweet she was.  Never having
had children of her own, she was braver than Gabe would have
expected.

When it came time to go, Laurel helped Gabe gather the baby's things.

He again expressed his appreciation for her help.  She thanked him for
the rose.  Their last words were at the door.  Bella was in his arms,
along with all the paraphernalia Mona routinely sent along.  Laurel
kissed the baby goodbye, then she gave Gabe a full sensual kiss on the
mouth, surprising him.

"You know, Gabe," she said, her voice breathy, "I think I'd like it if
you'd come by one evening for a drink and supper."

He felt that same tremor of excitement he'd known as a kid when some
girl he admired went out of her way to say something to him.  That was
how bad it had become-he was back to adolescent responses.

"Have an evening in mind?"

"Call me in a day or two."

Laurel clearly was going to make him work a little for it.  Her
gamesmanship made him smile.  But he'd waited a year; a few more days
could only add to the expectation.

"I will," he said.

Gabe gave Laurel a quick kiss on the cheek--a little gamesmanship of
his own--then left, carrying his daughter downstairs and out to the
rental car.  About the time he had Arabella strapped into the baby
seat, she said she had to go pee-pee.

"Sweetheart, can you wait until we get home?"

"No, Daddy, now!"

Gabe took her out of the seat and, seeing that nobody was around,
pulled down her pants and hung her little butt over the edge of the
curb.  The open car door afforded them a modicum of privacy.  Arabella
thought it was the funniest thing that ever happened, laughing as the
pee splashed in the gutter.  As he was pulling up her pants, he noticed
some litter on the ground, a relatively clean piece of paper in
particular.  Wondering if it might be a stray sheet from Del
Pritchard's evidence box, he snatched it up.  It was a credit card
statement from about six months earlier.  Pritchard's name was on the
top.  But this sheet was different from those he'd seen the night
before when Sergeant Brown had retrieved a couple samples.  This one
had writing on it.

Someone had scribbled in ink "Cheating bastards!"

Gabe folded the paper and slipped it into his shirt pocket.  If the
handwriting was Del Pritchard's, as he suspected, it was yet another
example of the acrimony Del felt toward banks and bankers.  What was it
he'd called them?  The devil's playmates?  Yet, the nature of his
complaint was unclear.  Was there a specific policy he objected to, or
did he simply hate banks in general?  If it was the latter, he wasn't
alone.  Some folks felt about banks like most citizens did about the
IRS.  And yet the fact remained--Del Pritchard was dead.  There had to
be a reason.

Mrs.  Webber, Gabe's mean, ill-tempered landlady, was waiting for him
at the top of the third-floor stairs, arms folded, her drooping jowls
forming a venomous scowl.  Arabella and her sundry luggage were in
Gabe's arms.

"Well, if it isn't Mrs.  Webber."

"Mr.  Rose," she said curtly, "I believe you're aware of the policies
of this building.  No children!"

"As you well know, Arabella is my daughter.  I do not have primary
custody of her.  She visits on occasion."

"That baby's in this building at least forty percent of the time!"  the
woman snapped, her eyes narrow, her lips as thin and cold-looking as
porcelain.

"There have been complaints."

"Bella is not a problem.  She doesn't bother anyone."

"That's not what my tenants say."

"Your tenants are mistaken."

"No, Mr.  Rose, you're the one who's mistaken."  She extended the
envelope she'd been holding behind her.

"I'm giving you seventy-two hours' notice to vacate.  I've consulted my
attorney.  It's all perfectly legal."

"Because he says so?"

"I may not be a lawyer, Mr.  Rose, but I've been in this business a
long time.  You are slow to pay your rent.  You have this child.  I can
afford to enforce my rights.  You cannot afford to defend yours. That's
the bottom line."

"I can represent myself, you know.  And you surely are aware I can drag
this out for months, if I want to."

"If you represent yourself, you'll have a fool for an attorney," she
rejoined.

"I cannot afford to make an exception.  I will vigorously enforce my
rights however long it takes.  The rental agreement is very explicit on
the point of children."

Gabe considered the situation.  His instinct was to fight, to make
things as difficult for the old bag as he could.  But at the same time,
he'd been thinking of moving as soon as he could scrape together the
first month's rent and deposit, anyway.  Discretion, he was coming to
realize, was sometimes wiser than symbolic posturing, even in the face
of a hated foe.

Gabe put down some of his load, keeping only Bella and one small bag in
his arms.

"Would you consider a compromise, Mrs.  Webber?"

She scrutinized him.

"I'm listening."

"Refund my unused rent, add five hundred bucks and I'm out of here
tomorrow."

"You want me to give you five hundred?"

"It would be cheaper than having to fight this."

"I'd rather see you in court," she fumed.

"Two-fifty and I'll be gone by next Saturday."

She hesitated a millisecond.

"No."

Gabe sighed.

"Oh, well."  Picking up his things, he headed for his apartment.

"Mr.  Rose," the woman said, her voice as commanding as a grade school
principal.

He stopped, looking back.  "

"Yes?"  "Your wife called about half an hour ago and asked me to give
you a message."

Gabe groaned.  Mona had developed the habit of using Mrs.  Webber as
his personal answering service, much to the old lady's chagrin, not to
mention his.  He'd asked Mona to refrain, but her response was
caustic.

"You don't have a goddamn answering machine.  What do you expect me to
do?"

Arabella squirmed impatiently.

"Daddy..."

Gabe gave her a peck on the forehead before turning his attention to
his landlady.

"What's the message, Mrs.  Webber?"

"She said if you're getting involved in criminal activities again, you
might as well bring the baby home and don't plan on seeing her again.

That's a direct quote.  "

"I'm sure it is.  Anything else?"

"Yes, she does not appreciate being roused from her bed on a Saturday
morning by the police."

"The police?"

"That's what she said."

Gabe groaned.  He could see the fingerprints of Spencer Shimota on
this.

"Well, if she calls back, tell her to expect a congressional subpoena."
He took a few more steps toward his door.

"Mr.  Rose..."

Again Gabe stopped.

"Be out by Friday and I'll refund the unused rent and give you a
hundred dollars," the woman said.

"Two hundred," he replied.

"A hundred and fifty."

"We started at five hundred."

"You started at five hundred, Mr.  Rose."

"How could you deny a man with a hungry child?"

"A hundred and seventy-five," she said.

"That's my final offer."

"Done," he replied.

She smiled.  He smiled.  They each had cut a big fat hog.

Hollywood, California

Steve Magnin had taken Sunset Boulevard most of the way from Beverly
Hills, the soft purr of his new yellow Lamborghini less comforting than
usual.  He was nervous, and that wasn't good.  People could tell when a
guy had his shit together and when he didn't.  In dealing with a man
like Dakota Jones, showing fear or weakness was an invitation to
trouble--especially considering he had bad news for Jones.

Normally Magnin had no trouble being hard-ass--he'd even managed to
stand up to his father-in-law when it really counted.  But staring down
a professional killer was way outside his normal range of experience.

Coming up through the construction trade, Magnin had dealt with some
rough characters, though never anybody as coldblooded as Jones.  But if
he was going to be the man, Steve

Magnin knew he had to act the part.  After all, what choice did Jones
have?  He might be pissed, but in the end, he'd have to wait for his
bread.

That didn't make his job of having to tell Jones any easier, though.

When Steve let himself think about it, the courage he'd screwed up
melted away as fast as the snow in the San Gabriels in spring.  The
worst part was Jones had warned him not to fuck with him.  "I do my
part and you do yours," the Indian had said.

"Screw me and you're dead."  Magnin could only hope it was hyperbole.

He had to admit he'd had no idea what he was getting into when he'd
started this.  Frank Crusetti, the former union guy with mob
connections he'd talked to about finding a contract killer, had been
wary.

"What's a pretty boy like you wanting to kill somebody for?  If some
asshole is fucking your wife, you don't need no high-class
professional.  Find yourself a street mechanic.  It'll cost you five or
ten grand."

"This is not that kind of thing," Magnin had explained.

"I need the best."

It had been two weeks before he'd heard anything.  He'd started
wondering if Crusetti had taken the five thousand dollar "finder's fee"
and run.  But then, after a few more days, he'd gotten a call from
Jones.

"What took so long?"  Magnin complained.

"I had to check you out, jerk-off.  You want this done, you do it my
way."

Their meeting had not been pleasant.  Jones was leery and clearly
reluctant.

"Normally I don't do business with amateurs, which means you gotta pay
a premium."

Magnin had endured the insults, figuring the result was all that
mattered.  The price had probably been jacked up because Dakota Jones
knew he had a fat hog.  But even if he overpaid, Magnin had the comfort
of knowing he was dealing with a true professional.  Now the question
was if a true professional could also be reasonable.

Of course, Magnin wouldn't be in this situation if his wife didn't
control the purse strings.  Which was another reason he was eager to
take charge.  He was tired of kissing her ass and, once he'd solved
this problem his way and on his terms, he'd have a case for calling the
shots.  Hell, that was what Dee Dee really wanted underneath.  though
maybe she didn't realize it yet.

Magnin made a left on Gower, passed under the Hollywood Freeway and
proceeded up to Franklin, where he stopped behind a blond fox in a
little red Mazda Miata.  He didn't have to see her face or her chest to
know she was a hot number.  The faces of the three Mexicans standing on
the corner next to her said it all.  Magnin revved his engine enough to
make her look in her rearview mirror.  All he could see were sunglasses
and lips, but he could imagine what was in the package.  He'd once made
a life stroking that kind of pelt--and he still did knock off a piece
on occasion, circumstances permitting.

The blond honey nipped her hair, then zipped around the corner.  Magnin
moved ahead to the stop line, but he couldn't follow because of traffic
coming along Franklin.  The woman disappeared into the afternoon smog.
Oh, well, he thought, easy come, easy go.

With no further distractions to deflect his concentration, Magnin's
mind returned to his wife.  Their problems all went back to her old
man. It had taken a while, but he'd finally figured that one out.

Demetrius Valticos had worshiped his little girl from the day she was
born, not realizing he was creating a headache for the man who'd one
day marry her.  Even after Dee Dee was an adult, old man Valticos
continued his adoring, indulgent ways, spoiling her.  But Valticos was
basically out of the picture now, half paralyzed and almost unable to
talk.  That he was as good as dead couldn't have pleased Magnin more,
but the monster the old boy had created lived on.

The day her father had his stroke, Dee Dee started trying to stand in
his shoes.  Then, when she stopped so much as asking Magnin his opinion
about the important issues facing the company, he fumed.  His wife
needed to be put in her place.  But that was no small challenge, even
for a guy with Steve Magnin's balls.

After five years of marriage, Dee Dee was only now learning what it
meant to be a woman, at least in bed.  She'd never known a real man
before him.  The guys she'd dated had all been boy toys, ornaments,
leeches chasing her old man's money.  Steve was the first to show her
how a real man behaved in the sack.  Now he had to teach her how a real
man behaved in the boardroom.  Maybe he didn't know the banking
business backward and forward like her old man, but nobody at Valticos
would push him around.  It was all about letting people know who was in
charge.  Dee Dee needed to learn that it was her husband who was boss,
at home and at work.

The light finally changed and Magnin made his turn.  It was only a few
short blocks to Bronson Avenue.  Sure enough, tucked around the corner
behind the liquor store was Victor's, the restaurant-deli where he and
Dakota Jones were to meet.  Why Jones picked these out-of-the- way
places was beyond him.  The only explanation Jones had offered was that
you can't be too careful.  Magnin could understand the Indian's concern
about using the phones, considering the possibility of wiretaps, but
traipsing all over L.

A.

just to sit and talk for fifteen minutes seemed overkill.  At their
first meeting, when he'd complained about it, Jones had given him a
steely look and said, "You know how many guys who do what I do are
dead?"  This time, when Magnin had moaned about having to drive to the
far side of Hollywood, Jones had said, "Look at the bright side.  Maybe
you'll see a movie star."

Considering Franklin was on the edge of the Hollywood Hills where a
bunch of stars lived, the comment wasn't as facetious as it sounded.

So, having little choice, Magnin relented.  They were doing it Dakota
Jones's way, and that was that.  The real problem was the money.  The
Indian would be pissed about getting only a partial payment.

Magnin pulled into the little parking lot in front of the deli and
turned off the engine.  Per Jones's instructions, he sat there for a
couple of minutes and waited.

It was a busy shopping strip, with people coming and going.  Magnin
checked his watch.  Having waited the prescribed time, he took the case
from the floor on the passenger side and went into the deli.  He didn't
see Dakota Jones so he sat in a booth by the window.  No sooner had he
settled in than he looked up and saw Jack Palance in the next booth,
chatting with the waitress.  Magnin shook his head in amazement.  It
was like Jones had known.

When the waitress, a beefy, pleasant woman, slid over to his table,
Magnin ordered mineral water with a twist of lime, like Jones had told
him.  "Are you Mr.  Magnin?"  she asked.

He blinked.  "Yeah, how did you know?"

She smiled like it was a dumb question and went to get his water.

Magnin didn't hear the pay phone ring, but a minute later the waitress
came and told him he had a call.  She showed him the phone.  He took
his briefcase with him.

"Well, nice to see you made it, Steve."  The voice was low,
controlled.

"Were you followed?"

"I don't think so."

"Lucky guess."

"Ami wrong?"

"No, I watched."

"So, where are you?"  Magnin asked.

"By the grocery across the street."

"Why?"

"Never mind why.  Get back in your car and go to the Fern Dell in
Griffith Park.  It's by the Western Avenue entrance.  Stay by your
car."

With that, the phone went dead.  Magnin cursed under his breath.  His
mineral water was on the table when he went back to the booth.  He took
a long slug without bothering to sit down.  Then he put a five-dollar
bill on the table and left, the case clutched securely in his hand.

Considering it was the weekend, Griffith Park was fairly crowded.

Magnin wasn't sure he was in the right spot, but three minutes after
he'd parked and sat leaning on the fender of his car, Dakota Jones
pulled up next to him.  The window on the passenger side of Jones's car
slid down.

"Get in," he said gruffly.

Magnin did as he was told, his courage beginning to fail.  Jones looked
haggard, like he'd been up all night.  His clothes were dusty, as well
as his jet-black hair.

"You look like you've been riding the range," Magnin said, trying to
sound glib.

The Indian ignored the remark.  "You got the money?"

Magnin kept his voice as level as he could.

"Yes."

"Fucking good thing."

Magnin's stomach dropped nearly to his balls.  This was not starting
out the way he had planned.  He'd envisioned himself taking charge from
the get-go, telling Jones how things would be.  But the Indian's
demeanor was so coldly cruel that Magnin lost his nerve.  He wondered
whether the crazy savage might kill him.  He began to sweat.

Jones put the car in gear and they took off, leaving the park and
entering the residential area in the hills to the west.  Jones drove
with purpose, looking frequently into the rearview mirror.

"So, how did it go in Sacramento?"  Magnin asked, sounding as convivial
as he could.

Jones didn't answer.  He apparently had other things on his mind.

Magnin watched him, the sweat starting to run down his back.  Christ,
he realized, this crazy fucking Indian might not listen to reason.

Magnin began to wonder why he'd come.  What was he thinking?  He had
hoped that by being direct and firm he'd be able to finesse his way
through this, but now he had serious doubts.  Surely, Jones would
listen to reason.  Magnin wasn't going to cheat him, after all.

The bastard would get every penny he was owed.

Reaching a dead end street overlooking Griffith, Jones stopped the car,
jamming the transmission into park and turning off the engine.

The temperature inside the vehicle almost immediately began to rise.

Magnin resisted the temptation to wipe the sweat from his brow.  He
tried to lower the window next to him, but with the ignition off,
nothing happened.

"The money in that bag?"  Jones asked, frowning.

"Yes."

"How'd you squeeze a hundred Gs in that little thing?"

Magnin swallowed hard.

"Don't you think I'm entitled to a report before we discuss money?"

Jones managed to look surprised.

"Pritchard is dead," he said.

"That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"He's actually dead, huh?"

Dakota Jones laughed.  Magnin had never seen him laugh.

"Yes, isn't that what I said?  He ain't alive no more.  Got the
picture?"

Steve Magnin felt overwhelming despair.  The words he'd come to hear,
paid to hear, were suddenly unwelcome.  It made the whole thing too
real and the danger to him ineluctable.  It was like when he was a kid
again with his old man towering above, ready to beat the be jesus out
of him. But, screwing up what little bit of courage he had left, he
persevered.

"So, there were no problems, then."

Jones shook his head.

"No problems."

Magnin felt he needed to keep talking.

"Pritchard didn't say anything?"

"Like what?  I stuck a gun in the sonovabitch's face and blew him
away.

What did you expect him to do?  Say a last confession?  "

Magnin drew a long breath, his thoughts turning to his own fate.

"I

don't know, I just thought.  "

 j 'i'Listen, if you want to worry about something, worry j about his
lawyer."  | "Lawyer?"  1 "Yeah, didn't you know the sonovabiteh had a
lawyer

Magnin was perplexed.

"Well, yes, but that's been taken care of.  Or, are you saying he has
another lawyer?"

"He sure does.  Make that he did.  Pritchard ain't got nothin' now."

"How do you know about the lawyer?"

"We followed Pritchard to a law office, where he de livered a box of
documents."

"Oh, my God."

"Yeah, I figured you wouldn't be too thrilled about that part."

"Well, what... who... uh..."  An icy chill went down Steve Magnin's
spine.

"We tried to get the box, figuring you'd want it," Jones said.

"But it didn't work out.  The cops got it."

"Oh, Jesus."

"Hey, once the guy was whacked they'd have gone through all his stuff,
anyway.  Didn't that ever cross your mind?"

It had.  But he'd figured Pritchard was so crazy that no body would
have taken anything in his files seriously.  None of the truly damaging
stuff was obvious, anyway, but if the right person like a lawyer with a
bug up his ass began to look into it carefully, everything could blow
up in their faces.  They'd been lucky the first time a lawyer had
gotten involved, but there were no guarantees for the future.  That was
why Pritchard had to be silenced.  Magnin had been preaching for months
that the screwball couldn't be ignored, that they couldn't count on
luck saving them every time.  But Dee Dee and her old man hadn't
listened. Shit.

As Magnin thought about it, he wondered if they were now in a worse
situation.  Pritchard was dead, another lawyer was involved and the
cops had Pritchard's files.  How long before they put it all together?
Finally Magnin did wipe his brow.

"So, you going pee in your pants or are we going to finish our
business?"  Jones asked caustically.

"I don't got all day."

Magnin turned his attention to the matter at hand.  "Uh, yeah.  I was
just thinking we may still have need for your services."

"Hey, man, one thing at a time.  Let's settle up the business we've
already done.  Show me the money."

Magnin lifted the case from the floor, resting it on his knees.  His
heart quivered as he glanced over at the Indian.

"Look, Dakota, all I've got with me is fifty thousand."

"Huh?"

Magnin opened the case, showing Jones the stacks of crisp bills.  Jones
stared, his eyes narrowing and the corners of his mouth twitching
slightly.  Finally he said, "What the fuck do you mean, fifty?  Our
deal was for a hundred."

"Yes, I know.  And you're going to get your money.  Every penny.  It'll
be in two installments, that's all."

Jones reached over and grabbed him so fast and so violently that Magnin
hardly knew what was happening.

"Listen, shit head," the Indian roared, "I get the other fifty now or
you're dead!"

"I... I... I am going to pay you, D-Dakota.  It's just a matter of a
little time."

Jones jerked hard on Magnin's silk shirt, popping the top two
buttons.

"I don't got time, you stupid scumbag.  I get paid today or you're a
dead fucking sonovabitch.  Period."

"Dead?  Aren't you overreacting a little?  We're talking a day or two
at most.  That's nothing."

"You knew the deal.  Cash on delivery."

"I'm doing the best I can," Magnin protested.

"You're getting half.

Kill me and that's all you'll ever get.  "

"Listen, asshole, you don't understand the way things r work in this
business.  If I let you get away with this, everybody's going to screw
me.  I might lose fifty Gs if I kill you, but nobody else is going to
fuck with me, I guarantee you that."

The sweat started pouring down Magnin's face.

"Jesus, Dakota, don't panic.  We're talking a day or two.  I--I'll give
you an extra couple grand for your trouble."

Jones finally let go of him, shoving him away.  "Fuck you.  The late
fee is ten Gs ... per day.  This job was expensive.  I got people I got
to take care of, you know.  This'll only cover expenses," he said
waving his hand at the money derisively.

"But I'm feeling charitable.  I'll give you forty-eight hours to come
up with another sixty.  That's the fifty plus the late fee.  If
forty-eight hours goes by without me getting the dough, you might as
well spend your money on funeral expenses."

Magnin had absolutely no doubt that Dakota Jones would just as soon
kill him on principle as wait a few extra days to collect the rest of
his money.  How could a human being be so irrational?  Magnin's hands
began to shake.

"I've got no sympathy for you," Jones said.

"If you can't afford something, you shouldn't be buyin' it.  I ought to
kick the shit out of you just to show you I'm serious about this."

"Oh, I--I know you're serious," Magnin stammered.

"I don't doubt you for a minute."

"Then why the fuck don't you have my money?  What kind of idiot do you
think I am?"

"Corporations are complicated.  We're substantial, but a hundred
thousand dollars isn't sitting in some vault.  And the expense wasn't
exactly IRS approved."

"Hey, pretty boy, that's your problem.  You own a fucking bank, for
cris sakes Why don't you cash a check?"

"I don't own a bank, Dakota.  My in-laws own a bank holding company."
"What's the difference?"

"Signatures, that's the difference."

"Whose signature do you need?"

Steve Magnin was silent.

"Hey, I asked you a question."

"My wife," Magnin said with a touch of annoyance, "I need my wife's
signature."

Dakota Jones grinned.

"Well, that shouldn't be so hard.  Just tell her to sign a fucking
check."

Magnin groaned.

"Or do you need me to tell her?"  Jones asked.

"No, I'll take care of it."

"You do that.  You got forty-eight hours and that's only because
tomorrow the banks are closed."  Jones laughed, smiling for the second
time.  He reached over, closed the case resting on Magnin's knees, and
tossed it in the back seat.  Then he looked at his watch.

"Okay, sonny boy, you've got forty-seven hours and fifty-three minutes
to come up with the rest of the money.  Hop out."

"Hop out?"

"Yeah, I'm going to go find myself a beer and a broad, and I'm sure as
hell not taking you with me."

"But my car.  Aren't you going to drop me off back at my car?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"The exercise will do you good.  And it will give you a chance to
figure out how to make your fucking wife give you the rest of the
money.  A man thinks best while he's walking.  Didn't anybody ever tell
you that?"

Magnin didn't say a word.  He opened the car door and got out.  Jones
started the engine of his car and drove off.

Mopping his face with his handkerchief, Magnin glanced up at the sun, a
pale yellow disk in the hazy smog.  Naturally he had a plan for getting
Dee Dee to allocate the money, but he was hoping he'd have a week or so
to put it into effect.  Now he had to go to her in desperation.  Maybe
he'd have to beg.  Jesus, he hated the thought.  What a humiliating
circumstance for a man to be in, especially one trying to put his wife
in her place.

Beverly Hills

It was painful for Dee Dee to see her father in this condition, his
body half paralyzed, his mind foggy, his voice a faint whisper.  All
Demetrius Valticos seemed to have left was his will.  That, at least,
remained indomitable.

They were in his huge master suite where he spent most of his days,
though he did like his nurse to take him onto his flowered patio in the
mornings before it got too hot.  Valticos ate from the tray attached to
his wheelchair.  Forced to feed himself with his left hand, it was a
struggle.  But he was determined that no one would spoon food into his
mouth like a baby, and he got angry if someone tried.

"I'd rather starve, goddamn it!"  he'd wheeze.

So Daria Valticos Magnin, whom the world called "Dee Dee," watched and
waited as quivering spoonful after quivering spoonful rose toward her
father's gaping mouth, sometimes finding the mark and sometimes not.
Finally the old man dropped his spoon on the tray with disgust.

"The hell with it," he grumbled.

Dee Dee considered offering to help, but knew she'd only incur his
wrath.  She glanced at the nurse, who was standing in the corner of the
room like the handmaid of some Middle Eastern potentate.

"I think my father is finished with his dinner," she said.

Valticos, still grumbling under his breath, did a passable job of
wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin, dropping it on the tray before
the nurse took it away.  He looked at his daughter, his grumpy
countenance softening.

"Things are going well at the office," she volunteered.

"That's good."

"I thought Monday I'd have Andrew bring the financials by so you could
have a look for yourself."

"I trust you, sweetheart," he whispered, his eyes watery.

"It's not necessary."

"I know you do.  Daddy.  But I still Want you to be informed.  It's
good for your mind to stay up with things as much as you can."

"My mind's not important.  You and the company are all I care about.

What's happening with that fruitcake in Sacramento, anyway?  He hit us
with a lawsuit yet?  "

"No, Daddy."

"Well, what's happening, then?"

"Steve wanted to handle that, so I let him."

Valticos clearly was not pleased.  "Why did he want to handle it?  And
worse, why did you let him?"

"Daddy, Steve is a very smart man.  He's different from you, but that
doesn't mean he isn't bright.  How would you have liked to marry the
boss's daughter?"

"I'd never have done it.  Never.  I married your mother because I loved
her and I was glad her old man wasn't loaded.  She never had to wonder
what was behind my feelings and neither did I."

"Steve doesn't like it that I'm your daughter, believe me.  He
swallowed his pride and he married me because he loved me."

Valticos groused, but he didn't argue.  Steve was the one thing that
stood between the two of them and neither of them liked it.  In a
sense, they both resented Steve for that, which only made Dee Dee feel
all the more guilty.  But she also had her doubts.  Would her husband
really have married her if she'd been a teller in one of her father's
banks?

"So, what's Steve doing about Pritchard?"

Dee Dee hesitated.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Daddy, I may not be the executive you are, but I do know that you've
got to give people responsibility and then let them do things their own
way.  Steve's no different."

"Your husband wants to run the company, Dee Dee."

"You were ambitious."

"I built my own company."

"Steve did, too."

"The sonovabitch built houses, for cris sakes

She got up and began pacing, her Greek temper flaring.

"So, what do you want me to do?  Divorce him?  My father doesn't
approve of my husband so I should get rid of him, is that it?"

"Dee Dee, honey, this is not about Steve.  It's about the company I've
built, it's about an operation I put together very carefully."

The old man coughed, fighting for breath.  He normally didn't talk this
much but, like her, he was agitated.  She went to him, putting her hand
on his shoulder.  Valticos looked up at her, and she leaned over and
kissed the top of his head.

"We shouldn't even be talking about this," she said.

"You'll only get upset."  "That bastard in Sacramento is a time bomb
waiting to go off, honey.

We've had one close call with him.  That's more than enough.  "

"Believe me, Steve understands that."

"We could lose everything if it isn't handled right."

"Yes, Daddy, I know.  Just leave it in my hands."

Her father looked like he wasn't sure.  That disappointed her, but she
understood.  Demetrius Valticos had been in charge his whole life.  But
fate had put her in the catbird seat now.  True, she was a woman, but
she had the same piss and vinegar as her old man.  She could be as
ruthless as she had to be because she'd learned from the master that's
the way things were done.  She had already proven that by cleaning out
the dead wood.  Her father had prized loyalty so much that he'd kept
people around long after their usefulness was spent.

"It's not for them as much as for the younger people coming along," he
would say.  "Your employees want to know you'll take care of them."

That was true, but it was also true the world had changed.  Her
experience might be limited, but she had wonderful instincts about
people.  If she had an Achilles heel, it was Steve.  It was damned hard
to supervise the man you slept with, the man you loved.

It was a terrible, terrible problem, one she'd been thinking about for
a while.  Dee Dee wondered if maybe the time had come to suggest that
Steve return to the development business.  She might even give him a
few million to get going.  The ironic thing was, deep down she'd want
him to do his thing but refuse her money.  Her father wouldn't take it,
if he were in Steve's shoes.  But in her heart, Dee Dee knew Steve was
not Demetrius Valdcos.  She suspected Steve knew she felt that way,
too.  And that was reason to worry.

Venice, California

After a week in Lawrence, Kansas, Margot Girard was glad to be home.

Her little house was only three miles from LAX, and she had never been
so glad to be a short taxi ride from the airport as she was tonight.

She had a splitting headache and she was beat.  All she wanted was to
get out of her clothes, have a quick shower and slip between the sheets
of her very own bed.  Heaven.

It was dusk as the taxi turned off Washington Boulevard onto Pacific
Avenue, a couple of short blocks from the beach.  The driver started
looking for her address.  Most streets along that stretch were closed
to vehicular traffic, though all of them had pedestrian walkways.  She
lived on one of the few that allowed both.

"Two more," Margot said.

When they came to it, the entrance was blocked by a U-Haul truck.  The
cabbie, who'd been gesticulating as he talked, his accent richly New
York, threw up his hands in dismay.

"Look at those schmucks!  What do they think they're doing?  Oy!"  He
laid on the horn.

"That's okay," Margot said.

"Just pull over.  It's only half a block from the corner.  I can
walk."

"You've got a heavy suitcase.  You sure?"

"Yeah.  I'll walk."

The cabbie stopped in the ten-minute zone in front of the tiny corner
grocery where Margot habitually got milk and bread.  They both got
out.

He took her suitcase from the trunk and put it on the sidewalk.  She
paid him.  He saluted her, got in his cab and left.

Margot took a deep breath of the sea air.  LAX was right on the ocean,
too, but the air there was always full of the smell of jet fuel.  After
returning from one of her trips, the first genuine smells of L.

A.

usually came when she reached her own doorstep.  Now, though, the air
was as rich with the smell of falafels from the grocery store as it was
with the smell of the sea.  She contemplated stepping inside to buy a
quart of nonfat milk, knowing there'd be none for her morning coffee if
she didn't.  But trying to carry everything would be a pain, so she
opted not to bother.

Just as she picked up her suitcase to trudge up the street, her
next-door neighbor, Otis Oxiey, came sauntering out of the grocery
store, a falafel in one hand, a six-pack of Colt Malt Liquor in the
other.  Upon seeing her, Otis broke into his customary wide smile, his
pearly whites like piano keys under the black brush of mustache on his
lip.

"Well, lookee here.  It's Ms.  Margot Girard, girl TV producer.  I'll
be damned.  How's it goin', mama?  Just get- tin' in, are you?"

"Hi, Otis," Margot said, putting the case back down.

"Yeah, just got in.  The taxi had to drop me here."

"Yeah," he said, inclining his head toward the rental truck,"

"some brothers is cleaning out a house.  Hard to know if they're
burglin' it or if they got evicted."  He threw back his head and
laughed.

"Is that dinner?"  Margot asked, indicating the falafel.

"Damn right.  Why heat up a Campbell's when the best damned Middle
Eastern food in the whole world is a hundred feet from my front
door?"

He checked her out.

"Chil', you look you been awake for three days.

What's happening'?  "

She punched him on the arm.  Otis laughed.  Margot knew she was not the
most gorgeous creature to walk the earth by any stretch of the
imagination, though she did have her qualities.  She worked, after all,
in a business where beauty--or more specifically, image--was a
commodity.  There was no denying she had a pretty face with pale skin
and a sensuous mouth.  She wore her reddish mahogany hair in a pixy cut
and managed to look both gaminish and professional at the same time.

At the moment, though, she looked like hell and she knew it.  Otis was
right.

"I was up at four o'clock this morning, Kansas time," she said, "and I
made three trips between Lawrence and Kansas City, not to mention flew
here with an hour layover in Denver.  I've been wearing the same two
suits for ten days and I plan to burn them both tomorrow morning.

Frankly, Otis, I don't give a damn how I look.  I just want to go to
bed!  "

His eyes lit up.

"Now that's music to my ears."  Margot colored.

"Not that kind of bed!"  Otis laughed gleefully.

"Don't you worry, girl.  A good night's sleep and you'll be good as
new.  Besides, you clean up real fine.  Here, I'll carry your case if
you carry my stash."

Margot took the six-pack from him and he picked up the suitcase like it
was nothing.  Otis was well into his forties, but still a big, strong
man.  When he wasn't painting, he spent his time bodybuilding at the
beach.  He'd made a fortune in Soul before a polyp on his vocal cords
ended his singing career.  He had an income from selling art, but
mostly he "lived on his investments," as he liked to say, supporting
two ex-wives and nine children, some by his wives and some not. 
Nowadays his preference ran to the twenty-somethings that hung out at
the beach--preferably white, Hispanic or Aslan.  His explanation:
"Black sisters just want to make babies."

Except for a tentative feeler he'd extended when Margot first moved in,
Otis had never seriously hit on her, preferring instead to have a
friend living next door.

"Besides," he'd said one night after they'd shared a bottle of wine and
lamented their love lives, 'if you and me was ever to become an item
and have a parting of the ways, I'd be fucked in the TV industry, and
then what would I do for my next career?  "

Otis was half serious about becoming an actor, but Margot had assured
him there was little she could do for him other than open a door here
or there.

"I've only got three producing credits to my name," she'd explained.

"I'm still pretty much an outsider in the eyes of the movers and
shakers."

Otis had nodded soberly.

"What you're sayin' is, you ain't got no castin' couch."

"Sad, but true," she'd replied.

If Otis did ask for her help, it was in the area of law.  He always
seemed to have a legal problem brewing.  The fact that she had a law
degree was good enough for him.  He routinely ignored her disclaimers
that he needed to consult someone in active practice.

"Mama, you I trust, and that's worth a whole shitload of experience as
far as I is concerned."

Once, after she'd helped him solve one of his "nagging little
problems," he'd asked why she'd given up practicing law.

"There's a creative side of me the law never satisfied," she'd told
him.

"True, there's a lot of problem solving, but mostly you're helping
people out of messes.  When I make a movie, any mess I clean up is of
my own making.  Besides, I'm enriching the world with my films.  Deep
down, I guess this is more me."

Even so, Margot found her legal background invaluable.

Hollywood was full of lawyers, many of them wearing sunglasses and
aloha shirts.  And the truth was, she still got a kick out of the more
legalistic aspects of her job.  The work she'd done for Otis was a nice
change of pace and she was happy to do it, provided she had the time.

On a couple of occasions she did some serious research for him at the
UCLA Law Library, for which he compensated her by giving her the pick
of his paintings.  She had three Otis Oxieys on her walls for her
trouble.  Margot teasingly told him they would one day be worth more
than her residuals.

They began walking along the sidewalk toward their homes.

"Why we carryin' this thing, anyway?  It's got wheels, don't it?"

"The airlines broke off one of the wheels two trips ago."

"Then you's lucky you got one of the strongest--not to mention
handsomest--dudes in all of Venice, California, willin' to be your
nigger."

"Now that's a compliment, Otis, considering how I look."  "No flies on
you, sugar.  Mr.  Highfalootin' keeps comin' around, don't he?"

Margot had to smile.  Otis insisted on calling Richard Hightower, her
lover of a year, "Mr.  Highfalootin'," though not to his face.

"And that's only because I don't need no enemies in the television
business."

Richard had been one of the top entertainment executives at CBS, which
was where the two of them had met.  In fact, it was Richard with whom
she'd negotiated her first deal a couple of years ago.  Though he often
teased her about it, Margot was very sensitive about the impact of
their personal relationship on her career.  She'd gotten furious with
him once when he'd joked that he'd have bought anything she was
pitching just to get her to bed.

"That was a wonderful project, Richard.  I saw the potential in that
novel even before Oprah.  Who couldn't love that grandmother's heart?
And I was the one who dug it out of the back shelves and brought it to
the screen.  Don't you dare suggest that sex has anything to do with
that novel becoming an MOW!"

He wasn't entirely serious, but Margot couldn't help but believe a part
of him liked thinking her movie of the week and his regard for her as
woman and lover were connected.  After all, it gave him power.

There was no question that at the beginning of their relationship
Richard's status was a big part of his appeal.  He was a top TV exec,
after all, and she was just another Hollywood wanna-be.  To his credit,
Richard wasn't arrogant or showy, though.  On the contrary, it was his
subtlety that struck her.

The first time they'd met was on her third trip to CBS.  The movie of
the week people were excited about her project, but Richard had to sign
off before it got the green light.

"I only have one question, Ms.

Girard," he'd said.

"What is it about this story that's going to resonate with our
viewers?"

She'd stammered some of the lines from her canned pitch, but it was
quickly apparent she was missing the mark.  Richard took her off the
hook.

"I read the novel last night, Ms.  Girard.  It's good material.  In the
hands of a competent scriptwriter, it can be a very successful MOW.

But with all due respect, I don't think you fully understand why.  The
reasons aren't to be found in literature courses at UCLA.  Popular
culture in America is about two things they don't teach in
universities--hopes and dreams.  In one way or another, the material we
put on the air has to address peoples' fantasies and leave them feeling
uplifted, reassured about life'.  You see, the grandmother in your
story does both.  It will resonate with the female viewer, in
particular, and that's key because this is a feminine-dominated medium.
"Before you pitch your next project, Ms.  Girard, I suggest you go to
the teen clubs, the senior centers and shop ping malls, go to the
boardwalk at Venice Beach.  Study the people you see, ask yourself
about their dreams, their fantasies, their aspirations and hopes for
tomorrow. Then look at your story through that filter.  Do that
effectively and you'll be very successful in this business."

That conversation had given Margot insight, not only into the business,
but into Richard's heart.  She saw his wisdom, his understanding, his
vision.  He could have been arrogant and supercilious, condescending
and rude, but he wasn't.  He was willing to share his knowledge and his
heart.  In the process he'd won her respect and her admiration, as
well.

Margot had felt that their minds were so in tune, it was only logical
that their hearts would follow.  Richard understood her work, true, but
he also understood her struggles, her joys, her anguish, her dreams.

How could she not love him for that?

A lunch followed, then a dinner.  There was a gap of two weeks while he
was away on an extended trip to New York, during which he'd called her
twice.  When he returned to L.

A.

" there was an intimate dinner at her apartment.  In less than a month
they'd become lovers.

As much as Margot cherished her relationship with Richard--especially
the meshing of their minds--she was glad he'd had nothing to do with
her subsequent achievements.  It was important to her that she be a
success in her own right and not simply because of her relationship
with him.

But then, another sort of problem arose that had more to do with him
than her.  Poor Richard was eased out of his job in one of the frequent
network reorganizations.  Usually he did the firing, but this time
Richard got the boot, though his separation package was so golden he'd
never have to work again.  He had enormous pride, though, and wrestled
mightily with his inactivity.  Richard was a man who needed to be
pulling strings.

The last month or two had been hard for him and, as a result, hard for
her.  As far as the relationship was concerned, Margot was under no
illusions, though she did wonder how Richard's career setback would
impact them in the short run.  Long run it was a no-brainer because
there was no long run.  Richard Hightower was married.

"Speaking of Mr.  Highfalootin'," Margot said to Otis, "I was supposed
to call him from Denver and I forgot."

Otis chomped on a big bite of falafel.

"Forgot, my ass, girl.  You didn't forget, you're trying to get that
motherfucker out of your life and don't even know it.  Can't you see
that?"  "Yeah, sure.  How many times have I tried to break up with him
and failed?"

"That's exactly what I mean!  You're having trouble doing what you know
is right, so subconsciously you do whatever it takes to see the dude
gone.  He ain't no good for you, honey.  You know that and I know
that.

The world know it.  Even Highfalootin' his self know it.  "

They'd come to Margot's door and stopped on the sidewalk.  Otis set the
suitcase down on the walk a few steps from her door.  He stuffed the
last of the falafel in his mouth, licking his fingers.

"Be honest, Otis," she said.

"You're not saying that because Richard's married.  You just don't like
him."

"Well, I don't like his ass, I admit that.  But mainly it's because I
don't think no pretty young girl should be nan- gin' with an old fart
like him, when there's a whole world of studs out there more
deservin'."

"Otis, you and Richard are about the same age."

"Older married men, girl."

She handed him his malt liquor.  "Thanks for being my boy tonight,
Otis. If you hadn't come along, I might have left the damned suitcase
at the corner."

"Anytime, sweet baby.  I's right next door."  He grinned.

"Hey, you never did say if you made your deal or not."

She gave a weary but happy sigh.  "I signed Betty Spal- ding this
morning.  Life rights to her story."

"Woo-eel Some night when you not so tired, we celebrate.  Want me to
slip that case inside the door for you?"

"No, I've got it.  Thanks, though.  Good-night."

Otis Oxiey gave her one of his special smiles, patted her shoulder with
his large hand and ambled on toward his own front door in a stylish,
rhythmic walk.  Margot went to her door and unlocked it.  Then she
dragged her suitcase inside, leaving it by the door.

The light on her answering machine was blinking.  Every day or so she'd
called from Kansas to check messages.  Most of them had been from
Richard.  She hadn't called him because he no longer had an office, and
she wasn't about to try him at home.  Not that she wanted to.  About
the time Richard was canned she had a good long talk with herself,
deciding that she might love him in some fashion, but not in a truly
meaningful way.  Probably, the time had come to end the relationship.

Of course, she immediately felt guilty about the timing of the insight
because, having lost his job, Richard theoretically could no longer be
of help to her in her work, something he cared about much more than
she.  Still, the last thing she wanted was for him to think she was
dumping him for that reason.  Yet she was under no illusions about her
ability--or inability--to make her decision to end the relationship
stick.  She'd tried to break off with him twice before and had
failed.

Richard had his charms.  And he was terribly, terribly bright.  But he
also had a wife.

Margot went over to listen to the messages.  The first was a
solicitation from one of her credit card companies for insurance.  She
erased it, mid message The second was from Richard.

"Darling, I miss you more than you can possibly imagine.  When are you
coming home?  Call me during your layover.  Ellen is at her sister's in
Napa so I'm alone until Wednesday.  Promise you'll contact me."

Margot felt a twinge of temptation.  She repressed the urge to pick up
the phone and dial his home number, something she'd only done once or
twice before--on other occasions when Ellen had been away.  Oddly,
she'd felt more guilty calling him there than she did sleeping with
him.

She did not erase the message.

The next was an unfamiliar, halting voice.  It was a woman with an
Hispanic accent.  "Miss Girard.  I am Loma and I work for your aunt,
Mrs.  Pritchard.  She asked for me to call to you to say that your
cousin, Mr.  Del Pritchard, is dead.  He was killed in a terrible
murder here in the house.  Mrs.  Pritchard want you to know this sad
news.  And she want me to ask to you if maybe you come to the funeral.
4 will be in some days.  We don't know exactly when.  But if you could
call us tomorrow in the afternoon, Mrs.  Pritchard, she would be very
happy."

The message ended.  Margot's jaw hung slack.  Del, dead?  She pictured
her zany, much older cousin.  One of her first and most enduring
recollections of him was an early visit to the Pritchard home.  She was
about five and Del was in his twenties at the time.  He'd shown her his
bug collection and his pet lizard and told her there was a ghost living
in the house.  She'd had terrible nightmares after that, Del featured
prominently in many of them.  But years later, as she got to know her
cousin better, she discovered he was eccentric, not evil, and that he
actually had a good heart.

The next call was from a business associate who wanted to have lunch
sometime during the week.  Margot hardly heard it.  She couldn't get it
out of her mind that Del was dead.  Did the woman say murdered?  Her
crazy cousin?  Margot sat in the chair by the phone, feeling numb.

After several long moments a feeling of profound sadness hit her, and
she began to cry.

Bel Air

The Lamborghini came skidding into the drive, the tires squealing as it
slid to a halt in front of their garage.  Dee

Dee clutched her hand to her chest as Steve turned off the engine.

"Whoa," she said, "I didn't think we were going to get home alive."

"You aren't living, babe, if you don't live dangerously."

"You aren't living if you're dead, either."

"We made it, didn't we?  Do I look dead to you?"

He was slurring his words.  Dee Dee never should have let him drive,
but she wasn't in much better shape.  The second bottle of champagne
had done them both in.  What was left of it was wedged between her
knees.

"You look dead drunk," she said with a giggle.

Steve looked down at the champagne.

"Speaking of which..."  He took the bottle from between her legs and
ran his palm on the cool inside of her thigh, up under her skirt.

"Hmm," he said, "I'd like to warm these thighs up with some hot, wet
kisses."

She arched a brow.

"Would you, now?"

"Baby, you know I would."

"Maybe I'd kind of like that myself."

Steve grinned and drank from the bottle, finishing it off.  Then he
lowered the window and tossed the bottle onto the lawn.  Grinning, he
said, "Let's you and me go inside and have us a tastin' party."

Grabbing her, he kissed her brusquely.

Steve was never unsure of himself in the sack, and he was especially
brazen when he'd been drinking.  She actually liked it--if she'd been
drinking, too.

"Come on," he said, opening the door.

"Wait, my flowers..."

Dee Dee reached in back and got the box of red roses Steve had gotten
for her.  She was sure he'd forgotten it was the anniversary of the day
they'd met, but when he'd picked her up at her father's, he had the
flowers.  He'd reserved a special table for them at Chasen's and she'd
had her favorite dishes--breast of Muscovy duck and banana shortcake
for desert.  She'd been watching the calories of late, but tonight
she'd decided to splurge.  And she'd let herself get tipsy, too.

Steve staggered around and opened the door for her, bowing gallantly.

He could be silly at times, but there was something about him that was
also endearing.  Tonight he was being especially solicitous.  Was it
because it was a special day, or was there another reason?

If she was suspicious, it was because she'd had one of her premonitions
earlier that something was about to happen.  Dee Dee didn't get these
feelings often, but when she did, she paid attention.

Something important almost always happened.  But the feeling passed and
she'd turned her attention back to her husband.

Steve offered her his hand, pulling her out of the Lam- borghini and
right up against his chest, crushing the roses between them.  Their
faces were inches apart.  He lowered his head and ran his tongue along
the edge of her lower lip, then he kissed her.

"How would you like to make a baby tonight?"  he whispered.

"What?"

"I said" -- "No, I heard what you said.  I want to know why you said
it."

Steve grabbed her ass cheek with his hand and pulled her pelvis hard
against him.

"Is it so unbelievable that a guy wants to make a baby with his
wife?"

Dee Dee blinked.

"Not if that's what she wants, too."

"You're saying you don't?"

"I want to make love, of course.  But get pregnant?  I don't think
so."

He let go of her, grimacing.

"Steve, we've talked about this before.  Someday, maybe, but this is
not a good time."

"Dee Dee, you're thirty-two."

"I know how old I am."

He drew a long, slow breath, controlling his anger.  She didn't want to
upset him, not considering how well the evening had gone, but on the
other hand she didn't like to be pushed.  It was the champagne talking,
she was sure.

Taking his hand, she said, "Come on inside.  Maybe we can find
something we'd both like to eat."

Her husband managed a smile, but he had a distant look in his eyes.

They strolled toward the front door.  The moon shone through the huge
oak tree that dominated the expansive lawn.  As they approached the
house, she decided to ask him what was on her mind.

"Steve, is something bothering you?"

"Bothering me?  No."

"You've been very sweet all evening, but I sense... I don't know, that
there's something... wrong."

"Dee Dee, there's nothing wrong.  You just don't appreciate me for the
man I am."  "What do you mean by that?"

They'd come to the broad, pillared porch.  Steve took his key ring from
his pocket and unlocked the door.  The light in the huge entry hall was
on.  Steve had designed and built the house himself.  Dee Dee had
wanted a huge staircase leading up from the entry, just like Tara in
Gone With the Wind.  Steve had given her her wish.

He closed the door.  That brooding look that men sometimes get before
sex was on his face.

"I mean that sometimes a man has needs, and a wife ought to be aware of
them."

"You can't be talking about sex.  I hardly ever deny you."

"No, that's not what I mean."

They stared at each other.

"Steve, are you pissed because I don't want to get pregnant?"

He didn't answer her.  She was beginning to see he was serious.  Why,
all of a sudden?  It couldn't be just the champagne.  Booze loosened
the tongue, but it didn't put words in the mouth that weren't already
there.

"Is there someone else?"  she asked curtly.

"Someone else?  As in another woman?"

"Yes.  Are you screwing someone behind my back?"  "Jesus Christ.  I say
the most loving, husband like thing a guy can say, and you ask if I'm
fucking around."

She waited a moment.

"I notice you didn't answer the question."

"Are you serious?"  he said, incredulous.

"Yes, I want to know.  Are you having an affair?"

"No.  Of course not!"

She heard a twinge of anger in his voice.  It sounded genuine.  "Are
you. Dee Dee?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, putting the flowers down on the hall
table.

"Come on, let's go to bed."

Steve reached out and grabbed her wrist, stopping her.  She spun
around.

"What?"

"I'm not playing around with anybody," he said.

She studied him.

"Have you ever?"

"No."

His no was not convincing, but she wouldn't have wanted the truth just
then any more than she expected it.  Their little spat had aroused
her.

Sex was on her mind.  And she sensed that Steve could tell.

She shrugged.  He smiled with self-satisfaction, though he did tighten
his grip on her wrist.  "You know what you need, Mrs.  Magnin?  You
need to get laid."

Dee Dee didn't like it when he called her Mrs.  Magnin and he knew
it.

When others did, it was a courtesy, but Steve did it to be
possessive.

"Call me missus, and you'll never get laid again," she warned.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I think it's time I show your sweet little ass who's the man in this
house, Mrs.  Magnin."  With that, he bent down and threw her over his
shoulder.

"Steven!"  she screamed.

"What in the hell are you doing?"

"I'm taking you upstairs and I'm going to show you what it means to be
my wife."

He headed for the stairs.  Dee Dee writhed and kicked, but Steve was
too big and strong for her.  As he trudged up the stairs, she sensed
this was more than a game, that he had something ominous in mind.  Cold
fear sliced through her, and panic, which she did her best to choke
back.

"This isn't funny.  Put me down!"  she commanded with all the bravado
she could muster.

"You're hurting me!"

He ignored her.  Dee Dee pounded on his broad back with her fists.

Steve didn't say a word.  By the time they reached the second floor,
she'd stopped resisting.  It only encouraged him.  The best way to deal
with brute force was with disdain.

When they reached the master suite, Steve carried her across the room
and dumped her unceremoniously on the canopied bed.  She stared into
his face, seeing a strange, uncharacteristic determination.  His blond
good looks had always been appealing, but she'd never associated him
with brutish virility.  There was something very feral about him
tonight and, for the first time, it fascinated her as much as it scared
her.

As she watched, Steve removed his jacket.  Then he unbuttoned his dress
shirt, tossing it aside.  Maybe it was just foreplay, after all.  Maybe
her husband was simply feeling macho.  Though she didn't trust the
notion completely, she did feel a little better.

Next he removed his pants and socks and shorts.  His cock pointed
directly at her.  Dee Dee felt a strange, yet compelling fear.  This
was her husband, the man she'd been sleeping with for more than five
years, yet he was somehow different, oddly frightening.  What wasn't
clear was whether this was simply a new dimension to his sexuality or
something more ominous.

Without a word, he unfastened her skirt and pulled it off her, then he
removed her panty hose and panties.  He didn't bother with her suit
jacket or blouse.  Instead he buried his face between her legs,
dragging his hot tongue up her cleft.

She gasped, momentarily shocked.  But then she lay very still, her eyes
closed, her mind making the transition from fear to pleasure.  The
muscles in her stomach and legs grew taut as steel.  As he continued to
lick her, she slowly relaxed.  It didn't take long for her excitement
to rise to climax.  She came, clenching the bedspread in her fists, her
pelvis rocking, her cries renting the silence of the big house.

Afterward Steve kissed her stomach.  She ran her fingers through his
hair.

"Oh, Steve..."

"Turn over," he said in a low, commanding voice.

She was surprised by his tone.  Usually he craved her praise.  But
Steve had given her pleasure, and she was going to return the
compliment.

"Let me get my diaphragm," she said.

"You don't need it.  Turn over."

"Steve."

She saw his eyes then.  He was dead serious about having her without
protection.

"This is not a good time of the month," she said.

"All the better."

"I will not let you make love to me without my diaphragm."

"Oh, yes you will."

She tried to get up, but he wouldn't let her.

"Stop it!"  she cried.

He forcibly nipped her over.  She tried to squirm away,

but he held her down.  Then he reached past her for a pillow, which he
crammed under her hips.

"If you rape me, I'll kill you!  I swear I will, Steven!"  Again she
tried to get away, but he held her down.

Dee Dee felt his cock against her ass.

"No!"

He ignored her protests.  Because she was so wet, he went inside her
easily.  He began thrusting violently.  At first she was tense, hating
him.  But then she relaxed and let her body go.  As his excitement
rose, his grunting grew desperate.  She had no idea she could hate him
so much.  At last he came.  Dee Dee waited several moments before
pushing him off her.  She went to the bathroom and washed herself in
the bidet.

After removing the rest of her clothes, she put on her terry robe and
returned to the bedroom.  Steve lay where he'd been, his cock still
large, but limp.  She glared at him with her hands on her hips.

"I'll never forgive you for that," she said.  "Well, you better get
used to it because things are going to be different from now on," he
said.

"Steven, you're out of your mind.  That champagne did something to your
brain."

"No," he said.

"I'm finally being a husband, that's all."

She was dumbfounded.  "You think I was impressed by that?"

"Dee Dee, I don't give a shit if you were impressed or not.  I gave you
what you wanted and I took what / wanted.  The point is, from here on
out, my needs are going to come first.  Our marriage will be much
better once you understand that."

She was sure he'd flipped his lid.

"Steven, what's happened to you?"

He rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand.  He looked
directly at her.  "I need a hundred thousand and I need it first thing
Monday morning."

"Huh?"

"It's a business expense.  I took care of Pritehard and I need a
hundred thousand."

She sat on the bed, shaking her head with dismay.

"Should I be calling the men in the white suits?"

"Dee Dee, I've taken care of our problem, but it was costly.  That's
just how it is.  And, by the way, this is the last time I'm going to
come to you for business expenses.  There are going to be some changes
at Valticos Financial."

"Tell me what you've done.  Did you have Pritehard killed?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what I did."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm fucking serious."

"Steven, this isn't funny."

He sat up next to her.

"I'm not trying to be funny."

"You had a man killed?"

"You said solve the problem and I solved it."

"Yes, but..."  "But what?  The guy was nuts, there was no way he was
going to listen to reason.  You can't count on buying off some lawyer
every time we have a problem.  Everything was on the line.  What other
choice did I have?"

"You could have talked to me about it."

"You're not my mommy.  Dee Dee."

She jumped to her feet.  "No, but I'm the chief executive officer of
Valticos Financial!"

She paced in front of him, glaring.  It was not so much what he'd
done--though it was idiotic--as the fact that he'd done it on his own,
jeopardizing both her own wellbeing and that of the company.  Dee Dee
didn't know the details, but she was aware that on a few occasions her
father had resorted to force in his business dealings when bribery had
failed.  As a company, they'd always lived close to the line, taking
risks others wouldn't.  Most of their profits in recent years had come
in ways the regulators would not approve.  It was no accident that
Valticos Financial had profit margins that ran double and triple the
industry average.  Millions in fines, not to mention criminal
penalties, were at stake.

"So, what are you saying?"  Steve asked.

"That you wanted to hire the hit man yourself?"

"Damn it, you could have at least consulted me, couldn't you?"

"Look, Pritchard is dead.  We've gotten value for our money."

"And you expect me to put my neck on the line right along with yours by
financing the thing?  How do I know this is legitimate?"

His expression was first disbelieving, then turned red with anger.

"You don't trust me?  Are you saying you don't trust me?"

"I don't believe this is happening.  How can I trust you when you
behave like a raving maniac?"

"A hundred thousand is nothing."

"Then why don't you pay it yourself?"

"Don't get cute with me, Dee Dee.  I've already advanced fifty from my
own funds.  Now that he's done the job, he wants the other fifty.

Actually sixty.  The price was a hundred and ten.  "

Dee Dee shook her head.

"The story keeps changing."

Steve got really mad.

"Don't screw with me, Dee Dee.  The deal's done, the payment is due.  I
need the money and you're going to give it to me."

"Let me think about it," she said.

"What's this 'think about it' shit?  I'm your husband.  I did this for
you and your fucking father.  And I don't appreciate your jacking me
around."

"Leave my father out of this," she said, her eyes narrowing.

"It's his fault it came to this, you know.  Pritchard should have been
taken care of a long time ago.  Your old man was too senile to solve
the problem, so / had to do

Dee Dee pointed her finger at him.

"Don't you dare say that about my father.  You don't even deserve
mention in the same sentence with my father, you... you... god damned
rapist!"

He got up, threateningly.

"What do I have to do, fuck you again to show you who's boss around
here?"

She leered at him.

"If you ever touch me again, I'll kill you, Steven, I swear it!"

He grabbed her, but Dee Dee yanked her arm free.  Dashing to the
bedside table, she jerked the drawer open, but pulled too hard.  It
came out completely and the contents fell on the floor, including the 9
mm automatic.  She and Steve reached for the gun at the same time, but
she got it first.  Spinning away, she pointed it at his chest.

"Dee Dee, put down the goddamn gun!"

He took a step toward her and she prepared to fire.

"I'm warning you, Steven!  I'd love nothing better than to pull the
trigger."

He flushed with anger.

"You just don't understand, do you?  You think you're the one with the
balls.  Well, I've got news for you, bitch.  You aren't!"

"Take one more step and I'll blow you away."

"You stupid cunt."

Her husband came for her, reaching for the gun.  It was the last thing
he ever did.

Sunday, July 16

Venice

For the first time in ten days Margot Girard was not awakening to the
smell of alfalfa fields.  Instead, soft ocean air was coming in her
window and she was in her own sweet bed.  Heaven.  Especially
considering she'd slept well.  It was lethargic restfulness she felt,
the kind that only came on the heels of deep fatigue.

Her thoughts turned to the fact that she'll acquired Betty Spalding's
life rights, beating out at least half a dozen other producers.

Richard had told her that the Betty Spal- ding story was a sure
thing--a homeless woman who'd fought her way back from alcoholism, then
cancer, only to return to her home town, marry her high school
sweetheart a few years before losing him to a heart attack at an early
age.  Like a phoenix, though, Betty rose from the ashes, taking over
her husband's company and building it into one of the premiere mortgage
banking firms in the Midwest.  As Richard put it, "Cinderella, in
whatever form, always sells."

Richard had been a part of her triumph in a way because he'd been
there, these past months, cheering her on.  But in another sense, he
was on the periphery, her star-crossed lover, his professional life in
limbo.

Margot hadn't considered it before, but she and Richard didn't talk
about the future much, unless it was their careers And with good
reason.  Married men and single women didn't have a future, they only
had today--this stolen kiss, this laugh, this touch, the moments that
kept her insulated from loneliness without having to actually become
part of a couple.  Loneliness and fear, after all, were the motivating
factors for a single woman to become involved with a married
man--avoiding loneliness and the fear of permanent solutions.

There was a time when she didn't understand why anyone would be
attracted to a married man, but she'd learned it was a way to gain a
little benefit and put off detriment while waiting for reality to slap
you in the face.  And Margot knew the slap would eventually come, as
surely as the guilt.  The only question was whether it would come from
within, or from Richard.

In recent months she had become aware of her growing feeling of
alienation, the realization that the magic--whatever that meant--was
gone.  This last trip, though, had really brought the point home. 
Maybe it was Betty Spalding who'd opened her eyes.  If Margot had
learned anything from the woman, it was that to compromise your
passions was death.  And when she thought about it, that was what
Richard Hightower represented more than anything--compromise.

Yet, Richard did have the sort of qualities she would want in a
husband--style, intelligence, creativity, empathy.  But he also had
Ellen, and Margot had discovered that the wives of one's lovers left
marks upon the soul.  Ironically, she disrespected Richard for his
betrayal as much as she felt shame for her own complicity.  He should
know better, was the only way she could explain it.  She, on the other
hand, could hide behind her vulnerability.

Groaning, Margot rolled over and looked at the blue sky outside her
window.  Though she'd awakened in an upbeat mood, she was already
depressed.  Men could do that to you.

The smell of bacon was coming from.  somewhere in the neighborhood. 
With homes built on postage stamp lots, beach dwellers really did live
shoulder to shoulder.  She knew her neighbors' snores and the central
conflicts in their intimate relationships nearly as well as those of
her friends.  Otis Oxiey was probably the most interesting of her
neighbors, though not because of their friendship.

Rather, Otis had mastered the art of living up front, without regret or
apology.  He was at peace with who he was.  How many people could say
that?  Margot couldn't.  Nor Richard.  Very few people, really.

She got out of bed and went to the bathroom.  For some reason, it was
seeing her own face in the mirror that brought her cousin, Del, to
mind, though there was no physical resemblance between them.  The fact
that they were related was always one of those imponderable mysteries
of life.  And yet, when she was young, she and her cousin had occupied
the same house for years.

Margot's father was Del's mother's younger brother.  Both Margot's
parents died when she was still quite young and her uncle Arlen and
aunt Harriet took her into their home.  Because Del was closer to her
parents' age than her own, the two of them had never been close.  She
suspected that he resented her, though they'd never so much as
exchanged one harsh word.  The reality was that Del had lived in his
own world, and her uncle had been distant, though not unfriendly.

Margot's only halfway close relationship was with her aunt.

As a young woman, and a rather independent one at that, Margot had been
eager to go to UCLA and get out of the Pritchard house, despite her
aunt Harriet's kindness.  Occasionally, she spent her holidays with the
Pritchards, and she wrote to her aunt or talked to her on the phone
from time to time.  But Margot considered herself an orphan and, to
this day, lived accordingly.

And yet, chance had brought her back to Sacramento.  She returned to
attend McGeorge School of Law and had set up her practice in the
capital.  She'd seen Harriet more during those years, then Hollywood
had beckoned.  But now her aunt was in need and Margot wanted to be
there for her.

Harriet did not have the most reliable offspring in Del.  Of course, it
could be said that Del had never broken away from his parents,
considering he had never moved out of the family home.  Even so, he
managed to be a recluse.  Harriet said that until recent years, when
her health began to fail dramatically, days would sometimes go by
without her actually seeing her son.

It was a mystery even to his mother how he occupied his time, though he
always seemed busy.  Early on, Del had rejected the notion of following
his father into the newspaper business, but despite his reclusive
nature, he did have an interest in public issues and he was always
pontificating about some cause or other.  Del, she recalled, saw
conspiracies everywhere and was constantly issuing warnings, which in a
sense made him sort of a perverse version of his father.

When her uncle died, Margot had worried about her aunt, but was
heartened to learn Del had been something of a companion to his mother
in the last years.  Harriet had taken comfort in it.  But now all that
had changed.  Much as Margot hated the fact, her aunt was now her
responsibility.

After getting the coffee going, she decided she'd better make
reservations for Sacramento.  Fortunately she had no trouble getting a
Monday morning flight.  At least this was coming during a hiatus in her
work schedule.  That was a blessing.

Just as she got off the phone there was a knock at her door.  It was
Otis in his workout togs.

"Sunday paper, Ms.  Girard," he said, handing her the Los Angeles
Times.

"Timing's perfect, Otis.  Coffee's just ready."

Otis came in for his "Sunday Java" as he called it.  He and Margot had
a deal: he'd get her a paper when he bought his and deliver it to her
door for a cup of coffee and some conversation.  He wouldn't let her
pay for the paper, but once a month or thereabouts she would cook him a
meal to reciprocate.  Margot had made fried chicken once, but Otis
advised her against another attempt.

"Chil', you got a sweet soul, but it ain't black enough for fryin'
chicken.  I'd like it better if you stick to pasta and fish and I'll
have my chicken with the sisters."

"So," Margot said, carrying the paper into the kitchen, "what's
happening in the world I should know about?"

"Same 'of shit, basically," he said, sprawling on one of her tiny
kitchen chairs.  Otis had monstrous shoulders and biceps and, when he
was in one of his skimpy little weight lifter's tank tops, as he was
now, he looked like Mr.  Clean, Mr.  T and Mr.  Schwarzenegger, all
rolled into one muscular package.

"My Dodgers is not playin' to the level of their talent, my Rams is in
St.  Louis instead of here where they belong, and my Lakers is through
for the season.  I guess that about sums things up."

Margot finished pouring coffee into a large mug and set it in front of
him.  His eyes rounded and a big happy smile filled his face.

"Mmm-mmm.  Now don't that smell good," he said, leaning over the
steaming cup and inhaling.

"No wars or impeachments or drop in the interest rates?"  she said,
filling a mug for herself.

"Girl, if it ain't happening' in L.A."  it ain't happening unless one
of my teams be on a road trip, that is.  "

Margot laughed, sitting down across from him with a couple of sections
of the paper.

"Well, what's happening in L.A."  then?  "

"The usual.  People fuckin' each other one way or the other.  There was
a big murder up in Bel Air last night.  Some white chick shot her man
in their bedroom, sayin' he raped her."

Margot glanced at him.

"Do I detect disbelief in your voice, Otis?"

"Shit, girl, that crap only happen in white America."

"Oh?  Black men don't rape their wives?"

"Hell no, not unless they's separated or something' like that.  Once
they ain't together no more, a wife's like any other sister.  Now by
sayin' it that way, I ain't condemn' it or nothin', but if a black
man's in his home and his woman want him livin' there, there won't be
no rape, 'cept if maybe somebody's crazy."

"Maybe this guy went crazy."

"Or maybe she did.  Why you sisters always assumin' it's the man who
wrong?"

"We're talking rape here, Otis.  How many men do you know who've been
raped by a woman?"

He jabbed his finger in her direction.

"She say rape.  That don't mean that what happen."

Margot pulled out the Metro section.  "Who were they, anyway?"

"Nobody I ever knew, but then I don't get invited to those parties up
in Bel Air so much no more.  Not like I used to."  He sipped his
coffee.

"Like you used to?"

"Shit, I told you about the sixties, mama, when all those college girls
at UCLA wanted to go slummin' to show how liberal they was.

Bunch of us brothers from South Central would go up to Westwood and
party with the hippy chicks all night long, smoking dope and drinking
beer.  We have a beat-up old copy of Go Tell It on the Mountain or Soul
on Ice in our pocket so the hippy chicks think we smart, same as
Eldridge and James.  Man, we was smart.  Course, three months later we
was over in Nam getting' our ass shot off fightin' the white man's
war.

Guess they figure we gotta pay for the pussy somehow.  So things evened
out in the end.  Social justice was what they called it, I think.  "

Margot shook her head, amazed at some of the things,

both profound and profane, that came out of Otis Oxiey's mouth.

"That was before my time, I'm afraid, Otis."

He took a big gulp of coffee.

"Hope to say, chil'.  You wasn't even born yet."  He gestured toward
the paper part in her hand.  "But you a lawyer.  Read about that bitch
and tell me what you think."

"The whole story won't be in the paper."

"I know, but you can tell a lot."

Margot read the article.  The couple's name--Magnin-was not familiar,
but the notables in fields other than the entertainment business or
politics hardly ever were.  They lived quiet lives in multimillion
dollar homes, driving $75,000 cars, financing their children and
grandchildren, if not films and politicians.  Putting their funny money
into movies was big sport for the wealthy in Southern California and,
God knew, Margot had her share of angels.  But it was a high-risk game,
not for the faint of heart.

Daria Magnin, she saw from the article, was not the type who spent her
days at the salon, on the tennis courts or haunting Rodeo Drive.  Daria
ran a family business, a substantial holding company that owned a
variety of regional banks and other financial institutions.  Valticos
Financial, according to the article, was privately held, which meant
the family was extremely wealthy.  Even so, Margot hadn't heard of
them. The husband, rather than the wife, had "married in," which always
seemed to pose problems.  Never having been in that situation, Margot
could only imagine, but the chemistry in the bedroom must have been
somewhat bizarre.  It would take terribly mature individuals if the
male ego involved was fragile and the woman had all the power.

Margot read the article.  As expected, details were sketchy.  Steven
Magnin was naked when he was shot in the couple's bedroom.  Daria
immediately called the police, crying hysterically as she reported the
shooting.  Officers found the victim in a pool of blood.  He was shot
at close range, which was consistent with a struggle.

"Well?"  Otis said, taking a big slug of coffee.

"Tough situation," she said.

"It all turns on whether she can make a case for self-defense."

"He a man and she say he raped her.  Of course it's selfdefense.  But
if it be the woman who got her ass shot, then it's murder, plain and
simple, no questions asked."  Otis slurped his coffee.  "I tell you
right now how this is goin' to end.  The lady'll get herself some
fancy-assed lawyers and that be that.  Don't matter the guy is
white."

Otis drained the last of his coffee.  "Well, I been flappin' my lips
too much.  I best be headed to the beach and strut my stuff.  Can't let
a beautiful day like this pass me by."  He got up.

Margot walked him to the front door.

"Woo-eel" Otis said, looking out the window.

"Do I see Mr.

Highfalootin' his self comin' or do I not?  "" Richard?  " she said,
peering past him.

"With the look of a wounded puppy.  Should I step outside, pullin' on
my shirt and grinn' from ear to ear?"

"Don't you dare!"

Otis howled with laughter.  "Who knows, might fire the motherfucker up
some.  Nothin' better for a relationship than a little jealousy now and
then."  He pulled open the door just as Richard Hightower came up the
walk.  "Mom- in' mister," Otis said cheerfully.

"Mighty fine day!"

Margot groaned.  Otis turned to her.

"Thank you for the coffee, sister.  I be seem' you later.  You be
needin' anything, just give a holler."  Otis, swaggering a little more
than usual, moved past Richard, whose face was stone.

"Yes, indeed," he said, heading up the sidewalk toward the beach,
"mighty fine day, all right."

Richard, tall and slender in a Polo shirt and expensive gabardine
slacks, fine Italian leather belt and loafers, turned from watching
Otis, the smirk on his face fading slowly.  "Why do you have that man
in your home.  Margot?"

"Why shouldn't I?  He's a friend and a neighbor."

"But he's so common."

"Otis is amusing.  And he's very real, Richard.  We have interesting
conversations."

"I can't imagine what about."

"Life, for one thing."

"Life?"

"Yes.  He's seen a lot, done a lot, he's talented, and at times very
wise."

Richard's narrow, erudite, oddly handsome face slowly broke into a
grin.

"Well, I can hardly argue with qualifications like that, can I?"

"I don't see that it's even an issue."

He nodded, conceding the point.

"Nor do I, darling.  I'm sorry if I offended you."

Margot felt a little better.  "Are you going to invite me in?"

"Of course," she said, stepping back.

Richard did not move past her, though.  He stopped in front of her,
taking her face in his hands and bending his lanky frame to kiss her
softly on the mouth.

"I missed you, sweetheart.  Welcome home."

She smiled up at him, feeling guilty.  Richard went into her tiny front
room.  It was furnished with a rattan sofa and chairs, lots of fat
white cushions, carved wood figurines and conch shells on the
occasional tables, and Otis Oxiey's bold, sensuous paintings on the
walls.  Richard sat on the sofa and let his eyes slide up and down her
twice, his fingers steepled over his chest.

Margot was in sweats.  She'd done little more than run a brush through
her hair.  She didn't feel attractive and was moderately resentful that
Richard had shown up without calling.  Of course, she'd hardly been
considerate herself, having ignored all his messages.

"Are you upset with me for some reason?"  he asked, his mind obviously
following the same track as hers.

"Upset?  No, why would you think I'm upset?"

"I've got the house to myself and you didn't come by."

"You didn't expect me to go to your place just because your wife's
gone, did you?"

"You could have called."

"I suppose I could have."  She was still standing.  She looked at him
thoughtfully.

"Would you like some coffee?"

"As a matter of fact, I would.  Thank you."

"Be right back."

Margot went into the kitchen and poured a mug of coffee for him and
added a splash to her own.  She felt uneasy about Richard, maybe
because she'd been having disloyal thoughts.  Running her fingers
through her hair, she returned to the front room.  After handing
Richard his mug, she plopped down in one of the armchairs, draping a
leg over the arm.

"So, how'd it go in Kansas?"  he asked.

"Oh, that."

He smiled.

"It's what's kept us apart the past couple weeks--figuratively, as well
as literally."

"If that's a reference to the fact I haven't called, I'm sorry,
Richard.  You know how I am when I'm in the middle of a deal.  But to
answer your question, I had success.  Got the rights yesterday, just
before I left."

"Bravo!"  he said, saluting her with his mug.

"Yes, I'm pleased."

Richard studied her.

"Are you?"

"Of course.  If I don't sound as up as I should, it's because I'm still
recovering from the hectic day I had yesterday.  And maybe it hasn't
hit me yet."

"This could be your biggest project yet."

Margot sipped her coffee.

"Yeah, I know."

Judging by the way he was looking at her, Betty Spal- ding's story
wasn't uppermost in Richard's mind.  He was very good at talking about
her and her work, and not just about himself and his own work, like
most guys she'd known.  Richard was mature and not so self-possessed as
younger men.  But he was very prideful.  She had worried that the
longer he was unemployed, and the more rapidly her career accelerated,
the more trouble they'd have.  She would never accuse him of jealousy,
but until now his professional life had been very, very productive. 
He'd been at the center of the action, rather than watching others
doing their thing.

"So, how have you been?"  she asked.

Richard gave her an amused smile.

"Actually, that's what I've been eager to talk to you about."

"Something happening with that position at Paramount?"  He shook his
head.

"No, I mean on the personal front."

"Oh?  What?"

"Margot, I've decided to leave Ellen."

She blinked.  Richard could be direct when he wished to be, which was
quite frequently, actually.

"You're leaving Ellen?  What for?"

His laugh was full of amusement.  "

"What for?"  Not, "Oh, good, at long last'?"

She sat upright.  "Richard, this is coming as a very great surprise."

"I know, I've been keeping things to myself because I... well, I wanted
everything in place before I told you."  He put his mug on the table
and leaned toward her.  "Darling, it'll take a while for the divorce to
go through, but as far as you and I are concerned... well, I see this
as the beginning."

"Richard, are you sure about wanting a divorce?"  "Of course.  Why
would you doubt?"

"I guess I'm just conditioned to thinking differently."  As she
pondered the matter, she realized she truly had been thrown off
balance.  What was worse, it seemed so wrong, so unjustifiable, even
perverse.

"Yes, but why the long face?"  He reached his hand across the table
toward her.

"Come sit with me here on the sofa."

She stared at his hand for a moment, feeling incredibly reluctant.
Finally, she took his fingers, moving around the coffee table and
dropping onto the sofa next to him.  Turning, she looked him in the
eye. "What did you mean, you see this as a beginning?"

Richard gave her that coy little smile he got when she managed somehow
to delight him.  He pressed her hand between his.

"Margot, once the divorce is final, I want to marry you.  I want you to
be my wife."

She was stunned.  Shocked.  How could she not have anticipated this?

"I know this is coming right out of the blue," he said.

"I know in the past I've sounded muddled and vague about the future,
but it's because I thought it was unfair to create expectations."

She still couldn't find words.  "This last trip convinced me we have to
be together.  I missed you terribly.  I realized my life isn't complete
without you.  This is our chance, our time.  I want us to be together,
not for a few stolen hours here and there, but forever."

Never had 'forever" sounded like such a long time as it did just now,
on Richard's lips.  She didn't know what to say.

"What's the matter, darling?"  He was sensitive enough that her
ambivalence did not go unnoticed.

"I've really thrown you for a loop, haven't I?"

"Yes, to say the least."

"Well, this is not a situation where we need to get on a plane for Las
Vegas in an hour.  We've got plenty of time to prepare for it.  In
fact, we can live together and work into things slowly... at whatever
pace you find comfortable.  The point is, I want you to know how very
deep my feelings are for you.  This has not happened overnight.  It's
been a long time coming."

"Have you told Ellen?"

"No.  But I will as soon as she comes back from Napa."

"So soon?"

He chuckled.

"So soon?  Why do you keep saying the opposite of what I expect?  I
know you're shocked, but I thought you'd be elated, too."

Margot lowered her eyes.  She looked at his hands, the wedding band
that was still on his finger.  How grotesque the situation seemed and
how very sad that was.  "Richard, you know our relationship has meant a
great deal to me.

And, except for that one time during college when I spent a month in
Hawaii with my boyfriend, no one has ever asked me to marry him.  I'm
terribly flattered, but.  "

"Margot, you aren't going to turn me down, are you?"  His tone was
amazingly sober.

"I haven't thought in terms of marriage, Richard.  Oh, I can't say it
hasn't crossed my mind, but that's not what our relationship is
about... at least not to me.  I care for you very much.  You've meant
so much to me... but..."  She bit her lip, hating this.

"But..."

He drew a long breath.  "

"But' seems to be popping up in this conversation a great deal, doesn't
it?"

"Don't be upset.  Please."

He clasped his hands together on his lap.  Margot could see she'd hurt
him.  She hadn't wanted to.  She was actually amazed that she'd been so
unequivocal.  Until he'd uttered the word marriage, she wasn't even
sure what her feelings were.  But her response had poured from her
mouth with such unwavering authority that it amazed her.  "Is there
anything else you want to tell me?"  he asked.

"Like what?"

"Like you've been thinking you don't wish to see me anymore?"

"Please, Richard, don't."

"Is the question so unreasonable?"

"I know you're hurt.  I can't blame you."

There was a long silence and Margot realized his already fragile ego
had suffered yet another blow.  She felt dreadful--sorrow and regret
pressed down on her like a hot and humid summer afternoon in Kansas.

"Maybe I should go," he said.

She ached inside, probably as much as he.

"You don't have to."

"I know I don't have to.  But the vibrations are not good, Margot.  I
need time to think."

He got up.  He did not look at her.  She knew he was humiliated.  He
must be wondering how he could have misread the situation so badly. 
Oddly, she couldn't tell him.  Until ten minutes ago she wouldn't have
known her own feelings with precision.  But she saw it all now with
absolute clarity and felt no misgivings whatsoever.

He went to the door.

"I suppose there's no reason to call," he said, half looking back, "at
least not for a while."

Margot lowered her head, feeling his humiliation just as certainly as
she'd once felt his power and confidence.

"I guess not."

Time seemed to move past her in measurable increments.  There was
nothing quite so uncomfortable as the profound disconnection between
two people who'd once been of one mind and one heart.  But Richard now
seemed as alien as he seemed familiar, which was very bizarre.

Even so, she had mixed feelings, torn between wanting him out the door
and wanting to throw her arms around him--out of compassion.  She cared
for Richard and respected him enough that she didn't want to hurt
him.

Richard Hightower was not without courage, though.  After opening the
door, he did look her in the eye.  His shimmered.  She wanted to ask if
he was still going to tell Ellen he wanted a divorce, or if he'd hold
off to give further consideration to that course of action.  But she
couldn't.  It was really none of her business, odd as that seemed.

"Richard," she said, tears flooding her eyes, "your friendship has
meant so very much to me... I can't begin to tell you."

"Don't then, Margot.  Let's just leave things as they are."

He brushed her cheek with his fingertips.  A tear rolled down her
face.

Richard turned and made his way down the walk.

As she watched him go, it occurred to Margot that she was destined to
spend the rest of the day in tears.  She'd just passed another turning
point in her life with the virtual ease of an odometer turning over at
a hundred thousand miles.  Here she was, thirty years old, and she'd
just given the heave-ho to the only man she'd ever considered marrying.
Surely that said as much about her as about their relationship.  Maybe
all it truly meant was that she'd finally grown up.

Sacramento "Gabriel Rose, you have got to be out of your goddamn
mind!"

Mona was in her bathrobe, standing in the doorway of the house they'd
once shared.  He had Arabella in his arms.  Mona took her from him,
cuddling the child protectively.  Again her eyes flashed.  "Why would I
loan you a thousand dollars, even assuming I had it to spare?"

Mona's dark hair was a few shades lighter than when they'd been
together and more carefully styled.  She was not a pretty woman--her
jaw long, her mouth a bit droopy--but she had dark, sexy eyes and a
sensuous quality that was appealing.  When she fixed herself up, she
turned heads, mostly because of her long, shapely legs, her ample
curves and her ability to entice and allure.

"It's only for a few days," he insisted.

"Just until Rudy gets back from Hawaii.  It's to get an apartment,
Mona.  A place that would be better for the baby."

"Yeah, sure."

"Would I lie about this?"

"Gabe, you're so desperate.  God only knows what you might do. Besides,
what if Rudy's plane went down?  What if you got hit by a truck?"

"You've got Bella for collateral," he said.

"Now you're selling her to me?"

"For cris sakes Mona, give me a break, will you?  I'm trying to get
squared away for all our sakes.  The sooner I'm solvent, the sooner you
can take me to court and get child support."

Her eyes leveled on him with the dispassion of a cobra.  "Gabe, the
police come to my house questioning me about your possible involvement
in a murder and you want me to loan you money?  I don't even know why
I'm talking to you."

"All right," he said, "then loan me enough to keep the rental car for a
few days.  I've got to work.  It's the only way to keep the money
coming in."

"Didn't you hear what I just said?"

"Mona, I'm not going to South America on a couple of lousy bucks.  I
just need to get through the week.  I'm not asking you to think of
me.

Think of yourself.  And Bella.  "

"The reason I'm going into real estate is so that Bella and I will have
a future," she rejoined.

"It's obvious we can't count on you."

"Granted it's taking me longer than I expected to get a practice going,
but it's starting to come together, honest.  I'm right on the verge,
Mona, but I need wheels.  A hundred bucks."

"I'm not about to throw good money after bad.  Find yourself another
sucker."  She pointed at the bags at his feet.  "Put those inside,
would you?"

Gabe did as she asked, feeling like a porter and an ex- husband.  How
was it women were so much better at being former wives than wives? 
Mona had the act down to perfection.  He gave his child a kiss goodbye,
noticing her mother's familiar scent as he did.

Armand Azumian came to mind and he wanted to ask her about him, but he
knew it was pointless.  Maybe the Swingin' Armenian would marry her and
get his just reward.  Gabe couldn't imagine better revenge than that.

"Oh, by the way," Mona said as he headed for the door, "Ted Quick
called the other day, looking for you.  I told him you were working out
of some law office in West Sac, but I forgot which one."

"When the other day?"

"I don't know.  Two or three days ago."

"Oh, great.  Thanks a lot, Mona.  That could be important."

"Well, how am I supposed to know?  I wouldn't even be talking to you if
it wasn't for Bella."

Ted Quick had been one of Gabe's better clients in the old days.  As a
wealthy investor who had a penchant for getting himself into little
scrapes, Ted had frequent need for legal counsel.  For a while he even
had Gabe under a retainer.

"Did he say what he wanted?"

Mona shook her head.

"No."

He went out the door.

"Don't forget I've got my real estate class Thursday night," she called
after him.

"Don't be late picking up the baby.  I mean it, Gabel

Thursday night!  "

He gave her a dismissive wave over his shoulder.  "You can count on
me."

He only had to imagine the look of derision on her face.  But that was
all right.  When it came to dealing with Mona, he had so few
pleasures.

The door of his house slammed shut behind him.

As he climbed into the rental car, Gabe wondered why Ted would be
trying to reach him.  Soon after his release from jail Gabe had called
a number of former clients, in eluding Ted, hoping to pick up some
business.  The reaction he got was mixed.  Some were cold and aloof,
some were noncommittal.  Ted had been among the friendliest, but he
said he was being represented now by Moreland, Tarp, Abbott and Ross,
the second largest firm in town.  So why the call?  Gabe wondered if
maybe things had changed.

He drove to a service station on Broadway and called Ted's home number
from a payphone.

"Gabriel," Ted said, "you couldn't have caught me at a worse time.  I'm
headed out the door.  Thought I'd hear from you before now."

"I just got your message ten minutes ago, Ted."

"Well, I'm leaving in the morning the Caribbean.  Taking a little
cruise.  Thought you could do me a favor while I'm gone."

"Sure."

"But I can't talk now.  Really must run.  If you got a few minutes,
though, come by Cal Expo.  You'll find me in the Turf Club.
Simulcasts.

I'll be watching what's left of Aqueduct and Gulf stream.  "

"I'll do that."

"See you, then."

Ted hung up.  Gabe checked his watch.  It was nearly ten-thirty.  He
could be at the state fairgrounds in fifteen minutes.  Ted was coming
from Carmichael, about the same travel time.  That meant he could grab
a bite.  Gabe went to the fast-food place next door and got an egg
sandwich and a cup of coffee.  After paying, he had eleven bucks left,
enough for admission to the club and a beer or two.

There were maybe sixty or seventy customers in the downstairs general
admission area.  The crowds had grown ever since they'd been doing
simulcasts from back East and the South.  Gabe glanced at the TV
screens covering the walls as he made his way to the stairs.  One race
was underway.

The crowd upstairs where the Turf Club was located was more rarified.

There were maybe a dozen players, most chatting in private booths.  One
guy had his hand halfway up the skirt of the floozy hanging on his arm.
She was sucking on the straw in what looked like a Bloody Mary.

Gabe spotted Ted's shock of white hair in the corner.  He was slouched
back in his seat, his eyes on the TV screen.

Ted was in his mid sixties a refined, aristocratic fellow with breeding
and a penchant for low life, which was how Gabe had made most his money
off him.  First, the old boy was gay, a fact that was of no consequence
to Gabe, though in a drunken moment early in their relationship Ted had
made a pass at him.  It was Ted's only slip.  Gabe had no idea if Ted
even remembered the incident.

Second, and most important, Ted Quick was an inveterate gambler.  He
had two great passions--the stock market and the ponies.  Ted's day
began at six each weekday morning with the denizens of New York.  When
the markets closed his attention moved to Aqueduct, Belmont, Saratoga,
Gulfstream, then on to the West Coast and places like Santa Anita, Bay
Meadows and Golden Gate Fields.  Sometimes he'd stay at Cal Expo into
the night, betting the California harness circuit.

"I make my money in the morning and lose it in the afternoon," was the
way Ted put it.

The fact was, Ted Quick owed Gabe a big favor.  There was a time early
in their professional relationship when Ted had run into serious
financial problems with margin calls.  This was about the same time
he'd been hit with a couple of lawsuits growing out of his personal
life that were as expensive as they were messy.  Gabe had carried him
for several months until the wheels of fortune had brought Ted back
into solvency.

"I owe you, old boy," Ted had said when he'd paid his long overdue
bill.  Gabe could only hope that Ted hadn't forgotten.

"Ah, Gabriel," Ted said, seeing him approach the booth, "my favorite
pettifogger."  He offered his hand.  As usual, Ted was florid, for
reasons Gabe didn't understand.  So far as he knew, Ted was not a heavy
drinker.

"How are you?"

"Scraping by, Teddy, scraping by."

"I've heard the fates haven't been so kind of late."

"You've heard right, sorry to say."  He sat down beside him.

"Take heart," Ted said.

"If there's anything I've learned in my sixty-four years, it's that
nothing is forever.  The tides of life change as quickly as the weather
in spring."

"Amen to that, brother."

Ted put his hand on Gabe's shoulder with fraternal assurance.

"Buy you a cocktail?"

"No thanks, Teddy.  It's a little early for me."  He noticed Ted was
having tea.

"Tea or coffee then?"

"Sure, why not?  Coffee sounds good."

Ted signaled the waitress.

"Bring the gentleman a coffee, will you, dear?"  He turned his
attention to the TV.

"Just let me see this one, will you, Gabriel?"

They watched the race together.  It was the fourth at Gulfstream.  When
it was over Ted muttered a mild expletive.

"Not good, I take it," Gabe said.

"Precisely.  And I've yet to understand why.  I pick my ponies with
scientific precision--speed and jockey-trainer combinations.  It's the
same way I pick my stocks--earnings and management in light of market
conditions."

"It must be the way they set the odds."

"Of course it's all in the odds, Gabriel, but wouldn't you think I
could outfox these fools at least fifty-one percent of the time?"

"They certainly want you to think you can."

"That's much too rational," Ted said.

"Leave me with my illusions.

Please.  "

Gabe's coffee came.  Normally he didn't take sugar, but on an impulse
he added a packet.  Ted consulted his racing form, drawing a line
through the race that had just run.  "The larger fields back East make
for much better payoffs," he said.

"But one must pick a winner, nonetheless.  Today that seems to be a
problem."  He drummed his pencil, pondering the form for a moment
before looking up.

"Care to place a wager?"  He leaned toward Gabe, lowering his voice.  T
have a good feeling about the next race.  Of course, I had a good
feeling about the technology sector on Friday, too, and look what
happened.  "

"I think I'll pass, Ted.  I'd have to bet my kid's milk money.  But
thanks."

Ted Quick leaned back to appraise him.  "Bloody shame that run of bad
luck you had."

"It's still a present tense issue, sorry to say."  "Hmm.  So, where are
you hanging your hat these days, if I may be so bold?"

"That's a timely subject, as a matter of fact.  I'm in transition. Have
to leave my place because of my daughter.  No children.  Neighbors
complained.  One of those deals.  And my car was broken into and
trashed the other night, so I'm driving a rental."  He grinned.

"The usual shit."

"Well, sport, our little encounter may be very timely then."

"What do you mean?"

"I mentioned I'm leaving to go on a cruise."

"Yes."

"Well, I'd prefer to have a house sitter rather than leave it empty.

So, if that's of interest, you could bunk at my place while you sort
out your options.  "

"That would be terrific!"  Gabe felt as if he'd just been paid a visit
by the Tooth Fairy.  Good turns of luck had been few and far between
since he'd said farewell to the Rio Cosumnes Correctional Center.

"And, of course, I'll have no use for my Jaguar.  You may as well save
yourself a few shekels while I'm gone.  You will have to drive me to
the airport in the morning, however."

"Teddy, this is damned generous of you."

"You've been magnanimous in the past, need I say.  Why not a little
mutual back scratching now?  But the primary purpose of this
conversation concerns a legal matter, one I'm loath to take to my
regular attorneys.  I thought perhaps you could handle it for me...
discreetly."

"Sure, what's the problem?"

"Well, I've had this little friend living with me the past year or so,"
Ted said, lowering his voice.

"A delightful young man named William Ferry."  He winked.

"Don't you love it?"  His expression turned sober.

"Actually, delightful is not the right word.  At least not at this
point.  Master William's a little shit, an impudent little ingrate, if
you know what I mean."

"Frankly I don't, Ted."

"Let me put it this way.  The bastard's been stealing me blind.  A
little money here, a little jewelry there--I can live with that.  But
then the little prick started two-timing me.  That was the last
straw!"

Ted's face turned even more florid.  He took a couple of calming
breaths.

"To make a long story short, I threw William's ungrateful ass out a
month ago.  That would have, should have, been the end of it, but I
took another--in retrospect, perhaps, excessive--step.  While he was
out fucking his bimbo, I cut his clothes to pieces and dumped them on
the front lawn, along with his collection of rare books.  As luck would
have it, the sprinklers went off in the interim."

"And he's suing you."  "I was served a few days ago.  The bitch is
asking for a hundred thousand in actual damages and more for the ;

intentional infliction of emotional distress.  Can you imagine the
gall? " :

"Not a modest sum."  :

"Oh, he'll settle for twenty or thirty thousand.  He did have some
valuable books.  I can't deny that."

"So, you want me to negotiate a settlement?"

"No!  I want you to make his life as miserable as you possibly can!"

Gabe tried not to smile, but he failed.  Ted was so annoyed he didn't
notice.

"I can hardly believe I'm saying this, but I really do want the little
stinker to suffer."

Gabe stared at his erstwhile client and realized he was seeing a
facsimile of Mona.  On the other hand, it sounded like William was the
one with his ex-wife's morals, not Ted.  The irony was, none of this
truly mattered.  Oh, he was happy for the chance to pick up a few bucks
at Ted's expense, but it was conversations like this that made him
realize that for the practice of law to be fulfilling, it had to count
for something more than pissing matches becoming billable hours.  Maybe
that was why Del Pritchard's pleas for help Friday afternoon and his
subsequent death had gripped him so.  "Are you game?"  Ted asked.

"I'll need to see the summons and complaint."

"They're at my house."

"Who's representing him?"

"Taylor Carey."

"Oh."

"You know him?"

"Yeah.  He's a nice guy, sorry to say.  Gets around on crutches and a
wheelchair, but he's a jock.  Competes in the California Marathon in
the wheelchair division, bikes, boats, you name it.  He's a liberal
with a reputation for taking on socially significant causes."

"Does it take a liberal to represent one gay man in a suit against
another gay man?"

"No," Gabe replied, "but it's nice if the defendant is a rich
capitalist, in addition to being gay."

"So, he's not adverse to making a buck."

"Taylor's got a wife and kids to feed, and you've got deep pockets,
Ted."

"Hey, whose side are you on?"

"You know me, Teddy, I'm in this for the money, too, which means, in
this instance, I'm on your side."  He laughed, but it was forced.

Ted studied him.

"You know, Gabe, there's something wrong with you.  I can see it in
your eyes.  Is it finances, or is it something else?"

Gabe drew a long, slow breath.

"I normally don't talk about one client to another," he replied, "but
in this case it no longer matters.  My client and I both had a bit of
bad luck Friday.  My car got trashed, but he did even worse.  The. poor
sonovabitch is dead."

"Dead?"

Gabe told him about Del.  Ted was familiar with the case, having read
about it in the paper.

"So, he was your client."

"I'd just signed him on a retainer.  The problem is, I feel responsible
for his death.  He told me his life was in danger, and I didn't do
anything to help him."

"What are you supposed to do?  You're a lawyer, not a cop."

"Yeah, I know.  And I could come up with reasons from here to Sunday
why it's not my fault he died.  But what kind of an advocate am I if I
can't help a person in the most elemental way?  The trouble was, I was
thinking of myself, not Del Pritchard."

"It's a noble admission," Ted said, "but I think you're assuming too
much responsibility.  I certainly felt you always had my interests at
heart.  In fact, you went above and beyond the call of duty when you
represented me."

"Maybe that's what I'm worried about, Ted.  Maybe I've lost it, the
fire in the gut, the sense of mission."  Hej studied his friend.  '
"What do you think?"  } "The mere fact that it's bothering you says a
great deal,;

Gabriel.  If you want to worry about something, worryl about evening
the score on my behalf with William Ferry.  "

Gabe smiled at Ted's attempt to humor him.  But the truth was,
Pritchard's death had been troubling him all day.  It was the first
thing on his mind when he'd awoke that morning, and he kept picturing
the man's loony expression, his wild, unkempt appearance, his pleas for
help.  Gabe felt a compelling need to make sense of what had happened,
to put it in some sort of perspective.

"You can't serve the dead, but you can serve the living," Ted said.

Gabe nodded.

"In other words, first things first."

"It's not a very worthy case, I know," Ted said.

"And I'll certainly wind up paying in the end, but this does have a
human dimension.  The little worm hurt me and he must be made to
suffer... for his edification, if not my satisfaction."

"I'll do my best."  Gabe took a long drink from his coffee cup.

"So, how much did he steal from you?"

Ted waved his hand dismissively.  "A few thousand dollars, Gabriel.

Nothing major.  It was his infidelity that wounded.  "

"I understand."

"You couldn't possibly."

"You've met Mona."

"Oh, perhaps you do understand."  Ted's attention was drawn back to the
TV set.

"Oh, here's my next race.  Can't miss this one."

"Maybe I should run," Gabe said.

"What are the arrangements for tomorrow?"

"Why don't you get rid of your rental car and come to my place this
evening?  We can have dinner, you can stay the night--all perfectly
innocent, of course--then you can drive me to the airport in the
morning.  I have to be there at eleven."

"Sounds like a plan."

"Here, why don't I give you a house key now, and that way you can take
over some things this afternoon, even if I'm not back yet."  He gave
Gabe a key, his eye on the TV screen.

"I appreciate this, Ted."

"You do?  Heavens, you don't know how relieved I am.  It's been weeks
since I've had a decent night's sleep.  That's why the cruise.  I
simply must get myself back together."

The horses in Florida were out of the gate and Ted Quick was on the
edge of his seat.  Gabe mumbled goodbye and left the club.  As he made
his way to the rental car, he thought over his conversation with Ted,
pondering such things as truth, honor and justice--things he felt
helpless to do much about.  But then, as Teddy had said, life had a way
of changing the rules on you fairly quickly.  Maybe Del Pritchard's
death would turn out to be his chance to right a few wrongs.

He was just leaving his apartment building with his suitcase in hand
when Spencer Shimota and another man in street clothes pulled up to the
curb in an unmarked vehicle.  The men got out and approached him.

"Going somewhere, counselor?"  the Shinto Splinter said.

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I am."

"Not to South America, I hope."

"Not quite that far."

"Like where, then?"  "Is it any of your business, lieutenant?"

"Could be."

"Well, if it will put your mind at ease, I'm going to Carmichael."

"That's a lot of gear for a ten-mile trip, isn't it, counselor?"  i
"The last time I checked, this still isn't a police state,;

Shimota.  Do I need your permission to leave my apartment ^

"I've got an officer in intensive care at UC Davis and a corpse in the
morgue with your smell all over it, Mr.  Rose.  I have reason to be
curious about you."

"Don't tell me.  You've come up with a witness who will testify that I
actually can be in two different places at the same time."

Shimota smirked.

"No, but close."

Gabe put his suitcase down on the sidewalk.

"Well, don't keep me in suspense, lieutenant."

Shimota indicated the man beside him, a bland, somber- looking fellow
with the eyes of a cop.  "This is Detective Appleby from the Stockton
P.D. He'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Stockton?  Christ, you guys are like tag team wrestlers.  What now?"

"Mr.  Rose, yesterday morning a maid at a downtown Stockton motel
discovered a room full of bloody towels.  We have reason to believe
someone with a serious wound was treated there."

"Couldn't be that some woman gave birth or anything like that?"

"We don't think so."

"Preliminary tests indicate it matches the blood found outside your
girlfriend's apartment," Shimota interjected.  "The blood of the guy
who shot my officer and broke into your car."

"I see.  But what can I bring to this party?"

"I don't know," Appleby said, "but we were hoping you might help
explain why this someone would have written your license plate number
on a pad in the room."

"Did someone?"

"During a thorough search we found indentations on a notepad.  The
original page was gone, but from the pressure marks on the next sheet
we were able to make out your vehicle license plate number.  Do you
have any idea why someone may of done that, Mr.  Rose?"

Gabe looked at Shimota's stern visage.

"No, I don't.

Not unless they were simply making note of the license number of the
vehicle they'd broken into.  "

"They?"  Shimota said.

"Why do you say 'they' counselor?"

"Yes, I've been meaning to call you about that, lieutenant."  He
cleared his throat.

"Yesterday, my friend Laurel told me that while I was at the entrance
to her building she saw two men in a black Toyota Corolla pull up next
to my car.  One got out, a Hispanic guy, and the other, who she thought
was white with a large tattoo on his left arm, drove on."

"That's very interesting," Shimota said.

"The question is, why did you wait until now to tell me this?"

"I would have contacted you earlier, lieutenant, but I figured you'd
probably be on the golf course, rather than looking for me on a Sunday
morning."

"That's not funny."

"I honestly meant to call."

"It looks like we'll need to speak with Mrs.  Seneker again."

"There's no guarantee the guys she saw were the ones who broke into my
car and shot your man.  It wasn't until the morning after that she even
remembered seeing them."

Appleby spoke up.

"We've placed a black Toyota at the motel the night of the incident.
Ran the plates.  Rental car that was never returned.

We don't know who rented it.  White guy with a fake I.

D.

is all we've got so far.  We're looking for the car.  "

Gabe said.

"It appears they may be your boys."

"It would have been nice to know this before now," Shimota intoned.

"We've been operating under the assumption we're dealing with a single
suspect--possibly the guy who shot Pritchard, although now there's some
doubt about that."

"Right," Appleby added.

"The motel room was rented by a white guy, using the same name as was
on the car rental form.  According to the clerk, he had a tattoo on his
left biceps."

"No fingerprints in the room?"  Gabe asked.

The two officers exchanged looks.  Then Shimota said, "The place was
cleaned up pretty well, but the lab people found one usable print on
the towel bar in the bath.  We're running it through the computers
now.

The fact that there could have been two people involved is going to
force us to do some rethinking.  "

"Sorry, lieutenant.  Would it have made a difference if I'd told you
earlier, though?"

"Who knows?"

Gabe looked back and forth between them.

"Anything else I can do for you gentlemen?"

"You going to be gone long?"  Shimota asked.

"Several days."

"I might want to get a hold of you."

"I'm house-sitting for a friend.  Ted Quick.  His place is on McClaren
Drive in Carmichael.  Right on the river."  Gabe gave him the number.

Shimota made a note.

"You know, counselor, for a jailhouse lawyer familiar with both sides
of the bars, you keep company with some pretty swank people.  What's
your secret?"  "You can take the boy out of upper-crust society, but
you can't take upper-crust society out of the boy."

The lieutenant smiled reluctantly.

"You're slick, Mr.  Rose, but I've got a feeling there's more to this
than we've turned up.  And I also have a feeling some of it's going to
stick to you."

"Let's hope you're wrong."

The Shinto Splinter stared at him blankly for a long moment, then the
men returned to their car.

"Enjoy the rest of your day, gentlemen," Gabe called after them.

Shimota stopped before climbing in behind the wheel.

"By the way, counselor, the lab is finished with your car.

You can retrieve it from the lot Monday.  You might want to bring a tow
truck with you, though.  "

"Tow truck?"

"Your friends at the Stockton motel did a little more damage than was
readily apparent."

"Is that right?"

Shimota smiled and got in the car.  Gabe watched him drive away.  He
realized it probably was a mistake to have antagonized the guy, but he
felt victimized and therefore justified in taking any shot he could.

Besides, cops had no right to use the power of their office in personal
vendettas.  It was one thing to get kicked around by your ex-wife, your
former partner, your landlady.  But having cops on your ass for no good
reason except to hammer you, seemed.  well, un-American.  Somebody had
to get their back up over that sort of thing and at this point, he
didn't see that he had all that much to lose.

Beverly Hills

Dee Dee Magnin was still numb.  She'd spent the night at her father's
place, but she hadn't slept.  Her eyes burned and she had a sick
feeling inside, mostly because she was torn.  She didn't know whether
to hate Steven or feel guilty about shooting him, whether to be afraid
or confident.  Searing through everything like acid on flesh, though,
was what had happened in Sacramento.  Her husband's rash act could well
sink the ship.  Even if Steve hadn't made her shoot him, she'd never
have forgiven him for that.

Dee Dee and her father had been sitting out on his flowered patio for
ten minutes now and the only sound he'd made was slurping on the straw
in one of his "brain drinks," a concoction of crushed fruit, vitamins
and herbal powders.  Despite his silence, he had to be thinking how
everything was hanging in the balance.  This, after all, was his life's
work at stake.

The night before, when she'd arrived at his house, his first concern
had been her.  Dee Dee had broken down and sobbed in his arms because
he was the one person in the world she felt safe enough with to let go.
Oh, she'd cried for the police, as well, but only partly out of
feeling.  It would have been expected.  Understandably, they were
skeptical about her motives.  She'd had to tell her story over and
over. She'd left out nothing but the fact that Steve had had Del
Pritchard murdered and the reason behind it.  Otherwise, she'd
recounted every detail, first a minute by minute account of their
romantic evening, then of the argument and rape.

"Why, on such a special night, would things have turned so ugly, Mrs.

Magnin?  " the chief detective, a man named Leahy, had asked.

"Steve had a lot of pride and ambition," she'd said.  "He hated it that
I ran the company, not him.  But that was my father's wish.  Steve
resented that."

"You're telling me that your husband raped you and threatened you
because you wouldn't give him control of your family's company?"

"It's really a lot more complicated than that," Dee Dee explained.

"The roots of this thing went deep in our relationship.  I didn't fully
realize that until last night."

"But nothing like this had happened before?"  Leahy asked.

"Oh, we've argued about business and our relationship, both.  He's
gotten very angry in the past, but he's never assaulted me.  That's why
it was so terrifying.  I was caught completely off guard.  And the fact
that he'd drunk a great deal probably didn't help.  Usually, he's more
careful about drinking.  This was like an explosion.  Looking back, I
realize it had been building.  And tonight, the bomb inside him finally
went off.  I guess, in his desperation, it was the only way he could
find to let me know who was boss."

Leahy and a female detective had questioned her for at least an hour.

It wasn't difficult to be convincing about the rape because it was
exactly what had happened.  And, for Dee Dee's purposes, the spark that
had set things off hardly mattered.  Steve could have attacked her
because she'd been having an affair or decided to divorce him.  What
difference did it make to the police what had set him off?  She'd shot
him because he'd threatened to hurt her.  When he'd reached for the
gun, there was no telling what he would have done.  It was
self-defense!

Next to her, Demetrius Valticos took a final slurp from his glass and
set it down on his tray, moving deliberately.  He then leaned back in
his wheelchair with a sigh.

"I know this is a terrible burden.  Daddy," she said.

"If there was any way I could have spared you, I would have."

"It's not your fault," he gurgled.

"I could have handled Steve better than I did."

"After the bastard raped you?"  Demetrius's hand began shaking
violently.

"No, I mean in general."

"You should never have married the SOB," her father hissed, his voice a
harsh whisper.

"If you'd only listened to me."

It was hard for Dee Dee to argue the point now.  Anyway, Steven was no
longer around for her to defend.  That, she still hadn't fully
grasped.

He'd died right at her feet.  All night she'd been tortured by the
image, but she couldn't believe he was actually gone.  Yet, considering
what had happened, she'd have done it again if he came at her that way.
The man had completely flipped.  And it all went back to that nutcase,
Pritehard.  If it weren't for his meddling.  "I'm sorry I didn't listen
to you.  Daddy," she said to her father.  "But Steve is no longer the
problem now.  The police are suspicious because that's their job.  But
it was self-defense."

"I know," Valticos said, "but we're not leaving anything to chance.  I
want you to talk to Sid Kern.  In fact..."

he cleared his throat "--Sid should have been with you... when you
talked to the police."

"I told them the truth about Steve."

"Yes, but I want ... all the bases covered.  Call Sid.  He's a good
lawyer.  It can't hurt."

"All right, Daddy, but we've got a much bigger worry--that hit man
Steve hired.  God only knows what he's thinking at this point."  "We"
her father cleared his throat again "--we need more information, Dee
Dee.  Right now we're in the dark.  That's what worries me."

"What can we do?"

"I'm going to send a man to Sacramento to check out the situation.

Someone who's handled sensitive jobs for me in the past.  He'll get to
the bottom of things.  Sid can help with that, too.  "" What about the
lawyer we dealt with before?  "

'"I suppose... I could ask Andrew Lincoln to talk to him, but I'm...
inclined to let sleeping dogs lie.  It's probably best if we just lay
low.  I have no doubt that if there's going to be a problem" -he
coughed and wheezed "--it will come to us without us asking."

Sacramento

Gabriel Rose was headed out J Street, on his way to Ted's place in
Carmichael, and was just passing Mercy Hospital when it occurred to him
he was within blocks of Del Pritehard's home.  Just knowing that gave
him a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach.  Pritehard's death
continued to weigh on him, his glib sparring with Spencer Shi- mota
notwithstanding.  He decided to drive by the house, even though he
wasn't sure what he could accomplish.

The Fabulous Forties consisted of several square blocks of tree-lined
streets between J and Folsom Boulevard, an area containing some of the
largest and most stately homes in Sacramento.  Most dated back decades,
but they were still highly favored by the real estate market.

Gabe had never seen the inside of any of those big homes, but in their
callow youth, he and Mona would drive through the area on a Sunday like
this, dreaming about the day when he would be senior partner of the
city's leading law firm and they and their children would be occupying
the biggest and the best home of all.  It was incredible what a mockery
reality sometimes made of dreams.  Here he was reveling in the chance
to defend Ted Quick in a spite case involving lost love when by all
rights he should be passing the work on to a junior associate and
billing out at two- fifty an hour.  Yes, those dreams of yesteryear
seemed like a cruel joke.

Gabe wasn't sure which was hardest--the fall itself, or the fact that
he'd once had such high aspirations, only to see them dashed.  His
origins weren't exactly humble, but he had come a long way from his
early life as an Army brat.  His father retired as a major after
twenty-five years in the Army, having had a disappointing career.  Bill
Rose had been devoted to his wife and daughter, but his relations with
his son had always been difficult.  The worst seemed to come when Gabe
had striven hardest to please his old man.  Just after he'd entered
high school, and his mother had died of cancer, Gabe told his father
he'd settled on a career in the military.

The high point of their relationship had come when Gabe won an
appointment to Annapolis.  He knew from the start his motives were
mixed--wanting both to please his father and excel where Bill Rose had
not.  But Gabe soon realized he was living his father's dream, not his
own.  He left the academy after his plebe year, causing extreme
consternation on the home front.  It was the nadir of their
relationship.  The elder Rose never forgave his son, cutting him off
financially and telling him his education was his own responsibility.

They scarcely saw each other or spoke thereafter.

Gabe had come to California and stayed for a while with his mother's
childhood friend while he worked his way through Sacramento State
University.  Then he attended McGeorge School of Law, passed the bar
exam on his first try, and began a fast-rising career, only to see it
crash and burn in his master bedroom.  During those long nights in
jail, he sometimes lay in his bunk wondering if he might not have been
better off on some cruiser in the Atlantic, moving up through the ranks
on his way to retirement, rather than seeing his dream of a happy life
with a wife and a child and a big house in the Fabulous Forties crumble
under the onus of some deep-seated character flaw.

As he turned onto Forty-Sixth Street, Gabe tasted regret all over
again.  He could hear Mona sitting beside him, saying, "I'll take that
one, Gabriel, Buy me that big stucco house with the bay windows!"

Ironically, Peter Cashen had recently bought a place in the Fabulous
Forties.  Gabe wasn't sure where, but Mona had made a point of
mentioning it to him, knowing it would wound.  Women, he judged, had a
keen aptitude for making their bitterness known.

But there was something else missing in his life which transcended his
loss of dignity or the material things-something that Del Pritchard's
death had brought home to him.  Gabe had lost his sense of purpose, his
mission.  That was more wounding than the failure of his marriage or
the desperation of his financial condition.  That bizarre man he had
spoken to for all of fifteen minutes had practically died before his
eyes, and Gabe didn't know what to do about it.  He was truly lost.

When he came to the address on Del Pritchard's check, Gabe pulled over
and stopped.  For several moments he sat looking up at the house that
wasn't the prettiest on the street, though it was probably the largest,
and reflected on their meeting in Rudy's office.  He recalled how Del
had been so definite about the box of "evidence," and the prophesy of
his impending demise.  Gabe wasn't sure why he was there now or what he
hoped to find, but he'd certainly come looking for something.

There was one fact that he couldn't ignore--Del Prit- chard had been a
nutcase, somebody who "couldn't pour piss out of a boot with
instructions printed on the heel," as Bill Rose might have said.

Pritchard had been paranoid and maybe delusional, his claims about a
worldwide conspiracy ridiculous.  Yet, he was dead and Gabe couldn't
get it out of his mind that Del had come to him for help.  Whether he
might have saved him--a doubtful proposition at best--was almost beside
the point.  Gabe still felt responsible.  Perhaps that was what made it
impossible for him to simply walk away.

Unable to sit there forever, justifying and reassuring himself, Gabe
got out of the car and headed for the front door.  The house was one of
those huge old-fashioned three-story homes with a porch that spanned
the entire front.  There was a swing at one end of it and lots of
potted plants.  Gabe pulled on the old-fashioned doorbell that rang
instead of chimed.  It took a long time for the maid to come, a Latina
in her late thirties or early forties wearing a cautious expression.

"Yes?"

"Hello, my name is Gabriel Rose.  I'm an attorney who represented Mr.

Pritchard before his death.  I know this is a bad time, but I was
wondering if I might have a few words with his mother.  "

"Wait please.  I will ask."

The maid closed the door, leaving Gabe to contemplate the tranquil
tree-shaded street.  A biker in racing togs and helmet went by, his
head thrown back as he drank from his water bottle.  A yellow butterfly
lit in a patch of sunshine on the porch railing.  A neighbor somewhere
nearby played an old-fashioned ballad on the piano, the sound
insouciantly drifting up the street.  The warm air was sweet with
honeysuckle.  It did not seem a place for murder.

The door opened again and the maid said, "Mrs.  Pritchard will talk to
you."

Gabe stepped into the cool, slightly musty-smelling old house,
instantly feeling as though he were entering a different era.  The
hardwood floor, though polished, was worn.  A faded Oriental carpet
dominated the entry.  There was a graceless hall table and straight
chair against the wall, both looking as old as the house itself.  Above
them were some drab antique botanical prints that were probably as
valuable as they were cheerless.

The maid walked back through the house, past the parlor and dining room
to a small breakfast-sunroom where an old lady in a lavender silk robe
sat at a table adorned with a lace tablecloth, a large pot of violets,
a tea service and a partially eaten plate of finger sandwiches.  The
woman's gray hair was a bit unkempt and she had the same piercing, wary
eyes as Del Pritchard.  There could be no mistake she was his mother.

Gabe stopped at the doorway as the maid went and stood next to the old
lady, resting her hand on the back of the chair in a protective manner.
Behind them a window was slightly open and piano music drifted in.  An
old clock sitting on an ancient oak sideboard ticked rather loudly. 
The old woman's brow furrowed.  "Are you him?"  she said.

"I'm Gabriel Rose."

"Yes," she said, nodding thoughtfully.

"I seem to be interrupting your lunch.  I'm very sorry to come
unannounced, but I was in the neighborhood and..."

"It's all right.  Del said so."

Gabe, thinking he understood, felt better, but Harriet Pritchard's
ponderous expression left him uncertain what was coming next.  The maid
leaned over and said something in the old woman's ear.

"Yes, yes," Harriet said.

The maid pulled back the other chair at the table and gestured for Gabe
to come and sit.

"Sir."

He went over and sat in the chair, catty-comer from the old woman.  She
looked at him intently, the furrows on her wrinkled face deepening.

"There isn't much," she said.

"No, not much."

"Pardon?"

"It's very hard to say, don't you see?"

Gabe still wasn't sure what she meant.  He glanced up at the maid, who
hovered nearby.

"Mrs.  Pritchard, she doesn't always know how to say what she mean.

Only the simple things.  "

"I see," he said, nodding.

"Yes, Mr.  Rose.  Yes, Mr.  Rose," Harriet said.

He smiled benevolently.

The old lady got a very determined look on her face.

"Del said it's hamburger."

"Hamburger?"  He again glanced at the maid, but she only shrugged.

Gabe nodded.

"Okay."

She wagged her finger at him.

"You know, Mr.  Rose."

Gabe was a bit bewildered.  He could see now why Spencer Shimota hadn't
slapped cuffs on him.  Harriet Pritchard seemed equally capable of
pronouncing him president of the United States as her son's murderer.

"Loma," the old lady said, "my purse.  My purse."

"Excuse me," the maid said.  She immediately left the room.

Gabe and Del Pritchard's mother stared at each other.  He tried to read
her eyes and her facial expressions.  Intensity was what was most
apparent.  Not fear or hostility.  Perhaps frustration, but she was not
unfriendly.

"I am very sorry about your son," he said.

"It must be very, very difficult for you."

"Oh, yes."  She looked terribly sad.

"The funeral.  Come," she said.

"I

don't know, but come.  Ask Loma.  "

"Yes, I will."

The maid returned then with a large black handbag.  Harriet took it,
fumbling the clasp with her honey fingers.  She finally got it
unfastened and opened an inside zipper pocket.  From it she removed a
piece of paper, which she handed to Gabe.  It was a check made out to
him, drawn on the same account as the retainer check Del had given him,
and signed by Del.  The amount was twenty thousand dollars.

Gabe's heart skipped a beat when he saw the figure.  Pritchard had said
something about another check during their conversation, but he'd
dismissed it as gibberish along with just about everything else.  Del's
predictions seemed to be coming true with tragic accuracy, however.

That gave him pause.  He glanced up into the woman's cloudy but
earnestly intent eyes.  Her mouth opened.

"Del said for you."

Gabe wasn't sure whether to reject the check outright or to simply
accept it, so as not to upset her, and deal with what to do with it
later.  There would be a conservator, an executor and most definitely
some attorneys in the picture, and they clearly would have an interest
in the matter.  He decided to deal with them at the appropriate time.

"Thank you, Mrs.  Pritchard," he said, folding the check and putting it
in his shirt pocket.

"Hamburger," she said.

"Hamburger."

"Yeah... right."

Gabe had hoped to question the woman, perhaps learn something that
would help him understand why his client had been killed, but it was
obvious he wouldn't be getting much that was coherent.  All he'd
accomplished by visiting was to add to Del's unused retainer fee monies
that he would probably never be able to earn, anyway.  If on Friday
he'd heard the bar commissioner's questions in his head, now he could
hear laughter.

The telephone in another room rang.

"Excuse me," the maid said and left.

Gabe was sorry he hadn't made his getaway before the interruption.  He
didn't want to walk out on the old lady, whose ardor he now interpreted
as solicitation.  She seemed as reliant and willing to vest her faith
in him as had her son.  He searched for something to say, but her
condition left him without a coherent thought to pass on.

"Please help," the old woman said, breaking the silence.

Gabe took that as supplication to carry on Del Prit- chard's fight in
his stead, though the interpretation could be self-serving.  Living on
the edge caused a guy to lose objectivity.  He saw that now.

"I'll do what I can, Mrs.  Pritchard."

"Hamburger."

"Yes, hamburger."

Silence prevailed until the maid returned.

"Mrs.  Pritchard, it's your niece," she announced.

Consternation returned to the old lady's face and her hands began to
tremble.

"Oh, oh," she moaned.

"You want me to tell to her something?"  Loma inquired.

Harriet pointed her shaking hand at Gabe.

"You, you," she said.

He looked to the maid for an interpretation.

"I think, sir, she wants that you speak to the lady."

"Me?"

"Yesterday I called to Los Angeles for Miss Girard to say that her
cousin, he is dead.  She is calling now for the time of the funeral,
but I think also Mrs.  Pritchard, she want you to tell to her
something."

"Yes, but what?"

He only half said it aloud.  Everything in this household was murky, to
put it mildly.  But there was one glaring irony--rather than being a
pariah, he had stature here, a somewhat gratifying, but dubious,
blessing.

Gabe got to his feet and followed the maid to the kitchen.  It was a
large room.  Only the refrigerator and countertop microwave were new.
The black telephone on the red Formica counter was a rotary dial.

"You say the niece's name is Girard?"  he asked the maid.

"Yes, sir.  Margot Girard of Los Angeles."  "When is the funeral,
anyway?"  "Tuesday, sir.  The office of the coroner called to us this
morning.

They release the body to the mortuary.  Mr.  Prit- chard, he have all
the things he want to do written on a paper.  "

Gabe picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Who's this?"

"Miss Girard, my name's Gabriel Rose, your cousin Del's attorney.  I'm
visiting Mrs.  Pritchard at the moment and she asked me to speak with
you."

There was a long pause, then, "Did you say Gabriel Rose?"

"Yes."

"Of Rose and Cashen?"

"Well... not exactly.  The Rose and Cashen firm has been dissolved. I'm
practicing on my own now."

"Small world.  You probably don't remember me, but I'm an attorney
myself.  Or was.  When I was in practice in Sacramento, I had a case
with your firm.  It was actually your partner I dealt with.  Phillip
Cashen."

"Peter."

"That's right, Peter Cashen.  It wasn't much of a case.  My client sued
a jewelry store your firm represented.  Mr.  Cashen and I negotiated a
settlement without going to trial."

Gabe tried to recall Margot Girard but he couldn't come up with
anything.

"Offhand, I don't remember the case, I'm afraid."

"No reason why you would.  It was a nickel-and-dime affair.  My second
case ever.  I was fresh out of law school.  Mr.  Cashen ran circles
around me, but I got enough out of him to make my client happy."

"So, you're a lawyer."

"Not anymore," she replied.

"Got bit by the Hollywood bug.  Call myself an independent producer
now.  But that's another story.  So, you're handling Del's affairs, are
you?"

"No, not exactly.  Shortly before his death, Del contacted me about
a... let's say banking matter.  I was just getting into it when he was
killed.  My belief.  Miss Girard, is that it was connected with his
death ... how I don't know."

"Strange."

"Yes.  Unfortunately your aunt is not in any condition to be of much
help, which is why I'm here.  I don't suppose you know what the legal
arrangements regarding the estate will be.  It doesn't appear Mrs.

Pritehard is in any condition to handle things.  "

"No, I'm sure not.  Frankly, it looks like all that's going to fall on
me, much as I'd like to avoid it.  I'm Del and Aunt Harriet's only
heir."

"Ah, then you'll be the decision maker."

"I expect that my aunt has an attorney and that I'll be taking my cues
from him or her."

"Yes, I would imagine."

"Has the funeral been scheduled, do you know?"  she asked.

"The maid said it was set for Tuesday.  That's all I know."  "Well, I
have plane reservations for tomorrow morning, so I'll be there in
plenty of time.  I assume there's no problem if I stay at the house."

Gabe glanced over at the maid, who stood nearby.  "Let me ask."  He
relayed the question.

"Oh, most definitely she stay," Loma said.

"Mrs, Pritehard say in her old room.  I have it ready."

He conveyed the information to Margot.  She returned her
appreciation.

Gabe, sensing the conversation was at an end, saw an opportunity and
decided to take it.

"By the way, if you have time while you're here, maybe we could talk. I
feel the matter Del entrusted to me needs resolution, and I don't have
anyone else to discuss this with."

"I doubt I could be of much help, Mr.  Rose.  I know almost nothing
about my cousin's business affairs."

"I don't know if that's the issue.  The question is more along the
lines of whether the matter should be pursued at all, whether you agree
that I have a responsibility to look further into it, or let it
drop."

"All right," she said, "let's meet and talk."  Gabe felt the weight of
Del Pritchard's checks in his pocket.  His hopes took an upward tick,
but he tried not to sound overeager.

"What would be a good time?"

"I'll be arriving in Sacramento late tomorrow morning, maybe you could
call tomorrow afternoon."

"I've just had a thought," Gabe said.

"I'm dropping a client off at the airport tomorrow morning at eleven.
When are you scheduled to arrive?"

"Eleven-twenty."

"How about a ride into town and lunch?"

"It would save me taking a taxi," she conceded.  Gabe asked for the
particulars of her flight and she recounted the information.

"How will I recognize you?"  he asked.

"Don't worry, Mr.  Rose, I'll recognize you."  A flicker of
satisfaction went through him.  Pleasant twinges of ego came few and
far between these days, and Gabe's inclination was to enjoy them while
he could. The truth would be raising its ugly head soon enough--it
always did.

Carmichael

It had taken half a dozen phone calls for Gabe to track down Pug
O'Conner, but he'd finally located the scrappy criminal defense
attorney in a convalescent hospital not three miles from Ted Quick's
place.  Gabe had heard Pug had essentially given up his practice, but
it wasn't until he'd made his calls that he discovered it was because
Pug had had a stroke.  He felt badly that his first attempt to visit
the man was as a result of his own need and not Pug's.  But if there
was anything he could be reasonably certain of, it was that Cyrus "Pug"
O'Conner was far better at giving advice than accepting sympathy.

"Christ," Pug snarled when Gabe stuck his head in the door, "I thought
the vultures had finally given up looking for the corpse.  Now you!"

"Hey, is that any way to treat an old friend?"

"You're not old and I don't have any friends," Pug rejoined.

"Obviously, you're here because you want something."  He took off his
reading glasses.

Gabe smiled.

"As a matter of fact, I do.  But if you'd rather not have a visitor,
I'll leave."

"Hell, you're here," Pug grumbled, waving him off.

"You might as well say your piece.  Come on in."

Pug was seated in a chair next to his bed with a book lying open on his
lap.  He was wearing a faded aloha shirt that looked damned near as old
as Pug himself, pajama bottoms and slippers.  He had the same bulldog
face, droopy eyes and iron-gray brush cut as before, but his left arm
was hanging limply at his side, his clawed hand contorted and unnatural
looking.

"So, what are you reading?"  Gabe asked, pulling up a chair.

"The Nature of the Judicial Process by Benjamin Car- dozo."

"You're just now getting to Cardozo, Pug?"

"This is my third reading, kid.  I read it the first time before you
were even born."

Gabe nodded.

"So, how's it going?"

"Better since people stopped coming to see me... not that all that many
did.  The saps you beat in court couldn't give a shit, your clients
would rather forget they knew you,

and the cops all hate my guts.  Who's left?  Most of the good people in
this world and all the fighters I knew are already dead, so there you
are.  "" I know what you mean about clients preferring to forget," Gabe
said.

"But I'm here more as one of your former clerks."

Pug nodded, fiddling with his glasses with his good hand.

"Which is to say I'm coming for advice.  Pug."

"Advice, huh?  Well, I don't know what you've got, but the price will
be right.  I'm not charging these days.  So, when did you get out of
the slammer?"

"March.  I should have called before now.  I guess the truth is, I've
been kind of embarrassed, still struggling to get my old form back.

Arrogance takes work.  "

Pug gave him a crooked smile, something he rarely did.

"Jail time will do that to you, kid, but I wouldn't worry about it.
Everything passes eventually."

"Easier said than done."

"I did time myself once, you know."

Gabe was shocked.

"Really?"  "Yeah.  It was after I quit the ring and had started reading
the law.

Barroom brawl up in Chico.  Broke some farm kid's jaw.  01' Judge
Culpepper, who I apprenticed with, kicked my ass when he found out.

Literally.  He was just a little bitty guy, maybe five-four and in his
sixties at the time, but that didn't stop him from laying into me.  And
he made sure I did time in the county jail, too.  Ninety days.  Told
the presiding judge to throw the book at me.  It was totally unethical,
but he did it, anyway.  Made a point of telling me, too!  To add insult
to injury, the sonovabitch made me brief a case every day I was behind
bars.  "

"I've never heard that story.  Pug."

"That's because I never told anybody.  Not that's still alive, anyway,
except Dot, of course."

"How is Dot?"

"Glad to be rid of me, I expect.  Oh, she comes by with some cookies
once a week, but it's just out of habit."

"The woman loves you.  Pug."

He shook off the suggestion.

"That's something you and I don't need to discuss.  What brings you
here?"

Gabe cleared his throat.

"I've got a problem--half ethical dilemma, half paralysis from
blindness and fear.  Thought you could give me a little perspective."
"Well, if you need to know about paralysis, you came to the right
place.  I've become an expert."

"Shit, Pug, I'm sorry.  That was unintentional."

"Don't worry about it, Gabe.  I'm obsessed.  Can't tell you what a pain
it is to have this useless fucking arm hanging off me.  The only thing
that keeps me going is the notion I'm going to be able to walk again.

But that's another story.  Tell me about your problem.  "

"You read about Del Pritchard being murdered?"

"The newspaperman's son?  Yeah, I read the story in the Bee."

"Well, Pritchard consulted me hours before he was killed."

"No shit," Pug said.

"What was the deal?"

Gabe recounted the whole thing, leaving out no detail, a blow-by-blow
account right up to his visit with Harriet Pritchard.  Pug listened
with rapt attention.

When Gabe finished, Pug said, "You're agonizing over the retainer
checks."

"It's more than that.  I've lost my way.  Pug.  I'm having trouble
figuring out what's right."

"What's right is doing what needs to be done, kid.  Let me tell you
something straight from the heart.  Of all the kids from McGeorge that
briefed cases and ran errands for me, you were one of my favorites.

You know why?  It wasn't because you were the smartest, because you
weren't.  It wasn't because you were the most helpful, a lot of the
others had ass kissing down to a science.  It was because you had fire
in the belly.  You had a sense of mission, a sense of purpose.  What
you need to do is draw on that quality within you, Gabe.  When you
identify the goal, the way to get there will present itself.  "

Gabe sat nodding as the words sank in.

"Going to jail and losing everything I had knocked the wind out of me.
Nothing surprising about that.  But you're right, Pug, all I've been
thinking about is how to keep my nose above water."

"A guy's got to eat, but he's also got to realize that's only a means
to an end."

"I've wanted to reclaim my dignity, but I can see now that's not good
enough.  It wasn't why I went into law in the first place."

"If dignity was what this is about, a person might as well go to
Hollywood and pretend," Pug said.

"To me, the only dignity that counts is the kind you earn by doing the
right thing.  That, you can't effect.

But let's talk about Pritchard.  I didn't know the guy, though I met
his old man once years ago.  From what I've heard, and what you've said
about him, he was nuttier than a fruitcake.  But somebody obviously had
a reason to kill him, or figured they did.  One thing you can be sure
of--Pritchard saw it coming, which means he knew he was sitting on
dynamite.  Seems to me what you've got to do, kid, is figure out what
Pritchard's cause was and make it your own.  Hell, that's what he hired
you to do, wasn't it?  "

"Sure... of course."  Gabe shook his head incredulously.

"Why couldn't I see that?"

"You did, but you've also got people trying to kick you in the ass.

It's distracting.  The trick is keeping your eye on the ball, not
letting yourself be pulled off course.  Shi- mota's a good cop, but he
lets his pride and his prejudices get in the way.  I used it against
him when I had him on the stand.  You got to ignore him and all the
rest of them, kid.  And the bar.  well, fuck the bar.  If you got a
cause and your cause is something bigger than your own checking
account, then the bar is just going to have to lump it.

They can't nail your ass if you're doing what's right.  Do your thing
and let the chips fall where they may.  "

"Pug," Gabe said, his eyes shimmering, "if I ever have a son, I'm going
to name him after you."

"You do and I'll kick your ass.  Now is there anything else you want to
discuss or are you going to get out of here and let me read my book?"

"I'll get out."

"Good.  Scram."

Gabe put his hand on Pug's shoulder and gave it a squeeze.  Then he
headed for the door.

"Oh, kid?"

"Yeah, Pug?"

"If you have the time, drop by when this is over and let me know how it
turned out."

"Count on it."

Cyrus O'Conner smiled, but didn't say another word.

Los Angeles

The woman was in the shower.  From his vantage point on the bed, Dakota
Jones could see the blurry outline of her naked body through the shower
curtain.  He had told her to take a shower, but now he was impatient
for her to get her ass out of there so he could get on with it.  Ever
since he'd read in the paper that morning about Steve Magnin being
blown away by his old lady, a fire had been burning white-hot in his
gut.  At first he was sure that it was a trick, that Magnin was trying
to avoid paying him, but then he realized the cops wouldn't go along
with something like that.  If they did anything, it would be to help
Magnin lure Dakota into a trap, and then only because Magnin had gone
to them and blabbed the whole thing.  They wouldn't fake him being
dead.

So, if the cops weren't in on it, maybe the wife had shot the
sonovabitch so she wouldn't have to pay.  If that was her game, she had
another think coming.  He wasn't going to let a dead husband stop him
from collecting.  But before Dakota did anything, he had to figure out
what the hell was going on.  That would take a while.

Finally, the water stopped and the curtain flew back.  Carmen took a
towel, drying her face, shoulders, arms and pendulous breasts while he
watched.

"Come on, come on," he said, seeing her preening in the bathroom
mirror.

"I gotta dry my hair, for cris sakes she complained.

"Fuck your hair.  Get your ass in here.  I want to get laid."

She threw down the towel and came into the bedroom.  The body was no
longer what it had once been, but it was still sexy.  Jones liked
fucking her because he trusted her.  Carmen had once been a high-priced
call girl in Acapulco.  Then she'd married Juan Carrillo, a friend in
the business who'd gotten his ass shot to pieces and couldn't move his
limbs, much less fuck.  Carmen had stayed with the guy for reasons only
she knew, but she got her physical needs taken care of in other ways.

There were probably one or two other guys she saw regularly, but she'd
told Jones she'd always liked him more than anybody else because "still
waters run deep," or some shit like that.  He didn't believe it,
figuring mostly she liked the fact that he'd pay her five hundred for a
good screw, a grand or more if she went with him somewhere for the
weekend.  It was an arrangement that worked well for them both.

Jones had called her that morning because the Magnin thing had him
pissed off, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do, which always
made a problem worse.  Situations like this made him want to drink, but
he knew that was a black hole, so he turned to sex, instead.  It was
the only other thing that gave him relief when he was ready to burst
inside.  Carmen said nobody ever fucked her the way he did.  He told
her there was more to the savage thing than people realized.

Of course.  Carmen was a pro, which helped.  She climbed onto the bed
and started working him real good.  Jones tried not to think of Magnin
and the dough he was out.  It took all of Carmen's skill, but she
finally got him to think about doing her.  She started out astride him,
but when Jones was ready, he nipped her over and damned near drove her
head through the wall, humping her.  He kept it up until she was almost
crying.

Afterward he fell next to her on the bed.  They were both drenched in
sweat.  "Jesus Cristo."  That was all she said.

After about ten minutes the phone rang.  Jones was surprised.  He
didn't get calls.  He picked up the phone.

"Yeah?"

"Dakota, it's Jerry."  "What the fuck are you doing calling me here?"

"We gotta talk."

"Hang on."  He put his hand over the mouthpiece and nudged Carmen with
his elbow.

"Go take another shower, will you?"

She went off to the bathroom, staggering like a drunken sailor.  She
closed the door after her.  Jones returned to his call.

"Okay, what?"

"The cops are looking for me, man."

"What?"  "The cops are looking for me.  My sister said they come by the
house this morning, asking where I was."

"You got driving tickets you haven't paid?"  "No, Dakota.  This was
something serious.  Cops in suits.  Detectives.

It's got to be about"-- " Never mind what it's about.  We'll deal with
that.  "

"What are we going to do?"  Goblinski asked.

"I don't like this.  I'm not going down for something" -- "Will you
shut the fuck up!  Not on the phone, for cris- sakes!"

Jerry Goblinski was silent.  Dakota Jones thought.  If they were
looking for Goblinski, they were probably looking for him, too, or soon
would be.  This was not good.

"Listen, Jerry," he said, "we've got to meet."

"Yeah, I want my money."

Jones could see the guy had turned into a real pain in the ass.  He
needed to do something quick.

"Yes, we've got to take care of that," he said.

"So, why haven't I heard from you?"

"I was going to call you," Jones said.

"How's Danny?"

"Danny's out of the picture."

"What do you mean, out of the picture?"

"Jerry, use your head.  We can't talk over the phone.  Like I said, we
gotta meet.  How about same place as last time?  You remember?"

"Yeah."

"Be there tonight, say nine.  And for cris sakes keep your fucking
mouth shut.  Don't tell nobody where you're going.  This is not a kids'
game.  We gotta be smart."

"Fine."

Jones hung up.  The shower was going again.  He should have told Carmen
to make it a short one.  The hot water would probably be gone before he
had his shower.  He took a deep breath, staring at the ceiling as he
exhaled.  Shit, he had another night of dirty work ahead.  Jerry
Goblinski had to go, same as Ortiz.  From now on, he was working alone,
exclusively.  He'd learned his lesson.

Carmichael

Gabriel Rose sat out on the deck at Ted Quick's place, sipping beer as
he watched dusk fall on the river.  On the far bank, the trees in
Goethe Park were already cloaked in darkness, but down at water's edge,
a young couple huddled together, watching two boys on an inner tube
drift by.  The park was the terminus for most of the rafters plying the
river, but darkness always brought an end to the adventure.  An hour
earlier, as he watched, the last of the rafts had been dragged up the
levee, to be carted back upriver for the next day's trip.

Gabe wondered why he had never found the time to drift leisurely down
the river, why his life hadn't allowed for such distractions.  Maybe
he'd been too busy spinning his wheels, trying to be somebody at work.
and at home.  From his present perspective, he was beginning to see
that he had been drifting by life, rather than the other way around. 
After talking to Pug, he wondered for the first time if his recent
troubles might not have been a wake-up call, rather than a tragic fall
from grace.

During those long, agonizing nights he'd spent in jail, he'd thought
about his father and his sister, neither of whom he'd seen in years, as
well as about his more immediate losses.  His old man had disowned him
for all intents and purposes, but that didn't mean Gabe didn't have
some responsibility in the matter.  Only now was he starting to realize
that his preferred method of dealing with the past was to keep his eye
on the future--on accumulating money and successes--while ignoring
unpleasantness.  Maybe that was why losing everything had been so hard.
Now, for the first time in a long time, he'd been forced to look within
his own heart.

Inside the house, one of Ted's operas was playing on the stereo.  Ted
was a great fan of opera and would fly around the world to attend
special performances.  Gabe had once sued a ticket broker and travel
agent on Ted's behalf following a bungled transaction.

"The only thing I love more than a wonderful tenor," he'd once said,
"is a wonderful Thoroughbred, and that's only because they pay."

After dropping off his rental car that afternoon, Gabe had taken a bus
up Fair Oaks Boulevard to Arden and had walked from there to Ted's
place.  It had given him a, chance to ruminate some more on his
conversation with, Pug 0"Conner.  Pug had helped him to see what he had
to|

do, but the fact remained he would need the cooperation, if not the
consent, of Del's cousin, Margot Girard.

With luck, he'd get the use of some of Del's retainer money.

Considering that he'd been forced to give up his apartment and Ted's
place was only an interim solution, he had to put his hands on some
dough if he wanted to avoid sleeping in his car.  And, after what
Spencer Shimota had said that afternoon, it looked like he'd have to
put some money into his car before it would be serviceable.  Yes, a guy
had to eat, but it helped to think of it like Pug suggested--a means to
an end.  Thank God for Ted.

About then his friend stuck his head out the door.  "Another beer?"

"No, thanks.  I'm feeling pretty mellow as it is.  How's the packing
going?"

"Just about finished.  You can't imagine what you need for a cruise...
if you're properly prepared, that is."

"Never had the problem."  "Pick the right boat and you can have a
marvelous time.  There are cruises designed for singles, you know.
Great place to meet a woman ... or so I'm told."

"I'm concentrating on paying the grocery bill at the moment, Ted."

"Do a number on William for me, and you'll be rewarded handsomely."

Gabe had considered asking Ted for an advance, but the guy had been so
generous already that he didn't want to push things.  He could survive
on the food that was in the house and, considering he had a place to
sleep and wheels, he was already in Ted's debt.

"Ready for some dessert?"  Ted asked.

"No, I think I'll pass.  But thanks."

"Suit yourself."

Ted, who was a good cook, had whipped up a meal "with what was
available."  As they had dinner, he had bent Gabe's ear about
William.

Clients often did that.  Some guys didn't care as long as the meter was
running,

others would curtail it.  But Gabe figured he was singing for his
supper, and besides, this was more a social than professional
relationship.

The phone rang and Ted went inside.  He was back in a moment, portable
phone in hand.

"A Mr.  Charles Ames for you, Gabriel."

Charles Ames.  Now there was a name from the past.  Ames was one of the
old-time lawyers in town, a prominent figure in the legal
establishment.  Gabe was pretty sure he was the current president of
the County Bar Association.  But more important, he was the managing
partner of Stone, Wenzel, Longbom and Ames, Peter Cashen's new firm.

Gabe couldn't imagine why he would be calling him at Ted's place on a
Sunday night, or how Ames even knew he was there.  He took the phone as
Ted retreated into the house.

"Mr.  Ames, what an unexpected surprise."

"I'll be very direct, Mr.  Rose.  I am the attorney for the estate of
Arlen Pritchard.  I also represent Harriet Pritchard.  It's come to my
attention that you are in possession of two checks drawn on the account
of the late Mr.  Del Pritchard and made by him prior to his death.  Is
that correct?"

Gabe sensed the shit was about to hit the fan.

"Your informant, Mr.

Ames, happens to be right.  The checks are part of a retainer for legal
services arranged between Del and myself prior to his death.  I gather
you've got a problem with that.  "

"To put it mildly.  Harriet Pritchard was not in control of her
faculties when she handed that check over to you, and you were
perfectly aware of that.  You had no business taking it, Mr.  Rose. I'm
doing you the courtesy of warning you in advance not to do anything
foolish, like trying to I cash those checks.  So, if you'd be good
enough to drop| by my office in the morning with the checks, the mat
teri will end here.  Otherwise, I'll have no alternative but toj bring
the matter to the attention of both the court and the| State Bar
Association.  I hope I'm making myself clear."  | "Yes, you seem to
have appointed yourself judge, jury and ethics consultant in a matter
that's none of your business.  My dealings were with Del Pritchard, not
your clients, Mr.  Ames."

"Harriet Pritchard is Del's heir."

"But Harriet is incompetent.  I'll be dealing with her legal
guardian."

"As will I," Ames said.

"It's clear how this will end, so take my advice and spare yourself
undue grief."

"I'm in the middle of researching a very sensitive legal matter at Del
Pritchard's direction.  The arrangements were made with that
understanding."

"You're a con, Rose, and you know it.  But I've given you fair
warning."

"I do have a question, Mr.  Ames, if you would be so kind.  Who's your
informant?  How did you find out about my arrangement with Del and, for
that matter, where I'm staying?"

"Is the name Spencer Shimota familiar?"

"Yes, of course, good old Spencer.  I should have guessed."

"You can't beat the system," Charles Ames said.

"I would have thought after the time you put in jail you'd have figured
that one out.  Or was the temptation of stealing twenty thousand from a
senile old woman too great?"

"Steal?  I'd chose my words a little more carefully, if I were you. Del
Pritchard was engaged in a very serious matter, so serious it cost him
his life.  I intend to follow his instructions to the letter."

"For your sake, I hope you're right, Mr.  Rose.  We all know what
happens when things don't go your way."

Gabe laughed.

"Don't worry, Charlie, I only split the skulls of people who fuck my
wife, not people who try to fuck me."

With that, Charles Ames hung up.  Gabe put the phone down on the table
and sighed.  He was beginning to understand what it had been like for
Job.

Monday, July 17

Carmichael

(jabe called Rudy's secretary, Tammy, first thing that morning to see
if any of their clients had been arrested over the weekend and to let
her know he probably wouldn't be in the office until that afternoon.

"Glad you called, Gabe," she said, popping her gum.

"Rudy phoned me last night.  He said Cynthia got bit by a fish and
they're coming home early."

"Bit by a fish?"

"Something like that.  They were wading in the ocean and she stepped on
something, got bit or whatever.  Anyway, he'll be in the office
tomorrow, so you don't have to worry about covering for him anymore."

The news came suddenly.

"I guess that means I won't have to worry about earning any more money,
either, will I?"

Tammy popped her gum some more to the rhythm of the country-and-western
music playing in the background.

"Honey, I wouldn't know thing one about that.  Rudy did want me to tell
you he might be able to use help on some of his cases.  Said he'd be in
touch.

Meanwhile, you can;

come pick up your check.  Rudy told me to tell the book-;

keeper to draw it up.  " ^ " When will it be available?  " -i Snap.
Snap.

"Anytime this afternoon."  i(

"I'll be by then."

"Oh, and one other thing.  He said a cop named Shi- moto, or something
like that, called him about that guy who got shot, Del Pritchard."

"Yeah?"  "Well, Rudy just wanted to be clear that Pritchard was your
personal client, not Rudy's."

Gabe smiled to himself.  He understood Rudy's concern.  Corpses didn't
make good clients, especially if they were murder victims.  Or was
there another point Rudy was making?

"I hope he confirmed my story."

"I don't know," Tammy said, "but he said to tell you, no problem,
everything's copacetic."

"Good.  I'm glad.  Thanks."

He hung up and took a drink of Ted's French roast coffee and drummed
his fingers on the granite countertop in the kitchen where he'd made
his call.  So, that was that.

Oh, well, at least he'd be getting fifteen hundred, less deductions.

That might be enough to get him into another apartment, but there was
still the little problem of getting his car fixed and buying groceries.
He could bill Ted after he returned from his cruise, but he'd have to
do the work first.  And then there were the two Del Pritchard checks.
With Ames breathing down his neck, his conversation with Margot Girard
would be all the more critical.

But God or fate or whoever was pulling the strings always seemed to
provide.  Like Pug said, what he needed to do was keep his eye on the
ball and let the chips fall where they may.  His principle objective at
the moment was to figure out what the hell Del Pritchard had gotten
himself into.  But to accomplish that, he needed a little help.  Margot
Girard, by virtue of an accident of circumstances, was shaping up to be
the key to everything.

Gabe couldn't help being curious about the woman.  The fact that she
was a relative of the Pritchards should have told him all he needed to
know.  But when he'd talked to her, she seemed perfectly normal.  And
she was an attorney, which meant she was no fool.  On the other hand,
he'd known a few lawyers who were all foam and no beer, same as anybody
else, so generalizations were dangerous.

Margot had left law to become an independent Hollywood producer,
whatever that meant.  Probably she'd been star struck but too damned
butt-ugly for the other side of the camera, he mused.  Well, it didn't
matter to him.  as long as she was cooperative.

Ted came bouncing into the kitchen in Bermuda shorts and a Polo shirt,
his white hair impeccably combed, his cheeks pink with excitement.  He
looked like the perfect mark for a pickpocket in some Caribbean port.

All he needed was a camera and a map for the image to be complete.

"I've got to get some money," he said.

"Please remind me to stop by the bank on the way to the airport."

"Check."

Ted paused, looking him over.

"My, don't you look nice.  A tie and jacket just to take me to the
airport?"

"Remember, I told you--after I drop you off, I'm meeting a client who's
really important, one who warrants a tie."  He gave Ted a wink.

"Screw you, dearie," Ted sniffed.

"I may be chopped liver, but I'm also all that stands between you and
the Salvation Army."

Gabe laughed.

"I know.  And you've got my undying gratitude."

"Well, you can earn mine by" -- "I know, Ted, screwing William for
you."

"Figuratively speaking, of course," the other said with a sly smile.

Then he sighed, gathering himself.

"Let's see, what am I forgetting?

Oh, yes.  " And off he went back into the other room.

Gabe chuckled and took another slug of coffee.  Ted Quick was without
doubt one of the more interesting people he'd ever represented, and a
good person.  And not a;

bad cook.  The coffee was wonderful.  Considering he'd j been living on
instant, Ted's fancy brew was a treat.  ;;

Just then the doorbell rang.

"Oh, Gabriel!  Could you get that?"  Ted called from somewhere in the
back of the house.

"It's probably the gardener.  I asked him to come by for final
instructions."

"Sure," Gabe said, climbing off the stool.  He made his way through the
house to the front door, opening it.

Spencer Shimota stood there, a grimace on his face.  He, too, seemed to
notice Gabe's attire, but refrained from comment.

"Well, well," Gabe said, "if it isn't the angel of justice."

Shimota hardly bothered to smile.

"Thought I'd swing by and ask a few questions.  Got a minute?"

"For you, lieutenant, I've always got a minute.  But let's walk in the
garden, if you don't mind."

"Whatever."

Gabe considered Ted a dear friend, though not the sort to trust with
his deepest confidences.  He certainly didn't wish to share the
specifics of his differences with Shimota.  He closed the door and they
strolled out Ted's long drive, bordered with rosebushes in bloom.  The
detective didn't speak immediately.  Gabe assumed it was for dramatic
effect.

Once they'd passed the unmarked police car, Shimota said, "Does the
name Jerry Goblinski mean anything to you?"

"Goblinski?  No, can't say that it does.  Should it?"  "The prints in
the Stockton motel room belonged to an ex-con by that name.  We've got
an APB out for him."

"Well, I hope you get your man, lieutenant, but I'm afraid I can't help
you with it.  Sorry."

"Did I tell you we found the black Toyota?"  the detective asked.

"No."  "Late yesterday afternoon the LAPD raided a chop shop in South
Central L.A. The proprietors were in the middle of stripping and
parting a black Toyota Corolla with an interior full of blood.  The car
was traced to a rental company in San Jose.  It was the same vehicle we
believe was at the Stockton motel."

"The one that followed me to Laurel Seneker's place."

"Quite possibly."

They'd come to the point where the drive dropped steeply to the street
and they stopped.  Shimota glanced around at the trees, his hands in
his pants pockets.  "We expect the blood in the car to match the blood
in the motel room and in the street outside your girlfriend's
apartment," he said.

"Samples are being sent.  We should know in a day or two."  Shimota
stepped over to the nearest rosebush and smelled a blossom on a long
stern.

"Nice."

"Have any idea who's blood?"  Gabe asked.

They began strolling back toward the house.

"Ms.  Seneker's account of the Latino guy getting out of the Toyota in
front of her building squares with the account of my wounded officer.

Last night he was able to talk for the first time.  His assailant, he
says, was Latino, and he believes he shot the guy in the leg before he
himself was wounded.  Our assumption is the blood belongs to the
unidentified Latino suspect.  We've checked with hospitals throughout
the valley and the Bay Area, with no leads.  Now that the Toyota has
shown up in L.

A.

" we're also checking Southern California."

"From the sound of it, he was wounded pretty badly."

"He wasn't going to get by with a wad of tissue and an Ace bandage,
let's put it that way."

"Any progress on connecting me to this mess?"  Gabe asked.

"You're connected all right, the only question is in what way."  ;

"By accident."  ;

"Rudy Herman did confirm what you told me about;

Pritchard, I have to admit.  " j Gabe was relieved, though he had no
reason to thinks

Rudy would have said anything different.  Still, the case had been full
of surprises.  "How about the FBI?"

"They got an inquiry from Pritchard which they categorized as the
'crackpot' variety.  The topic in the register was 'alleged
conspiracy."  I'll be getting a copy of the letter when they dig it out
of the archives.  "

"Will you share?"  Gabe asked.

Shimota seemed uncertain.

"I'm not giving you run of the file, but we'll see."

As they neared the house, Ted Quick stepped onto the porch.

"Oh, Gabriel," he called, "will you be long?  We really should be going
soon."

Gabe glanced at Shimota.  "We through?"

"For now."

"The lieutenant and I are finished talking, Ted.  I'll be right
there."

"I could use some help with the luggage, if you don't mind," Ted
replied.

"Sure."

Ted went back inside.

"Thanks for the update," Gabe said to Shimota.

"It's not because I like you."

"I wouldn't have presumed such a thing.  Heavens."

"I've gotta tell you, counselor, there's something about this case that
just doesn't feel right."

"You're determined to nail me for something, in other words."

"I've got a hunch.  A very strong hunch."

"Speaking of hunches, lieutenant, you seem to be sharing them with the
bar rather cavalierly.  That department policy now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Charles Ames."

Spencer Shimota grinned.

"Mr.  Ames is an old friend."

"Well, I'll be cleaning Charlie's clock before this is over," Gabe
said.

"You might be well advised to watch who you get in bed with, too."

"Is that a threat?"

"Friendly advice."

"Friendly, from you?  When pigs fly."

"You're the one carrying the grudge, Spencer."

Shimota smirked.

"Watch your backside, counselor."  He walked away.

Gabe looked after him for a moment, then headed for the house.  It was
clear the lieutenant had it out for him, which shouldn't pose a problem
in light of the fact he'd committed no crimes, but this was now the
America of Ken Stair, not the authors of the Bill of Rights.

With the cops nipping at his heels, he couldn't take anything for
granted.  And he really didn't like the fact that Shimota was feeding
information to Charles Ames.  When the powers that be had it out for
you, life could be damned miserable.  But there was hope--all he needed
to do was keep his focus and pray for a little help from Margot
Girard.

Sticking his head in the door, he called, "Ready any time you are,
Teddy."

"Those bags by the door can go in the car," Ted replied from
upstairs.

Gabe glanced down at the array.  There were five altogether.  He shook
his head.  Even Mona wasn't this bad.  As he picked up the larger
suitcases, he considered the day ahead.  After he dropped off Ted and
met with Margot Girard, he'd swing by Rudy's.  He could pick up his
check and, with any luck, maybe he could get Tammy to type an answer to
the complaint William Ferry had filed against Ted.  It was a pro forma
pleading, but it had to be done right and in a timely fashion.

God knows, he was operating under a handicap.  He not only didn't have
an office, he didn't even have a typewriter.

Which, of course, had made his bravado about Charles Ames all the more
ironic.

Going down the front steps, Gabe looked up and saw a pickup truck, the
back full of gardening equipment and the '

cab crammed with four Mexicans.  He headed for the garage as the men
piled out of the truck.  "Buenos dias, senor," the driver, an older
man, said.  "Buenos dias."

The man looked at Gabe with a knowing, slightly amused smile.

"Senor Quick, he is inside?"

"Indeed he is."

The old guy hitched up his pants and ambled toward the front door.

Gabe, in his role as bearer, continued on to the garage, Ted's luggage
in hand.

There'd been times in the past when he felt like a whore, a legal
attack dog--even when he'd been at the top of his game and raking in
the dough--but for some reason, he'd awakened that morning with a new
sense of purpose and determination, the dark clouds on the horizon,
including Spencer Shimota, notwithstanding.  Gabe owed his new
perspective to Pug, and especially the story he'd told about getting
thrown in the can himself.  Yes, the solution was simple and it had
been there all along--all he had to do was make Del Pritehard's cause
his cause.

Boyle Heights, Los Angeles

Detective Dennis Leahy of the LAPD liked working West L.

A.

where you tended to deal with the 0.

J.

Simp- sons and the Daria Magnins of the world.  But sometimes your work
took you to the other side of the tracks, as it did for him now.

Driving along Brooklyn Avenue, Leahy thought about the woman who'd shot
her husband only two days before.  The consensus in the office was
that, unless something else turned up, Daria Magnin would walk without
the

D.

A.

ever bringing charges.  Leahy wasn't sure how he felt about that,
because he wasn't sure what had happened that night.  Maybe she'd been
raped, and maybe she hadn't.  Maybe it was self-defense, maybe it
wasn't.  One thing was certain if /;e didn't know, then no jury would
ever get the chance to figure it out.

But the call he'd received an hour earlier had opened the door to
additional possibilities.  A report had come to him that a homeless
person, rummaging through a Dumpster behind a strip shopping center in
Boyle Heights, had found a body.  So far, nothing unusual.  According
to the report, the crime appeared to be a professional hit.  Still
nothing unusual.  No identification on the body--routine.  But a folded
newspaper clipping had been found in the victim's hip pocket.  The
clipping was from the Sunday Times, the story about Steve Magnin's
shooting.  Not so routine.  An alert detective had made the connection
and given him a call.

Ahead, Leahy saw emergency vehicles and knew he'd found the crime
scene.  He pulled into the small lot of the shopping center and got out
of his car.  A uniformed cop pointed him in the direction of the body
drop.  When he got to the Dumpster behind the building, he saw lab guys
crawling all over the place.  The detective in charge, and the man
who'd called him, was Al Hernandez, a solid cop Leahy had worked with
in the Glass House, maybe ten, twelve years earlier.  They'd been
friendly, but after Her- nandez had been transferred from headquarters,
they'd lost touch.  "Al, for cris sakes how long has it been?"

Hernandez, a handsome, well-built man with a wide mustache, smiled and
they clasped hands.  "Leahy, you old son of a gun!  Jesus, I don't
know. We weren't nearly so close to retirement as we are now, I can
tell you that."

"You've got that right."

They exchanged more pleasantries, catching up for a minute or two
longer before Hernandez briefed him.  Most of it Leahy had already
gotten from the report, but they brought him the clipping, which was
sealed in a clear plastic evidence bag.  He looked at it.  The clipping
appeared to have been torn from the paper by hand, the edges jagged
with bits of the text missing where the tear strayed too far off
line.

"Hasty job," he said.

"Not scrapbook quality work, for sure," Hernandez observed.

They continued to contemplate the clipping.

"So, do we know who the victim is yet?"  Leahy asked.

"They just took away the body, but one of my boys thought he recognized
him.  Couldn't come up with the name, but said he was sure it was
Polish or Russian or something.  Ex-con.  If true, it won't be long
before we have an ID.  Question is, what interest would a bozo like
this have in a society case like yours?"

"That is the question."  Leahy continued to contemplate the clipping.

"You say it was found in a hip pocket?"

"Yeah.  Scrunched down flat.  We almost missed it ourselves.  Nothing
else on the body but the clothes he was wearing.  No keys, no coins,
nothing."

"Except this clipping."

"Right."

"Could be the killer, in removing the victim's personal effects,
completely missed this."

"That's what I figure," Hernandez said, looking down at the plastic
sack in Leahy's hand.

"Makes you wonder if^Magnin's death could have been an issue between
our victim here and his killer," Leahy speculated aloud.

"You do wonder."

Leahy sighed.  It wasn't much, but it was a curiosity.  Once they had
an ID on the guy in the Dumpster, he'd run the name by Daria Magnin and
see how she reacted.  Couldn't hurt.

"Anything else I should know?"  he asked.  "What about the homeless guy
who found the body?  He have anything of interest to say?"

"She.  It was an old doll who claimed to be a Gypsy fortune-teller or
something.  She's one taco short of a combination plate, if you know
what I mean.  Said she was r looking for aluminum cans when she found
the body.  She banged on the back door of this beauty shop and the
owner called 911."

"So, she didn't see a thing."  "Just a hand sticking out from under a
bunch of crap.  Funny thing is, in another hour the garbage truck would
have come and carted everything off."

"All" came an excited voice.  It was one of the other plainclothes
officers coming toward them, an older man with sad eyes and yellow
teeth.  He was grinning.

"I remembered the guy's name.  It's Jerry Goblinski.  Just called in to
see if records had anything.  Got more than I expected."

"Yeah?  Like what?"

"Goblinski did twelve to fifteen for armed robbery, most of it in
Folsom.  Been out three, four years.  But that's not the best part."

"What is the best part, Wollner?"

"There's a current APB out on the sonovabiteh."

"For?"  "Questioning in connection with the shooting of an officer in
Sacramento on Friday night.  Stockton wants to talk to him, too."

"No shit," Hernandez said.

"That's what's on the wire."

"Well, the bastard won't be talking to anybody in this life," Hernandez
observed.

"Yeah," Leahy said, feeling the mild surge of excitement that always
came when a bit of light entered a troubling investigation.  "But it
might be interesting if we talk to the folks up north on Mr.

Goblinski's behalf.  "

Sacramento

Gabe had positioned himself at the gate, directly in the path of the
passengers entering the concourse from the jetway.  It surprised him
how many single, professional- looking businesswomen were on airplanes
these days.  A Monday morning flight from L.

A.

would have lots of business people coming up for the day and a third of
them seemed to be women.

When a rather foxy-looking blonde with a briefcase and an extremely
short skirt came out, Gabe's heartbeat rose a notch, but she didn't
make eye contact with him and went on past.  He took the time to check
out her backside, though.  One or two plain specimens strode past, and
he was relieved when they showed no recognition, though he wasn't quite
sure what he was hoping for.  Margot Girard, at this point, represented
foremost a potential green light to pursue Del's case.

Sure, it could mean a few shekels in his jeans, but mostly he needed to
legitimize his efforts.

A big-chested woman with a man at her side came out next.  She was
vaguely reminiscent of Laurel--someone he'd given relatively little
thought to once the fireworks of the past few days had started.  The
woman gave Gabe a coy look as she passed, probably because her escort
made her feel safe.  He thought again of Laurel, recalling that her
last words to him had been fairly promising.  It occurred to him he
ought to give her a call.

Gabe was just turning back from an inspection of the backside of the
Laurel look-alike, when he was greeted by a gaminish little creature
with smiling eyes and an amused smile.

"Gabriel Rose," she said, beaming.

"Margot Girard?"

"Yes, it's me."  She dropped her carry-on bag at her feet and extended
her hand.

He took it, finding her grip surprisingly firm, her twinkling eyes
direct and engaging.  Margot's dark red hair was pixie-cut.  She was
pretty--or somewhere on the scale between pretty and cute.  She had
small, even features and a confidence that was completely disarming.

And unexpected, though his surprise at her manner may have been as much
a result of his thoughts about the brooding, sensual Laurel Seneker, as
Margot's own qualities.

"I'm glad I recognized you," she said.

"After I told you I would, I got to thinking about it and realized you
could have put on fifty pounds and lost your hair or something since
the last time I saw you, and I wouldn't have known you from Adam."

"Good thing I'm aging well, I guess."

Margot laughed, seeming genuinely amused.  She had the enthusiasm of a
graduate coming back to town for her tenth high school reunion--a
graduate who'd made it big and had reason to feel good about herself.

Gabe didn't exactly feel like her former math teacher, but he also knew
he was no longer the man she remembered.  The last time she'd laid eyes
on him, he'd been somebody and she'd been nobody special.  Their
relative places in the world had flip-flopped.

Gabe knew that was his insecurity speaking, because Margot probably had
no idea what he'd been through and therefore had no special reason to
look down on him.  Condescension from the bar was nothing new, nor was
distrust from potential clients, but Margot Girard's ignorance of his
fall from grace brought the embarrassment and pain to mind again.

His objectives were worthy, though.  He had to rely on that.

"It's awfully nice of you to give me a lift," she said, reaching down
for her bag.

"Here, let me take that for you," he said.

"No, I've got it, thanks."  Looking up at him out of the corner of her
eye, she added, "I'm stronger than I look."

They walked along the concourse.  Gabe was instantly charmed--perhaps
because she was so unexpected.  Could this adorable woman really be Del
Pritchard's cousin?  The notion wasn't an easy one to digest.

Margot glanced around.

"Things have changed in the short time I've been away.  This terminal
is new, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

"At least they seem to have finished the job.  LAX is always under
construction."

"So, you're a real Angelino, are you?"

She laughed.

"I'm not sure I know what a real Angelino is.  I don't think there's a
single definition."

"I wouldn't know, that's for sure."  "Are you one of those Northern
californians who hates L.A.?"

"Palm tree envy," he said with a grin.

Margot laughed, giving him a friendly jab with her elbow.

"So, how's your former partner, Mr.  Cashen?"  she asked.

Gabe grew wary.

"Peter and I don't talk, to be frank."

"It was a difficult divorce, was it?"

He knew he should tell her what happened, especially since it was bound
to come out eventually.  But two things held him back.  One was his
pride.  The other was the conviction that he needed her cooperation if
he was ever going to get to the bottom of this case.  His chances
seemed slim if he shocked and disillusioned her right out of the chute.
On the other hand, if he could charm her and win her confidence first,
then he had a chance of riding things out.  It was a calculated risk,
he knew, but Gabe was convinced it was his best shot.  He wouldn't lie.
 But neither did he have to say more than was required.

"I'd say 'difficult' is an apt description," he said of his parting of
the ways with Peter.

"I never practiced with anybody," she said, "but I can see how it would
be tough and how it could put a strain on a friendship."

Gabe could only roll his eyes.

She went on.

"One of my professors told me that if I was going to practice with
somebody, I should be as careful about it as choosing a spouse."

"There are similarities," Gabe allowed.

They passed the security check, then got on the escalator leading to
the baggage claim area.

"So, I take it my aunt Harriet is devastated by Del's death," she
said.

"It's hard to tell because she isn't very lucid.  But then, I didn't
know her before."

"You've been representing Del, though.  Some kind of banking
business?"

"It's a complicated situation.  How about we discuss it over lunch?"

The suggestion seemed to agree with her.  He gave her a grin, having
adjusted sufficiently to begin trotting out his charm.  Margot Girard
had to be won over.  He couldn't lose sight of that fact.

"Okay, later then," she said, planting herself before the carousel
where the luggage was to arrive.  She put down her carry-on bag.

"I

must tell you, though, I'm eager to see my aunt.  She's got to be
suffering, even if it's not obvious.  "

"I think you're right.  She definitely cared about Del's unfinished
projects.  She managed to make that clear to me."

"Really?"

The baggage carousel began to move, drawing Margot's attention.  Gabe
discreetly checked her out.  She was petite, but despite the business
suit she wore, he could tell she had curves.  Nice legs, good skin. 
She was no sex kitten, definitely a serious person--the antithesis of,
say, a Laurel Seneker.

Funny, but only five minutes ago he was contemplating another roll in
the hay with Laurel.  When Margot walked up, though, Laurel was
forgotten.  It was too bad, in a way, that he needed Margot's
cooperation to do his job.  It would have been nice to get to know her
as a person without a murder, Spencer Shimota and Charlie Ames hanging
over his head.  But then, the unlikely wasn't necessarily impossible.

Never say never.

Beverly Hills

Dakota Jones had called Daria Magnin's office and was told that she
wasn't expected in that day.  He'd tried reaching her at home, but got
no answer.  Somehow, it didn't seem likely she'd be staying there, not
considering she'd shot Magnin in their bedroom.  She could be anywhere,
but he was banking she hadn't strayed far from home.

The Bel Air Hotel was close to where she lived, but a call there
indicated she wasn't registered.  Maybe it was true or maybe it
wasn't.

On a hunch he'd gone to her old man's place in Beverly Hills.  Bingo!

Her car was parked in the drive.  A call only brought a denial that she
was there.  When he asked to speak to her father, the phone was hung up
in his ear.  And so, having little alternative, he'd staked out the
house, sitting up the street, hoping she might appear.  He'd been
planted there for over an hour.

Dakota knew he was taking a chance.  There was a good possibility the
cops were looking for him, and all he needed was for some hotshot
patrol officer to spot him, or for a suspicious neighbor to call.  If
that happened, all hell would break loose.

But there was also a chance the cops weren't on to him.  He'd been
careful and he'd gotten to Goblinski before the police.  With Goblinski
and Ortiz out of the picture, there was a chance he was in the clear.

All Dakota knew for sure was that he had a shitload of money coming to
him.  Dee Dee Magnin stood to lose as much as her husband, maybe
more.

She had good reason to cooperate.  Even if it meant risking his neck,
Jones wasn't going to get shafted by these sons of bitches.  No, he'd
make them pay.

The trouble was, he needed to find a way to get to the bitch.  The way
she lived, it was easier to get into a bank vault than have a
conversation with her.  But then, these were not normal times for Dee
Dee Magnin.  The press was hounding her.  In the hour he'd been sitting
there, one TV truck had pulled up as well as another guy in a
car-probably a reporter.  Neither got past the front door.

Dakota Jones could be a patient man, but he was not liking this.
Sitting on a residential street in Beverly Fucking Hills was like.
well, asking for trouble.  One cop had driven by, maybe twenty minutes
earlier, giving him that what-for look.  But he hadn't stopped.

Dakota turned on the radio.  As he searched the dial, trying to find
some relaxing music, he glanced into the rearview mirror and saw a
patrol car pull up behind him.  A jog of adrenaline surged into his
veins.  He discreetly took his 9 mm automatic from under the seat and
tucked it under his thigh.

The cop got out of his car and came strolling toward him.  Judging by
the casualness of his manner, he wasn't approaching a man wanted for
murder.  Dakota's window was already down.  The cop, his hand resting
on the service revolver on his hip leaned over and peered in the
window, keeping his lower body wedged against the door.

"Having car trouble, sir?"  the cop asked.

"No, officer, I'm waiting for some com padres They do the gardening for
this house," he said, gesturing toward the large home he was parked in
front of, "and I'm supposed to talk to them about subcontracting the
work.  They said they'd be here by eleven, but nobody's come.  I'm
waiting and waiting."

"Yeah, well, it could be you're loitering, too, amigo.  Let me see your
driver's license."

Dakota reached for his wallet, knowing this was either going to end
with a dead cop or a not so friendly suggestion that he move on.  He
took his fake ID from his wallet, one of the old-fashioned licenses.

He'd be needing one of those fancy new hightech numbers soon, but they
were hard to come by.

The cop studied it, clearly suspicious.  He checked the back.  Dakota
slid his hand off his thigh, taking the pistol but keeping it from
sight.

"This your current address, Mr.  Ramirez?"

"Yeah, officer, it is."

"Keep your hands on the steering wheel where I can see them, sir."

Dakota let go of the pistol and rested his hands on the wheel.  It was
beginning to look like he'd have to kill the sonovabitch, but he'd wait
and see.

Just then, he saw a woman came out of Valticos's place.  She was in
white spandex shorts, gold parachute silk workout jacket, large
sunglasses, a gold baseball cap and shoulder bag.  It was probably Dee
Dee Magnin, judging by her general appearance.  He agonized.  Christ,
because of this stupid cop she was going to get away.

"Let me see your registration," the cop said.

Dakota wanted to shoot the bastard, but he knew he could only do that
as a last resort.  Up the street Dee Dee Magnin was getting in her
car.

He reached for the glove compartment, but as he did, the cop got a call
on his radio.  It was an emergency call to all units--a robbery down on
Wilshire.

"Never mind.  I got to go," the cop announced.

"The next time I drive past, I don't want to see you here,
understand?"

"Yes, officer."

The cop strode purposefully back to his car, climbed in and roared up
the street, lights flashing.  Dakota turned his attention to the
Valticos place.  The electronic gate had opened and Dee Dee drove out
into the street.  Jones started the engine and followed her in the
direction of Sunset Boulevard.  She turned west, in the direction of
Bel Air.  He smiled with satisfaction.  One way or another, he was
going to have a conversation with the brand-new widow--a little talk
about the importance of taking care of her late husband's
obligations.

Old Town, Sacramento

There were better places, she knew, but Margot asked Gabe if they could
eat in Old Town.  It was like a walk down nostalgia lane because in
high school, she and her friends used to hang out in the restored,
old-timey district that, to her mature eye, had more of a Disneyland
flavor than she recalled.  The experience did bring back memories,
though.

"Had my first illegal drink here," she told Gabe, as they sipped the
last of their beers in McClintock's, a Gay Nineties-style bar and
restaurant.  Their plates had been cleared and the focus now was on
conversation.  "It was with my first serious boyfriend.  I was a senior
in high school, he was in college."

"I don't know whether to be frightened or flattered that you wanted to
come here with me."

"I don't mean to disappoint you, Mr.  Rose, but it doesn't mean a
thing, either way."

He looked duly chastened.

"Damn.  It happened again.  That male ego of mine, always rearing its
ugly head."

She laughed.  Gabriel Rose, she decided, was amusing.  And different.

Guys in L.

A.

--those in the entertainment business in particular--took themselves
seriously.  That laid-back Southern California manner was all veneer.

"A shark is a shark," Richard would say, even knowing he was describing
himself as much as the others.  But then, Margot had developed the
killer instinct, too.  Whenever lots of money was at play, people
thought and acted differently.  Business, America's game.

Coming back to the provinces like this was, for her, a reprieve.  And
though she hated that her return was due to a family crisis, it had
come at a good time.  Having put the Betty Spalding deal to bed, she
had time she could spend away from work.  And she definitely needed to
get away from Richard.  Sacramento wasn't Tahiti, but it was a change
of pace and, for the moment, that was what mattered.

The sparks of nostalgia had begun even before she'd gotten on the
plane.  The brief conversation she'd had on

Sunday with Gabriel Rose had brought back memories.  Until she'd heard
him say his name, she'd forgotten he existed.  Now he was not only
familiar, but the old emotions she'd associated with him were, as
well.

In a funny way, he sort of seemed like an old boyfriend she hadn't seen
in ages.  Not that there had ever been anything between them.  She
couldn't really say she knew him, even back when.  But she'd certainly
known o/him.  Gabe had been one of the young hotshots in the bar as she
was starting her legal career.  He was a topic of conversation among
the clerks, paralegals and even some of the female attorneys around the
courthouse--and not just for his legal skills.  Gabriel Rose was
considered a hunk.

First, he was decidedly cute and second, he had a charm that was
sexy--there was no other way to describe it.  He wasn't a player in the
sense of trying to hit on every skirt that happened by, but he
interacted warmly, he charmed, he was a flirt.  Women liked him. 
Margot remembered that he was a damned good lawyer, too.  If he
happened to be trying a case when she was in the courthouse, she'd slip
into the courtroom for a while to listen to him, study his technique
and learn what she could.

The only time she'd spoken to him was when she was up against his
partner in that little jewelry store case.  Gabe obviously didn't
recall their encounter, but one day she'd come by with interrogatories.
Since Peter wasn't in, she and Gabe had chatted for a few minutes. 
Margot remembered thinking it was a terrible shame he was married. 
That's how much she'd liked him.

"So," he said, drawing her back to the present, "what is it, exactly,
that an independent producer does in Hollywood?"  To this point the
conversation had been mostly about Sacramento, how it had changed, how
eager she'd been to leave, how comfortable the familiarity was now that
she was back.  Gabe seemed ready to get more personal because this
question was designed to determine just who she was now--a prelude,
undoubtedly, to business.

"It's not as glamorous as it may sound," she told him.

"Sort of a cross between selling insurance and developing real estate.
You find a true life story, a novel, a play or whatever, and package it
up and try to sell it to a network or a studio, depending on what it
is."  "Forgive a foolish question, but how did you happen to make the
jump from a Sacramento courtroom to Tinsel Town?"

Margot took a long sip of beer and carefully put down her glass on the
paper coaster.

"Chance," she said.

"I'd represented a client in a lawsuit, a woman whose baby was
kidnapped out of the maternity ward at a hospital in Fair- field.  I
got a judgment against the hospital and my client was so happy with the
result, she asked me to talk to the tracker who'd been bugging her."

"Tracker?"

"That's a term for a Hollywood type who tries to dig up stories,
projects and the like for producers.  They run all over the country
trying to find things.  They're sort of scouts, bird dogs, if you
will.

Anyway, I spoke with the tracker and the producer he'd lined up to
option the rights to my client's story.  It took some research on my
part to learn the rules of the game.  I ended up negotiating an
agreement, and I was so fascinated with the process, I decided to do a
deal for myself.  "

"You obviously were successful."  "I got lucky.  Three or four months
after hitting town I managed to nail down the rights to a first novel
by the most unlikely of authors, a little old lady from Oregon who was
in her seventies.  The book, about a kindly grandmother who changed
people's lives, was published by a small-time press and got overlooked
by the heavy hitters.  Oprah found it for her book club, too, but not
until after I got the rights and sold the package to CBS as an MOW."

"MOW?"

"Movie of the week.  Sorry about the jargon."

"So you scored, and the rest, as they say, is history."

Margot smiled.  Gabe didn't say anything for a moment or two, sipping
his beer as he glanced around the crowded restaurant.  He'd been
charming, engaging, but she also sensed a detachment, a vague sadness
about him that she didn't understand.

"So, Gabe, how have things been going for you?"  she asked.

"Did I understand you to say you're on your own now?"

"Yeah."  He took another gulp of beer.

"Frankly, things have been rougher since Peter and I parted company
than I'd hoped.  And there were some personal issues that got thrown
into the mix, complicating things."

Margot wondered if he was alluding to his marriage.  She'd noticed he
wasn't wearing a wedding band, but she wasn't about to ask if that was
significant.  She had no idea if he'd ever worn one.  Gabe, though,
answered the question without her having to ask.  "My wife and I split
in the middle of the disruption in my career."

"You're separated, then."

"Divorced."

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, no reason to be sorry," he said.

"I've regarded it as a blessing even though it's been difficult because
of my little girl."

"Oh... that's rough.  How old is she?"

"Bella's two and a half.  She'll be three in December."

"Bella.  How cute."

"Arabella, but we call her Bella."

Margot could hear the love in his voice, the warmth.  There was no
doubt he was a proud daddy.  Richard's daughter, Robin, whom Margot had
never met, was in her first year at Pepperdine.  Father and daughter
had been close, but Margot considered Robin a negative, an impediment
to her relationship with Richard.  The girl had been virtually an adult
when Margot met Richard, and she would have been extremely hostile if
there had been a divorce and Margot had become her step mama But Gabe's
daughter was just a toddler.  There would be no such hostility if he
were to remarry.  Margot caught herself, finding her chain of thought
odd, surprising, even embarrassing.

"I take it you've never married," he said without the slightest
hesitation.

"No, I'm sailing happily into my dotage."

Gabe grinned.

"A slight exaggeration."

"I'm thirty."

"Still young by today's standards."

"Not relevant as far as I'm concerned," she said, a bit too quickly.

"What I mean is, I don't regard marriage as a goal, so there's no
pressure because of age."  "Things become clearer after your first
divorce, believe me.  Until then everything is theoretical."

Margot nodded, understanding his point.  She'd seen it in others, if
not having learned from personal experience.  She drank some more
beer.

Gabriel Rose had a nice, easy manner, an accepting attitude.  There was
both a mellowness and a tristesse about him which drew her.  Maybe she
liked that because it mirrored her own feelings.  Richard, on the other
hand, always seemed tense, even when he was completely relaxed.  It was
the inner person--in both cases.

Margot caught herself again.  This was getting far afield from what
this meeting was supposed to be about.  Sometimes one's musing could
get in the way of what was truly important.  She admonished herself to
stay on point.

"Are we ready to discuss your business with Del?"  she asked.

"I've been avoiding it, I know."  He took a deep breath and launched
into an account of his initial and only contact with her cousin.  For
the next fifteen minutes he recounted their conversation, as well as
the events concerning the "box of evidence," developments in the
investigation by the police and the happenings at her aunt's place.  He
ended by taking the checks Del had written and placing them on the
table.

"I would have said your cousin was nuts, that his fears were based on
paranoia, that once he'd died, the matter was closed and I was out of
it," Gabe said.

"But I'll be frank with you, Margot.  I can't bring myself to let go
that easily.  I feel that Del was relying on me--that, because he
expected to be killed and planned for it, to walk away would be to turn
my back on him, to let him down."

She picked up the twenty-thousand dollar check.  This is a very strong
statement," she said.

"I can't even imagine Del doing something like this lightly.  In fact,
he was always very stingy with money."

She noticed visible relief on Gabriel Rose's face.

"So, let me understand the problem and your position," she said.

"With Del dead and these checks uncashed, you'd like my authorization
before proceeding with your commitment to investigate the matter."

"In a nutshell, yes.  I don't know that it's necessary in a legal
sense.  Del's contracts are binding on his estate."

"Unless they're for personal service.  It's been a while since law
school, but it seems to me that's an issue, no?"

"Well, the estate would be liable for service already rendered
regardless of the nature of the service, but I'm not so sure this was
for personal service, anyway.  Del made it clear there was suspicion of
financial malfeasance which could impact the estate, regardless of
Del's personal circumstances."  "But if I understand you correctly, you
don't know what the problem is, what, exactly, Del was alleging.  And
we can't even be sure he was killed for reasons having anything to do
with what he consulted you about."

Gabriel Rose looked rather unhappy.

"Am I to conclude you're not eager to pursue this?"

"No," she replied, "I suppose I'm just playing devil's advocate.  What
strikes me is that nobody knows what this is really about.

Everything's rather vague.  "

"That's true.  Out of respect to Del, I'm proposing the matter be
investigated at least to the point of ascertaining what happened.  I'm
speaking of the business conspiracy he was so deeply concerned about.

The murder I'm content to leave to the police.  "

Margot pondered the situation.  There was something about this that
made her feel uneasy and she couldn't quite put her finger on what it
was. Gabe certainly was eager to pursue the matter, but considering his
relationship with Del had been quite recent and limited, the passion he
showed seemed odd, if not misplaced.

"Tell you what," she said.

"I'm inclined to authorize you to cash the smaller check as a retainer
for services and to give progress reports to me and counsel for the
estate, but with a proviso."

"What's that?"

"I'd like to discuss the matter with Mr.  Ames first.  He telephoned me
yesterday, but I missed his call.  We played phone tag and never
connected.  I'd also like to talk to the police detective who's
handling the murder investigation."

Gabriel Rose had an ashen look on his face.

"Is that a problem?"

"No."

"You don't seem pleased."

"Charlie Ames and I are not on the best of terms.  As I told you, Peter
and I parted under less than amiable circumstances and Peter is now in
Charlie's firm.  It's almost as bad with Lieutenant Shimota.  He's had
it in for me ever since I won a civil case against him.  You won't get
objective opinions from either of them."

"Don't worry about that," she said.

"I don't care what they think about you.  I care about what they have
to say about Del and his estate."

Gabe looked relieved.  "I like a person who can keep an open mind."

"I'm inclined to give you a green light, as I say," she told him.

"But I think it would be irresponsible of me not to familiarize myself
with the situation first."

"You're fair-minded, Margot.  That's admirable.  And I look forward to
working with you on this matter."

The waiter came by and Gabe asked for the check.

"If you do talk to Shimota, could I ask a favor?"  he said.

"Since you're in charge of Del's affairs, see if you can get that box
of evidence for me.  I'd like a close look at the documents Del thought
were so very important.  As far as I know, the police found nothing
significant, but I'd like to see for myself."

"Sure.  Anything else?"

"How much do you want to be involved?"

"I suppose that depends on what you turn up.  Del and I may not have
been close, but I want to understand why he was killed.  I guess I want
to ensure justice is done."

"Then we have a lot in common," he said, sounding genuinely pleased.

"I'll keep you updated on the progress of my investigation."  He picked
up the checks.

"If you have no objection, I'll hang on to these.  They came into my
possession honestly."

"I have no problem with that."

The bill for their lunch arrived and Gabe put down his credit card.

The waiter took it away.  Gabe drained the last of the beer from his
glass.

"I've got to pick up a check in West Sac," he told her.

"Since we're so close, I'd like to pop over and get it after we're
through here, if you don't mind.  It should only take a couple of
minutes."

"Okay, sure."

"Great."  He gave her an engaging look, his blue eyes open and
friendly. He seemed the most relaxed yet.

"I'm amazed that I don't remember you," he confessed.

"What's so amazing about it?"

"You're forcing me to flatter you."

Margot actually colored.

"I withdraw the question."

The waiter returned with a troubled look on his face.

"I'm sorry, sir, but your card was rejected," he said in a low voice.

"You wouldn't have another, would you?"

Gabe looked shocked.

"Rejected?"  He picked up the credit card.

"Oh, damn, this is the account I closed.  I must have gotten the cards
to the old account and the new account mixed up."  He leafed through
his wallet, apparently looking for cash.

Margot knew a man in distress when she saw one.

"Here, let me pay," she said taking her purse.

"I've got a card that's never been used."

She removed her credit card and handed it to the waiter, who took it
away.

"Humiliating experience number 184," he said.

"Surely you don't make a habit of this."

"No," he replied, "I usually take my dates to Burger King and pay
cash."

"Your business lunches, too?"

"No, for business it's normally McDonalds."  Margot laughed.  She liked
Gabriel Rose.  He sure wasn't

L.

A.

Westwood Village, Los Angeles

Dee Dee Magnin lay on the massage table, her body slowly turning to
mush under the urging of Blossom's strong hands.  Dee Dee was always
amazed how the tiny Filipina managed to accomplish such remarkable
things while being no more imposing than a butterfly.

"Blossom, how do you do it?  I came in here feeling like tempered steel
and now my body's about as loose as spaghetti."

"You have too many problems, Mrs.  Magnin."

"Honey, you can say that again."

Dee Dee had awakened that morning after yet another near sleepless
night.  She still couldn't fathom that she'd shot her husband.  Whether
he'd deserved it or not, it seemed so unreal.  And she hated the fact
that her life had become a public issue, that she was in the spotlight.
Her father's lawyer, Sidney Kern, had been reassuring.  He'd told her
he would have preferred being present during her interrogation by the
police, but her account of it put his mind at ease.

"Based on what I've heard, there's absolutely no case against you.  Dee
Dee," he'd said.

"But we mustn't get complacent.  Having right on our side is one thing,
being prudent is another."

Her father continued to be grim, despite Sid's positive analysis, but
he'd always been a worrier.  Even so, she'd sensed a new energy in
him.

Demetrius Valticos knew he was needed and his capacities had increased
accordingly.  Funny how that worked.

He'd advised her not to go into the office for a few days.

"You need to gather your strength.  Dee Dee," he'd said.

"Go have a beauty day or something."

She had decided that wasn't a bad idea.  Her spa-salon had worked her
in, even though it was last minute.  Cesare wasn't going to be able to
do her hair himself, but he promised to "supervise" the work of one of
his "assistants."  Dee Dee didn't care.  All she needed was some
pampering.

Everyone in the place knew what she'd been through, of course.  All of
Los Angeles did.  The media had backed off some, fortunately.  The
initial feeding frenzy was over, but the press was still after a story.
There'd been only half a dozen calls from reporters that morning and
two had come by her father's home.  And maybe one had followed her to
the spa.  She wasn't sure, but the same vehicle had been in her
rearview mirror most of the way from Beverly Hills.

As soon as she'd arrived, she phoned her father and told him she may
have been followed.  "Maybe next time you'll listen," he'd said.

Demetrius had wanted to send one of the bodyguards he'd hired with her
to Westwood, but Dee Dee had demurred.

"That'd make me feel like a criminal," she'd said.

"I want to act as normal as possible."

 r

But these were not normal times.  In retrospect, she should have
listened to her father.  Back in the sixties some radical group had
tried to kidnap him and put him on trial for "economic crimes" against
the people.  The attempt had failed, but Demetrius had, as a result of
the incident, developed an appreciation for the importance of security.
While no expert, he understood the issues.  She hadn't argued when he
told her he was sending a man over to accompany her home.

Security wasn't her greatest concern, however.  Nor were the questions
of the police.  Steven's stupidity--killing the fruitcake in
Sacramento--was what worried her most.  That situation was a bomb
waiting to go off.  Her father told her at breakfast that his man was
in Sacramento and that they should soon know what was happening.  For
Dee Dee, the wait would be excruciating.  The company, their fortunes,
were, after all, in her hands.

"What you thinking in your mind?"  Blossom asked.

"Your muscle getting stiff again.  I could work on you all day and it
still no good."

"Sorry, I do have to clear my mind, I know."

"If not, missus, you waste your money."

Dee Dee took a deep breath and did her best to relax.  She tried to
picture a warm beach.  Of course, the first place to come to mind was
the K Club on Barbuda where she and Steve had honeymooned.  God, what a
time they'd had, screwing day and night.  The man had certain skills,
there was no denying that.  What a shame his faults were even bigger.

She couldn't imagine what had happened to the bastard, why he'd gone
off the deep end, ruining everything.

"Mrs.  Magnin, you thinking again."

"Sorry, Blossom."

"Maybe I charge extra today," the masseuse said.

Dee Dee smiled, sighing once more.

There was a knock at the door and Cesare's assistant, a gorgeous
mulatta with the highest cheekbones in the world and hair a foot tall,
stuck her head in.

"We'll be ready for Mrs.

Magnin in ten minutes.  "

"Okay."

The woman left.

"One more minute, then you have your shower," Blossom said.

Dee Dee wanted to relax, but her mind just wouldn't cooperate.  She was
starting to get one of those strange, ominous feelings, a premonition
that something was about to happen.  The last time she'd gotten this
feeling was just before Steve assaulted and raped her.  God, she hoped
this was a false alarm.  She didn't need any more grief.  Thank
goodness the bodyguard her father had sent was waiting for her in the
reception.

Dee Dee had been a tough customer from the time she was a little
girl--the son her father never had.  But like most women, she was
physically vulnerable.  There was only so much you could do when
confronted by a Neanderthal.  That was why she also carried a small
pistol in her purse.  Her father had given it to her when she was
eighteen, telling her, "If some bastard ever tries to hurt you, honey,
don't even hesitate.  Just blow him away."

West Sacramento

With the temperature pushing one hundred, Gabe had intended to leave
the engine and the air-conditioning of the Jag running while he dashed
into Rudy's office to get his check.  He wanted Margot to be
comfortable, and he wasn't particularly eager for her to experience
firsthand his most recent place of employment.  Pride again.  Gabe also
knew he was already skating on thin ice.  Having suffered one major
humiliation--stupidly forgetting his credit card was no good--he didn't
relish the thought of another.  Unfortunately, Margot had different
ideas.

"Rudy Herman," she said, reading the sign as they r pulled up in front
of the office.

"I remember that name.  In fact, I watched him try a case for armed
robbery once.  People said he was a hoot and God, was he ever.  I've
often thought he'd make a great character in a novel or a sitcom or
something.  Mind if I come in and say hello?"

"Rudy's in Hawaii on his honeymoon, Margot."

"Oh.  That's a shame--not that he's on his honeymoon, that he's not
here, I mean.  Could I come in, anyway?"

He didn't like it, but he didn't see any immediate harm.  Tammy wasn't
the most sophisticated creature around, but she had common sense.  Rudy
practically gave her the responsibility of a junior associate, her
chewing gum habit notwithstanding.

"Sure."

He turned off the engine and they went up the walk in the heat.  Gabe
prayed that none of Rudy's hooker clients would be cooling off in the
reception, sipping iced tea and relaxing to the rhythms of KRAK along
with Tammy.  It had happened.

Entering, Gabe was relieved to see there weren't any miscreants
present, but his heart nearly stopped when he saw Angela Little Deer,
his probation officer.

"Well, speak of the devil," Tammy said, snapping her gum.

Angela, her dark hair in braids as usual, hands folded on her chubby
thighs, didn't speak.  But her stern.  Native American visage said it
all.  She appeared to be loaded for bear.

Gabe had no idea what the problem was.  He'd given her no serious
trouble in the months she'd supervised his probation; however, she'd
shown a certain prejudice against him because he had an education and
wore a white collar.

"The crime you committed happens in barroom brawls every night of the
week," she'd told him.

"As far as I'm concerned, you've got a violent past and you've got to
prove to me you've reformed.  Do that, follow the rules, and we won't
have any problems."

"Afternoon, ladies," Gabe said affably, his mind turning a mile a
minute, trying to figure a way to finesse the situation.

He had to speak privately with Angela and hope to God that Margot
didn't figure out what was going on.  What was Angela up to, anyway? 
he wondered.  Had he missed an appointment?  No, their day was
Tuesday.

This was Monday.  Had to be something else.

"First, let me give you your check," Tammy said, handing him an
envelope.

"You also have three phone messages.  The former Mrs.  Rose," she said,
handing him the first slip.

"Charles Ames," she said, handing him the second, "and Spencer
Shimota," she said, handing over the third.

"Plus, one visitor," she added, pointing to Angela.

Gabe knew the shit was about to hit the fan and that he needed to act
fast.

"Angela, I need to talk to you... so glad you dropped by.  But first,
let me introduce a colleague and client.  This is Margot Girard from
Los Angeles.  Margot, may I present Tammy Miller, the brains of this
operation, and Ms.  Angela Little Deer, probation officer par
excellence, one of the finest professionals an attorney can work
with."

The women nodded, exchanging greetings as he beamed, masking his
trepidation as best he could.  "Margot, will you give me a minute to
speak with Angela?"

"Certainly."

"Tammy," he said, "Margot is a Hollywood producer always on the lookout
for material.  You know all of Rudy's best stories.  Maybe you can give
her a taste of life on the wild side."  Then he turned to the probation
officer.

"Angela, my dear."  He gestured toward Rudy's private office.

Her expression somber, Angela got up and went into the office.  Gabe
closed the door, exhaling with relief.  Angela had sat down in one of
the visitor's chairs, and he slipped into the other, query on his face.
Angela shook her head.

"I know, you don't have to tell me," she said, "your girlfriend doesn't
know you've got a record."

Gabe kept his voice very low.

"First, she's not my girlfriend.  Second, she is a client.  And third,
your business with me is private."

"Did I say anything in front of her?  You didn't hear me say a word
about you breaking the terms of your probation, did you?"

He was taken aback.

"What are you talking about?"

"What's today, Gabriel?"

"Monday.  Our appointment is on Tuesday."

"Yes, but who did you have an appointment with at nine o'clock this
morning?"

Gabe was completely perplexed.  He looked at her quizzically.  Then it
hit him.  His shrink.  Dr.  Wilegard.

"Oh, shit," he said.

"You're right, I forgot.  You won't believe what a terrible morning
this has been.  I took one client to the airport and picked up another.
I've got two pressing matters on my plate, important cases.  Unless you
want me to become a ward of the state, I've got to make some money. Dr.
Wilegard, sweet as she is, can't really help with my most pressing
problems."

"The rules are the rules," Angela replied.

"I won't dispute that.  But couldn't you cut me just a little slack
this once?  This is the first time it's happened.  I can't believe you
came all the way over to talk to me just because I missed one lousy
appointment... and not even one with you!"

"Gabriel, it's not the missed appointment that concerns me so much as
what Dr.  Wilegard told me."

Gabe again searched his mind.  What on earth could she mean?  During
therapy he'd admitted he still had feelings of anger, especially toward
Peter, but that was hardly a crime.  He hadn't been stalking the
sonovabitch.

"Angela, you've got me.  What did she say?"

"That you haven't paid her."

He rolled his eyes.

"Oh, Christ."

"True or not true?"  she asked.

He drew a long, slow breath, hating this whole damned business.

"True."

"What's your explanation?"

He glanced toward the door, again lowering his voice.

"I don't have the money.  My number one priority is to buy my kid milk,
then I pay the rent and the utility bill.  Dr.  Wilegard comes near the
bottom of the list."

Angela Little Deer had a disapproving look, her flat, black eyes going
right through him.  "Dr.  Wilegard and I have a deal.  You screw up and
she tells me everything.  You've got to pay her, Gabriel."

"So, if I pay her, is this morning's oversight forgotten?"

"Not forgotten, but I'm not going to recommend revocation of your
probation, either.  How much do you owe?"

"I don't know, about five hundred bucks."

Angela smiled for the first time.

"Dr.  Wilegard must like those twinkly blue eyes to let you get that
far behind."

"Dr.  Wilegard is an old lady who's past worrying about twinkly blue
eyes."

"Don't be so sure," she rejoined.

"But that's beside the point.  You're starting to take things for
granted, take advantage of people.  I don't like that, especially if
I'm the one being taken for granted."

"I assure you, I take my probation very seriously, including my
obligations to you."

"Keep your appointments and pay your bills, Gabriel.  That's all I
ask.

Do you have enough to pay her?  "

Gabe reluctantly took the envelope Tammy had given him from his pocket,
holding it up.  "I was hoping to get a new apartment, a place that's
safer for my kid."

"Pay the doctor what you owe and be glad you aren't going back to
jail."

He knew she didn't mean the jail part, but he also knew she wasn't
kidding about paying the shrink.

"I'll pay the bill first thing in the morning.  But can we consider
this session our weekly appointment?  I've got lots to do to morrow.
Miss Girard out there could mean five grand in the mattress, maybe a
whole lot more.  Help me through this and I'll be paying Dr.

Wilegard in advance.  "

Angela Little Deer shook her head disapprovingly.  "Gabriel, you should
have been a con man, you know that?  I hope the lady you brought with
you is as smart as she is pretty--for her sake."

"Angela, surely you aren't attributing bad motives."

She shook her head.

"I may be an old, fat squaw, but I'm not stupid, Gabriel.  You are
trouble!"

He gave Angela Little Deer a wink.

"I'll take that as a compliment.

Westwood Village

As soon as Daria Magnin came out of the beauty salon, Dakota Jones
realized she'd picked up muscle.  She must have realized she was being
followed and called for help.  Shit.

From across the street, he watched them walk toward her car, which was
around the corner, a block and a half away.  Dakota agonized.  How long
would it be before he had another chance?  He couldn't afford to hang
around, waiting for the right moment forever.  The cops would be on his
ass soon, if they weren't already.  No, this was the time.  It was now
or never.

Jones accelerated his pace, crossing the street behind them.  The
bodyguard was big, but, just by watching him, he could tell the guy
relied on his size.  He was a bouncer, trying for a day job,
probably.

Dakota was behind them on the sidewalk and closing fast.  There were a
number of people on the street, but not big crowds--shoppers, though,
considering it was summer, not as many college kids as usual.  If it
wasn't for the people, he could just clobber the heavy and force Daria
Magnin into her car.

The situation called for more subtle measures, though he still didn't
know what.

Dakota was about ten yards or so behind them now.  The bodyguard half
glanced over his shoulder every once in a while, but mostly he was
oblivious.  Dee Dee didn't seem concerned in the least, swinging her
sweet little ass as she strolled down the street.  From time to time
she'd stop to look in a shop window, once so abruptly that Dakota ended
up walking past them and was forced to duck into a shop to allow them
to get ahead again.

After they'd turned onto Kinross Avenue, there were fewer people on the
street.  Dakota kept looking for his chance, but the opportunity just
didn't present itself.  Then, when they were only half a block from her
car, Daria stopped to look in the window of a jewelry store.

After a moment, she went inside.  The heavy stayed outside the door,
taking an opportunity to light a cigarette.  Dakota went past him,
stopping at the window on the other side of the entrance, and peered
into the shop.  Daria Magnin was preoccupied inside.  A clerk unlocked
a display case.  Dakota figured he had a couple of minutes.

The bodyguard, who was as dumb as he was fat and happy, hardly paid any
attention to him.  Dakota moved back toward the door, suddenly pulling
his 9 mm automatic from under his sport jacket and jamming it into the
guy's fleshy side.

"Unless you want me to put a hole in your liver, don't even breathe,
asshole."

The guy gasped and started to lift his hands.

"Put down your fucking hands!"  Dakota muttered at him, moving close
and keeping the gun hidden between them.

A woman with a kid walked past, giving them a strange look, but
continued on.  Dakota glanced into the store.  Daria was looking at
jewelry, oblivious to what was going on outside.

"Where's your piece?"  Dakota asked.

The fat boy didn't reply.  Dakota jammed the muzzle of his gun hard
into the guy's kidney.

"Hip holster."

Two women passed, paying no attention to them.  Dakota slipped his
other hand under the guy's jacket with his free hand, figuring at worst
they'd be taken for a couple of queers.  He found the holster under a
roll of fat and removed the piece, dropping it into the side pocket of
his jacket.

"What's your name, asshole?"

"Ben," the guy said, his voice trembling.

"What's your boss's name?"

"Joe Eberhart."

Dakota peered inside again.  Daria had unzipped her parachute silk
jacket and was holding a necklace to her throat, admiring it in a
mirror sitting on the display case.

"Okay, listen, Ben, and listen real good.  I'm a driver that Joe sent
over.  The name's Julio.  You have the car keys or does she?"

"She does."

"When she comes out, introduce me as one of your buddies, a driver that
Joe and her old man sent over.  I'll take it from there.  If she
questions anything I say or looks to you, tell her it's for her safety.
Then the three of us will go to her car.  I'll have my piece in my
pocket, aimed right at your gonads.  One false move and you're a dead
man without balls, got that?"

"Uh.-yeah," the heavy stammered.

Dakota took another quick glance inside.  Daria was getting a card from
the jeweler.

"Okay, fat boy, I think she's coming out.  Play this straight and
nobody gets hurt.  You fuck up just a little and I'll drop you right
here on the sidewalk.  Understand?"

"Yeah."

"Don't forget, my name's Julio and I'm the driver they sent over."

A few moments later the door to the store opened and Daria Magnin
stepped out.  When she saw Jones, she hesitated, her eyes going to his
long, dark hair, gathered in a ponytail at the back of his head.  He
knew he didn't look the part he was playing, but at this point he had
no choice.

"Ah, Mrs.  Magnin," Ben said, right on cue, "something's come up.  This
is Julio.  Joe sent him over.  He's a driver."

Daria's brow furrowed.

"A driver?"

"Yes, Mrs.  Magnin," Dakota said, "there's been a telephone threat. Joe
recommended to your father that you be chauffeured by an expert."

She looked skeptical.  "What sort of threat?"

"That I don't know, but they're taking it very seriously.  Could you
please give your car keys to Ben?"

She was wary.

"It's for your own safety, Mrs.  Magnin," Ben assured her.

Daria opened her purse and removed her keys, handing them to the
bodyguard.  Dakota glanced up and down the street.  People were
passing, but no one had paid any attention to them.

"Let's go quickly to your car," he said.

"Ben will walk with you, Mrs.

Magnin.  I'll follow.  "

The trio started up the street.

Jones knew he had things set up the way he wanted, but the whole point
of this was to have a candid conversation.  The fat guy was an
impediment, but he'd leave it up to her just how much of an
impediment.

They reached her car.  Unfortunately, it was parked near a yogurt shop,
with teenagers hanging around out front.

"Open the door, Ben, and give me the keys.  Then go around and get in
the driver's seat."

The guy did as he was told.

Daria looked at Jones strangely.

"I thought you were the expert."

"I am, lady.  That's why your husband hired me."

"My husband?"

The bodyguard got in behind the wheel and closed the door.  Daria was
getting perturbed by now.

"What is going on?"  she demanded, her hands on her hips.

"I didn't want to embarrass you in front of the babysitter, Mrs.

Magnin.  You and I need to talk.  "

"Who in the hell are you?"  she said loud enough to draw the attention
of a couple of teenagers nearby.

"Hey, get lost," Dakota snarled at them.

The kids gave him a dirty look, but moved on.  He turned his attention
back to the woman.

"See the hand in my pocket?  It's holding an automatic.  One little
squeeze and your pretty face will be splattered all over the side of
your fucking Mercedes.  Understand what I'm saying?  Now listen to me
and listen good.  Your motherfucking husband tried to screw me out of
sixty grand.  You and I are going to talk about clearing up the debt.

The question is if we have our conversation in front of fat boy or we
have it in private.  We'll be discussing Pritchard.  The choice is
yours. "

Daria Magnin, her eyes dark with fear, clutched her purse to her
breast.  She was clearly upset.

"In private," she finally replied.

"Okay fine, but we've got to go someplace, this is too public.  You get
in the passenger seat, I'll get in back."

After they got in, Dakota handed Ben the keys and put the muzzle of the
automatic against the base of his skull.  "Drive, asshole.  And
remember, you fuck up just a little and you'll be dead before the car
rolls to a stop."

The bodyguard started the engine.  "Anybody at your house, Mrs.
Magnin?"

Dakota asked.

"No."

"No maid?"

"I gave the housekeeper the week off."

"Then we'll go there.  Give Ben directions."

Daria directed him to drive up Gayley, and when they came to Weybum she
had him jog over to Veterans Avenue which ran north and south along the
Los Angeles National Cemetery.  They headed north toward Sunset Avenue
and Bel Air.

As they drove along, Daria lowered her sun visor and peered into the
mirror on the back side of it.  But despite leaning forward, she did
not look at herself.  She looked at him.  Then he heard her opening her
purse.  Without consciously thinking about it, he assumed she was going
to put on lipstick or something.  In that funny way that logic
sometimes trails thoughts, it suddenly occurred to him there was no way
she'd be fooling with makeup at a time like this.  She was getting in
the purse for another reason altogether.

Alerted just in time, Dakota threw himself forward and toward the door
as she swung her hand back over the top of the seat, firing the gun she
held.  The first shot tore through the shoulder pad of his jacket and
into the seat, the second went through the headrest where his head had
been and out the back window, shattering it.  Jones reached up and
grabbed her hand before she could fire again, wrenching the pistol
away.

Meanwhile the bodyguard ducked, causing the Mercedes to swing
violently.  It sideswiped a parked car, shattering the side mirror amid
the scream of metal on metal.  Dakota reached around the headrest with
his free arm, grabbed the woman by the neck and crushing her against
the seat.  Meanwhile the car skidded to a stop.  Before Ben could jump
out, Dakota jammed the automatic against his fat neck.  "Drive, you
sonovabitch, before I blow your head off!"

The car lurched forward, the tires squealing as they sped up the
street.  Daria clawed at his forearm, wheezing, unable to breathe.  One
firm jerk of his arm and he'd crush ||| her windpipe, maybe break her
neck.  Christ, if he didn't want to do just that!

"Goddamn fucking bitch!"  he seethed.

"I ought to kill you right now!"

Her resistance weakened and she slowly started going limp.  Dakota
eased up the pressure on her throat.  She gasped for air, not lapsing
into unconsciousness as he feared.  He continued holding her firmly
against the seat and headrest, allowing her just enough air for an
occasional breath.

Jesus, it was a stupid blunder and it had damned near cost him his
life.  Just because she was a society broad, didn't mean she wouldn't
have a gun.  What an idiot!  What was he thinking?  The problem was, he
wasn't!  He fucked up.

"You're going to pay for that, Mrs.  Magnin," he said through his
teeth.

"God, are you ever."

Dee Dee thought she was going to die.  She could feel her blood
pounding in her temples as she struggled to suck in enough air to keep
from passing out.  What this monster was going to do to her, she didn't
know.

When they reached Sunset, Julio, or whatever his name was, told the
bodyguard to turn right.  They followed the twisting road around the
Bel Air Country Club until they reached Copa de Oro.  Turning left,
they drove into the hills, past mansions hidden behind walls, iron
fences and thick shrubbery.  They continued up Stone Canyon, its
familiar sunny, semi landscaped walls equal part nature and cultivated
gardens, all the more forbidding and terrifying because of what was
happening to her.  It was bad enough her husband had raped her in her
home and she'd had to shoot him, changing her feelings about the place
forever.  And now this!

"Okay, Mrs.  Magnin," Julio said in a deceptively soft voice, "are we
going to find your fucking house empty or am I going to have to kill
you because you lied to me?"

"It's... empty," she wheezed.

Julio, who clearly knew her home well, pointed out the drive to Ben.

Using the automatic door opener, the bodyguard was able to drive
directly into the garage.  The man behind her, still crushing her
throat, told him to close the door.  He let go of her then, allowing
her to suck a full breath of air into her lungs for the first time in
ten minutes.

"Stay in the car," he commanded.

Then he had the bodyguard get out.  After gathering up her little
pistol from the floor of the back seat, Julio, or whoever this maniac
was, got out as well.  He had Ben open the trunk and climb inside, then
slammed the lid shut.  Dee Dee could only imagine what he might do to
her.  Was he a psychopath or a professional killer?  All she knew for
sure was that she was at his mercy.  Now that she could breathe again,
she couldn't help crying.  The tears flowed and, with terror building
inside, she began to sob.

When the passenger door flew open, she jumped.  Looking up at him, she
saw the eyes of a killer, a man who wouldn't let another person's life
stop him from getting what he wanted.  She knew people who were like
that about money, willing to step on anyone who got in the way.  But
this man was different.  He didn't use financial power to destroy an
adversary.  He would kill in cold blood if it suited him.  She knew
that with certainty.

"Get out," he said.

"We're going inside."

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and ran her red-tipped
fingers over the burning skin of her neck.  Then she got out of the
car. Her knees were shaking so badly she could barely walk.  Julio had
hold of her arm, his gun in his other hand.  They went through the
white kitchen with the green granite countertops to the front room.

The monster peered about, his eyes passing over original oils, pieces
by Wyeth and other masters he probably wouldn't know from an
eighty-nine dollar sofa painting sold off a lot on Pico Boulevard.  He
stared for a moment at the grand piano in the window alcove.

"You play?"

"No."

"Stevie sure as fuck didn't."

"No."  "Decoration?"

"Yes."

His eyes settled on her.

"Tell me the truth, why'd you blow the fucker away?"

"He assaulted me, it was self-defense."

"Yeah, like you tried to blow my fucking head off."

She said nothing.  He shoved her into a chair and stood over her, the
malicious look on his face, half grin, half grimace.  The way he looked
at her spandex shorts and her legs made her wonder if he would rape
her.  if only for revenge.

"You're goddamn lucky that bullet went through my jacket instead of
me," he said.

"I would have god damned killed you."

Dee Dee had regained some control, her mind functioning more clearly.

The sheer terror had passed.  She began calculating how to survive,
deciding in the end to initiate conversation, striking a balance
between contrition and confidence.

"So, what is it you want?"

The man smirked.

"You're right, this is no time for hard feelings."  He paced slowly,
weighing his gun in his hand.

"Let me spell my situation out plain.  A nice smart businesswoman like
you probably likes it better that way."

Dee Dee was relieved he wanted to depersonalize the situation.  She
felt a glimmer of hope.

"Okay, here's the deal," he said, moving back and forth in front of
her.  "Your recently shot husband stiffed me for fifty grand."

"You were the one who killed Pritchard, then."

His brows rose.  "Stevie told you?"

"Yes."

"Good.  That makes things easier.  Did he tell you I did my thing, but
he only came up with half the money?"

"Yes."

"And that I wasn't pleased?"

"Yes."

"Then you know there's a penalty for late pay.  It was ten extra, but
the penalty clock has run far past that."  He grinned.

"Being a banker, you ought to understand late fees--time is money and
all that shit, right?"

Dee Dee did not smile.  She was being cautious.  But she hated this man
with a deep loathing and would kill him if the option was available.

If it wasn't, though, she'd deal with him.

"Let's get specific, Julio, how much?"

He stopped pacing.  He stood over her, looking right into her eyes.

"Actually, the name's not Julio, it's Dakota Jones.  Might as well get
all our cards on the table."

"Fine.  How much are we talking, Mr.  Jones?"

"With interest compounding every five minutes, I'd say we're in the
neighborhood of a hundred thousand over and above what I've already
gotten.  That's if you pay right here and now, on the spot."

"I don't have that kind of money in the house."

"Then you'll have to pay me when you can.  Tomorrow the price will be a
hundred and twenty-five grand.  After that, it goes up fifty Gs a
day."

"A hundred and twenty-five is acceptable."

"Good.  Of course, your hubby said the same thing and he didn't come
through."

"I will.  I have the money.  Steve didn't."

"I'd like to think that's true."

"It is."

Jones began pacing again.

"Let me make something perfectly clear, Mrs.

Magnin.  If I ever get the feeling you're fucking with me, I won't be
sending late notices or calling to ask for the money.  I'll just kill
you and make do with the fifty Stevie already paid me.  You see, I'm a
professional, Mrs.  Magnin.  I've got pride and a reputation to
consider. I guarantee you, that's exactly how it's going to work.

You'll die, even if it takes me six months or a year to get you.

There's a very simple reason--I got to discourage future customers from
screwing me.  Your dead body might cost me a hundred grand, but it will
also make a nice example for other slow-pays or no-pays.  In the long
run it'll save me money.  I think you understand I can't let nobody off
the hook.  Banks never do, right?  "

"I understand you perfectly."

Again he stopped pacing.

"Oh, yeah, there's another thing.  I'll not only kill you, but before I
do, I'll make sure the world knows that Valticos Financial had Del
Pritchard killed.  There's a fucking lawyer already working on it up in
Sacramento.  I think a phone call to him should do the trick.  And if
you think there's a problem with anybody believing me, I got Stevie on
tape saying you and your old man want Pritchard out of the way."  He
grinned.

"So, is the situation perfectly clear, Mrs.  Magnin?"

She didn't know whether to believe him about the tape, but she knew
Steve was stupid enough to have said something like that.  It hardly
mattered, though.  She just wanted out--for the company's sake, as well
as her own.

"Yes, Mr.  Jones, the situation is very clear."

"Next step--the hundred and twenty-five thousand."

"I'll need twenty-four hours."

"Okay, I'll call you tomorrow morning with instructions.  I think it's
best if I call you here, so plan on spending the night."  "Is that
necessary?"

"Yes, Mrs.  Magnin, it's your husband's obligation you're paying.  I
think staying here would be a nice reminder.  After all, the bastard
fucked us both."

Dee Dee could certainly agree with that.  She'd also seen enough to
know Dakota Jones was not a man to trifle with.  He was as clever as he
was ruthless.  As long as there was a chance of him getting paid, he
wouldn't kill her.  But he had created genuine uncertainty in her mind
as to how far she could stretch things.  She guessed not far at all.
Already her instincts told her to deal, but she did want to talk to her
father.

"Well, I should be going," Jones said.

"Cops might take exception to you hitting that parked car and not
stopping.  Where are the keys to Steve's car?  I noticed it sitting in
the garage, all dressed up and no place to go."

"In the glove compartment."

"If you don't mind, I'll borrow it."  He grinned again.

"Need some way to get home."

He started to turn away, but stopped.

"Oh, two points before I go.

First, I could kill you quick and painless.  Or I could do it slow and
make it hurt a lot.  For the sake of argument, plan on slow and
painful. And second, if I smell one cop, one FBI man or any shit like
that--even if they're just dropping by to sell tickets to the
policeman's ball--I take this whole thing to the Los Angeles Times
immediately, after which I start planning your slow, painful death.

Are we on the same page, Mrs.  Magnin?  "

"Yes."

"You say yes, but I don't know that you really believe me."

"I do."

"Well, just so there aren't any doubts about how serious I am, I'm
going to kill the fat boy before I go.  Proof of my sincerity."

Dee Dee could see by his eyes that he meant it.

"No, don't."

"Why?  What do you care?"

"I don't want a body on my hands and I don't want to explain how and
why he died.  If I'm forced to tell the truth, you'll never get your
money."

"Then don't tell the truth."

"It's a waste.  It accomplishes nothing."

"Sweetheart, that's your problem.  You're a smart girl.  Besides, I
really want you to feel like we're in this together."

"I'll give you an extra twenty-five thousand if you don't kill him,"
she said without thinking.

"Dee Dee, don't you see I'm doing you a favor here?  You're going to
have to keep his mouth shut.  This way, I shut it for you."

"He doesn't know what our business is, just that you've got a problem
with me."

Jones pondered her, stroking his chin.

"Now I'm not sure what to do," he said.

"I can't have you thinking I'm soft.  I mean, I'd burn twenty-five in
your fireplace just to show you I'm dead serious.

Wasting that tub of lard would be cheaper for both of us.  "

"Please.  I'll make it an extra fifty."

"Money's not the point."

"Two hundred thousand total by tomorrow, if you don't kill him."

Jones sighed.

"All right two hundred grand in large bills, per my telephoned
instructions.  You'll hear from me in the morning."

Jones leaned forward and took her jaw in his hand, his black eyes
boring into her.

"Do you have any idea what a slow and painful death is like?"

She looked back up at him, saying nothing.

"No, I didn't think so."

Jones left.  Dee Dee didn't move.  She listened to the heavy rhythms of
her heart as she processed what had happened.  There was one thing she
knew for sure--Dakota Jones was the most evil man she'd ever met.

After maybe two minutes had passed, she heard what sounded like a shot
coming from the direction of the garage.  Then she heard the engine of
Steve's Lamborghini roar to life, tires squealing as the vehicle left
the drive and hurtled down the street.  She rushed through the house,
her heart pounding.  The bastard had killed the bodyguard, despite her
pleas, just to make his point.

Throwing open the door she found the bodyguard standing next to the
Mercedes, stark naked and shaking like a frightened child.

"Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ," he muttered, his lips quivering.

"The guy's insane."

"What happened?"  Dee Dee demanded.

Ben snatched his pants from the garage floor and held them in front of
himself.

"He made me take off my clothes, then he pointed his gun at my head.  I
thought he was going to blow me away.  But he shot over my shoulder and
laughed."

Dee Dee groaned, her shoulders sagging.

"And he told me to tell you something," Ben added.

"What?"

"April fool."

Tuesday, July 18

Sacramento

Dr.  Wilegard was a nice old lady, but she was a bit too punctilious
for Gabe's taste.  A tall, slender white haired woman who was equal
parts schoolteacher, grandmother and nun, she had good intentions but
tended to moralize.  He'd given her his check for $485, which she'd
accepted with thanks.  But then she'd given him a lecture on anger,
perhaps fearing he was pissed at her.  What good would it do to tell
her he'd never dream of hitting an old lady?  It would only serve to
suggest the thought was actually in his mind.  Which it wasn't.

Fortunately the old dear had to excuse herself for a moment, as she did
at least once each session.  Gabe could only assume it was to go to the
bathroom.  After she'd stepped from the room, he stood and stretched,
glad for the reprieve.

Dr.  Wilegard's office had something of a grandmotherly feel to it.

There were pictures of her children and grandchildren on the credenza
behind her desk.  And there were knickknacks.  Her diplomas were on the
wall, but also pictures of flowers and cottages with white picket
fences and lambs.  It was enough to make him hunger for paintings of
cowboys on horses, sailing ships or even a tank.  Which was not to say
he didn't have an appreciation for feminine graces, because he did.

Poor Dr.  Wilegard was just too saccharine for his taste.  She was like
a good fairy.  But she meant well, and in her way she liked him, which
counted for a lot.

Yawning, Gabe wandered over to the window and peered down at the
street.  The good doctor's offices were located on the second floor of
an old Victorian on J Street in Midtown.  It was a vibrant, interesting
part of Sacramento, with lots of cutsie shops, coffee houses,
galleries, restaurants, plus the odd psychic and shrink.  As he stared
out blankly, a woman strolling down the sidewalk on the far side of the
street caught his eye.  He had to look twice to be sure, but damn if it
wasn't Laurel Seneker.  She was in shorts and one of her little tops. 
A guy leaning against a big old elm just about fell over craning his
neck watching her going up the street.

Gabe moved to the side so that he could follow her progress.  Just
before she disappeared from sight, she entered a shop.  It was hard to
be sure, but it appeared to be a salon.  So, he thought, Laurel was
tending to her external beauty while only a few doors away, here he
was, tending to his internal beauty.  The incongruity of that somehow
appealed to him.

Despite Laurel's obvious physical attractions, he did not find them
resonating with him the way they had before.  In his thoughts, at
least, Laurel had been supplanted by Margot Girard.  After climbing in
bed the night before, he'd thought about her a lot.

Margot had sifted down through his consciousness, attaching herself to
bits and pieces of him, evoking both feelings of familiarity and
excitement.  It was an odd sensation and it felt so much more
comfortable than lust.  That was probably the best way to explain it.

There was also a feeling of camaraderie, their joint mission on behalf
of Del.  Gabe liked caring about somebody who cared about something
that mattered to him.  But he also liked Margot as a person, and that,
maybe, was what had made it so hard for him to level with her.

Though his personal problems weren't relevant to Del's case, Charles
Ames was sure to bring them up.  That was reason enough to make sure
the story came from him, rather than Charlie.  Gabe knew he should have
come clean the previous afternoon when they'd left Rudy's.  At the
time, though, he felt he had been lucky to have escaped the place
unscathed. Tammy had said nothing damning, and Margot was left with the
mistaken assumption that Angela was the probation officer of a
client.

They'd gone from Rudy's directly to the Pritchard place.  Gabe had
carried Margot's suitcase to the door.  She'd invited him in and, after
witnessing the emotional reunion of niece and aunt, he'd said hello to
the old woman.  Harriet recognized him, growing excited, though her
babble wasn't very coherent.  The term hamburger made it into her
speech a couple of times, along with a reference to Del.  When the
brief conversation was concluded, and Margot went with him to the door,
he explained that for some reason he evoked the notion of a hamburger
in her aunt's mind.

"How bizarre," Margot said.

"Got that right."

"She seems to like you, though, Gabe."

"There must be some positive feeling in there somewhere for her to have
passed on a twenty thousand dollar check to me."  "Do you think she
knew what she was doing when she gave you the check?"

"I think she was very intentionally giving it to me at Del's request.

Whether she knew what it was about, I don't know.  "

The notion seemed to sit well with Margot, and when they'd stepped out
onto the porch, her attitude toward him had been the warmest yet.  "I
really appreciate your giving me a lift and I've enjoyed renewing our
acquaintance," she'd said.

Gabe confessed he'd enjoyed it, too.  In fact, he couldn't remember the
last time he'd felt so attracted to a woman without sex being in the
middle of it--not that he didn't find Margot physically attractive, but
that was secondary.  She struck him as fresh, intelligent, interesting
and.  well, different from most women he'd known.  The pixie haircut,
the ga mine smile, her cute personality and quick mind.  Was he a
sucker, or just needy?

As they were saying their goodbyes, Margot had given him the perfect
opportunity to make his confession, but he still hadn't been able to
pull the trigger.

"If I'm able to get hold of Mr.  Ames," she'd said, "I should be in a
position to give you the go-ahead on that check sometime tomorrow."

That was the moment he should have spoken up.  But he couldn't bear the
thought of the shock on her face.  Or the words she would surely utter,
"You nearly killed Peter?  You spent eight months in jail?  My
God..."

And so, he'd let it slide, resolving when he saw her next to look her
in the eye and say, "Margot, I've got to tell you something.  It's
painful for me to say this, but you need to know."  It would be
difficult and he dreaded her reaction, but he had no choice.  Yet, how
did a man explain that he was not the person who'd been sentenced to a
year in jail, that he was really the man she'd known and liked
before?

It was a dilemma he'd been wrestling with vis-avis his daughter, as
well.  One day he'd have to tell Arabella what her father had done.

But Gabe hadn't had the courage as he stood there, saying goodbye to
Margot.  In response to her comment about giving him the go-ahead to
cash the retainer check, he'd simply said, "No rush."

"How do I reach you?"  she'd asked.

Gabe's only business card was a cheapo he'd had printed up in a copy
shop.  All it had on it was his name and phone number at the
apartment.

Pulling out one, he explained he was in the process of moving and
renting new offices.  Crossing out the phone number, he wrote down
Ted's number and address, explaining that was the best place to reach
him. Then, knowing he'd have to have a heart-to-heart soon, he'd asked
if she had plans for dinner the next evening.

"I don't, but before I commit to anything I think I want to see how
things go with Aunt Harriet.  If I feel she needs me, then I should
stay here."

"And if not?"

"Then yes, I'd be happy to have dinner with you."

Before turning from the window, Gabe glanced once more at the guy
standing by the elm tree.  Something about him was odd, but it was hard
to say just what.  Maybe his demeanor.  At the moment he was lighting a
cigarette.  A little puff of smoke went up.  He flicked the match into
the street and leaned against the tree, folding his arms.  He did sort
of seem to be waiting for somebody, though his attention appeared to be
directed more toward the Victorian that housed Dr.  Wilegard's office
than the street.

The guy wasn't a kid, probably forty or forty-five.  He had dark hair
and sunglasses and an open neck shirt with the collar spread over the
lapels of his powder-blue sport coat.  And he had a big chunky gold
chain around his neck and white shoes, all of which was remarkable
because the look was so badly out of style--like about twenty years.

Gabe would have said L.

A.

" circa 1975.

The thought fleetingly went through his mind that the guy's presence
might have something to do with him, though he couldn't imagine why,
unless it was in connection with Del.  But what?  Once the box of
"evidence" had fallen into the hands of the police, Gabe was as good as
out of the picture.  He knew nothing, despite Shimota's suspicions to
the contrary.  The guy down there in the street couldn't be an
undercover cop.  No, it was likely some Fancy Clan waiting for his
girlfriend.

Dr.  Wilegard returned to the office then, apologizing for taking so
long.  Gabe took his chair, checking the clock on the wall as he sat
down.

"We only have a few minutes," she said, "so let's discuss what we want
to cover in the next session."

"I don't have anything in particular in mind."

She flipped through his file.

"We haven't talked about your father and sister since the very first
session.  Would it be fruitful to discuss your feelings about them?"

"I don't feel the need," he replied.

"I won't force you, Gabriel," she said, "but it might be worthwhile for
you to consider why you don't wish to talk about them."

"I know why, doctor."

"But you don't want to discuss it?"

"I think when the time's right, I will."

There wasn't a lot she could say to that, and Gabe was rather proud of
himself for deflecting the matter so deftly.  The longer you saw a
shrink, the more you tended to pick up their tricks.  But this wasn't
just a game--he really didn't want to discuss his family.  Maybe it was
too painful, though before entering therapy he wouldn't have thought of
it that way.  To the contrary, he would have said he didn't think about
family at all, which was true.

"I can see you wish to go," Dr.  Wilegard said.

"Yeah, I have a funeral to attend."

"A funeral?  No one close, I hope."

"Somebody I talked to for fifteen minutes once, but he seems to have
become a pivotal figure in my life, all the same."

"Really?"

"You would have liked meeting him, I think."

"Why's that?"

"To be honest?  The guy was genuinely certifiable.  But then, in a way,
maybe we all are, right, doc?"

Gabe took his leave then.  As he came down the steps of the Victorian a
few moments later, the dandy he'd observed from the upstairs window
abruptly rousted himself from his tree and started strolling up the
street.  Gabe watched him for a moment, thinking that was odd.  And
perhaps significant.

The guy didn't look back, he just kept going.  Gabe had parked around
the corner in the opposite direction.  He headed for his car.  Across
the street was the salon where Laurel had disappeared.  He glanced over
at it as he went by, wondering if he'd ever sleep with the woman again.
Somehow he thought not.

Bel Air

Dee Dee had spent another troubled night, having slept in the
downstairs spare bedroom, rather than in her own bed upstairs.  Dakota
Jones had to know how difficult it would be to stay in the house.  It
was part of his campaign of psychological warfare, that was obvious.

She'd held herself together, knowing it was just another problem she
had to solve.  The first thing she'd done after Jones left was to get
the bodyguard, Ben, out of the picture.  She gave him ten thousand
dollars to forget everything that had happened and to find work
elsewhere.  "Not a word about this to anyone," she'd told him.

"Double- cross me and you'll not only have me to contend with, but our
friend, as well."  The fear in Ben's eyes told her he was unlikely to
be a problem down the road.  Fortunately, Jones had had the good sense
to speak to her out of Ben's hearing, so there wasn't a tremendous
amount at risk.

Dee Dee had also called her father and told him she wouldn't be coming
back to his place, that she needed to be alone.  Demetrius Valticos
always saw through her every lie and deception.  Confirming he'd seen
through this one, too, he showed up at her door at ten o'clock in his
wheelchair, complete with traveling van and an extra carload of support
staff--his nurse, an aide, his friend and personal attorney, Sidney
Kem, Joe Eberhart, his security man, and three bodyguards.

"Okay, honey," he said, once the two of them were installed alone in
the downstairs study, the door closed, "what's going on?"

Dee Dee could never lie to her father, at least not about things that
weren't purely personal.  And this business with Steve and Dakota Jones
did impact the company.  In as firm a voice as she could muster, she
recounted exactly what had happened the day before.

Demetrius listened impassively to every word, though his cloudy eyes
did shimmer when she related the details of Dakota Jones's violent
reaction.  When she'd finished, her father sat silent and very still. 
A minute or two lapsed.  Dee Dee could see he was angry, but she wasn't
sure how much, if any, of his anger was directed at her.  He clearly
wasn't pleased that she hadn't gone immediately to him.

"Obviously, you can't pay him the money," Demetrius finally said, his
voice stronger and clearer than usual.

"Why?  I think that's exactly what I should do."

"It's blackmail.  Dee Dee, and blackmailers are never satisfied." 
"What about that lawyer in Sacramento?"

"Those were legal fees.  Besides, that's a different kind of shark, one
with something to lose.  This guy is different.  He'll bleed us dry, if
we let him.  The day will come when you're forced to put a stop to
it.

It might as well be now, in the beginning.  My advice is to circle the
wagons right up front.  " His voice faded to a wheeze and he coughed.

"I <lon't agree, Daddy.  This man's a psychopath, I'm convinced.

Getting what he feels is coming to him is more important than the money
itself.  If it was the money, he'd have asked for half a million or
more.  "

"The man's obviously... a thug... not a businessman."  Valticos's voice
was getting weaker already.

"No, he's not dumb.  But he earned his fee and he expects to get
paid.

I really think that's what matters to him.  "

"If he's not stupid, then he'll see how easy it is... to demand
money... and get it.  The next time he's short, he'll think of you and
what an easy mark you were.  Believe me, he'll ... milk it for all ...
it's worth."  "Maybe, but I have a hunch about this, Daddy.  I really
feel the thing to do is pay him.  Besides, he told me something that
has me concerned.  He said there's another lawyer in Sacramento digging
into Pritchard's complaints.  I say pay off Jones and get the whole
thing quieted down as fast as possible.  We're only talking two hundred
thousand.  I spend more than that on jewelry every year.  It's worth a
try."

Demetruis pondered the situation.

"Could be we don't have... the luxury of time.  Dee Dee.  Maybe... the
thing to do is... take care of both Mr.  Jones and the lawyer right
now... and I don't mean by paying them off."

Dee Dee could see things were escalating rapidly.  This was shaping up
to be a war, and she was in the middle of the battlefield.  Naturally,
she was afraid--who wouldn't be afraid of a monster like Dakota
Jones--but it wasn't her fear that was guiding her.  It was a
conviction that this time she might be right and her father wrong.

Demetrius was falling back on his manly instincts--to "circle the
wagons" and prepare for battle.  But she was a woman and she trusted
her intuition.  In this instance it told her that discretion was the
better part of valor.

The telephone rang.  Dee Dee and her father both looked at the
offending instrument.  She had a feeling it was Dakota Jones.  She
picked up the receiver.

"Do you like baseball?"

She recognized the voice.

"Mr.  Jones?"

"There's a box seat ticket for the Dodgers-Giants game tonight waiting
for you at the will-call window at Dodger Stadium.  Be there alone.

Wear white and have a case with two hundred thousand in unmarked bills
with you.  Enter at Gate C, go through the turnstile with the attendant
wearing the red hat.  He'll wave you through without inspecting your
case.  The person you're to give it to will say, "Mother Goose sent
me." Let him have it.  Double-cross me and you know the consequences. 
I don't have to tell you.  " With that, the phone went dead.

Sacramento

Gabe was late getting to the cemetery, the graveside service for Del
already underway.  The gathering was not large.  Twenty-five people at
most.  There were gray heads in abundance--probably friends of Harriet
Pritchard and her late husband, Arlen.  Del, he imagined, had few, if
any, friends.  A KOVR Channel 13 news crew was camped on the periphery
of the gathering.

Margot was there, in the front row, seated next to her aunt.  The two
were in black and they were holding hands as they stared at the casket.
Poor Harriet appeared dazed.  Margot, on the other hand, showed more
emotion.  Her fine features were pinched, streaks of tears ran down her
face.  Even from a distance he could see that her eyes and nose were
red.  He felt sorry for her.  He wanted to go and put his arm around
her.

Gabe searched out the other faces in the crowd, wondering if any would
be familiar.  Much to his chagrin, there were three, perhaps the three
he would have least wanted to see: Charles Ames, Spencer Shimota and
the one individual in the world he hated most, Peter Cashen.  Gabe had
no explanation for his erstwhile partner's presence, unless it was to
gloat.  This was their first real encounter since he'd been released
from jail.  Previously Gabe had had a fleeting glimpse of Peter at the
courthouse and a sighting on the street.

Cashen, reddish-blond and pale, with the lean body of a tennis player,
stood next to his current partner, Charles Ames, and somehow managed to
look smug rather than sorrowful.  If Gabe could take any satisfaction
in Peter's presence, it was being able to see the shiny scar on his
head, visible even at a distance of twenty yards.  Just to be defiant,
Gabe moved closer to the circle of mourners, placing himself directly
across from Peter, Charles Ames and Shimota.  It didn't take long for
the trio to spot him.

A moment or two later, Margot saw him, as well.  A stab of
disappointment went through him when she neither smiled nor
acknowledged his presence in any way.  To the contrary, she lowered her
eyes, refusing to meet his gaze.  Gabe noticed smirks on Ames's and
Cashen's faces.  They appeared to be smugly parroting one another. 
Then it hit him.  Could the bastards have already gotten to her?  Would
the mea culpa he'd planned for dinner that evening be too little, too
late?

Margot's indifference was moving quickly from a bad sign to an
indication of sheer disaster.  He was certain now that the three
stooges had poisoned her against him.  How else could he explain this
sudden change of behavior?  He should have known it was a mistake not
leveling with her right up front.  He'd gambled and he'd lost.

The sad thing was that, without her, he had nothing.  Del's box of
"evidence" was inaccessible, as was Harriet Pritchard.  He had no
authority to make inquiries, and if he cashed the retainer checks, he'd
have to do so at his own risk.  Indeed, Ames had probably already
arranged to have payment stopped.

If that was the case, so be it.  The money was pie in the sky,
anyway.

But how could he let Del down?  Ames wasn't going to pursue the
matter--that was a virtual certainty.  All Shimota was interested in
was solving the murder, and even though Gabe was convinced that Del's
cause had to be related to his death, Shimota wouldn't necessarily see
it that way.  Shit.  He felt it all slipping away-Margot, his chance to
do the right thing, his newfound selfrespect.  Not coming clean with
Margot about his past had been a costly mistake.

He wasn't going down without a fight, though.  He resolved to talk to
Margot, regardless.  What she probably had to say to him wouldn't be
pleasant, but he'd take it,

if that was the price of saying his piece.  He watched her, but damn if
she didn't refuse to make eye contact.  Not once.

The interment ceremony seemed to go on forever and Gabe started
chaffing.  It was getting hot and people began mopping their brows,
especially the men in jackets and ties.  Charles Ames, a dignified guy
of sixty with a high brow and thin hair combed straight back, sweated
profusely.  Peter Cashen seemed cooler--probably because he was so god
damned cold-blooded.  Gabe tried not to look at the bastard.  It only
sent his blood pressure soaring.

So far he'd resisted the urge to run over and strangle the creep. 
Dr.

Wilegard would be proud.  But if it turned out Peter had somehow
insinuated himself into the Prit- chard case, maybe Gabe would lose
control, after all.  It would be just like Peter to finagle his way in,
if only to goad him.

At long last the ceremony ended.  Margot and the maid, Loma,
immediately tended to Harriet, helping the old woman to her feet.  Ames
and Cashen joined them.  Spencer Shimota, abandoning the others, slowly
made his way toward Gabe, who waited, figuring he was about to find out
what was going on.

"Morning, counselor," Shimota said.  There was just enough of a smile
on his lips for it to be sarcasm rather than courtesy.

"Lieutenant."

"Steven and Daria Magnin," Shimota said.

Gabe blinked.

"Steven and Daria?  What are we playing, Twenty Questions?"

"Very funny.  I want to know if the names mean anything to you."

"What's the last name?"

"Magnin."

"Sorry, lieutenant, never heard of them."

"Boy, for a guy who knows absolutely nothing, you sure manage to be in
the middle of things, don't you, counselor?"

"Don't tell me, they saw a guy fitting my description threatening to
kill Del Pritchard."

"Don't I wish."

"Now, now, Spencer, you're losing your objectivity.  Can't let your
emotions get in the way."

Shimota ignored the remark, turning instead to face in the same
direction as Gabe, who'd been watching the gathering.  Loma led Harriet
Pritchard toward the waiting limousine while Margot continued to chat
with Charles Ames.  Peter Cashen stood staring directly at Gabe.

"The LAPD found Goblinski's body," Shimota announced.

"It appeared to be a professional hit.  There was a newspaper clipping
in his pocket, a story about Daria Magnin shooting her husband, Steven,
allegedly in selfdefense.  Happened a couple of days ago in Bel Air."

"And you figured I would know them because of..."

"Propinquity."

Gabe shook his head.

"I'm afraid L.A. is way out of my territory."

"I know LAs pretty far away, but considering these are society
folks--your kind of people--and the fact that Mr.  Goblinski has had
some interest in you, I thought perhaps you might know something about
them."

"No such luck."

By now Margot and the two lawyers were leaving the graveside, walking
slowly toward the waiting vehicles.  Gabe indicated to Spencer Shimota
he wanted to move on, as well.

"It's been confirmed the blood in the street outside Ms.  Seneker's
place, the motel and the Toyota are from the same person and that it's
not Goblinski," Spencer Shimota volunteered as they strolled.

"It's almost certainly the Hispanic guy.  Makes you wonder if he did
Goblinski, but that's not likely, considering he either bled to death
or he's in a hospital bed somewhere.  Which means we're operating under
the assumption there's another suspect, maybe even a couple more."

"This is taking on the proportions of a conspiracy," Gabe said, his
eyes on Margot.

"Things just keep happening."

"You're adding suspects as fast as they die off, lieutenant.  That's a
form of progress, I suppose."

"More like frustration.  And you haven't been any help at all."

They'd made it past the gravesite and were maybe twenty yards or so
behind the others.  Off to their right the Channel 13 news crew was
packing up its gear.

"Did it ever occur to you that's because I don't know anything, that
it's only by chance that I'm involved at all?"

"People in my line of work don't put much stock in coincidences."

"Admit it, Shimota, you enjoy seeing me as a bad guy."

"I've got a murder on my hands and I intend to solve the case in the
best way I know how."

"You'd get further if you treated me like a friend, not an enemy."

"I've been generous sharing information," Shimota said.  "Well, if you
really want to be helpful, why not let me see the documents that Del
Pritchard gave me."

"They've been thoroughly examined.  There's nothing there.  Mostly
credit card bills."

"Maybe I'd like to have a look at them, anyway."

Shimota gestured toward the trio ahead of them.

"Ms.  Girard and her lawyers have control of that.  You'll have to talk
to them."

"Maybe I will."

Ahead, Margot could be heard saying goodbye to Ames and Peter Cashen.

The men went off in one direction and Margot headed toward the
limousine.  Gabe figured this was his opportunity.

"I've got to go, lieutenant.  Let's hope you don't lose any more
suspects."  He took off in pursuit of Margot, catching up with her just
as she reached the limo.  "Margot!"

She turned, dropping her hand from the door handle.  She gave him a
rather cold, though not exactly hostile, stare.

"You surprise me, Mr.  Rose.  I didn't think you'd have the balls to
come here today, let alone speak to me."

"Oh, it's Mr.  Rose now.  Is that on the advice of Charlie Ames?"

She shook her head disapprovingly.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?  That Ames hates me because I split his new partner's
skull open?  Or that I took exception to what my wife and my partner
were doing behind my back and I ended up going to jail for it?"

"Either would have been a good start."

"You're right," he said.

"I should have told you... not that any of it's relevant to my role as
attorney, but it would have been better if you'd heard it from me, I
grant you.  And the truth is, I planned to tell you tonight at dinner.
But I want to know something.  Did Mr.

Cashen happen to mention that while he was screwing my wife, my
year-old daughter was sitting on the floor, playing with the bastard's
shoes?  "

Margot lowered her eyes.

"No, he didn't mention that."

"I'm sure not.  What was he doing here, anyway?"

"He's helping Mr.  Ames with Del's estate."

"I bet he is."

"But that's not the issue," she said, "at least as far as I'm
concerned.  What bothers me most is that you hid your financial
difficulties so I wouldn't know why you were so desperate for that
retainer money."

"Aren't you making some assumptions, Margot?  Like, for example, that
it's not possible to have passion for a case and be financially needy
at the same time?  Or would you rather accept Charles Ames's
interpretation of what motivates me?"

"It would have helped if you'd been honest."

"To tell you the truth, I was embarrassed."

"So, what are you telling me?  That Del's checks didn't matter, that
you don't care about the money, that it's all about pride?"

"I was concerned you wouldn't give me a chance."

"With good reason."  "Listen, Margot, I want to get paid for what I do,
like any other lawyer.  And yes, there's some desperation in my desire.
I could definitely use a paycheck."  "Could it be you need it a little
too much?  Maybe Del had no legitimate need for legal advice and you
made something out of nothing."  "He sure as hell had a legitimate need
for a bodyguard.  And whoever it was that murdered him appears to have
been a professional killer, not another nutcase.  Somebody, somewhere,
took exception to what Del was doing.  And I believe, whatever his
cause was, it had legal implications."

"I loved my cousin, but he was definitely crazy."

"Del might have looked like he was surfing in Nebraska, but he had his
nose in something that somebody took serious issue with, and I'm
determined to find out what it was.  The position I'm taking is that
Del's cause is my cause.  That's the only way anybody is going to get
to the bottom of this."

"That's a convenient position to take."

Gabe was beginning to see it was a no-win proposition.  She'd made up
her mind.

"It's obvious I'm wasting my breath.  If you doubt my motives, you
doubt my motives.  I suppose it's my own fault for letting my pride get
in the way and not leveling with you from the beginning.

But I won't apologize for wanting to do the job I was asked to do.  The
worst part about your cutting me off is I feel I've let Del down.

That's a bitter pill to swallow.  "

Margot lowered her eyes.  Gabe reached into his pocket.

"I'm going to make it real easy, though.  I'm going to take the issue
of money out of the equation.  Here's the retainer fee," he said,
extending Del's two checks.

"But I would like to ask a favor in return."

"What?"

"I'd like to get a look at Del's box of 'evidence."  "" What makes you
think I can get it for you?  "

"Shimota told me as much."

She stared down at the checks.

"Those aren't good, Gabe.  Yesterday afternoon Mr.  Ames put a stop
payment order on them, at my instruction."

"To be honest, I figured as much.  But that's not going to stop me from
doing right by my client."

"Del is dead.  You're better off to forget it."

"Don't you think we--you and I both--owe it to him to find out why he
died?"

"The police will do that."  "No, the police care about who, not why.
Sure, the questions are related, but Del had a cause he cared about,
one he died for.  Bringing a killer to justice won't necessarily
address that."

"Do you really believe that?  Do you honestly think there was a
rational basis for what my cousin was doing?"

"Whether it's rational or not hardly matters.  The fact that he was
murdered because of it speaks volumes, and it's rapidly becoming
evident I'm the only person who cares.  Everybody else, including you
apparently, has written Del off as a screwball.  They've dismissed him
and his passions, both.  But I'm the one he looked in the eye and
pleaded to for help, Margot.  Maybe it was by chance, but it was still
me he turned to."

She studied him.  "Mr.  Ames said you were a con, Gabe.  I can see what
he means.  I'm wavering."

"Margot," he implored, "this is our problem, yours and mine, if you let
it be.  You, because you're family.  Me, because I was his attorney,
the one he begged for help."

She seemed torn, which was, in itself, progress.  Gabe couldn't yet say
he'd convinced her, but she was definitely more open to the
possibility.  Maybe she even wanted to believe him.

Margot drew a long, slow breath.

"Let me think about it," she said.

"I've still got your card.  I'll call you."

"I can't ask for more than that."

She gave him a tentative smile.  Gabe, who still had the checks in his
hand, extended them toward her.

"Let the record show these were returned."

Nodding, she took the checks.  Gabe opened the car door for her. 
Margot climbed in next to her aunt.  The engine started and the limo
drove off. When it was out of sight, he hit his fist triumphantly into
his hand.

"Thanks, Pug," he murmured.

"That felt good."

West Sacramento

Gabe pulled up in front of Rudy's office.  As he got out of Ted's
Jaguar, he saw a white car pull into a parking lot half a block back.

He'd been uneasy ever since leaving the cemetery, where he'd noticed a
Ford Taurus driven by the same dandy in the powder-blue jacket and the
gold chain who'd been loitering outside Dr.  Wilegard's office.  Now he
wondered if the guy had followed him to Rudy's place.  Gabe hadn't
spotted him in his rearview mirror, but that didn't necessarily mean
anything.  Given his growing paranoia, he wouldn't bet against the fact
he was being followed.

He'd come to Rudy's to see if he could get Tammy to type up the answer
to William Ferry's suit against Ted so he could file the damned
thing.

He hadn't figured out his strategy for the case yet, but he could
always amend the answer later.  | As he walked in, Gabe could hear
Rudy's booming voice behind the closed door of his private office
rising over the plaintive twang of the country-and-western tune on the
office sound system.

Tammy greeted him, then said, "He's on the phone."

The way Rudy was carrying on, it was apparent one of his beloved
clients had gotten shafted.  Gabe hoped it wasn't one of the cases he'd
looked after during Rudy's absence.  He dropped the legal papers from
Ted's lawsuit on Tammy's desk.

"What'll it cost me to get an answer to this complaint typed?"

She glanced down at them, turning a page or two.

"More than you want to pay, I'm sure," she said, punctuating the
statement with two decisive snaps of her gum.

"So, I'll do it for nothing... provided..."

"Yes?"

"that when you're rich again I get a nice bottle of perfume or
something."

"Done."

As Tammy went to work, Gabe listened to Rudy bellowing.  But he also
kept an eye on the street, peering out every once in a while through
the blinds, much as Del Pritchard had done the previous Friday.  It was
incredible to think the poor bastard was in the ground and here he was,
practically standing in his shoes, and feeling just as paranoid.

Tammy had a couple of questions about what he'd scribbled out in
longhand on a sheet of paper from his legal pad, but with standardized
verbiage already programmed in the word processor, the job went
quickly.  She was practically finished before Rudy finally got off the
phone.  The door to the private office opened and Rudy, a bear of a
man, came out.

"Gabe, you old son of gun," he shouted upon seeing him.  "How the hell
are you?"  He ambled over and gave Gabe a hug.  "More importantly, how
are you?"  Gabe said, stepping back and looking him over.  Rudy,
wearing a short-sleeved white dress shirt, with the knot of his tie
already loosened,

had obviously gotten some sun in Hawaii.  Despite his olive complexion,
he looked a bit ruddy and weatherbeaten.

"And what's with Cynthia getting bit by a fish?  She okay?"

"Her foot swelled up like a cantaloupe and she can't walk, but
otherwise she's fine.  Got her at home with her foot elevated and a box
of chocolates to keep her happy.  She'll live."

"It's a shame it had to come in the middle of your honeymoon."

"Better than at the beginning," Rudy said with a wink.  He took out a
handkerchief and mopped his brow.  "Christ, I'm getting too old for
honeymoons of more than a couple of days.  I might make this one my
last... for a while, anyway."

They both glanced at Tammy, who gave Rudy a look of disapproval.

"Men are all bastards," she mumbled.

"Without us there wouldn't be food on the table and winter nights would
be boring," Rudy rejoined.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that."

"I've borrowed your capable assistant long enough to get an answer
typed up," Gabe explained.

"Hope you don't mind."

"As long as Tammy gets my work out she's free to help you with anything
you can talk her into, sport."  He sat on the corner of his desk and
gave Gabe an amiable grin.  "So, what's with Del Pritchard getting
shot? Here I am in my honeymoon suite and I get a call from Spencer
Shimota wanting to know if it's true you'd just taken over
representation. When he said Pritchard had been murdered, I'm telling
you, Gabe, my teeth practically fell on the floor."

"It hasn't been fun."  "Did you get any money out of Del before he
bought the farm?"

"Checks for twenty-five thousand."

"Twenty-five!"  Rudy exclaimed.

"Christ, if I'd known, I'd have kept him for myself."

"Be glad you were gone.  All I've gotten out of it is a lot of grief
and not one plugged nickel.  Charles Ames stopped payment on the checks
and Shimota's trying to connect me to Del's killer."

"That was my impression.  I told him what I knew, which is nothing.

Basically, I distanced myself from the whole thing.  "

"I understand."  Gabe stepped over to the window and peered through the
blinds.  Just as he looked out, a figure in blue went in the door of
the bar across the street, but Gabe didn't get a good enough look to
determine if it was the dandy.  It was a wide four-lane street and the
buildings were well set back on both sides.

"Jesus," he muttered.

"What's the matter?"  Rudy said.

"Call me paranoid, but I think I'm being followed."

Rudy joined him at the window.

"By who?"  "Damned if I know.  I think the guy might have ducked into
that bar."

"Shall we go see?"

Gabe gave Rudy a quizzical look, then realized it wasn't a half bad
idea.

"When in doubt, attack?"

"We can give him the what-for, anyway."  Rudy turned to Tammy.

"We're going to run across the street for a minute, doll."

"This'll be done by the time you get back," she told Gabe.

"How's that for service?"  Rudy said, slapping Gabe on the back.

The two of them went out into the hot sun.  It was supposed to hit a
hundred and seven or eight that day, and, though it was still early, it
felt as if they'd already cracked the century mark.

"Good old Sacramento weather," Rudy said as they made their way to the
curb.

West Capital Avenue had once been the main highway into Sacramento from
San Francisco, but that was before the interstate went in.  The freeway
carried the bulk of the traffic now, but there was still plenty on the
streets of West Sac--a lot of trucks in particular.  They had to wait
at the curb while a couple of semis went by.

"Whose Jag?"  Rudy asked, indicating Ted's vehicle.

Gabe told him about Ted Quick as a stream of vehicles came from the
other way.

"Christ, you must live right, Gabe.  I've never had a client offer me
his house and car.  Of course, I wouldn't be caught dead going inside
the pads of most of my clients, let alone sleeping in' them

"It's temporary, maybe just fate toying with me."

There was finally a break in the traffic and they made it to the middle
of the boulevard where they waited for another truck to pass going the
other way.  Eventually they got to the far side.  Rudy mopped his brow
as they crossed the small asphalt parking lot in front of the bar, a
place called Josie's.  There were two darkened windows on either side
of the door.  One had a neon Coors sign, the other a neon Budweiser
sign.

Gabe wasn't sure what to expect, but he was glad to have company.

Rudy, while large, was actually pretty soft and, by his own account,
had never been in shape a day of his life.  If he was at all
intimidating, it was because of his voice and the directness of his
manner.  Still, if Gabe was going to be splitting any more skulls, he
wanted a friendly witness.

They went in the door, Rudy, in keeping with his direct manner, leading
the way.  After the bright sunshine outside, the relative darkness of
the interior made it almost impossible to see.  As his eyes adjusted,
Gabe made out a bar and a barkeep.  Two customers were perched on
stools.  One was a bone-thin old guy with dirty gray hair that was
slicked back, the other a chunky middle-aged woman with a mass of
curls.  She was wearing an oversize T-shirt--no favor to the viewing
public.  There were some tables and booths against the far wall, but as
best Gabe could tell they were empty.  He took a few steps in that
direction to make sure.

Gabe and Rudy both ambled toward the bar.

"Help you, gentlemen?"  the bartender said.  He was young, a pretty
good size with a scraggly goatee.

"Didn't a guy in a powder-blue sport coat come in here a couple of
minutes ago?"  Gabe asked.

"Yeah.  He's back in the can."  The bartender pointed to a lone beer
sitting in front of an empty stool.

Gabe and Rudy exchanged looks.  "Buy you a drink?"  Gabe asked his
friend.

"It's kind of early," Rudy said.

"Maybe a Coke."

"Make it two."

They sat down at the bar on either side of the lone beer and between
the other two patrons.  The soft drinks were produced in short order.

Gabe put down several one dollar bills.  Rudy mopped his brow with his
handkerchief, though it was cool inside.  They each took a long
drink.

Gabe peered toward the back at the narrow hallway leading to the rest
rooms.  There was no sign of anyone.

The barkeep and the woman started chatting.  The old guy at the other
end of the bar stared at his drink.

"So, what's with Shimota?"  Rudy asked.

"In ways, the little fucker's a Nazi, but he's honest."

"Personality clash."

"Who do you think got Pritchard?  Any theories?"

"None."

"What did Pritchard say?"  "He talked about a global conspiracy, which,
along with everybody else, I'm inclined to discount.  If the FBI and
the CIA were involved.

Ken Starr did more damage to the judicial system than we thought.

Del's complaints seem to be directed at banks, but I have trouble
imagining his banker doing him in.  "

"They've got other methods of fucking you over," Rudy said with a
grin.

Gabe thought of his own credit card account.  "You got that right."

He sipped his Coke.

"Seems to me it's not Del's theories that did him in.  More likely it
was something he was doing."

Rudy finished off his Coke and looked toward the back.

"Your friend must be constipated."

"Yeah.  I'm thinking maybe I'll go see what's keeping him."

"Want company, sport?"

"No, I think I can handle it."

Gabe got up and made his way through the barroom and down the narrow
hall.  He went past the ladies' room.  The men's room was next.  The
door was unlocked, but when he opened it a crack, he realized it was
dark inside.  Not liking the idea of entering a dark room, he reached
inside and felt for a light switch.  Finding one, he flipped it on. 
Then he stuck his head in, pushing the door all the way open to make
sure no one was hiding behind it.

There wasn't a soul there, unless the guy was standing on the toilet in
the stall.  Gabe checked to make sure.  Nobody was there.

Going back into the hallway, he went to the door of the ladies' room
and knocked.  Not getting an answer, he went in.  The light was on but,
like the men's room, the place was empty.  There was another door at
the very end of the hall.  Gabe opened it, finding a small, cluttered
office.  There was no one in it.  A door to one side of the room was
padlocked--probably a storage room.  There was a third door, though. 
It led out the back, a rear exit.  Gabe stuck his head out.  There was
a stack of cardboard boxes and a few garbage cans and that was it.  If
the guy in the blue sport coat was his man, he'd chosen discretion over
valor and had flown the coop.

Gabe returned to the barroom.

"Let's saddle up, partner," he said to Rudy.

"Nobody back there."

Rudy turned to the bartender, who'd heard.

"Hey," the barkeep said, "he was here ten minutes ago, ordered a beer
and then stood at the window over there, looking out.  After a minute,
he went to the can."  He looked at the woman.

"Ain't that right?"

"Yeah," she said, "that's what happened."  Rudy's shoulders slumped.

"The schmuck gave us the slip."

"Maybe it's just as well," Gabe said.

"This way I didn't have to clobber anybody."

Carmichael

The traffic was heavy enough coming up Fair Oaks Boulevard that Gabe
couldn't be sure whether there was a white Taurus behind him or not.

He hadn't seen one since leaving Rudy's office.  Maybe the whole thing
was one big coincidence.  or a hoax.  But Gabe suspected not.  And he
didn't particularly like the idea of leading the guy back to Ted's
place, though for all he knew, he could have been followed for days.

Gabe certainly wasn't an expert at espionage games, but he did know
tailing someone was a lot harder than it looked--at least doing it
without the person noticing.  But rather than blithely going back to
the house, he decided to make a false turn, stop and see what
happened.

Reaching Arden Way, Gabe turned east, toward the river.  Most of the
traffic continued on up Fair Oaks Boulevard, though a few other
vehicles made the turn, as well.  There wasn't a white Taurus among
them.  Still, he turned on the first side street he came to and stopped
within sight of Arden.  For a minute he sat there, waiting for either
the Taurus or a driver fitting the description of the dandy to pass by.
Neither did.  Finally convinced he hadn't been followed, Gabe drove on
to Ted's house, feeling a little better.

It was midafternoon by now and hotter than blazes.  Looking out the
huge windows at the back of the house, he contemplated the river and
the occasional rafter drifting by.  It looked so inviting he decided to
take a dip.

Gabe didn't have any swim trunks with him, but he had grabbed some
jogging shorts before leaving his apartment, thinking he'd get in a
little exercise.  After changing into them, he went out onto the deck
into the searing heat, the thought of the cool water alluring.

Below the deck was a patch of lawn and some large oaks.  Beyond that,
the bank dropped twenty feet or so to the river.  There were some
wooden stairs which led down to a tiny dock, though as far as Gabe knew
Ted didn't have a boat.

At that juncture the river curved, and the north bank, being on the
inside of the bend, had the swifter current and deeper water.  Even so,
Gabe was reluctant to dive in, so he jumped feet first, instead.  The
coolness of the water was a shock and it felt chilly compared to the
scorching air temperature.  But he quickly adjusted, luxuriating in the
refreshing sensation.

Gabe found that by swimming upstream he could just about keep abreast
the dock, though occasionally a kayak or raft would drift past, forcing
him to stay alert.  It proved to be a challenging workout and, after
ten minutes, he was fatigued.  For a while he held on to the dock to
catch his breath.

He focused on the sensation of the cool water gently tugging on his
body and stared up at the cloudless blue sky.  When he was languishing
in his cell the previous summer, Gabe would have given anything to be
free to do something like this on a whim.  How much in life he'd taken
for granted, he realized, simple things like sitting with his daughter
on his lap and looking at a picture book.

In contrast to the everyday pleasures, the small joys, there were the
dark corners of the human experience, the terrible iniquities, like Del
Pritchard's senseless death and the greed or hatred behind it.

Gabe's life had been at its nadir for some time now, and he struggled
with the fact that so much of his misfortune was a product of his own
doing.  What had gotten him on this negative track?  he wondered.  Like
his falling out with Margot.  That was mostly his own doing.  Where he
had he gone wrong?  In not telling her?  In crushing Peter Cashen's
skull in the first place?  Or was the fatal mistake made much earlier
when he'd married Mona?  Or perhaps his troubles could be traced back
even further---like to that terrible day in childhood when he'd failed
his sister?

A lot of jail time had been devoted to such ruminations, and it pained
him that the answers were no clearer to him than before.  Discouraged,
he got out of the water and climbed up the steps.  He'd dried himself
with the towel he'd left on the deck.  Then he went inside.

He'd just pulled off his shorts so that he wouldn't drip water through
the house when he thought he heard a sound upstairs.  Wrapping the
towel around his waist, he went through the great room toward the
entry.  He noticed the front door was ajar.  The image of the dandy in
the white Taurus popped into his mind.  He'd tried to confront the guy
once already without success, but maybe fate was giving him a second
chance.

Gabe grabbed a heavy African statue made of teak from the hall table,
figuring it would make a good club.  Then he began creeping up the
stairs.  The rummaging sounds, he noted, came from the master
bedroom.

Gabe moved quietly to the door.

There was a man going through the dresser, his back to Gabe.  He was
thin, young, dressed in shorts and a tank top.  Unless he'd been in
disguise earlier, it didn't look like the dandy.  Gabe felt emboldened.
"Can I help you with something, pal?"

The young man nearly jumped out of his shoes with fright and spun
around.  Seeing Gabe in the towel, a finely carved club held
threateningly in his hand, the guy was terrified, his eyes round as
golf balls.  He sputtered before words finally came out.

"Who the hell are you?"

"No," Gabe said.

"The question is who the hell are you?"

The young man was slight, rosy-cheeked and boyish- looking, his blond
hair very thin on top.  He was probably in his thirties, though he was
still baby-faced.

"I--I live here."

"Bullshit.  / live here, at least at the moment, and you're in my
room."

The young man still hadn't recovered from his shock and fright, but he
did manage to slide his eyes down Gabe's physique.  He took a couple of
deep breaths and sighed.

"Well, that was certainly quick, even for Quick."

"Huh?"

"You're Ted's new friend, aren't you?"

Only then did Gabe realize he was most likely face-to- face with Ted's
estranged lover, William Ferry.  His near nakedness suddenly became a
source of acute embarrassment.  He lowered the statue, letting it rest
strategically in front of his loins.

"You're William."

Ferry arched his brow haughtily.

"And you're..."

"Gabriel Rose.  I'm Ted's attorney."

"Attorney?  My, Ted's certainly getting economical in his old age.  Do
you cook and clean, too?"

Gabe realized the little prick was trying to make him the brunt of a
feeble joke.  "Hey, wise ass, you're in no position to joke.  You're
trespassing.  What the hell are you doing here, anyway?"

"I came for a photo album.  My photo album."

"Well, this is no way to get it.  Breaking and entering is a crime in
this state."

"I didn't break in, Mr.  Rose, I used my key."

"You've been evicted from this property and you have no right to be
here, or use a key to gain entry.  Give it to

"Give me my album first."

"Listen, you little shit, I ought to call the sheriff and have your
butt hauled off to jail.  Now give me the key and get your ass out of
here or I'll drag you out."  "Not until I have my album," Gabe wasn't
going to brook any nonsense.  He advanced on the guy.  Ferry cringed
and began to cower.

"Don't hurt me, don't hurt me!"

Still holding the statue, he grabbed Ferry by the shirt and dragged him
toward the door.

"Fish the key out of your pocket," Gabe growled.

Perry took the key from his pocket.

"What about my album?"

"Have your attorney call me.  Throw the key on the bed."

Ferry did as he was told.  They left the room and were halfway down the
stairs when Gabe looked up and saw Margot Girard standing in the entry,
a cardboard box in her arms.  He jerked Ferry over in front of him.

"Margot," he said.

"What a surprise."

She looked as shocked as he.

"Oh ... I'm sorry, Gabe.  The door was open and I..."  "Believe it not,
this is a burglar I caught in the master bedroom, who, coincidentally,
happens to be suing my client and the owner of this house."

"Bullshit," William Ferry said.

"I'm no burglar.  I used to live here and I came for my photos."

"Shut up!"  Gabe snarled, hoping somehow a show of hostility would
cover another embarrassing moment.

"I must say, Gabe," Margot teased, "You give new meaning to the term
discovery."

Gabe flushed, despite himself.

"Maybe I should leave."

"No," Gabe said, "just let me get this hooligan out the door."  He
proceeded down a few more steps then gave William Ferry a gentle shove
toward the door.

"Scram," he said.

Ferry glanced back, giving him a dirty look and proceeded on.  As he
passed Margot, he said in a stage whisper, "He's gay."

Gabe would have flung the statue at him, but it was probably worth a
thousand bucks and besides, another split skull was the last thing he
needed.  Instead, once Ferry was out the door, Gabe beat a hasty
retreat up the stairs.

"I'll be right back, Margot," he called over his shoulder.

"Make yourself at home."

Anxious to get back to Margot as fast as possible, he pulled on a
T-shirt and a pair of jeans, ran a comb through his wet hair, then
trotted back downstairs.  She was in the great room, looking out the
window at the river.  Gabe noticed the box she'd been carrying was
sitting on the coffee table.

"Sorry about that," he said.

"You seem to get a disproportionate share of my embarrassing
moments."

Margot had changed from the black suit she'd worn to the funeral.  She
was in white pants, white sandals and a thin pink T-shirt.  It struck
him how pretty she was.

"I should have called before coming," she said.

"Nonsense.  I'm a casual guy."  He looked down at himself.

"As you can see."

She glanced at his bare feet then, her cheeks rich with color, and gave
him an self-conscious smile.

"I want to apologize for being so categorical this afternoon.  I've
given the situation a great deal of thought and I've decided you're
right about Del.  His cause does deserve to be investigated."

Gabe felt a weight lift right off him, replaced by euphoria.  He
couldn't help beaming.

"Great!"

"It was what you said at the cemetery.  And also Aunt Harriet.  As we
were driving away, she said your name with such a hopeful tone.  Maybe
I'm imagining it, but it was as though she believed Del had put his
faith in you."  She pointed to the box on the table.

"I called Lieutenant Shi- mota and told him I wanted Del's papers.  He
sent an officer over with the box a short while ago.  You'd asked for
it and there it is."

"Margot, I appreciate the vote of confidence, I truly do."

She reached into her pocket and produced a check, which she handed to
him.

"What's this?"  he asked.

"It's a check for five thousand to replace the one Del had given you.

I spoke to Mr.  Ames and told him what I intended to do.  He objected
violently, of course, but I insisted.  It's my personal check.  The
estate will reimburse me.  "

"This isn't necessary."

"I can't expect you to work for nothing."

"I'm truly touched."

"Justify my faith," she said.

"I'd rather Mr.  Ames look bad than me."

"Count on it."

Margot shifted uneasily.  She seemed surprisingly shy.

"Well, I'd better go."

"Don't rush off.  Have a beer with me.  I'll even finish getting
dressed."

"No, I should probably get back."

There was enough qualification in her voice that he sensed she could be
convinced.

"Didn't we have a dinner date for this evening?"  he said.

"It's still early, but we've got a great setting here to relax."

"This is a wonderful spot," she said, looking out the window again.

"The house belongs to a client?"

"Yeah, Ted Quick, the one being sued by that little twerp I tossed out.
Ted and I are friends, though most definitely not of the sexual
variety, rumors to the contrary notwithstanding."

"I didn't believe that one for a minute."

"So nice to enjoy your trust."

"You do seem to have unusual clients, however.  I assume he's not
home."

"Oh, no.  Ted's in the Caribbean on a cruise.  I've represented him for
years.  He owes me a favor, which explains why I'm here."

"It's certainly a nice place," she said, glancing around.

The house was modern with hardwood floors and Oriental carpets.  The
design was open, with one room flowing into the next.  It had been
planned with views of the river in mind.  The good taste of Ted's
decorator was very much in evidence.

"Having all this space to myself, I'll be able to spread Del's papers
out and get them sorted and ... well, see what we've got."

"I don't mean to be a downer, Gabe, but I glanced through the stuff.

It doesn't look very promising.  Lieutenant Shimota's probably right.
"

"Maybe he is.  But he also may not be looking at this stuff through
Del's eyes."

"And you can?"  "My ex-wife has long accused me of falling out of the
stupid tree and hitting every branch on the way down.  I'm hoping this
may be an opportunity to use my deficiencies to advantage.  In fact, if
you enjoy jigsaw puzzles, maybe we can sort things out together.  Fun
way to spend a hot afternoon, don't you think?"

Margot gave him an amused look, but didn't protest.

"Sit down," he said assumptively, "and I'll get us a couple of
beers."

She dropped into a chair and he went off, feeling more optimistic by
the moment.  He had Del Pritchard's "evidence" at last, and he had the
lady back on board.  Now, if he could just figure out what variety of
cowpatty Del had stepped on, he'd once again have the world by the
tail.

Los Angeles

Dakota Jones, his head shaved clean, waited outside the men's room in
the most remote corner of Dodger Stadium.

He'd confirmed there was nobody inside before planting himself at the
door.  A couple of guys had approached, but he'd turned them away,
saying the can was closed, pointing at the handwritten sign he'd taped
to the door.

It was an hour and a half before game time, so the crowds had hardly
begun to arrive, a fact he'd counted on in his planning.  Normally he
didn't like doing things in a rush, but he sensed he only had a few
days at the most before every cop in the country would be looking for
his ass.  He needed first to get his money, then get the hell to South
America, enjoy himself for a while.  If and when the need arose, he
could look for work again.  Mostly though, he was determined not to get
screwed.

At long last he saw Manuel and Pepe coming along the concourse, half
running.  Manuel was in his vendor's uniform lugging his ice cream box,
and Pepe, a foot and a half shorter, was in his baggy jeans with his
hat on backward and that swagger in his step kids had.  Pepe was
twelve, old enough to have balls, but small for his age and just
innocent looking enough.

Jones glanced at his watch, grousing as the brothers arrived.

"Where the fuck have you been?  You're late."

"Sorry, man," Manuel said breathlessly, "but the boss had this meeting
and I couldn't get away sooner."

The brothers looked at Jones's shaved head but didn't comment.

"So, everything set?"  Dakota asked.

"No problems?"

"No problem unless I lose my job over this, man."

"If they give you shit, tell them I clunked you on the head.  How can
they be pissed at you for that?"  Jones said.

"But come on, we've got to get a move on.  I want to get in position in
plenty of time.  Pepe, you keep people out of here, understand?"

"Yeah, man," the kid said, trying to sound like his big brother.

Dakota and Manuel went into the rest room.  Manuel slid the ice cream
box off his shoulder and put it on the tile floor.

"You got the money?"  he asked.  "Yes, I got the money," Dakota
replied. He took twenty one hundred-dollar bills from his shirt pocket
and counted them into Manuel's hand.  Then they both took off their
shirts and pants, trading clothes.

"How come you shaved your head?"  Manuel asked.

"I'm thinking of becoming a basketball player."

Manuel gave a half laugh.

"Yeah sure, and I'm thinking of being Jennifer Lopez's stud."  He
cinched up his belt.

"You sure this ain't going to be dangerous for Pepe?  My father, he
would kill me if something happened to him."

"It's not dangerous."

"Man, I hope not."

They finished dressing and Dakota hoisted the ice-cream box onto his
shoulder.

"This fucker's heavy.  How much they pay you to do this shit?"

"Not enough, I'll tell you that."

Dakota smiled to himself.  This was just the kind of obscurity he was
counting on.

Carmichael

They'd worked for an hour, sorting all the statements and
correspondence into piles, which they'd spread out over the floor of
the great room.  Having finally put the last document from the box in
its proper place, they decided to take a short break.  Margot, her back
to an easy chair, wrapped her arms around her knees.  Gabe finished his
second beer and set the empty bottle down on the floor next to him.

Then he stretched out, lying on his side, his head resting in his hand
as he contemplated her.  He'd enjoyed their easy companion ability but
Margot was taking the task very seriously.

"It's too early to be discouraged," he said.

"It's not that.  I'm thinking about what you said about somebody
following you."

"I'm not absolutely positive."

"But it stands to reason."

"May have nothing to do with Del," he said, feeling the need to be
reassuring.

"Could be a joke, somebody with a warped sense of humor."

Margot did not seem convinced.

"Still, I worry about you.  Maybe you should report it to the
police."

"And say what?  Shimota would probably give the guy a medal, especially
if he thought I was upset."

"Are you scared?"

"More perplexed than anything."

Margot glanced at the stacks of papers surrounding them.

"I hate to say it, Gabe, but I can't imagine all these credit card
statements really mean anything.  About all that's unusual is that
there are so many of them... that and Del's nasty little notes."

They'd entertained one another reading his comments and laughing.

"Poor Del," she'd said at one point, "I wonder why he hated banks so
much."

Gabe had laughed.

"Maybe he wasn't as strange as we think.  Ever try to change a
computer's mind, Margot?"  She'd concurred.

The discouraging part was that Gabe, too, was growing skeptical that
anything would come of their efforts.  He'd looked over the
correspondence fairly carefully, but most of it was essentially form
letters"--Dear Customer, In accordance with the terms of your credit
agreement... et cetera, et cetera."  Still, they hadn't examined the
documents closely, and Gabe was determined to do that.  Del might have
been squirrelly, but there had to be some kind of logic behind his
madness.

Margot was still on her first beer, which she sipped in a ladylike
fashion.

"I imagine your... run-in with Peter Cashen is a sore subject,
something you'd rather not discuss," she said.

"Oh, to the contrary, I love to talk about Peter.  In fact, I'm curious
why he was at the funeral today.  Was it Ames's idea?"

"Yes, he thought I'd like to hear what Mr.  Cashen had to say."

"I'm sure he did.  And I bet good old Peter laid it on thick."

"He wasn't very complimentary," Margot said.

"The most sobering thing he said was you were damned lucky you didn't
have to do hard time for manslaughter or second degree murder."

"Peter's probably right about that.  I guess he and I are both lucky
his head is as hard as it is."

"I don't know you very well, Gabe, but your practically beating
somebody to death strikes me as... I don't know... completely out of
character."

"I guess that's a compliment," he said.

"And if so, thanks."  "Am I right or wrong?"

He toyed with the empty beer bottle beside him.

"A year ago I would have said you're absolutely right, but..."

"But, what?"

He thought for a moment or two, trying to decide how to say it.

"You know what scared me most about the whole business, what I thought
long and hard about while I was in jail?"

She shook her head.  "That people might be right about the kind of
person I am.  I kept asking myself over and over how I let it happen.
My shrink has asked me the same question."

"But you don't know why."

Gabe turned the empty beer bottle on its side and gave it a spin on the
hardwood floor.  He waited for it to finally stop turning.

"I have an idea, but I've never discussed it with anyone."

Margot hesitated.  "Feel like discussing it with me?"

He took that as a gesture of friendship.  The sweetness of her voice
warmed him inside.

"This is going to sound like a cop-out," he said, "and I don't mean it
that way, but I think it might be traced to a childhood experience--the
seed of my problem, anyway.  In saying that, I'm not trying to avoid
responsibility because I think everyone is responsible for his or her
own actions, whether they be good or bad...."

"What happened?"

"Sure you want to hear?"

"Of course."

"My father was a very demanding person," Gabe began.

"He was career military and... well, let's just say he expected a lot
of me.  I tried to please him, but I also felt the need to defy him, as
kids do.  There was one time I let him down and it hurt because I felt
I'd really let myself down... and, more importantly, maybe, Faith, my
little sister."

Margot rested her chin on her knees, listening intently.  Gabe gave the
bottle another spin.  "I was eight and Faith was six.  We were playing
outside and this older boy in the neighborhood, a kid of thirteen or
fourteen, came along.  He fooled around with us, being friendly, then
asked if we wanted to see the kittens his cat had.  We went to his
garage and looked at the kittens and played with them for a while. Then
he told me to go home and get some milk so we could feed the kittens." 
I was reluctant to go, especially since he wanted Faith to stay with
him, but he got gruff and pushy, so I went.  When I got back, he had
her in the storage room with her clothes off and he was molesting her. 
Faith was sobbing and I didn't know what to do.  The kid grabbed me by
the neck and told me he'd beat the hell out of both of us if we ever
said a word.

"Faith was catatonic and cried for days.  My mother couldn't figure out
what happened.  It wasn't until my father came home from maneuvers that
I finally told them what the kid had done to Faith.  Dad beat the hell
out of me for letting it happen, for not protecting my sister.  I was
glad, to be honest, because I figured I deserved it."

"Oh, Gabe..."  "Poor Faith was the one who suffered, though.  She was
never the same.  All during junior high and high school she was
reclusive.  My old man never failed to blame me for it, said if I
hadn't been such a coward, my sister wouldn't have turned out the way
she did.  It was cruel and stupid and insensitive of him, I know, but
deep down, I believed he was right."

"You were an eight-year-old boy."

"The point is, I didn't try to stop it.  If I'd raised enough hell it
wouldn't have happened."

"You don't know that."

"I know that when action was required I shrank away in fear, and the
consequences were severe.  My sister is single, withdrawn from life to
this day.  After my mother died.  Faith decided to devote herself to
taking care of my father.  He's her protective shell and she's his
nurse.  I can't say she ever blamed me for what happened, but when Dad
and I had our final falling out years later, she naturally sided with
him.  It's been ten years since I've seen either of them."

"I'm so sorry."

"The funny thing is, I've never agonized over our estrangement.

Frankly, I'd always considered it mainly an issue between me and my
father, our differences over my choice of career and so forth.  Faith
and that molestation were ancient history, something that remained
painful, if and when it came to mind, but nothing I dwelled on once I
was grown.  "But then that day I came home and found Peter screwing
Mona, with Bella right there on the floor by the bed, I... well, I went
ballistic.  I can't tell you whether I flashed on that childhood
experience or not.  I don't remember it consciously in my mind, but I
do recall being determined to do something.  That something got
translated into beating the hell out of Peter."

"I bet you never told your attorney the story about your sister, did
you?"

"Why?  So I could claim insanity?"

"I'm no criminal lawyer, but it seems to me I recall something from law
school about the 'irresistible impulse rule."  " " That's not the law
in California, or most other jurisdictions, either.  McNaughten is the
rule here.  All that's required is that you know what you're doing and
appreciate the consequences.  Sadly, I did.

I wanted to beat the hell out of Peter.  The fact that, in some twisted
way, I might have been acting to compensate for my failure to help my
sister doesn't change that.  "

"You can't blame yourself, Gabe."

"I don't know that I blame myself.  I still feel guilt, but I also
recognize that there have to be limits to the consequences of things I
did thirty years ago.  What I want to believe is that I've gotten it
out of my system."

"Have you tried talking to your sister about it?"

"No."

"Maybe you should."

Gabe looked at her, liking and not liking the glimmer of tears in her
eyes.  The understanding felt good.  The pity, less good.  He was not
used to exposing himself this way.

"I've always thought that one day I would... when the time is right."

Margot seemed genuinely touched by what she'd heard.  That hadn't been
his intent.  He wasn't even sure why he'd told her.  For a long time
neither of them spoke, though the shared emotion continued.

"What are you thinking?"  she asked after a while.

"That I've never told anybody that story before."  "Not even your
wife?"

"I may have tried a time or two, but I never got it out."

Margot wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.  "Amazing what people
do to each other and to themselves."

"Yeah, isn't it?"

Gabe had a strong desire to reach out to her, to connect.  Failing
that, he felt the need for a change of pace, if not a change of
subject.

"Hey, am I mistaken or is it dinnertime?"

"You want to eat?"  "Ted left a couple of thick, juicy steaks in the
fridge.  They've got to be eaten eventually.  I'll let you be the sous
chef

"I do make a wicked salad."

Gabe got up, then offered his hand to Margot.  He pulled her up, but
didn't let go of her hand, drawing her against him.  He took her by the
shoulders and held her.  She peered up at him.  Gabe kissed her on the
forehead.

"You're a good friend," he said.

"Thanks."

Her eyes twinkled and the corners of her sweet little mouth bent in
such a way he couldn't resist.  Gabe kissed her softly on the lips.

Margot seemed to like it, even if there was uncertainty on her face.

Taking her hand, he led her to the kitchen to get them each another
beer.

Los Angeles

Dee Dee Magnin, wearing a white suit and white blouse, arrived at the
stadium about forty-five minutes before the scheduled start of the
game.  She had a carry-on bag with wheels containing the money, having
finally convinced her father it was worth risking two hundred thousand
dollars to see if Dakota Jones could be bought off.  But she had not
been able to convince Demetrius Valticos that she should go to Dodger
Stadium alone.

"The bastard could take the money ... and kill you ... just for spite,"
he'd croaked.

In the end they'd compromised, always a dangerous course when deep
passions were involved.  Half measures could be just as offensive as
bald-faced refusal to comply.  But they'd made their decision and now
she was stuck with it.

What concerned her most was that her father might have given his
security people additional instructions without telling her.  It would
be just like him to have his men make the money available, then try to
snatch Jones.  But the official plan was straightforward--she was to
make the exchange under the watchful eye of Joe Eberhart and three
bodyguards, whose sole task was to ensure she was safe, while remaining
as inconspicuous as possible.

Jones, she discovered upon arriving at the will-call window, had not
intended to make it easy.  There were no other seats available in the
immediate vicinity of the one he'd selected for her, which meant the
bodyguards would be some distance away.  Actually, Dee Dee was glad.

Perhaps Eberhart and his men would be discouraged from interfering.

According to a plan devised by Eberhart, she bought four additional
seats, though only one was as close as twenty feet from her own.  She
instructed the clerk to hold them for Mr.  Eberhart.  They reasoned
that Jones may have staked out the will-call window to see whether she
came with company, so only one of the men, a black guy named Wilson
wearing a Dodger jacket and hat, was near the window while she made the
purchases.  When she left, pulling her bag, another of the men, a big,
gangly guy they called "Frog," wandered along behind her, looking as
inconspicuous as he could.

Just as Jones said, she was waved through Gate C by the attendant in
the red hat, an elderly man who'd probably gotten twenty dollars for
his trouble.  It was fifteen minutes before the first pitch and dusk by
the time Dee Dee was in her seat.  With Dodger crowds usually arriving
late, there were still a number of vacant seats in the vicinity of her
box.  Resting her hand on the carry-on containing the money, propped up
next to her seat, Dee Dee nervously waited.

Glancing around from time to time, she saw no sign of Jones.  Except
for the usual admiring glances of men, no one paid much attention to
her. She did spot Joe Eberhart and two of the bodyguards, however.

Eberhart was closest, in the box across the aisle but on the far
side.

Frog was about eight rows in front of her, the third man.  Combs, was
in the next section, fifty feet away.  Wilson must be somewhere back up
in the stands.  They each had a radio in one of their ears.

As game time approached, Dee Dee felt the growing expectation in the
crowd.  Her anticipation was every bit as great as the fans', except
instead of thinking about the challenge of a rival team, she was trying
to cope with the blackmail demands of a professional killer.

The public address announcer started giving the lineups.  More and more
people crowded into their seats.  A beer vender passing by tripped over
Dee Dee's case, almost taking a header.

"Hey, lady," he groused, "move that thing out of the aisle."

Dee Dee, exchanging looks of annoyance, slid the case around by her
feet.  The beer guy went on, hollering, "Beer!  Cold beer!"

There was as yet no mention of Mother Goose.

Carmichael

Margot sat on the deck at the picnic table, staring at the fading glow
of reds, oranges and golds in the western sky.  Once the sun had set
and the Delta breeze arrived, the temperature had moderated
considerably. Every once in a while a hush of air rose off the river,
feeling almost cool, though it was simply by comparison.  The evening
was quite pleasant.  Dinner had been good and the company especially
nice.

Gabe was inside, getting some ice cream and chocolate sauce--a very
small bowl for her, per her insistence.  They'd had fun making dinner,
comparing experiences of cooking with others in the past.  His wife
hadn't relished his help, despite his willingness to cooperate.

"When I think about it, there wasn't a lot we enjoyed doing together.
It sometimes amazes me we got married to begin with."

Margot had thought about the occasions she and Richard had cooked.

There weren't many--no more than three or four times--but she didn't
have a clear recollection of how she'd felt about the experience.

Richard was not a difficult person, certainly not pushy or
uncooperative, but thinking back on their relationship, she could
recall most clearly a general feeling of anxiety, longing,
incompleteness.  It seemed when they were together, the fact that he
would be returning to his wife was foremost in her mind.  She hadn't
complained about it because there was no point, but the tentativeness
of the situation was ever-present, if unspoken.

What amazed her most about her evening with Gabriel Rose was how
comfortable it felt.  He had charm, an easy laugh, a reassuring
manner.

And though his character and reliability were at issue, she
nevertheless found herself wanting to believe in him, even though there
was very little reason to trust.  Could it be that she wanted a friend
too much?

Margot didn't feel desperate.  To the contrary, she'd probably never
felt more self-sufficient in her life.  Yet something was tugging her
toward this man, something she didn't fully understand.

Gabe came out the door then, two bowls of ice cream in hand.  He put
the smaller one in front of her, the other right next to her, before
slipping down beside her on the bench.  He sat very close and Margot
liked that.

"Great evening," he said.

"It's beautiful."

"Ted's got a fabulous place here.  I've got to talk him into featuring
me prominently in his will."

She smiled at the comment.  They each had a few bites of their
dessert.

"Tell me about your daughter," she said.

"Ah," he said with a smile of satisfaction.

"What can I say?  Bella's the love of my life."

"I bet she's adorable."

"She is.  And that's an objective opinion."

Margot spooned some ice cream into her mouth.

"Do you suppose what happened with your sister has affected your
feelings about your daughter?"

Gabe stared at his ice cream thoughtfully.

"I suppose it's crossed my mind, but I can't find any direct
connection, unless it's the fact that I feel very protective of her. Of
course, she's so adorable anyone would feel that way."

"I'd like to meet her."

"I'd like for you to," he said.

Gabe let his leg bump up against her.  His shoulder was already
touching hers.  She liked being close to him, she'd liked their kiss
earlier.  It was hard for her to say just what it meant.  He hadn't
pressed her. They'd gone on to cook together, the mood lighthearted,
friendly. Certainly not seductive.

And yet, he'd managed to create desire in her.  By not pressuring her,
he'd made her want to reach out to him, though she'd managed to
restrain herself from doing anything overt.  But every time they
brushed up against each other, a tingle went through her.  Each time
his hand touched her arm, she wanted more.  The guy was either a master
at reading women, or he just happened to be on her wavelength.  But
which? It did matter.

Finishing her ice cream, Margot got up and went to the railing, her
back to him.  For a time she looked down at the dark river and listened
to the cicadas singing in the trees in Goethe Park.  After a while Gabe
joined her at the railing.

She turned and faced the house, her back against the stringer.

"Where is this headed, Gabe?"

"This?"

"Us."

He looked off into the darkness.

"I've been wondering the same thing, to be honest."

"I hope what you're doing isn't PR, pleasing-the-client type stuff,"
she said.

"I wouldn't like that."

"Frankly, it's more about pleasing myself."

She nodded knowingly.

"You do have a knack for sounding credible.  I can see why you were so
successful with juries."

"Gee, I hope you don't see me as that mercenary.  It's one thing to be
a lawyer, another to be accused of acting like one in one's personal
life."

"I'm not drawing conclusions," she replied.

"I'm just trying to be very candid, very up-front."

He looked into her eyes for several moments, then reached out,
caressing her cheek.

"Is it reluctance I'm sensing, or skepticism?"

She considered that.

"For the moment, let's say reluctance.  It's friendlier."

He grinned.  Margot took his hand.

"Come on, let's get back to work on Del's evidence.  I'm giving you
another hour of my time, then I'm going home."

Los Angeles

At the end of five innings the game was tied at three runs apiece, so
the crowd was really into it.  Dakota Jones had been keeping his eye on
Dee Dee Magnin from a distance, though once he'd gone right down the
aisle next to her to get a look at the case.  She didn't so much as
make eye contact.

Along the way he'd sold a few ice-cream bars, mainly because he
couldn't avoid it.  Some of the other concessionaires had given him
strange looks, as if to say, "Where'd you come from?"  But nobody had
actually said anything to him.  Mostly he'd studied the situation in
the box seats, concluding finally that something didn't seem quite
right. He'd picked out one, maybe two guys who were watching Dee Dee
more than the game.  Lots of guys had checked out her legs, but these
two were different.  They didn't smell like cops, but he'd been wrong
about that before.

The question was, did he just walk away, or did he find out if she was
fucking him over?  It pissed him off to think she might double-cross
him after the warning he'd given her.

In the end, he decided he'd take a chance.  When Jeff Kent hit a bases
loaded home run for the Giants, it became all the more imperative that
Dakota do his thing quick.  Another inning or so and most of the Dodger
fans would be gone.

He hurriedly climbed the stairs, approaching Manuel who was sitting in
an aisle seat about a third of the way up into the reserves section.

"Mother Goose, amigo," he said on his way by.

"Stay alert."

Dakota had just about made it to the concourse when a guy tried to grab
him, saying he wanted an ice cream.  Dakota pushed him aside.

"I'm reporting you!"  the guy shouted after him.

Dakota flipped him off and continued on his way.  When he got to the
top of the stairs, he found Pepe waiting, just as he'd been told.  The
boy looked up expectantly.

"Okay, chico," Dakota said.

"It's time.  Did you get a good look at the lady?"

"Yeah, she's in the white suit, in the box seats on the aisle, right
where you said.  I seen her okay when I went down."

"Do you remember what you're supposed to say?"

The boy scrunched his face.

"Mother Goose sent me."

"Don't look like that, huh?"

"It's pretty lame."

"Do it right and you get an extra hundred bucks for yourself,
partner."

The boy brightened.

"Okay, hustle your ass down there and get the case."

Dakota watched as Pepe made his way down through the stands.  He opened
the lid to the ice-cream box and took out the binoculars he'd stashed
inside.  The Giants were batting and there was still only one out. 
He'd forgotten to remind the kid not to approach the woman if the
inning ended because the aisles would be full of people.  With men on
first and second, a ground ball could retire the side and everyone
would head for the can.  "Hey, man, how about an ice cream?"

Dakota glanced at the pimply faced teenager at his elbow.

"Beat it.  I'm sold out."

The kid walked away, grumbling.

Down below Pepe had reached the box seats and was approaching Dee
Dee.

Dakota peered through the binoculars, keeping his eye on the woman and
the kid, but also on the men he'd suspected were with her.  The boy was
next to her now.  He knelt down.  She turned her head.  They spoke.

Pepe took the case and began lugging it back up the stairs.  He was
obviously struggling with the weight.  That much money was not light.

Dakota turned his attention to the two men.  Sure enough, they got
up.

The one in the box across from Dee Dee, an older guy, knelt down beside
her.  The other guy went running past them in pursuit of Pepe.

Then Dakota saw a third guy clear over in another section starting to
run toward the fleeing kid.

That told him what he needed to know, right there.  He would probably
have to abort, unless the kid outran them, which was unlikely,
considering the weight he was carrying.  Pepe had been told to dump the
thing if anyone came after him, but he had quite a lead.  Maybe he
thought he, could make it.  The boy continued to chug up the stairs,
though he was dragging because of the load.

Suddenly there was a commotion in the aisle near where Manuel had been
sitting.  Some black guy in a Dodgers outfit had jumped out and blocked
the kid's way, trying to grab him.  Manuel was on the guy instantly.

They struggled, Pepe got past them somehow and kept coming up through
the stands, a vision of a hundred-dollar bill probably dancing in his
head like a sugarplum.

Down below Manuel, having slowed the pursuit, wrestled free and took
off in the other direction.  Three guys were now coming after the
kid.

Pepe had just about reached the top of the stairs.  Dakota slung his
ice-cream box off his shoulder and dropped it on the ground, just to
the side of where the stairs met the concourse.  A few seconds later
Pepe arrived, puffing like a locomotive.  He scarcely glanced at him.

Then, according to plan, Pepe took off up the concourse.  Dakota kicked
the box and a trash receptacle into the aisle to slow the pursuers and
started walking briskly after the kid.

Fifty feet ahead, Pepe ducked into the men's room.  Dakota glanced
back. The three guys were on the concourse, but they were too far back
and there were too many people about for them to have seen where he
went. Dakota waited at the door to the rest room to make sure.  The men
ran on by.

When they were out of sight, Dakota entered the can.  There were a few
guys at the urinals, but the place wasn't crowded.  Jones went to the
stall at the end.  He could hear Pepe's heavy breathing as he struggled
to catch his breath.  He tapped on the stall door.  The kid let him
in.

The boy's face was wet with perspiration, his eyes round initially, but
when he realized things were as they should be, he managed to smile.

"I made it," he exulted.

"Fucking right, chico.  You were great."  Dakota looked at the case,
sitting on the toilet.

"Do I get my hundred now?"  the boy asked, still breathless.

Dakota reached into his pocket and pulled out two bills, which he gave
the kid.  Pepe's eyes were wide with delight.

"Man, that's sweet," he enthused.

Dakota opened the stall door.

"Okay, get lost, kid.  Go buy yourself some candy."

After ushering Pepe out the door, Dakota took a deep breath.  He
unzipped the case, his heart racing with expectation.  Inside was a
newspaper.  He peeled it back only to find more newspapers.  He tore
frantically through the mess, but there was no money in the case.  Not
a fucking dime.

Enraged, he smashed his fist into the partition, hitting it so hard he
damned near broke his hand.  He lay his forehead against the cool
metal, cursing under his breath.  Gradually he managed to harness his
rage, telling himself to be calm.  If he could take consolation in
this, it was in knowing that Dee Dee Magnin was as good as dead.

Carmichael

Margot was the first to catch it.

"Gabe," she said.

"Did you notice that these statements were from twelve different banks,
but they're not twelve different accounts.  Some accounts were
transferred from one bank to another.  See," she said, taking two
statements from different banks.

"These have the same account number and this group of statements
predate the others."

Gabe studied the documents.

"You're right, but there's nothing unusual about that.  Banks sell
their consumer accounts all the time."

"True.  But look, the second one, Sun State Bank, bumped the interest
rate from 6.9 to 21.9 after three months."

"It was probably a temporary rate."

"I wonder what the account agreement says."

Gabe reached over and picked up the pile of account agreements and
correspondence.  Dividing it in half, he gave one portion to Margot and
kept the other.  They began sifting through the documents.

"Here it is," she said after a couple of minutes.

"Dixie Southern Bank, Tampa, Florida."

She read down through the agreement.  Gabe watched her, more fascinated
with her than with what she was doing.  She was definitely turning out
to be the bonus in all this.

"The introductory rate is temporary," she said, "but the permanent rate
is 16.9."

"So when the account was sold to Sun State Bank, the rate was raised
higher than the contractual rate."

"That's the way it looks to me," Margot said.

"I wonder if there's any correspondence on the subject.  I'll dig
through the letters.  Why don't you see if you can find anomalies in
the other accounts."

Before long, Gabe turned up a couple of letters.  One to Del from Sun
State Bank in Orange, California, announcing the Dixie Southern account
had been transferred and that the customer would be advised of any
changes in terms.

"Here are two more," Margot said after a while.

"Account transferred from a bank in Pennsylvania to one in Santa Rosa.
Same thing.  Interest rate bumped by more than ten percent.  Maybe
legally, but maybe not."

"Interest," Gabe said.

"Could that be what this is all about?"

"It seems to be what upset Del."

Then Gabe found a letter that made his mouth sag open.

"Listen to this letter from Sun State Bank," he said, be ginning to
read.  "

"We assure you, Mr.  Pritchard, Sun State Bank is not involved in a
conspiracy with any other institution to manipulate rates in
contravention to our consumer account agreements.  We strictly follow
the laws of the federal government and the state of California.

No irregularities have been found in any audits, which substantiates
the fairness of our business practices.  However, as a courtesy, we
will return the interest rate charged on your account to its original
level, I hope you will consider this a satisfactory resolution of the
matter. "" "Sounds like Del caught them and called them on it!"  Margot
enthused.

"But that's not the most interesting part.  It's who signed it."

"Who did?"

"Marvin W. Hamburger."

Margot looked as surprised as he when he'd spotted the signature.  She
scooted over next to him and looked at the paper.  He noticed the
pleasant fragrance of her hair.  She was so excited, she was oblivious
to his awareness.

"" Hamburger' was what Aunt Harriet kept alluding to.  "

"Only I didn't realize she was referring to a person."

"Why do you suppose Del thought this guy.  Hamburger, was key?"  Margot
asked thoughtfully.

"Hamburger agrees in this letter to lower the rate to the original
level.  Seems to me he backed down."

"That may be the point," Gabe said.

"Sun State Bank wouldn't do that unless Del had them by the balls.  And
look at the language Hamburger uses--'conspiracy."  That's no cream
puff word.  "

"What are you saying?  That Del caught them red- handed, accused them
of high crimes and they beat a hasty retreat?"

"Could be Del was scratching the surface of something they didn't want
scratched.  Could be he spotted a pattern.  And conspiracy was the word
Del used to describe it to me."

Margot sat up on her heels.

"You aren't suggesting that this guy, Marvin Hamburger, a bank credit
manager, would have Del killed, are you?"

"No, that's highly unlikely.  But it would be interesting to find out
what he knows.  Maybe tomorrow I'll give Mr.  Hamburger a call."

"Yes, do."

"And another thing.  We have Del's credit card statements and
correspondence from the bank, but we don't have any outgoing
correspondence from Del.  I'd like to know exactly what kind of
wrongdoing he charged them with.  My hunch is, it's pretty potent."

Margot said, "And it would also be interesting to know how many other
instances of this sort of thing there are in these accounts."

"Feel like finding out?"

She looked at her watch.

"Okay, another hour, but then I really have to go.  My aunt will be
worried."  There was a coy smile at the corners of her mouth as she
said it.

"You're falling back on old habits," Gabe said, amused.

"Now I know how you kept your high school boyfriends at bay."  "Maybe I
realize the importance of keeping you at bay, Mr.  Rose."

He was about to reply when there was a loud noise out on the deck.

They looked at each other ominously, then Gabe got up and headed for
the door.

"Be careful," she called after him.

Gabe flipped on the outside light.  As he did, a raccoon went scam ping
off into the darkness.  He took a deep breath, relieved, and returned
to the great room.  Margot was on her feet, a wary expression on her
face.

"It was the guy who'd followed me today," he said casually.

"But he's gone."

"Gabe, seriously?"

He smiled.

"Raccoon."

Margot punched him on the arm.

"Bastard."

"You never know what is out there lurking in the shadows, though," he
said, putting his arm around her.

"I'm not sure I want you going home alone."

"Are you proposing to drive me?"

"Or you could spend the night here."

She gave him a look.

"I think I'll take my chances with the raccoons and the boogie men."

"Do I strike you as that dangerous?"  he asked, running the back of his
finger along her jaw.

"Frankly, yes."  But she smiled as she said it.

Wednesday, July 19

Los Angeles

It was one a. m. and Dee Dee had been at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center
since eleven that evening.  She and her bumbling band of bodyguards had
been on their way back to Beverly Hills from Dodger Stadium when they'd
received word that her father had been taken to the hospital by
ambulance.  Demetrius Valticos had had another stroke, the stress
apparently having gotten to him.

Joe Eberhart--a man of medium height and girth, but every bit the wiry
ex-Marine--was seated across the small waiting room where she'd been
installed for the past half hour.  They were alone, but they hadn't
spoken.  Whenever she did look at him she glared, though she knew it
wasn't really his fault.  Demetrius had been behind the charade at the
stadium.  But how did you chew out your father when he could be
dying?

Finally, though, her anger came spilling out.  "Why did it not occur to
anyone that if Jones did happen to escape with the case, he'd at least
have had his money?"  she said in a tone meant to remind him who was
boss.

"For cris- sakes, it's bad enough that you took it upon yourselves to
try to catch the SOB, but did you have to deny him his money, too?"

"It was on Mr.  Valticos's orders, Mrs.  Magnin."

"Yeah, yeah, I know.  Mr.  Valticos's orders, but wasn't anybody
thinking?"  "We knew if he was getting a case full of newspapers, we'd
damned well better catch him."

"But you didn't, did you?"

"No, ma'am."

"And it's my goddamn life on the line, you know that."

"Yes, ma'am.  That's why we're doing everything necessary to make sure
nothing happens to you."

"I can't tell you how reassuring that is," Dee Dee said bitterly.

"There's no need for you ever to be exposed in public like that
again."

"No, assuming it's fine to spend the rest of my life in a fortress with
armed guards."  She shook her head.

"I could just kill my father."

Dee Dee took her cell phone from her purse and dialed her home
number.

It was the third time she'd called.  There'd been no messages before.

This time there was one.

"I hope you enjoyed that little game, bitch," the voice said, 'because
it was your last hurrah.  Now you die.  Slow and painful.  " The
recording ended.

"He called," she told Eberhart.

She punched in the replay command as Eberhart.  came over, taking the
phone from her.  He listened, then handed back the phone.

"Well, if he thinks so, he's got another think coming," the security
man said, returning to his seat.

Dee Dee smirked.  Easy for him to say.  Of course, her life depended on
these jerks--at least for the time being-and that scared her.  She'd
been living on the edge of jangled nerves for several days, never
closer to death than she was now.  She'd observed something in Dakota
Jones, an evil she'd never seen in any other man.  Indifference to
another's suffering was not uncommon, but his delight in it was a
completely new experience for her.  His cruelty and callousness,
combined with pride, made him a truly horrific monster.

All his talk about a slow, painful death was calculated for effect, she
knew.  But she also believed him, absolutely believed him.

Dee Dee had a nose for a man's weaknesses.  Jones had his flaws,
undoubtedly, but a lack of resolve wasn't one.  She'd learned that with
her own father early on.  She'd been a willful child, the sort who'd
test, push as far as she could.  Demetrius Valticos understood that.

Being a rock himself, he wasn't going to let her get away with
anything.  He'd spoiled her to death, but when he put his foot down, he
meant it.  She'd learned that lesson to her detriment.  Dakota Jones
had that same, don't-fuck-with-me attitude.  As with her father, his
words struck fear in her heart.  The slow, painful death he spoke of
was much more than a threat.  It was a promise.

The question was if she could change his mind with even more money.  If
she had any hope, it was in that.  Unfortunately, she had no
credibility and no way to communicate with him.

The doctor came into the waiting room.  Dee Dee got to her feet.

"Your father is stable now, Mrs.  Magnin," he said.

"There's a very good chance he'll survive.  But it was a serious
stroke.  I anticipate the disability will be more severe than the last
time.  At best, your father is facing a very lengthy period of
hospitalization.  And we're not out of the woods by any means.  There's
nothing more to be done tonight.  I suggest you go home and get some
rest."

Dee Dee's shoulders slumped.  She'd prepared herself for this, though
that didn't reduce the pain.  But there was one inescapable fact:

Demetrius Valticos was out of the picture for good.  The company was
her baby now.  And her burden.  The irony was if this had to happen, it
should have been yesterday.  If she'd been calling the shots, Dakota
Jones could be on his way to Mexico or someplace, instead of plotting
her death.

Carmichael

Gabe had breakfast out on the deck, sipping coffee while he perused the
classifieds, looking for an apartment.  But Margot was at the forefront
of his thoughts.

The previous evening was the happiest, most pleasant he'd spent in
years.  It had started with her vote of confidence and carried through
dinner and the work they'd done on Del's case, ending finally with a
very sensuous kiss good-night.  Gabe had walked her out to her aunt's
car to make sure she got away all right.  They'd stood in the
moonlight, surrounded by the perfume of all the roses.

"We make a good team," he'd said, holding her hands.

"Don't suppose you'd consider returning to the practice of law."

His question had elicited a glimmer of a smile.  "No, I like what I do.
But if that was a compliment you just gave me, thanks."

He'd rubbed the back of her hands with his thumbs.

"It was a compliment, but I was probably thinking more about you than
your legal mind, though I do admire both."

"Then if it wasn't a compliment, it was flirting."

"Can't have that," he joked.

"Not in this age of anything and everything being sexual harassment."

"Flirting's fine, Gabe, as long as it keeps to the innocent side of the
line."

He pulled her hand up, kissing her fingers.

"Where, exactly, is that line, anyway?"

"You're getting very close to it."

He'd been amused by that.

"You modern women certainly make life a challenge."

"Equality and the male ego are like oil and water," she said.

"I'm not supposed to take that as encouragement, am I?"

Margot shook her head.  "The modern woman lets a guy know if she's
interested.  She doesn't make him guess."

"But that leaves a guy not knowing what to do."

"Guys should have to sit by the phone, too," she said, obviously
relishing her moment of triumph.

He tapped her nose with his fingertip.

"I'm going to ask to see you tomorrow, anyway, like it or not."  "What,
exactly, do you have.  in mind, Mr.  Rose?"

"We need to confer on the case, of course, but I was thinking it might
be fun to go rafting, drift leisurely down the river.  Ever done
that?"

"No."  "Have a suit with you?"

"Afraid not."

"Shorts?"

"Yes."

"That'll do."

Margot had been amused, her pretty mouth pursing temptingly in the
moonlight.

"Is that what my five thousand is paying you to do... take me
rafting?"

"No, that'll be on me.  We'll squeeze it in between phone calls and
depositions."

She'd laughed.

"What time were you thinking of going?"  "How about if I pick you up
at, say, eleven?  We can get some sandwiches from a deli and eat them
while we drift down the river.

Maybe have a bottle of wine.  "

"I'll provide the lunch," she'd said.

"That'll be great."  Gabe had rubbed her bare arms, liking the coolness
of her skin in the light air.

"I'm already looking forward to it."

"Me, too."

Her body language was loose and open, inviting closeness, her eyes
telling him to proceed.  Not one to be asked twice, he'd kissed her
then, deeply, seriously, with great and earnest affection.  All she'd
said afterward was, "Good night."

Thinking back on it, he realized he was bedazzled.  Maybe it was just a
temporary thing, infatuation.  Maybe his neediness gave it power.

Whatever the explanation, it felt good, and he hoped for more proof it
was right.  He needed to know if her inclinations were the same and
that he wasn't painting in a blue sky.

But he hadn't completely lost his head.  He was still driven by Del's
cause.  It was just that he liked caring about it in the context of
Margot.  She gave it power.

They had made some fairly telling discoveries the previous evening, and
Gabe felt vindicated--not only because there appeared to be something
behind Del's madness, but also because it had sailed right over the
heads of the police.  A part of him was eagerly looking forward to
presenting the thing to Spencer Shimota and watching his reaction.

But there was still much to be done before they were at that point.

They needed to learn more about this business with Marvin Hamburger.

At 9:00 a. m. Gabe phoned Sun State Bank down in Orange County and
asked for the guy.  But couldn't get through to the man, even after he
told the operator he was an attorney representing a customer of the
bank.  When he mentioned 'class action lawsuit" he was put through to a
Miss Draper, Hamburger's assistant.

"May I ask what this is regarding?"

"Del Pritehard."

It was two or three minutes before Marvin Hamburger came on the line.

"You represent Del Pritehard, Mr.  Rose?"

"At this juncture, I represent the estate of Del Pritehard."

There was a long pause.

"Mr.  Pritehard is dead?"

"Yes, Mr.  Hamburger, Del was gunned down last Friday.  The police
think it was a professional hit.  They also think the motive may have
had something to do with Del's causes, one of which was a banking
conspiracy."

"Oh, my God," Hamburger murmured.

"I'm aware that you and my client corresponded regarding claims he had
against the bank," Gabe went on.

"I have some of the relevant correspondence and documentation, but not
all of it.  Could I ask that you send me copies of whatever you have in
your files?"

"I'm sorry, Mr.  Rose," Hamburger said, sounding nervous, "but you'll
have to address any requests of that nature to our legal department.

I'm not authorized to speak on behalf of the bank with regard to legal
matters.  "" How about copies of letters you sent to and received from
Mr.

Pritchard?  "

"I'm sorry, I can't talk to you anymore."

"Do you know who killed Del, Mr.  Hamburger?"

There was a brief silence, then the phone went dead in Gabe's ear.

Beverly Hills

Per Dee Dee's orders, Joe Eberhart had doubled the size of the security
team and had his men in place by the time she awoke the next morning at
her father's house.  The chief of security for Valticos Financial
apparently had gone home for a shower and a change of clothes and was
waiting for her when she came downstairs for breakfast around
nine-thirty.

"I'm going into the office this morning," she announced.

"Word of my father's stroke is bound to get out and I want everybody to
know I'm in charge and things are under control."

"I've ordered an armored limo," he said.

"Good.  I guess that means, unless he comes after me with an antitank
weapon, I should be safe."

"You'll be safe, Mrs.  Magnin, I promise you."

It was not the sort of promise Dee Dee cared to rely on.  She'd learned
from her father that at crunch time, the only guarantees worth a
tinker's damn were one's own.  It all came down to being able to
control your own destiny.  Yet, the truth was, no general was his own
army. Sometimes you had no choice but to trust.  And that was what
scared her the most about this situation.  There was always hope,
though.  As her father said, "The next best thing to being infallible
is making other people think you're infallible."  That meant sucking it
up and showing no fear.

Ironically, that also meant being able to let go of De- metrius
Valticos and his protective aura.  Her days as "daddy's little girl"
were over.  She was now on a deathwatch, difficult for her as that was.
Dee Dee telephoned the hospital to get an update.  Demetrius remained
stable but there was little hope of improvement.

Next she called her assistant, Jon, at the office, informing him she'd
be in shortly.

"You've got plenty here waiting," he said.

"And the phone's ringing constantly."

"Better than having been forgotten, I suppose."

After finishing with Jon, Dee Dee phoned Sidney Kem and let him know
about Demetrius's latest stroke.

"Sid," she said, after getting the requisite expressions of sympathy
and concern, "this one definitely puts Daddy on the sidelines.  I need
an update on everything he had going that I might not know about,
including what the investigator he sent to Sacramento has turned up.
It's important to know where we stand."

"I'll have a report to you as soon as possible.  Anything else?"

"Do we have connections with the underworld?"

"The what?"

"I'm trying to get a message to a professional hit man and I have no
idea how to do it.  I thought maybe some crime boss might be willing to
pass along a message.  I assume these people communicate with one
another."

"Dee Dee, this may be something we should discuss in person," Kem
said.

"Good point.  Can you be at my office around eleven- thirty or so?"

"I'll make room on my calendar."

Dee Dee completed the call, finished her coffee, made a quick trip
upstairs, then told Joe Eberhart she was ready to roll.  He had the
armored limo right at the door.  Additional security people rode in
another vehicle.  Whether the precautions were enough remained to be
seen.  But she felt safer, and that probably made the expense
worthwhile.

It was only a twelve-minute drive to the high-rise on Wilshire where
Demetrius Valticos had established the nerve center for his financial
empire.  When they pulled up to the curb, a cordon of security men
lined the way to the entrance.  Joe Eberhart walked on one side of
her.

Frog on the other.  They both accompanied her in the elevator up to the
executive suite.

"I'm studying security arrangements in the building in light of recent
developments, Mrs.  Magnin," Eberhart told her.

"There may be need for changes here, too."

"I'll leave that up to you."

Jon was waiting for her when she stepped out of the elevator.  He was
young, handsome, a former model and dancer who'd had a year of law
school.  He was also gay, which had made him acceptable to Steve--but
that no longer mattered, of course.  Dee Dee liked Jon for his
efficiency and his sophisticated image.  She paid him well and gave him
a clothing allowance so that prominent visitors would notice that the
man who brought her coffee and documents for signature wore Armani
suits.

"Andrew Lincoln is waiting in your office," Jon said as they walked
back through the suite.

"He said it's terribly important."

Lincoln was the company's executive vice president and co architect
with her father of the consumer account program, the one that had
become such a headache since that goofball up in Sacramento had
appeared on the scene.

"Okay," she said, "I'll deal with him first.  Kem is coming over
shortly, too.  How's morale?  Any rumblings?"

"Not that I'm aware."

"Call the department heads and get a reading," she said as she stepped
into her office.

Andrew Lincoln was seated on one of the big taupe leather sofas by the
window, his hands folded between his knees, his head bowed.  When he
glanced up, the furrows in his brow deepened.  He did not look like a
happy man.  Turning, she told Jon to shut the door.

"What, Andrew?"

He got to his feet.  The man was tall, a bit stooped, his hair dark
with only a dusting of gray at the temples, despite the fact he was in
his early sixties.

"I had a frantic call from Marvin Hamburger down at Sun this morning.

An attorney claiming to represent Prit- chard's estate called first
thing and harassed him.  Spooked him with talk of murder, conspiracies,
class action suits.  In other words, deja vu.  "

"Yes," Dee Dee said, "I figured this was coming sooner or later.  The
question is, how serious is it."  She shook her head.

"Just when you think things are under control..."

"Marvin's a worry," Lincoln said.

"He's really on edge.  I don't like his tone."

"Sounds like he needs a vacation.  We'd better make it a long one."

"He doesn't need to be talking to people, that's for sure."

"Who's the attorney who was bugging him?"

"A guy named Rose.  Gabriel Rose."

"Do you suppose he's connected in any way with the other one?"

"I have no idea," Lincoln replied.

"Well, I'm getting a report shortly on everything that's been going on
up in Sacramento.  There's definitely another problem shaping up."

"So it seems."

"You take care of Hamburger, will you, Andrew?"

"Certainly."

She motioned for him to go.

"On your way out, send Jon back in."

Dee Dee went around behind her desk.  There were a pile of phone
messages an inch thick.  She glanced through them, seeing nothing that
looked important until she spotted an odd one.  The message was from
"Mother Goose."  Jon had written a question mark beside the name.  On
the message line was written, "I'll be in touch soon."

Dee Dee felt the same twinge of pain she'd had when she learned they'd
filled the suitcase with old newspapers instead of money.  It was the
fear that came with knowing Dakota Jones's reaction, the heat of his
anger, his resolve.  She fought to keep a cool head.  Panic was the
enemy, she told herself.  But it wasn't easy.  The fact that she wasn't
the one responsible for Jones getting stiffed wouldn't protect her and
she knew it.  Hell, she might not even live long enough to get the
words out, let alone try to make him believe her.  One thing she did
know with certainty was that if that idiot of a husband of hers was
still alive, she'd shoot him!

Sacramento

Gabe had some errands to take care of before he picked up Margot.

First, he went to the bank and deposited her check in his business
account.  Then he bailed his car out of the police compound.  After
looking it over, he decided to have it carted off to the repair shop.

If it could be put in operating condition for five hundred or less,
he'd have it fixed.  Otherwise, he'd junk it.

When he'd finished making arrangements for his car, he drove by one of
the apartment buildings he'd seen advertised in the paper, just to get
an idea what it was like.  There wasn't time to inspect any of the
units, but the building looked nice from the outside.  He liked the
location-in East Sac out near the old original Shakey's Pizza
Parlor--and kids were allowed.  The complex wasn't far from East Portal
Park, which would be good for Arabella.  Whether he ended up getting it
or not, he was cheered by the prospect of providing his daughter with a
decent home.

He'd been missing Bella a lot the past few days, probably because Mona
had been giving him such a hard time about her.  The weekends when he
had custody and those few hours every Thursday night when he took her
so Mona could attend her real estate class, had been the best part of
his week.

"Bella, Bella, mia bella!"  he'd say whenever he came to pick her up,
and each time, as he swept her into his arms, she'd go into a giggling
fit, helped along by some tummy tickling.

"Nobody's ever going to accuse you of being cold and aloof toward your
child," Mona had said with begrudging admiration.

"I've got a few things to make up for," he'd confessed to his ex.

Whether she truly understood his meaning, he didn't know.  Sadly, his
heart had always been a mystery to Mona.  But Gabe was convinced a new
day was dawning.

Things had certainly started looking up, since the low point of only a
few days ago.  Finances weren't quite as precarious, meaning he could
provide a decent place for his kid.  He felt good about work and there
was the possibility that he might be able to vindicate Del--hell, there
might even be some sort of class action suit and all the fees that went
with it.  And then there was Margot.  In a sense, she was almost too
good to be true.  Which made him wonder if there wasn't some sort of
trip wire ahead, waiting for him to come bumbling along.

Gabe knew he couldn't let negative thoughts spoil the good things.
Angela Little Deer, in one of her more profound and apocalyptical
moments, had said to him, "When your heart's ready, Gabriel, the good
things will come."  Was his heart ready now?  He wanted very badly to
think it was.

Just when a guy started to feel hopeful, reality had a way of smacking
him in the face, though.  Gabe's first hint that there was more shit
waiting to hit the fan came when he arrived at his apartment building
downtown.  There were two squad cars out front but no ambulance, which
meant none of his neighbors had been knifed or had overdosed.  A spat
of domestic violence was entirely possible, but his gut instinct told
him the trouble--whatever it was--pertained to him.

Sure enough, when he reached his floor he found Mrs.  Webber at his
door, wearing her usual jowly scowl, peering inside with consternation.
Seeing him, she said, "Well, look what the dog dragged in!"  Then, to
whoever was inside, she said, "He's here, officer.  You won't find him
floating in the river, after all."

A uniformed cop stuck his head out the door as Gabe approached.  It was
Rodney Brown, the sergeant who'd been in charge the night the cop got
shot outside Laurel Seneker's place.

"Well, do tell, it is Mr.  Rose, in the flesh."

"Morning, Sergeant Brown.  What's going on?"  "We got us a little
burglary here, looks like.  Somebody jimmied the lock to get in," he
said, indicating the door.

"Mrs.  Webber called in the report of a break-in a little while ago. We
thought maybe you'd been trashed, too.  Glad to see reports of your
demise are premature.

How long since you been home, anyway, Mr.  Rose?  "

Gabe peered past the cop's huge body and saw his apartment was in
shambles.

"God, I don't know.  A few days.  Sunday was the last time, I think."

"No tellin' when it happened, then.  Landlady said she didn't notice
until this morning just before she called."

"All the damage is coming out of your deposit, Mr.  Rose," Mrs.  Webber
stated.

"And if that's not enough, you'll have to pay the extra in cash or a
cashier's check."

"All right, all right," Gabe said with a look of disgust, "but I think
I'm the one with the immediate problem.  Mind if I deal with that
first?"

"Just don't try to skip out on me," she said.

"I'll report you to the bar association, if you do."

"One thing at a time, ma'am," Sergeant Brown said.

"Why don't you go check the quarters in the laundry room and let me
take care of this?"

She blustered indignantly, then stomped off.  Gabe and Brown exchanged
smiles.

Gabe stepped inside the apartment and peered around.  The place was
literally turned upside down, but looked more like it had been searched
thoroughly than trashed.  A couple of other cops were poking through
the debris.

"Funny-looking burglary," Brown said.

"TV and the little stereo in the bedroom were left behind.  Course,
they wouldn't be worth much but a few bucks on the street.  Did you
have anything here of obvious value?"

"Not really.  My ex already cleaned me out."

Brown gave him that super wide grin.  "I know that one, all right."  He
put his hands on his hips and peered about the apartment.

"Judging by the way this was done, I'd say somebody was looking for
something in particular, not ripping you off generally."

"I can't imagine what they'd be after."  "Could it have anything to do
with what happened the other night at your lady friend's place, Mr.
Rose?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, sergeant."

"Never did hear the outcome of that.  Guess you didn't kill nobody or
you wouldn't be walkin' around footloose and fancy free."

"That seems to be the consensus," Gabe said dryly.

Brown waved his hand toward the desk.

"Looks like they were most interested in what you had in there," he
said.

"But why don't you look around and see if something' is missing."

Gabe went into the bedroom where things were just as much of a mess.

It appeared even the pockets of his clothing had been searched.

Whoever had done this wasn't looking for small change.  As best he
could tell, though, nothing was missing.

Like the sergeant said, the desk had been the focus of the search.  It
appeared every piece of paper, every envelope, every file had been
checked.  But nothing he could see had been removed.  Then he thought
of the retainer agreement he had with Del.  Sure enough, it was missing
from the file.  Searching further, he looked for those two credit card
statements he'd found in the street outside Laurel's place the day
after all the excitement.  They were gone, too.  Gabe decided Sergeant
Brown didn't need to know, because then Spencer Shimota would hear
about it and that would only lead to more questions.

"No, looks like everything's here," he told Brown.

The sergeant shook his head.

"Well, you'll want a police report for your insurance, I'm sure.  Call
the department.  One should be available in a few days."

"Thanks."

"Come on," Brown said to the other officers, "let's get out of here."

Once they were gone, Gabe stood amid the mess, trying to decide who the
likely perpetrator was.  If he had to guess, it was the dandy in the
powder-blue sport coat.

After a deep sigh, he went back into the bedroom to see if he could
find his swim suit.  Burglary or not, it was still a great day to go
drifting down the American River.

Beverly Hills

Dee Dee was deep in thought when Jon buzzed her to say that Sidney Kem
had arrived.  She told him to show the attorney in.

"Hi, Sid," she said, coming around the desk to greet him.

They shook hands.  Dee Dee indicated he should sit on the sofa.

"Sorry about your father," he said.

"I know it's coming at a real bad time."

"Worse than you might think, Sid."

"Miriam's and my thoughts are with you and Deme- tri us he said.

Dee Dee knew he meant it.  Sidney Kern had been her father's personal
lawyer and loyal friend since before she was born.

"Thank you."

"Maybe we should talk business," he said.

"Definitely."

Kern, a gentle man with thin gray hair, a deep voice and puppy dog
eyes, was a leading lawyer in town, not so much because of his
brilliance as for his ability to get things done and for his aptitude
for cleaning up messes.  Her father had relied on Sid for the most
difficult and sensitive tasks.  That was why he'd insisted she confer
with Sid about the police investigation of Steve's death.

"I don't know how much Demetrius has told you about our business
relationship.  Dee Dee," he began, "but I've served best when I only
know what is absolutely necessary to do the job.  Providing information
is a major part of what I do.  What you do with it is your business."

"I understand," she said.

"Tell me what you've got."

"There's an attorney from Sacramento, a sort of marginal character by
the name of Gabriel Rose who's taken it upon himself to investigate
Pritchard's complaints."

"I've heard Rose has been poking around."

"He signed a retainer agreement with Pritchard before he was killed,
and he has information and documentation about Pritchard's accounts in
his possession.  Rose also has the cooperation of the executor of the
estate, a young woman named Margot Girard.  She lives here in Southern
California, but she's been in Sacramento for several days."

"So, what you're saying is the whole thing is about to blow
wide-open."

"Not necessarily.  As best we can tell they aren't sharing what they've
got with the police.  Rose has had some problems with the law himself
and is playing Lone Ranger.  The girl, for whatever reason, is going
along."

"All is not lost then," Dee Dee said.

"Not yet."  "Can we buy off Mr.  Rose?"

Sidney Kem smiled indulgently.

"That's your department, Dee Dee.  Under normal circumstances I
wouldn't even have gotten the report from the investigator.  It would
have gone right to your father."

She sat back, considering the situation.  Steven had fucked up even
worse than she'd realized.  On the other hand, maybe his biggest
mistake was in not being thorough enough.  Had he taken care of
Pritchard and Rose both, then paid Jones, she might not be in the mess
she was in now.

"Were you able to get any information on the other matter we discussed,
Sid?"  she asked.  "It might be possible to pass a brief oral message
on to whomever you want," he replied, choosing his words carefully.

"There are no guarantees it'll reach the intended party, however."

Dee Dee steepled her fingers, pondering the matter.  It was a minute
before she spoke.

"I would like a man named Dakota Jones to meet me at a time and place
of his choosing.  I will be alone and I'll have a million-dollar
proposal for him."

"You said a million?"

"Yes, Sid, a million dollars."

His response was a slightly raised brow.

"After this is over," Dee Dee said with a sigh, "I'm going to spend a
couple of weeks in Tahiti.  I need it."

"Running a multimillion dollar enterprise is no small task."
"Especially not while a pathological maniac is trying to kill you."

Sacramento

When Gabe pulled up in front of the Pritchard residence, Margot was
waiting for him on the porch.  She was seated on the swing, but jumped
up as he got out of Ted's Jaguar.  Dressed in white shorts, sandals and
a yellow cotton blouse tied at her midriff, she hurried to greet him at
the top of the stairs.

"Oh, Gabe," she said, taking him by the hand, "you'll never guess what
I've discovered."

"What?"

"Del had a secret room."  "A secret room?"

"Yes, I'll show you.  Come on."

They went in the door and headed for the staircase.  Loma was dusting
in the front room.  She said hello as they went by.  Margot pulled him
along, practically running up the stairs, still holding him by the
hand.  Her excitement was infectious, but he was as amused as he was
curious.

At the top of the stairs they followed the hall to the right, walking
on an Oriental runner, the floorboards creaking under their feet.

"This is Del's room," she announced, stopping before a closed door.

She'd lowered her voice as though there might be someone sleeping
inside.

Margot turned the knob, pushed the door open, and they stepped into the
room.  There was no one there, of course, but there did seem to be a
presence.  Gabe glanced around, extremely curious about the private
quarters of the bizarre fellow who had come to Rudy's office only last
Friday, prophesying his own demise.

The room was sizable and spartanly furnished.  On one wall there were
two dormer windows, between which sat a single twin bed accompanied by
a small bed stand and lamp.  The bed was carefully made, the bedspread
a brown- green-and-beige plaid, probably dating back to the 1950s.  The
tall chest of drawers was plain and topped with a doily and photographs
of a man and a woman, circa 1930, probably Arien and Harriet Pritchard.
There was also a table with a globe, a small writing desk with an
assortment of knickknacks and photos, one of which appeared to be the
high school graduation picture of a young woman.  It was unmistakably
Margot.

There was an old cracked leather recliner under a dormer on another
wall.  Next to it was a goose necked floor lamp with a fringed
lampshade.  On one wall there was an old, framed map of the United
States.  Though everything was dated, nothing was kinky or unusual save
the taxider- mal display in the corner.  It consisted of a dog, a toy
collie, and two cats, a Persian and a tabby.  Margot saw Gabe staring
at them.

"Del liked preserving his pets," she said.

"That's Little Lass, Xerxes and Puss.  They were all in that condition,
except for Puss, when I first arrived to live here.  She was in her
last days and soon joined the rest of Del's menagerie."

"Interesting touch."

"I had nightmares the first few months I was here and refused to come
near Del's room.  Eventually, though, I got used to both my cousin and
his stuffed pets."

"This is the secret room?"

"No, it's here," she said, heading for a large full-length mirror
against the wall adjacent to the closet.

"This morning at the crack of dawn Aunt Harriet woke me up and brought
me here.  It took her forever to get up the stairs with her walker."

Margot grasped one side of the mirror, clicked something and swung it
open.  Behind it was a doorway leading to a small, windowless room with
a lightbulb hanging from the open rafters.  In contrast to the outer
room, this was littered with books and files and papers.  Boxes were
stacked on boxes, most overflowing.

Gabe suspected he was looking at the documentary record of Del
Pritchard's life.  The centerpiece was a rolltop desk, the cubbyholes
of which were stuffed with scraps of paper, notes, newspaper clippings
and sundry other items.  Unlike the outer room, this looked like Del.

"I spent two hours poking around in here this morning," Margot said.

"I'm sure the police had no idea this was here.  In all the years I
lived in the house, / was unaware of its existence."  She picked up a
file folder from a straight chair next to the desk.  "It seemed Del
kept the files of current projects in that file drawer in the desk.

This was among them.  "

Gabe glanced at the label.  It read.  Bank Conspiracy.  He opened the
file.  The contents consisted mostly of correspondence from Del to
various banks.  The top item was a three-page letter addressed to
Marvin W. Hamburger of Sun State Bank in Orange, California.  Gabe
began skimming through it.

The letter, dated a bit less than a year earlier, read like an
indictment of Sun State for fraud and conspiracy, with allegations of
treason and a few other things thrown in.  There was reference to the
illegal increases in interest rates, but the letter was otherwise spare
on specifics.  In the closing paragraph a particular statement caught
Gabe's eye.  It read, "My attorney advises me that, although my own
monetary damages are not significant, your fraud against the public
justifies a class action lawsuit, which we intend to file as soon as
possible.  I promise you, your crimes will be exposed!"

Gabe pointed to the lines.

"Considering Del had trouble getting the legal fraternity in town to
take him seriously, I suspect this was a bluff, don't you?"

"I'm not so sure," Margot said.

"Look at this."  She pulled open the middle drawer and pointed to a
business card, lying in the pencil trough.

Gabe picked it up.  The card read, "Peter Cashen, attorney at law."

When he returned from lunch, Spencer Shimota found a note on his
desk.

It was from his captain and suggested he might want to call the Kem
County Sheriffs Department.  There'd been an inquiry about Gabriel
Rose. His heart lifted with a mixture of pleasure and anticipation as
Shimota picked up the phone and dialed the number on the slip.  He was
put through to a deputy by the name of Hatch.

"Yeah, thanks for the call," Hatch said.

"Here's the deal.  Yesterday afternoon a couple kids on dune buggies
found a half buried body couple of miles outside Rosamond.  That's a
place south of Edwards Air Force Base and just north of L.A. County.
The body hasn't been identified, but it was a male in his twenties or
thirties, possibly Hispanic, about five-ten, 160 pounds.  Died of an
execution type gunshot to the back of the head, though the victim had
been previously wounded in the leg.  Coroner thinks the leg wound
occurred a day or two before the victim's death, which was probably two
or three days before he was found."

Shimota perked up.

"We've got a suspect in a shooting up here that fits the description of
your John Doe.  The timing also works.  But how does Gabriel Rose fit
into this?"

"The victim carried no ID, but we did find a slip of paper in his shirt
pocket with what appeared to be a license.  plate number.  We ran it
and came up with a Ford Escort registered under the name Gabriel Rose.
Naturally, we'd like to talk to the gentleman."

"You're welcome to do so, of course, Deputy Hatch, but I think I can
enlighten you on Rose's involvement.

The paper the number was written on was from a Stockton motel notepad,
was it not?  "

"Yeah, it sure was.  How'd you know?"  "Your man is almost certainly
part of a gang of three or more individuals who killed a Sacramento
man, wounded a police officer and probably started killing each other.
The Los Angeles police found the body of another of the suspects in the
shootings here, an ex-con by the name of Jerry Goblinski.  He was also
shot execution style.  You'll want to talk to Detective Al Hernandez of
the LAPD."

"Looks like we got a mess that's spread all over hell," Hatch said.

"How does Rose figure in?"

"Initial indications are he was an innocent bystander, an attorney who
represented our murder victim here.  But Rose is one of those guys who
attracts flies like shit, and I personally feel he knows a whole lot
more than he's saying.  We'll certainly be of assistance if you'd like
him picked up for questioning."

"Let me get back to you on that.  Lieutenant Shimota."

"Fine.  But could I ask that you share the autopsy data on your John
Doe?  We've got blood samples from the suspect here, as does the
Stockton department."

"Sure thing."

They ended the call.  Spencer Shimota leaned back in his chair and
contemplated paying Gabriel Rose another visit.

Carmichael

"You know, I don't think the cops would be impressed with the fact that
Peter's business card was in Del's desk," Gabe said.  They were in the
Jag, driving past Sacramento State University on J Street.  Margot had
packed their picnic lunch and they were headed for the rafting rental
place out in Gold River.

"It doesn't mean Peter was involved in anything illicit, I grant you,"
Margot replied.

"It could even be completely innocent, but don't you think it's strange
that when I talked to Peter about you, he never once mentioned he'd
ever spoken with Del, advised him or was otherwise involved with him? I
mean, even if nothing more had happened than Del phoned him or dropped
by his office for an appointment, you'd have thought Peter would have
said something."

"Could be that Peter wasn't even aware Del had his card.  But you know
what, Margot?  I know the so nova- bit eh He's sneaky as hell.  I think
there's a good chance he was involved with Del in some way."  "How do
we find out?"  she asked.

"That's going to be tricky."

They came to the light at Howe Avenue.  Gabe had intended to turn
there, head over to the freeway and drive out to Sunrise Boulevard.

But then an idea struck him.

"Would you mind a little detour on the way to our adventure?"  he
asked.

"No, what do you have in mind?"  "It occurred to me we could use a
little advice from an expert on dealing with difficult attorneys.  Do
you know Pug O'Conner?"

"Only the name.  He's a criminal defense attorney, isn't he?"

"Was.  Pug had a stroke a while back and gave up his practice.  He's in
a nursing home up the road a ways.  He's the one who defended me on the
criminal assault charge and we've become pretty good friends.  Thought
I'd see if he has any suggestions regarding Peter.  I'm sure he'd be
pleased to see a pretty face."

"I'd love to meet him."

Gabe continued on up Fair Oaks Boulevard.  Ten minutes later, they
pulled into the parking lot of the convalescent hospital where Cyrus
O'Conner had been in residence the past few months.

Pug was in his chair trying to eat his lunch left-handed when they
reached his room.  His crew cut was shorter than when Gabe had seen him
a few days earlier, his white scalp really showing on the sides.

Gabe introduced him to Margot.  "At least you had the good sense to
bring someone with you worth looking at," Pug snarled.  Then to Margot
he added, "You'll have to forgive the rotten disposition, sweetheart.
I'm old, I'm cranky and every pretty girl I see makes me hate the fact
I'm old and cranky."

She laughed.

"Well, it's an honor for me to meet you, Mr.  O'Conner."

He shook his head.

"An experience maybe, young lady, but not an honor.

Trust me on that.  " He waved dismissively in Gabe's direction.

"But tell me, how did this scofflaw bamboozle you into keeping company
with him?"

"Gabe has his charms," she said, giving Gabe a sideward glance.

The way her mouth curled at the corners reminded Gabe of some past
delight, now lost in memory, but strongly resonating within him just
the same.  Margot, he discovered, had a visceral effect on him.

"See, Pug," he chortled, "I've been telling you, I'm not all bad.  Now
you've got it from an unimpeachable source."  "Yeah, well, love is
blind.  Besides the two of you are just kids, what do you know?"  He
put down the soup spoon he'd been holding the whole time they'd been
talking.

"But enough of this lip napping.  Why don't you get down to the point
of this visit so I can get back to eating my lunch?"

Gabe explained how they'd found Peter Cashen's card in Del's desk and
that they suspected Peter was somehow involved.

"The bastard's been complaining about my ethics, but if anybody had
found a way to rip off Del bigtime, it'd be Peter.  The problem is, his
partner's handling Del's estate and there's no easy way to get to the
bottom of things.  Not without something tangible to throw in his
face."

"If Pritchard wrote Cashen a check, you ought to be able to trace the
transaction."

"I thought of that," Margot said.

"In fact, this morning I looked through my cousin's canceled checks for
the past eighteen months and didn't find a single one made out to
Peter."  "There are other ways to screw a client besides taking his
money," Gabe noted.

Margot said, "Like how?"

There was a long silence, then Pug said, "You could take money from the
opposition."

Gabe and Margot solemnly regarded each other.

"Do you think he'd stoop that low?"  she asked.

"I don't think Peter has any lower limits," Gabe replied.

"But something like that would be even harder to prove.  And it would
almost certainly be an off-the-books transaction."

"And we can't be sure Peter ever had personal dealings with Del, let
alone sold him down the river."  "Let me tell you something I learned
dealing with lawyers for forty years," Pug said.

"The weaker your case and the less you know, the more aggressive you've
got to be."

"The best defense is a good offense," Gabe said.

"Well, it's more than that, kid.  When the opposition is complacent and
feeling secure, they don't expect you to be confident and aggressive.

If you've got a hunch, but not a shred of evidence to support it, act
like you do.  Hell, act like you've got the whole thing documented.  If
you happen to hit, they'll let you know by the way they react.  If
you're totally off-base, you'll find that out, too.  Watch the eyes.

It's always in the eyes.  "

"Pug, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were a prosecutor."

"Listen, sonny boy, if you're going to beat somebody in court, you got
to know their job and their case better than they do.  How do you think
I managed to whip those snot-nosed kids in the D.A."  s office all
those years?  "

"I always thought it was because you scared the shit out of them."
"That may have been a factor, but basically it was because I out
thought them.  Now, I don't know Cashen personally, but I understand
he's arrogant.  Already that puts him at a disadvantage.  You've been
seasoned by a little time behind bars," Pug said.

"Taking care of a pantywaist like that shouldn't even be a
challenge."

"You've whet my appetite for battle, Pug, I'll say that."

The crusty old lawyer gave Margot a sly grin.

"You see, sweetheart, even the charming ones will get down and dirty,
if they're man enough, that is."

"I've been known to kick ass a little myself from time to time," she
said.

Cyrus 0"Conner's grin was as wide as Gabe had ever seen it.

"I work in Hollywood now," she explained, "and believe me, those waters
are about as shark-infested as they come."

"So, you're from Hollywood, are you?  No wonder you're so pretty."  Pug
gestured at Gabe with his good hand.

"I got to give it to you, kid.

You're comin' up in the world.  "

Gabe gave Margot a wink.

"Pug's met my ex."

Pug watched them exchange a long, lingering look.

"Seems to me the balance of this meeting you two can handle in private.
Unless, you've got another pressing question, I'm going to finish my
lunch."

"We'll get out of your hair," Gabe said.

Margot addressed Pug.

"Regardless what you say, it's been an honor, Mr.  O'Conner."

"Save the sweet-talk for lover boy, darling.  He's in a better position
to do something about it.  Now go on, get out of here and leave an old
man to his peas."

Gabe gave Pug's shoulder a squeeze, and he and Margot left the room.

"What a wonderful old guy," she said as they went up the hall.

"Pug's a terrific human being.  Underneath the gruff exterior is a
compassionate and caring person.  But I can tell you from experience,
he doesn't brook nonsense from anyone.  If I had half his grit I'd be
unstoppable."  "What you lack in grit, Gabe, you more than make up for
in PR skills," she replied.

He put his arm around her shoulders.

"You're being awfully nice to me today.  To what do I owe these warm
fuzzies?"

"Nothing.  I just appreciate our friendship."

Gabe stopped at the entrance before they went out the door.

"I

appreciate it, too," he said as she turned to face him.  " In fact,
last evening was one of the most enjoyable I've spent in years.  "

"You like sorting credit card statements that much, eh?"

"That was just an excuse to be with you," he said.

"I thought you were earning that retainer," she chided.

"There was a little of that, too."

He smiled and was surprised when a tear spilled from her glistening
eyes and ran down her cheek.

"Hey, what's wrong?"  he asked, wiping away the tear with his thumb.

"Nothing.  Gabe."

"I know nothing when I see it, and I know something when I see it.

What's up?  "

She sighed, looking away.

"Margot?"

She looked up at him, cocking her head to the side uncertainly.

"Friends got to talk," he said.

"Just before I left L.A. I broke off a relationship with a man I'd been
seeing for a long time.  Richard called me at Aunt Harriet's last night
when I was with you.  He called again after I got home.  He was very
upset and said he needed to talk to me."

"Upset because you'd broken up with him?"

"Because I wouldn't marry him."

Gabe was momentarily taken aback.

"Hey, this sounds serious."  "It was a fairly serious relationship. 
But then everything changed when Richard started talking about leaving
his wife for me."

Gabe's brows rose.

"This wasn't just a fling."

"No.  In fact, you'd have thought I'd be thrilled when he said he
wanted to get a divorce so he could marry me," Margot said, wiping her
eyes.

"But just the opposite happened.  To be honest, it scared me."

"Married men are safe."  "I suppose.  And the fear I felt really had
nothing to do with Richard.  It was me."

"I'd say that's pretty insightful."

"So why do you think I thought I loved him?"  she asked, sounding as
though she seriously expected him to have the answer.

"I don't know--because you're supposed to love the people you're
intimate with, maybe?"

Margot contemplated him.

"Men don't think that way for the most part, so why do women?"

Gabe considered that.  After a moment she laughed.  "Why am I asking
you?"  She shook her head.  "A man is more likely to have sex first and
ask questions later."

"Some women are like that, too," he protested.

"Are you speaking from experience, Gabe?"

He looked through the doors at the sun-drenched parking lot.

"I don't know if you can make generalizations about things like
that."

She laughed again.

"You're evading the question, counselor."

Gabe took her arm.

"How about we go rafting?  Chilled wine and a lazy river on a sunny
afternoon.  How better to spend a summer day?"

She gave him a sly grin and they went out into the blistering heat.

Margot put her arm around his waist and he hugged her against him as
they made their way to the Jag.  He was feeling warm and protective
toward her even as he sorted out the implications of what she'd told
him about her married lover.  But his musings were short-lived.  As he
opened the passenger door for Margot, he looked up at the car passing
in the street and gave a double take.  It wasn't the car, a dark-blue
sedan, so much as the driver.  The dark hair, the sunglasses, the flash
of gold chain at the neck, the way he looked their way--Gabe was almost
positive it was the dandy who'd followed him from Dr.

Wilegard's office to Rudy Herman's place the day before.

Gabe closed the door after Margot had slipped in the seat.  He went
around and got in the driver's side as the blue car disappeared up the
street.  He decided not to say anything.  What was the point in
spoiling a perfectly beautiful day?

East Los Angeles

Dakota Jones had a sense for when it was time to move camp.  Maybe it
was something in the blood--the ability to smell danger before it came
over the hill.  In any case, he'd awakened that morning with a feeling
in his gut that he needed a new place to hang his hat.  The smart thing
would probably be to get the hell out of L.

A.

" but he never liked leaving a place with unfinished business, and Dee
Dee Magnin was definitely unfinished business.  But if he stayed, he
had to be smart about it, and part of being smart was listening to your
gut.

First thing that morning Jones had gotten new wheels.  Now he needed a
nice quiet place to stay, someplace where nobody would look for him.

No motel or flophouse, no neighborhood learning with wiseguys, hookers,
snitches and street jockeys.  Instead he needed someplace where guys
fucked their wives instead of whores, and the children went to Catholic
school.  To find a place like that and be discreet about it, Jones
figured he needed help, so he went to see his favorite lay, Juan
Carillo's woman.

Carmen.

The Carillos' house was on an okay street in East L.

A.

When Jones pulled up in front, he saw that the place had been fixed up
some since he'd last been there.  Almost made him wonder if Carmen
wasn't running a string of girls, in addition to peddling her own
Acapuico honey.

Jones went up to the door, glancing at the cactus garden and rosebushes
adorning the front yard.  He rang the bell.  A homely looking Chicana
in a white nurses's outfit answered.  She was no party girl.

"Yeah," Dakota said, "Carmen here?"

"Who should I tell her is here, senor?"

"Dakota."

"Come inside," the girl said.

Jones stepped into the tiled entry, noticing the inside of the place
had been fixed up, as well.  The nurse went up the stairs.  He heard
the sound of a TV coming from the adjoining room and peeked in.  Juan
Carillo was in a hospital bed watching a Mexican game show on a
big-screen TV.  He saw Jones.

"Hey, ca rumba amigo!  What the fuck you doing here, Dakota?"

Jones stepped into the small parlor that had been turned into a
hospital room.

"Juan, long time no see.  How are you?"

"How do I look?"

Jones sort of shrugged.

"Well, you look okay to me."

"Fuck you, too.  I feel how I look."  He lifted his brows
expressively.

"Maybe it's better than the slammer, I don't know.  So why you here?"
"Actually to ask Carmen about a real estate problem I got.  She's got
class.  I thought maybe she could help."

"Carmen can make anything look good--herself, a house, a plate of
beans."

"You're a lucky man, Juan."

"Fuck you, Jones," Carillo said, staring at the TV.

"Yeah, I know what you mean."

They heard Carmen's heels in the tiled entry, and Jones turned in time
to see her appear at the doorway.  Carmen was in a frilly peasant skirt
and blouse, her long dark hair shiny, her tits inviting.  She was a
pretty woman, the kind a man would pay good money to screw, and many
had.  He thought of the way she'd looked on Sunday when she'd stepped
out of the shower naked.

"Dakota Jones," she said, "how long has it been since we've seen
you?"

"Too long," he replied.

There was not a hint of recognition on her face.

"So what brings you to our humble casa?"  "Like I was telling Juan,
here, I got a real estate problem I thought you could help me with."

"If it's business, let's go in the den to talk.  This is Juan's
favorite program," she said, indicating the TV.

"Yeah, fine."  He gave Juan Carillo a thumbs-up.  "

"Hang in there, amigo."

The other lifted a brow.

"What else can I do?"

Jones followed Carmen to a smaller room in the rear of the house.  As
they passed the nurse.  Carmen told her to go look after Juan.  Once in
the den she closed the door and told Jones to sit.  She took the facing
armchair, crossing her shapely legs.

"Funny you come today," she said.

"I got a call about you, not even half an hour ago."

"You got a call about me?  From who?"

"He didn't say, except that he used to be a friend of Juan's.  Maybe
the voice was familiar, maybe it wasn't.  But he said, if I should
happen to see you, I should give you a message.  There is somebody
named Dee Dee who says she wants to meet you anytime and anyplace you
want.  She will be alone and she has, an offer for a million
dollars."

Jones listened impassively.

"No shit."

"That was the message."

He contemplated her, looking for meaning beyond the words.  Carmen was
not the easiest person in the world to read, but he saw nothing
dangerous, no lie, no deception.

"That'sit?"

"That's it."

Jones slowly nodded.

"So, a million," Carmen said.

"You are a very big man, it seems."

"Talk don't mean a thing."

She gave him a knowing smile.

"It didn't sound like a practical joke to me."

Jones ignored her, pondering the message instead.  Dee Dee Magnin had
no way to reach him, so she'd gone to somebody in the business.  Once
before somebody had gotten word to him through Carmen.  This was maybe
two, three years ago.  It was somebody who used to do business with
Juan.  At the time, the fact that Carmen Carillo knew how to reach him
was not a matter of great concern.  But this was different.  If one
person found him that way, so could another.  Like a cop.

"What kind of business do you want to talk about?"  she asked.

"If you wanted to get laid, you wouldn't have come here to the house,"
she said.

"Is it about real estate, or something else?"  "Actually, I knew you
could have a message.  So I came to get it."

She shrugged.  "And I gave you the message.  Is that it, then, or is
there something else I can do for you, Dakota?"

Carmen could be thinking about his cock, but she was probably also
thinking about a million bucks and how a few extra bills might come her
way.

"No, nothing else," he said, getting to his feet.

Carmen got up, too.  She shifted her shoulders a time or two,
displaying her tits.

"You sure?"

Jones reached into his pocket and peeled a couple of hundreds off his
roll.  He stuffed them down the front of her blouse and under the edge
of her bra.  Carmen smiled into his eyes.  His hand still lingering at
her chest, he ran his thumb back and forth over her breast until he
could feel her nipple harden.

"Maybe when things slow down, we can get together," he said.

"That would be nice."

Dakota Jones tweaked her chin, then left the room.  As he passed by the
front room he stuck his head in to say goodbye to Juan.  The nurse was
at his bedside, holding a glass so he could drink from the straw.

Giving a wave, Jones said, "Later, amigo."

"Come back again sometime and we'll have a beer," Juan called after
him.

"Yeah, let's do it."

Jones was out the door.  As he climbed in his car, he looked up and
down the street.  It was almost like he could smell the wolves. 
Carmen, he figured, had played it straight with him, but he realized
now he had a problem-he knew the bitch a little too well.  In the
middle of their conversation, it occurred to him he'd being taking too
great a risk to allow her to know where he was staying.  He'd have to
find a house in a neighborhood with Catholic school kids on his own.

Finding a pad was important, but the message Carmen had given him--this
business about a million bucks--was a whole new enchilada.

Jones was smart enough to know there was truth to the old saw: the
bigger the bait, the bigger the trap.  Dee Dee Magnin was either
desperate to buy him off or to get him before he could get her.  What
the bitch didn't realize was he'd almost rather kill her than take her
money.  Almost.

 The American River

The American River Parkway formed a green belt that gave the sense of
being out in the country, though in fact the city of Sacramento and its
suburbs stretched from the river for miles in all directions.  At
various points houses could easily be seen, especially on the bluffs to
the north.  And along other sections houses were built right on the
river, like in the stretch where Ted Quick's place was located.

Despite the other rafters they encountered, the overall mood on the
river was quiet and peaceful.

Margot and Gabe faced each other from opposite ends of the rubber raft,
having drifted downstream at a leisurely pace for half an hour now.
Gabe had opened the wine and they'd been sipping it slowly but, between
the sun and her empty stomach, Margot was getting tipsy.

She'd borrowed a big floppy hat from her aunt and had lathered herself
with sunscreen.  Gabe, on the other hand, was in trunks and bareheaded,
soaking up the sun, his tanned face and chest perspiring heavily.  He'd
been his charming self--the man she'd gotten to know in the course of
their brief acquaintance--but she sensed his mind was on something
else.  Probably Peter Cashen.  At the moment his paddle lay across his
legs and his hand was draped over the side of the raft, trailing in the
water.

Gabriel Rose was a good-looking guy but, his cleverness and charm
notwithstanding, he wasn't as slick and plastic as most of the men
she'd known in L.

A.

" including Richard, whom she'd considered one of the brighter and more
profound individuals in her circle of intimates.

Oddly enough, the person who Gabe came closest to, in terms of being
real and down to earth, was Otis Oxiey.  Actually, she mused, they both
would have found the comparison rather amusing.  But the fact was, Otis
was a dear friend and Gabe was rapidly becoming one.

There were differences between them, though, apart from the obvious.

She was attracted to Gabe in a way that went beyond sex.  It would be
very easy for her to go to bed with him, but she couldn't decide if
that was what she wanted to do.  The question that nagged her was,
where would it lead?  Not that the question had deterred her when it
was Richard she was getting to know.

But then, maybe that was the point.

"You're thinking about the guy in L.A."  aren't you?  " Gabe said.

The comment caught her by surprise.

"How did you know?"

"The bemused look on your face."

"Oh, you fancy yourself a mind reader, in addition to everything
else."

"I was right, wasn't I?"

"I was thinking about Richard, true.  But I was also thinking about
you, Gabriel Rose."  She took a sip of wine from the plastic glass.

"What do you make of that?"

"I don't know.  You tell me."

She took another sip.

"When I get it figured out, I'll let you know."

"You're a tease, Margot."

She contemplated the remark.

"That's the first time anybody's ever accused me of that."

"Really?"

"Swear to God."

"I'm surprised.  It's such an obvious aspect of your personality."

She poked his bare foot with hers.

"A very ungentlemanly thing to say."

Gabe laughed.

"Are you getting hungry?"  she asked.

"There's a ton of food in the basket."

"I'm sort of enjoying the wine, looking at the scenery and looking at
you."

She allowed herself to be flattered.  "Thanks, but I can tell you've
been thinking about something else, too."

He grinned.  "All this perceptiveness is going to get one of us in
trouble."

"It's Peter, isn't it?"  "Peter, Del, that guy Hamburger down in
Southern California."

Margot drank some more.  "What do you make of it?"

"It's been clear from the beginning Del struck a nerve with someone.

With each passing day, we have a little better idea what he was on
to.

And oddly enough, the part of Del's lament I was most skeptical
about--the conspiracy theory--is not looking so nutty, after all.  " He
drank some wine.

"And, to be perfectly honest, Margot, I'm almost giddy with delight at
the prospect of Peter being somehow mixed up in this, too."

"I bet you are."

"Come on, you can't blame me for that."

"I suppose not."  She tapped her toes against the bottom of his foot.

"So, what do you plan to do?"

"I think I'll pay a call on Peter tomorrow."

"Frontal assault?"

"Yep."

She reflected.

"Don't you think that could be risky?"  "For whom?  Peter or me?"

"Both of you, I guess."

"I'm not worried about me," Gabe said.

"The real question is if he'd agree to see me."

"I suppose I could make the appointment," she volunteered.

"Would you?"

"Sure.  Anything for a friend."

Gabe drained the last of his wine, as did she.  He took the bottle from
the small cooler and refilled both their glasses.

"What about Mr.  Hamburger?"  she asked.

"I've been thinking it might be worth running down to L.A. to have a
chat with good old Marvin.  Maybe another frontal assault."

"When were you thinking of going?"

"I don't know.  Once I've talked to Peter, I don't have anything here
that's pressing.  When are you thinking of returning to L.A.?"

"I haven't made any decisions," she replied.

"The original plan was to be of help to Aunt Harriet, if I could. She's
bearing up well and doesn't seem overly distressed... at least as far
as I can tell.  I think she's anxious about the prospect of Del's cause
dying with him, if you want to know the truth.  She wants justice,
which is why she's been so excited about you."

"I'm humbled."  "At least you care.  Nobody else has been willing to
take up the gauntlet.  I admire that."

"We're a team, Margot.  A pretty damn good one.  How about we go down
to Los Angeles together?"

There was something in the way he said it that made her wonder if he
was just talking about being seat partners on the flight.  In fact,
Gabe's thoughts seemed to run pretty much parallel to hers.  She
wondered if a fling with him would be helpful to her emotional
well-being, or just another problem to contend with.

But then it occurred to her that "if" wasn't so much the issue as
"what."  She had to determine what, at this juncture in her life, she
ought to be looking for.  Until now her focus had been on what to
avoid. For several months she'd been dealing with her discontent
without even realizing it.  And the issue went beyond Richard.  It went
to the heart of who she was and what she wanted.  Strangely enough,
meeting Gabriel Rose had made her question not just him, but herself.

Despite the surprises, the man was comfortable to be with, in tune with
her innermost vibrations like--dare she contemplate the word?  --a soul
mate.  "Or am I being presumptuous?"  he asked, referring to going
together to L.

A.

"No, not at all.  I think I'd like that.  You can stay with me, if you
like."

Her comment caught him unprepared, she could tell.

"Uh, that would be nice."

"I don't have a guest room," she quickly added, "but the sofa is quite
comfortable."

His smile was knowing.

"For a moment there, you had me going."

She gave him her most provocative look.

"I might be a cheap drunk, but I'm not easy, Gabe."

He looked at her for a long time, then said, "I understand that very
well."

She knew he was saying, "I understand you very well."  And he was
right, he did.

"You getting hungry?"  he asked, sensing, probably, that she was ready
to back off.

Margot, who knew she'd pushed things a little too far, was relieved.

"Yes," she said, "I am."  Carefully wedging her glass in a safe place,
she pulled the picnic basket closer to her.

"There's lots to choose from.  Let's see.  Ham and cheese.  Tuna fish.
Oh, and one peanut butter and jelly.  Bet you haven't had one of those
in years."

"am contraire, my dear.  It's Bella's and my staple meal."

"Of course, I should have guessed."

"But I do love my peanut butter," he said, sliding around the periphery
of the raft, his wine in one hand, his paddle in the other.

Once he was right up against her, he set his paddle aside and patted
her leg affectionately.

"Easier to eat sitting on the same side of the table, don't you
think?"

"Who's going to pilot the ship?"

Gabe reached up, took her chin in his hand and said, "Let the damned
thing sail itself."  Then he kissed her on the mouth--long, slow,
sensuously.

She liked it a whole lot.  Probably more than was wise.

West Los Angeles

Late that afternoon Detective Dennis Leahy sat at his desk, idly
leafing through the Steve Magnin file, when his phone rang.  He picked
up the receiver.

"Leahy."

"Dennis, it's Al Hernandez, downtown."

"Al.  Jesus, after all these years, twice in one week.  Don't tell me
you've found another body with a clipping about the Magnins in the
pocket."

"Not quite, but close," Hernandez said.

"Actually, the body is up in Kern County, but we're pretty sure the
deceased is connected to Goblinski and the Sacramento case.  Should
have confirmation soon, but I thought I'd update you."

"I appreciate that, Al."

"You ever talk to your society gal about Goblinski?"  Hernandez asked.
"No, but I was thinking of dropping by her office today.  Why, do you
have something else that's relevant?"

"I tracked down Goblinski's sister in Downey.  This was before I heard
about the body up in Kem.  She wasn't very helpful, didn't know
jack--the usual routine.  But a little while ago I phoned her to tell
her about the Kem body to see if she might have any ideas.  She claimed
she didn't know a thing, clammed up, same as before.  But not twenty
minutes after we talked, I get this call from a woman in East L.A."
name of Ortiz.  She tells me her son, Danny, has been missing, and she
asks me if maybe the body in Kem could be her kid.  I tell her I don't
know, but that I can find out.  So, we talk in Spanish, and I start
asking her about her son.  She's so emotional, it just comes spilling
out of her.  Danny Ortiz is a hard guy, it turns out, basically a
gangster... but a good boy at heart, of course."

"Of course.  You're talking to a mother, Al."  "Right.  Well, you know
the drill.  The long and the short of it is she really don't know what
her son is doing, except that he left L.A.

last week and was supposed to be back Saturday or Sunday at the latest.
I ask her who he was with and she names Goblinski, but doesn't know
more than that.  I ask if it was just the two of them.  Jerry Goblinski
and Danny Ortiz, and she says, no, there was another guy, the boss. 
But she doesn't know his name.  I ask if she doesn't have something
else she can give me and she tells me she thinks maybe the boss is
Indian.  "

"Indian?"

"Yeah, based on some remark she overheard.  I tried to get more, but
that's really all she knew.  Oh, except she did say that when Danny was
a kid, he worked at a motel in East L.A. owned by some Indians or Arabs
or something.  They wore turbans she said.  She didn't know the name of
the people, but couldn't imagine that it was the same folks he's
connected with now because that was years ago.  I thought I'd look into
it, though."

"Interesting, Al."

"Yeah, I've got a call into Sacramento to give them an update, but I
also thought this could be helpful to you, with your case."

"Offhand, I still don't see a connection with the Mag- nins, but who
knows?  Maybe if I hit the missus with the story, I'll learn
something.

Thanks, Al.  "

Leahy hung up, turned to the front page of the file, found Daria
Magnin's work number and dialed.

Beverly Hills

Dee Dee was not concentrating well.  Routine work was beyond her at the
moment.  But she had to maintain her image, project that aura of
infallibility.  There were several key people in the company whose
confidence she needed or they'd start jumping ship.  Once that
happened, it would be over, and everything her father had built would
be lost.

There was a rap on the door and Jon stuck his head in.

"Detective Leahy on line three, Dee Dee."

Leahy.  He was the last person she wished to speak to, but there was
that little matter of her having shot her husband a few nights back
and, while the situation was under control, it hadn't exactly gone
away.  She would have blown Leahy off, but it was important to give
each plate a spin now and then, otherwise the floor would be knee- deep
in broken china.

"Thanks, Jon," she said.

Her administrative assistant ducked out and Dee Dee punched the button
on her phone.

"This is Daria Magnin," she said.

"Mrs.  Magnin, Dennis Leahy, LAPD."  "Yes, detective, what can I do for
you?"

"I was wondering if I could have five, ten minutes of your time."

"When?"

"As soon as possible.  I could be there in twenty minutes."

Dee Dee paused.

"Well, I am very busy, as you can imagine, having been away from the
office.  But if it's brief, I suppose I could speak with you for a few
minutes."

"Hey, that's great.  I'll be right over, then."

She hung up the phone, thinking Leahy was sure to be a pain in the ass.
He didn't have a case and it had to gall him.  Cops didn't like
innocent suspects.

There was another knock.  This time it was Andrew Lincoln.

"Got a minute for an update?"

"Sure."

Lincoln stepped inside, closing the door behind him.  Andrew was a
worrier, which was undoubtedly why the creases on his forehead were so
deep.  But her father always said, "The best employees are the ones who
worry as much about the company as they do about themselves."  Andrew
Lincoln was nothing if he wasn't devoted and loyal.  It also helped
that he was deeply involved in the web her father had spun.

He approached her desk, folding his long body into a visitor's chair.

"How's Demetrius?"

She looked at the gold clock on the corner of her desk.

"As of an hour ago he was resting comfortably."

"Good.  Glad to hear it."

"So, what's up, Andrew?"  "Marvin Hamburger has always dreamed of a
lengthy vacation in the South Pacific," he began.

"I've convinced him this might be a good time to take it.  Marvin
should be out of the country in a couple of days."

"Good.  Any other weak-kneed sisters in the field?"

"No, everybody else seems to be fine.  I personally talked to every
credit manager."

She was pleased.  Andrew Lincoln, like any good executive, anticipated
most problems.  Her father especially liked that about the man.  Dee
Dee understood why, better than ever before.

"A bit of troubling news from Sacramento, however," he said.

"I talked to that first lawyer we dealt with up there."

"Bought off, don't you mean?"

"More accurately, I suppose, yes, bought off.  In any case, he knows
Rose and said we're facing a potentially explosive situation."

"Did he have an opinion on how we might deal with Mr.  Rose?"

"I felt him out on the issue."

"And?"

Andrew Lincoln peered down at his folded hands.  He did not look like a
happy man.

"Forcefully.  That was his recommendation."

Dee Dee reflected.

"You don't think they're in cahoots and jerking us around, do you,
Andrew?  The two lawyers, I mean."

"If so, I'd have expected the advice to have been, " Pay the man off,"
but it wasn't."

Dee Dee nodded.

"You're probably right.  I kind of had a hunch we'd have to resort to
nonremunerative measures this time around."

"We've got to be prepared, just in case whatever measures you take
fail," Lincoln said.

"There's an escape plan in place, as you know.

Destroying critical data could cost us hundreds of thousands of
dollars, but it could also save us unpleasant personal and corporate
consequences.  When do you think we should pull the plug?  "

"Not yet," Dee Dee said.

"I'll know when, but this is not the time."

"I hope you'll be sleeping better the next few nights than I," he
said.

"Try shooting your spouse in self-defense, seeing your father lying in
a hospital bed dying while some maniac prowls the streets looking for
the opportunity to kill you, then talk to me about losing sleep."

Lincoln shook his head.

"I don't know how you do it, Dee Dee."

"Balls, Andrew.  I may not look like it, but I'm my father's son."

Dennis Leahy glanced around at the plush offices as he followed the
male model back through the suite.  If the guy wasn't queer, then maybe
he was screwing Daria Mag- run.  which, come to think of it, could have
been why she shot her husband.  It was a hypothesis worth considering,
though as long as the little evidence he had was neutral or pointed to
self-defense, there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it, whether
it was unjustifiable homicide or not.

As he entered her office, a space that could easily house maybe six or
eight detectives, Daria Magnin was on her feet and coming around a desk
bigger than a lot of fishing boats he'd seen.

"Good afternoon.  Detective Leahy," she said, extending her hand.

"Mrs.  Magnin."

She motioned for him to sit and took the adjacent chair.  He was
glad.

The closer the better.

The woman, though elegant, did look haggard.  For that he was glad.

Recent widows really shouldn't look like they were ready for a night on
the town.  It wasn't respectful of the dead, not to mention the fact it
made claims of rape and self-defense look awfully thin.

"I'll be direct and brief," he said.

"Fine."

"Does the name Jerry Goblinski mean anything to you?"

The woman reflected a moment, then shook her head.

"No, never heard of him."

Leahy saw nothing to indicate she was lying.

"How about Danny Ortiz?"

Daria Magnin shook her head again.

"No, same answer."  "If not those two, then how about the Indian?"

This time Leahy did see something.  A change in her pupils.  She didn't
falter an instant, but he definitely saw a reaction.

"No, Detective Leahy, I'm afraid not."

"Well, that's a shame."

"Who are these people?"  she asked, ever so innocently.

"Criminals, basically.  Dead criminals."

"Oh?"

"Well, two of them, anyway."

There was the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth, but Daria
Magnin said nothing.  Leahy could tell what was on her mind, though.

She very badly wanted to ask, "Which two?"

Carmichael

They both paddled furiously.  Margot reached out, barely managing to
grab the corner of the dock before they drifted past.  Gabe hurried
next to her and grabbed hold of it, too.  They were stretched out, side
by side, clinging to the plat form while the current pulled steadily.
Their faces were just inches apart and when she turned to him,
laughing, Gabe gave her a kiss.

"Unfair!"  she protested.

"But I always take advantage of women in distress," he quipped.

"So I see.  But now what do we do?"

"You put the gear on the dock while I hold on," he said, "then you go
ahead and jump out."

"Think you can hold on by yourself?"

"If you hurry."

Margot didn't hesitate.  She put the picnic basket on Ted's dock, plus
the empty wine bottle, the towels, sun screen, her shoes and hat.  Then
she stepped out of the raft and onto the planks.  As she did, Gabe let
go and the raft moved down the stream.

"I'll probably be back in forty-five minutes or so," he called to her
as he began paddling toward the far bank.

"I'll get cleaned up!"  she called back.

He waved.  She stood on the deck, watching him struggling to get out of
the swifter current and into the relatively gentle waters on the other
side.  The disembarkation point was in Goethe Park, across the river
and a bit downstream from the house.  Gabe would turn in the raft and
ride the bus back to the jump-off point where they'd left the car.

She was eager to get cleaned up after she'd gone into the water to cool
off, swimsuit or no swimsuit.  The water had been deliciously cool and
they'd cavorted like a couple of teenagers.  But when she climbed back
into the raft, she discovered that in her wet T-shirt she'd been as
good as naked.  Gabe had said he didn't mind, and she suspected he
didn't.

Fortunately, she'd had the foresight to bring a change of clothes.

Unfortunately, they hadn't had the foresight to drop them off at the
house.  Everything was in the car.  But Gabe had told her to use one of
the several robes Ted had in the master bath and she could dress when
he got back with the car.

"Guess that means we won't be taking a shower together," he'd teased.

"That's exactly what it means," she'd returned--but with a laugh.

Gabe was clearly ready to consummate the relationship.  Margot had
desires in that direction, but she was holding back out of habit.  And
fear, of course, the warmth of her feelings for him notwithstanding.

The situation was complex.  Being back in Sacramento and sleeping in
the room she'd occupied as a girl may have had something to do with it
as well.  Funny thing, but charming and seductive as Gabe was, he made
her feel oh, virginal, maybe.  It brought to mind a remark an English
professor in college had once made: "Romantic love is above all
pure."

With Richard she'd never felt pure, often quite the opposite.  Surely
this little flirtation she was having with Gabriel Rose, prodigal son
of the Sacramento Bar, wasn't love.  But what was it?

From where she stood on the dock, she could see Gabe had gotten into
shallow enough water that he'd climbed out of the raft and was wading
ashore, dragging the craft behind him.  Turning, he waved to her again
and she waved back.  Then Margot gathered the gear and trudged up the
steps.

Gabe had given her the key to the sliding glass door off the deck.

Unlocking it, she went inside.  After dumping the stuff on the kitchen
counter, she padded barefoot through the house.  Her shorts and T-shirt
were still wet, but the sun had dried them enough that they weren't
dripping.

Thickly carpeted, the master bath was huge, with mirrors on all sides,
the shower enormous.  There were two shower heads Margot quickly
stripped and stepped in the stall, closing the opaque glass door behind
her.

The water felt great.  The shampoo she didn't care for, but beggars
couldn't be choosers.  At least she didn't have to worry about drying
her hair.  With it so short, she could get away with towel drying it.

Minutes later she was rinsing her hair, the water streaming down her
face, when she saw a flicker of motion through the glass.  Freezing,
she looked hard and saw movement again.  It appeared to be in the
bedroom, a figure moving across the doorway.  She couldn't believe Gabe
had gotten back that quickly.

"Gabe?"  she called.

"It that you?"

There was no answer.

"Gabe?"

Still no answer.

She turned off the water and listened.  There was no sound.

"Gabe?  If you're playing games, this isn't funny!"

No reply.  Now her heart really started beating.  Then it occurred to
her--if not Gabe, it was probably that strange little man who was the
friend of the owner of the house, the one Gabe had caught going through
the drawers.

She didn't know what to do.  Probably she'd scared him off.  She
couldn't stand there in the shower stall naked all afternoon, waiting
for Gabe to return.  She carefully pushed open the door.  It made a
low, screeching, metal-on-metal sound.  Her heart tripped again.

She peeked out, but saw nothing.  Opening the door a bit wider, she
grabbed the big fluffy bath towel on the bar next to the shower.  After
hastily drying herself she wrapped the towel around her and stepped
cautiously out of the shower.  For several moments she listened, but
didn't hear a thing.  If it was that little man, perhaps he was gone
now, probably more frightened than she.

But didn't Gabe say he'd taken the key away from him?  Maybe the man
had followed her in the back door.  She couldn't recall whether she'd
locked it or not.  Or he might have had a duplicate key.  Margot crept
toward the door leading to the bedroom.  Peeking out, she saw no one.

Could she have imagined seeing motion?

No, she'd seen it twice.  The second time, it was almost certainly a
figure moving through the bedroom, a person.  Whether she'd scared him
off or not, the adrenaline still raced through her veins.  Cinching the
towel tighter, she decided to have a look out in the hall.

About the time she reached the door, she picked up the distinctive
scent of cologne, something pungent and strong, like Giorgio.  The
source seemed very close.  It was as though the guy were standing right
next to her.

It suddenly occurred to her that she was at the open door and that
somebody could very easily be behind it.  Her pulse was racing so hard
now that she felt faint.  With a force of will, she managed to turn her
head and look through the crack at the hinges.  Seeing an eye staring
back at her, she screamed.

Margot turned to run as the door banged against her shoulder, nearly
knocking her to the floor.  She managed to maintain her balance, but in
the course of the struggle to right herself, the towel came loose and
fell, tangling itself around one leg.  Even so, the terror she felt
propelled her toward the bathroom.  Somehow she made it inside,
slamming the door behind her.

She struggled desperately to turn the lock before the weight of some
big body forced the door open and knocked her across the room.

Incredibly she got the damned thing locked and fell against it, gasping
for breath, trembling, not knowing whether he would try to batter the
door down or simply go away.

When Gabe came up the drive, the first thing he noticed was the front
door of the house was ajar.  He glanced around the yard, but saw no
sign of Margot.  She wasn't strolling about, smelling the roses.  The
door certainly wasn't open for ventilation because it was still much
too hot outside.  He began to worry.

After putting the Jag in the garage, Gabe hurried to the front door and
went inside.

"Margot?"  he called.  He got no response.

Moving quickly through the downstairs rooms, he determined she wasn't
there, though the picnic stuff was on the kitchen counter.  Mounting
the stairs, two at a time, he reached the master suite.  She wasn't in
the bedroom, but there was a wet bath towel on the floor.  The door to
the bath was closed.

"Margot?"

Behind the door he heard a faint voice.

"Gabe?"

"What's the matter?  What are you doing?  The front door was open."

"Is it really you?"  she said with a sob.

"Yes, yes, it's me.  Are you all right?"

"No," she sobbed.

The door opened a crack.  Her tear-streaked face appeared, then the
rest of her, clothed in a terry robe.  The next thing he knew she was
crying in his arms.

"It was so awful," she said.

"I've never been so scared in my life."

With tears flowing she got the story out, her hands shaking, grasping
his.  They sat on the bed, he with his arm around her.

"It was the eye," she said, "seeing that eye only inches away.  Then
him jumping out at me.  I was sure he was going to attack me, but I
made it to the bathroom before he could get me."

"Thank God you weren't hurt."  "Maybe it was a burglar.  He could have
been as scared as me.  He might have run away, but I couldn't make
myself open the door to find out."

"I wonder if it was William, Ted's friend."

"I thought of that, but I don't think so, Gabe.  This guy was much
bigger... at least judging by the height of his eye.  And though I
couldn't really see him, I had the impression of him being dark.  The
eye was dark, I know that."  She shivered.

"And he was wearing Giorgio."

Gabe rubbed her back.  She lay her head on his shoulder.  "I know I
seem like a wimp.  I feel like one.  But it was the way it happened,
that eye looking at me."

"So, all we know the guy was larger than William,

probably dark, and has a preference for distinctive cologne.  "

"And prowling around in people's bedrooms."  "Maybe it was another of
Ted's former lovers," he said, hoping to be reassuring.  What was in
Gabe's mind, though, was the dandy he'd seen outside the nursing home.
He would have bet good money that's who it was.  But why add to
Margot's distress by telling her of his suspicions?

"If so, your friend's friends are certainly bizarre."  "Maybe I should
look around and see if anything's been taken.  It might have been a
garden variety burglary, in which case we probably ought to report it
to the Sheriff's Department."

Gabe got up, but Margot wouldn't let go of his hand.

"I want to come with you," she said.

He had to admit, the role of champion did feel good.  He liked her
clinging to him, though he abhorred what she'd been through.

There was no indication anything had been disturbed or taken from the
master bedroom.  They checked the guest bedroom before going
downstairs. The TV, stereo, art objects, silver and everything else
appeared to be intact and accounted for.  It wasn't until they went
into the great room that he realized what was missing.

"The box of evidence," he said.

"It's gone."

She nodded.

"It was on the coffee table, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"That answers that question."

"The guy wasn't after you," Gabe said.

"Probably you stumbled into the middle of his search."

"We can't be sure it wasn't the same man who killed Del."

"I suppose that's true."

They looked at each other.  Margot, her cheeks streaked with tears,
seemed so childlike and innocent.  He gave her a hug, which she
returned.

"The question is if we report this to the police," he said.  "We
probably should.  On the other hand, it might take more time and
explanation than it's worth.  All we lost are the bank statements--and
we know what was in them.  Plus, we still have the data, including
account numbers and all that, in the files in Del's secret room.  So,
seems to me there's no real harm done... other than scaring the shit
out of me."

Gabe lifted her chin.

"I'll see what I can do about making that up to you."

His comment seemed to cause a slight shift in her mood.

"How would you go about doing that, pray tell?"

For the first time he was aware of the fact she had nothing on under
the robe, considering her change of clothes was in the car.  The notion
excited him, but given her state of mind, she'd hardly be receptive to
a sexual overture.  He opted instead for a lighter response.

"There must be something I can get you," he said.

"Feel like a drink?

Or maybe you'd rather have an aspirin or Pepto-Bismol.  "

She laughed.  It was a good sign.

"I think I'm okay.  I just need to calm down.  Forgive me if I'm a bit
clingy for a while.  You make me feel safe."

"That's the idea."

Margot looked up at him, her smile laced with the kind of admiration
girls reserve for the boys worthy of them.

"I bet you're a good father."

"I guess I do have a knack for wiping away tears."

"Your little girl adores you, doesn't she?"

"I won't deny it, even if it sounds vainglorious to say so.  We've got
something very special, which is remarkable, considering she's not even
three.  I'm sure we'll have our ups and downs over the years, but I'll
always love her to death."

He rubbed a thumb over her cheekbones as he said it, sensing Margot
understood him completely.  Funny thing r was, the empathy seemed to
be running in both directions.  While they were floating down the river
she'd told him in detail about her own tragic childhood.

"Richard has a daughter in college, but I never heard him speak of her
this way."

Gabe chuckled.

"Maybe that is the difference between a young lady of two and a young
lady of twenty."

"I know Richard loves Robin.  I don't doubt that for a moment.  But
your devotion is unique, Gabe."

"To be honest, I've probably been more dependent on Arabella than she
has me.  At times I think she's all that got me through my ordeal...
wanting to survive, needing to survive, for her sake, I mean.  It's an
awesome responsibility having someone's life, their entire future, in
your hands.  I couldn't fail her, Margot.  It keeps me going even
now."

She pressed her head against his chest and Gabe stroked her hair.  His
eyes shimmered as he thought how often he'd tried to explain that to
Mona, and how she'd heard his words without ever understanding their
significance.  Margot and Mona had different experiences as children
and they were very different women.  What he desperately wanted to
believe, though, was that underneath it all, he was the man Margot
admired, not the one his former wife loathed.

When Margot put her arms around his waist and clung even closer, Gabe's
thoughts shifted and he started to get aroused.  Some sort of
distraction was definitely in order if he was to keep this respectful
and chaste.  He may have diverted her thoughts, but her ordeal
certainly wasn't forgotten.

"I don't suppose you'd mind if I got myself a glass of wine?"  he
asked.

"Of course not."

They went into the kitchen and Margot climbed up on one of the bar
stools, watching him as he got a water glass and a bottle' of
Chardonnay from the refrigerator.  Gabe glanced at her as he poured.

"Sure I can't interest you in a small glass?"

She hesitated.

"Maybe a little one."

He got another glass and poured her some wine, as well.  They touched
glasses and he said, "To survival."

"Amen."

They each took a healthy gulp.

"You look like you're going to make it."

She nodded.

"I feel much better.  Once I found out he was after Del's box of
evidence, I started relaxing.  I'm sure the guy--whoever he was--was
just as afraid of me as I was of him."

Happiness was creeping back into her smile, lifting both his spirits
and his desire.  He couldn't help himself; his mind seemed to have a
will of its own.  "You look good in that robe, Margot," he said.

"I feel like I'm wearing a circus tent."

"Is what's under it what I think is under it?"

She gave him a crooked smile.

"Yeah."

Gabe sighed excessively and took another big slug of wine.  She seemed
amused.

"Ten minutes ago I wouldn't have given you a plugged nickel for your
prospects this evening, Gabe, but I'll be honest, my heart is
softening."

"Am I to take that as encouragement?"  "I feel like being held, if that
interests you.  Beyond that I can't make any promises."

"There are no guarantees in life and I've never expected any.  But,
like my old man used to say, you can't get to second base until you get
to first."

"Are we actually talking about sex?"

Gabe shrugged.

"I don't know, are we?"

Before she could answer the doorbell rang.  A momentary look of panic
crossed her face, a sure indication the afternoon's events were far
from forgotten.

"I'll see who that is," he said.

Margot pulled her robe closed tighter at the neck as he left the
kitchen, headed for the front door.

Before throwing it open he took a look out the long full length window
next to it.  It was his nemesis, the Shinto Splinter, Spencer Shimota.
Gabe opened the door.

"Lieutenant, have you come for tea or to make an arrest?"

Shimota half smiled.

"Are those the only choices?"

"You'd know better than I."

"How about we talk?"

"Let me guess," Gabe said, "you lost another suspect."

"You're batting average is impressive, counselor."

"Making you all the more certain I'm at the heart of some sinister
plot."

"I'm sure you're aware detectives don't like coincidences."  "And since
I seem to be a witness to every major crime that's taken place in
Sacramento the last week, I'm either psychic or guilty."

"A plausible theory," Shimota said.

"Then, by all means, come in and let's debate the subject."

Gabe was in shorts and sandals.  He didn't apologize for his
appearance, considering it was the Central Valley and half the
population walked around their homes naked during summer.  He led the
lieutenant back to the great room, surprised to find Margot seated
there with her glass of wine, a bare leg and foot protruding from the
oversize terry robe.

"Margot, my dear," Gabe said, "I believe you know Lieutenant
Shimota."

"Yes, we met at Del's funeral.  Hello, Lieutenant."

Shimota seemed a bit disconcerted by her presence.

"Miss Girard.

Hello.  "

"Sit down.  Spencer," Gabe said, himself dropping down on the sofa next
to Margot.  He wasn't sure why she'd decided to be brazen, but he liked
it.

Shimota sat, looking uneasy.  It was hard to know if it was because he
preferred a private conversation or was troubled at the sight of Margot
cavorting with the enemy.

"Oh," Gabe said, "how thoughtless of me.  Can I offer you a drink?

Wine?  Mineral water?  Fruit juice?  "

Shimota shook his head.

"No, thanks, I'm fine."

"You don't mind Margot being here, I trust.  She's not only a client,
but an advisor and co adventurer She has my full confidence."

"No, I don't mind at all."

"Well, then," Gabe said, "what's the latest?"

"The body of the Hispanic suspect has been found down near Bakersfield
and has been tentatively identified.  His name's Danny Ortiz and he's
from L.A."

"Beginning to sound like a Southern California gang," Gabe observed,
confidently taking Margot's hand.

"First the Polish guy, now Ortiz."

"It's looking that way," Shimota agreed.

"Kind of interesting how the body was connected to our case.  A slip of
paper with your car license number was found in the victim's pocket."

"That would probably be the paper from the Stockton motel notepad."

"That was my assumption and it proved to be true.  We'll be doing blood
sample comparisons to make sure, but I expect Ortiz's blood to match
that found in the black Toyota Corolla and in the street outside
your..."  He hesitated to give emphasis to the next word "girlfriend's
place."

Shimota's enigmatic expression could not hide his villainous intent.

The term girlfriend had been carefully chosen.  But Gabe also saw the
way to deal with it was to ignore it.

"Let's hope so," he said.

"The more we know about your dead suspects, the easier it should be to
find a live one."

"Right," Shimota said.

The lieutenant did not look at Margot, nor did Gabe,

though he sensed she hadn't missed the little barb Shimota had so
skillfully slipped into the conversation.

"But," the detective went on, "that brings me to my next point.  We're
starting to develop clues to the identity of a third suspect."

"And you're hoping he might be my best friend."

"As I recall, you've pretty well taken care of your best friend,
counselor," Shimota said, obviously unable to resist.  He continued
without missing a beat.

"Actually, we've only got the sketchiest idea as to who the suspect
might be.  The thinking, developed from the comments of witnesses in
L.A."  is that the guy might be Hindu or possibly Arab.  No names,
nothing more specific than that.  As you might imagine, there aren't
many viable candidates for an organized crime figure with a Hindu
background.  "

"No, your L.A. gang sounds more like a specialized agency of the U.N.

than a group of professional killers.  "

"I take it the Hindu connection doesn't ring any bells."

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint you yet again," Gabe
said.

Margot, meanwhile, had removed her hand from his.  Gabe didn't
acknowledge he was even aware, focusing his attention on Shimota.

The detective twiddled his thumbs as he leaned forward, his elbows
resting on his knees.

"I don't suppose you have anything you care to share."

Gabe shook his head.

"Not a thing."  He glanced at Margot for the first time.  "Do you have
anything for Lieutenant Shimota?"

She, too, shook her head, her expression a bit more dour than before.

She did not look at him.

"Well, we'll continue to plod along, then," Shimota said.

"The facts keep drifting down like snowflakes, but we still don't have
the breakthrough evidence we need."

"I know I haven't been very helpful until now," Gabe told him, "but I
hope to change that, eventually.  Who knows, Margot and I might even
crack the case for you."

Shimota smiled.

"And I don't mean by confessing, lieutenant," Gabe added.

Spencer Shimota, who was not prone to that sort of thing, actually
laughed.

"That would be worth a case of Scotch, counselor."

"Make it a case of thirty-dollar Chardonnay and you're on."

"It would be my pleasure," Shimota said.  He looked back and forth
between them.

"Well, I've taken enough of your evening.  I'll let you get back to
whatever it is you were doing."  He was on his feet.

"Goodbye, Miss Girard."

"Goodbye."

Shimota went to the door.  Gabe was right behind him.  The detective
paused only to say, "Nice young lady."

"Yes, isn't she?"

They peered briefly into each other's eyes and Spencer Shimota left.

Gabe closed the door and returned to the great room, wondering how much
damage the conversation had done.  He found Margot sitting right where
he'd left her.  One arm was folded across her stomach and in the other
hand she was holding her glass of wine.  She stared straight ahead, a
bit grimly.  A more pointed indication of her displeasure was her
bouncing foot.  He did not sit next to her, choosing instead the sofa
where Shimota had been.

"Gabe," she said, "God knows you owe me nothing, except maybe basic
honesty, but would it be out of line for me to ask what Shimota meant
when he made reference to your girlfriend?"

"Shimota is a shit disturber."

"Then he just made that up?"

"No, he was actually referring to Mona's girlfriend-lifelong friend, as
a matter of fact--a woman by the name of Laurel Seneker."

"Why did he call her your girlfriend, then?"

"Because the evening Del was shot I was at Laurel's apartment.  Mona
had taken the baby there because I'd gotten tied up at work... talking
to Del, as a matter of fact.  Mona had a date that night and left me a
note to pick Arabella up at Laurel's, which I did.

She'd fed the baby and we had a glass of wine and then dinner, talking
about old times.  Christ, I've known Laurel as long as I've known Mona.
"

"Why didn't you object when Shimota called her your girlfriend?"

"He was jabbing me and I didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

Besides, Laurel was my alibi and, being a cop, Shimota hates it when
somebody has an alibi.  "

Margot looked embarrassed.

"That's really all there is to it?"

"That's it."

"Why do you suppose I assumed the worst?"

"Because I'm a man?"

She laughed.

"That's probably as good a reason as any."

He sighed pleasantly, feeling equal measures of relief and guilt.

"How about a little more wine?"

She thought for a moment.

"Okay."

He reached over to get her glass.  Margot took his hand, looking up
into his eyes.

"Gabe, it's not just because you're a man," she said, "it's also
because I was jealous.  I like you and I didn't want to think you had a
girlfriend."

"True?"

"True."

He was happy.  But he also knew the impression he'd given her about
Laurel was a few measures short of the whole truth.

Alhambra

The house he rented was on a nice street of tidy little stucco houses
and big magnolia trees.  It was furnished and even had linen and
dishes. The old woman who owned it had only one admonition"--No wild
parties." Dakota Jones paid cash.  He had to take the place for a
month, even knowing he wasn't likely to be there more than a few days. 
Everything depended on how long it took him to figure out what to do
about Dee Dee Magnin.

He had spent an hour that afternoon sitting in the easy chair in the
tiny front room, watching the neighborhood kids ride up and down the
sidewalk on their bicycles while he thought about his problem.  The
million bucks was definitely designed to get his attention.  The
question was if he could take advantage of the opportunity without too
much risk.  Dee Dee seemed willing to put her body on the line.  In the
end, he decided it just might be worth a shot.

When it got dark, Dakota drove to a Denny's restaurant on East Main and
had dinner.  Afterward, he went to a nearby service station and tried
to call Dee Dee at her place in Bel Air from a pay phone.  All he got
was her answering machine.  Next he tried her old man, Demetrius
Valticos in Beverly Hills.  The maid told him Valticos had suffered a
stroke and was in the hospital.  After some checking around he was able
to determine the old boy was in intensive care at Cedars-Sinai.

Playing a hunch, Dakota called there and asked to speak to Dee Dee
Magnin.  Bingo!  She was visiting her father.

"Explain the million," he said.

There was a stunned silence.

"Jones?"

"What's this about a million?"

She hesitated.

"I can't discuss it over the phone.  We've got to meet."

"Nobody's got a tap on a hospital phone."

"I'm proposing to pay you everything you're owed, plus engage your
services for another job.  The total to you will be a million
dollars."

He considered that, thinking the woman had balls.  "By all rights you
should be dead.  You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, I realize that.  I understand why you're upset.  For what it's
worth, that double cross wasn't my doing.  I was angry when I found out
what they did."

He had to laugh.

"Look, just meet with me," she pleaded.

"Wherever you want.  I'll be vulnerable, completely at your mercy.  If
that doesn't show good faith, I don't know what does."

"I'll think about it.  Which is a hell of a lot more, than you
deserve."

She didn't say anything for a moment.  Then, "Shall I make arrangements
for the money?"

"How many people are we talking?"

"Two."

"That's a lot of risk you're asking."

"A million is a lot of money."

He thought for a minute.

"You going to visit your old man in the morning?"

"Probably."

"What time?"

"I'll be here at eight-thirty."

Dakota Jones hung up the phone.

Carmichael

Margot decided to go to bed with him long before she got tipsy--maybe
even before their trip down the river.  She wasn't sure of the exact
moment she'd made the decision, but it hadn't come out of the blue.

She couldn't even say with certainty it was because of Gabriel Rose
himself, though her feelings about him were special.  Maybe Richard
Hightower had just as much to do with it.  Maybe Gabe served as an
antidote, though she didn't want it to be one of those cases of using
one guy to cleanse her system of another.  It could be as simple as she
needed to be intimate, and Gabe was both desirable and available and
she liked him a whole lot.

They were out on the deck and had finished eating.

She'd downed her fourth glass of wine when she turned to him and said,
"Let's go upstairs and make love."

"Just like that?"

"Gabe, you know that's what we've both been thinking all day.  Haven't
you noticed I've been wearing nothing but a robe the past couple of
hours?"

He put his foot up on the lounge chair she was lying in, his shadowed
face manly and alluring in the moonlight.  He was bare-chested and
barefoot, wearing only shorts and a remarkable grin suggestive of both
awareness and understanding.

"As a matter of fact, I've had trouble thinking about anything else."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I didn't want to rush you, Margot."

"All right.  You're a gentleman.  I acknowledge the fact.  Now let's go
upstairs."

Gabe helped her up out of the chair and she fell against him, half by
accident, half on purpose.  He kissed her, making her feel all gauzy
and soft and desirous.  Then, taking her hand, he led her into the
house but she tripped on the threshold and very nearly fell.  Gabe
caught her, though, saving her from disaster.

"God," she moaned, "a lush and a klutz."

Gabe laughed and picked her up as if she were an eight- year-old,
weighing her in his arms.  "Maybe you could use some help."

This was not something Richard would have done.  Corny as it was, she
liked it.

"Geez," she said as he carried her toward the stairs, "do you do this
with all your dates?"

"No, only the featherweights."

"I don't know whether to be nattered or offended."

"Flattered fits the occasion better, I think," he said as he started up
the stairs.  He was puffing a little by the time they reached the top
and appeared more than ready to put her down when he set her on the
bed.

"Why don't you rest and sober up some, while I grab a shower?"

"Sober up?  Why would I want to do that?"  she said, falling back and
throwing her arms over her head.  In the process her robe slipped
partially open.

"I'd like for you to remember who you were with tonight," he said.

Margot looked up at him, noticing that when she was prone, the room
tended to spin.  Even so, she somehow managed to focus on him.

"Are you making fun of me, Gabriel Rose?"

"Perish the thought."

She decided she liked him a whole lot.

"I bet you're good in the sack, aren't you?"

"I guess you'll just have to wait and find out, won't you, m'lady?"
"You always this sure of yourself?"

Gabe lowered himself over her, suspending his weight with his hands.

"Here's a little something to keep your mind occupied while I'm in the
bathroom."

He kissed her neck, then the top of her chest.  Then he moved the flap
of her robe aside with his chin and kissed her breast, running his
tongue around her nipple, making it hard.

"Mmm," she purred.

Gabe dragged his tongue down the plane of her stomach, forcing her robe
open wider.  Margot moaned, but did grasp her pubis with both hands
before he got that far.

"You understand the principle of foreplay, don't you?"  she said.

"I don't want you to forget me while I'm gone."  He got up from the bed
and went into the shower.

As the bathroom shower door closed, she sighed deeply.  She was glad
she was drunk because it gave her a perfectly good excuse for allowing
this to happen.  But even in her disadvantaged condition, she knew this
was more than just sex and Gabe was more than just a playmate.

Margot closed her eyes and listened to the sound of the running water
in the bath, recalling again the sensation of

Gabe's tongue on her stomach and breasts.  She ran her hand over the
places he'd touched, liking the fact her skin was still moist.

Then, at what was clearly a most inconvenient time, the doorbell
rang.

The sound made her jump until she realized there was no reason for
concern.  If it was the cyclops again--the burglar--he wouldn't be
ringing the bell.  And, anyway, she wasn't about to find out.

When the bell rang again, she called out, "Go away, we gave at the
office!"  Her silliness made her laugh.

Whoever it was, they were persistent.  Once more the bell rang. 
Sobered some by the intrusion, Margot started wondering if perhaps
there was a genuine emergency.  Gabe was clearly in no condition to
find out, so she decided it was up to her.  She staggered downstairs
and toward the door, having the presence of mind to cinch her robe and
run her fingers through her hair.  She wasn't going to open the door
for just anyone, but she could at least look out and see who was
there.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, the bell rang again.  Enough
adrenaline was in her blood now that she felt only half as drunk as
before.  Margot flipped the switch to the porch light, tilted the
plantation shutters on the window next to the door just enough so that
she could peer out.

What she saw was about the last thing she'd have expected.  It was a
woman holding a baby in one arm and carrying what looked like a diaper
bag in the other.  This was just too curious.  Margot opened the
door.

The woman, a busty blonde, seemed most surprised.

"Oh, sorry," she said, giving Margot the once-over, noting her attire,
and her general state of dishabille.  "I must have the wrong house. 
I'm looking for Ted Quick's place."

"This is it, all right," Margot said, slurring her words despite her
best effort.

"But Mr.  Quick's out of town at the moment."

The blonde, who was quite pretty and dressed provocatively in a tank
top and very short shorts, appeared still more surprised.  It was then
Margot noticed she had a bottle of champagne under her arm in addition
to her other burdens.  The woman shifted the toddler on her hip.

"Actually, it's not Mr.  Quick I'm looking for," she said warily, "it's
his lawyer, Gabriel Rose."

"Gabe?  He's upstairs in the shower."  Now it was Margot's turn to be
wary.

"Who are you?"

"I was about to ask you the same question," the woman said, looking
Margot over again.

Then it occurred to her--the baby being the giveaway-that this was
Gabe's ex-wife.

"I'm... well, a friend," Margot stammered.

"And a client, as well."

"Gabe's your lawyer?"

"Yes, what's so surprising about that?"

"Nothing, except I didn't know he'd started taking out his fees in
kind."

Margot closed the flaps of her robe tighter and somehow managed to look
indignant.

"Hey, what's going on?"  It was Gabe descending the stairs.  He had on
a terry robe and was drying his hair with a towel.  When he got to the
door and saw who was on the porch, his jaw dropped.

"Laurel!"

The child in the woman's arms, who'd been silent to this point,
brightened at the sight of Gabe.

"Daddy!  Daddy!"

The woman gave him a tight smile.

"Hello, Gabe.  So busy playing lawyer, I see, you forgot Mona's class.
You were supposed to pick up the baby an hour and a half ago."

"Her class is tomorrow night.  Thursday.  It's always Thursday."

"Well tomorrow she's doing something with the judge and arranged to
attend class tonight.  She said she left messages at your office and
with your landlady."  Laurel's eyes slid over to Margot.

"It appears, however, that you've been working too hard to check your
messages."

Margot saw Gabe roll his eyes.  "Mona showed up at my door breathing
fire and threatening to cut off your balls if she ever sees you again.
In the meantime, she asked if I'd mind delivering your daughter to you
because she didn't have time to drive out here without missing her
entire class."  The woman stepped forward, offering Gabe the baby,
which he took.

"I didn't get the message, Laurel.  It was a mix-up."

"Well," she replied, "a busy man like you forced to deal with clients
well into the night is obviously going to have scheduling problems from
time to time."  She handed the diaper bag and the bottle of champagne
to Margot.  "I assume you aren't working so hard that you can't find
time for a little refreshment.  It's already chilled, by the way."  She
gave them each another tight smile.

"Do enjoy your evening, folks."  With that she turned, went down the
steps and toward the car parked in the drive.

"Thanks, Laurel," he called after her.

"You saved us from disaster yet again."

"Don't be so sure," she said over her shoulder without looking back.

Gabe closed the door and gave Margot a grin that definitely qualified
as shit-eating.  The baby was hugging her father's neck, cooing.

Margot, now quite sober, gave him a look of faux delight.

"That, I take it, was your wife's girlfriend."

"I know it looks bad."

"Bad, Gabe?  That could be the understatement of the decade.  After
all, you're the guy who conveniently forgot to mention that you'd
nearly beat your partner to death and spent the better part of a year
in jail.  Are we dealing with the same kind of mental lapse, or is
there a different explanation this time?"

"It can be explained, as a matter of fact," he said grimly.

"Please don't tell me your wife's friend didn't come here thinking she
was going to get her stomach licked plus whatever other tricks you've
got in your bag, because I'd bet the income from my next three projects
that's exactly what she was expecting."

"I see you want to go right to the execution and skip the trial."

"Under the circumstances that seems the kindest thing to do.  But if
you want to take a shot at wiggling out, please, be my guest."

"Daddy," Arabella complained, "I'm sleepy."

"Okay, honey, how about if Daddy puts you in bed?  There's a nice big
one in the guest room."  Then to Margot he said, "Will you give me a
minute?"

"I'll be dressing, Gabe.  When you're finished, I'd like to go home."

"Because of Bella, that'll be a problem."

"No, it won't," she said sweetly.

"I can take a taxi."

"Can we please just talk?"

She put her hands on her hips.

"You know what the worst part of this is?  The fact that Charles Ames
was right.  You are a con, which makes me feel like an even bigger fool
than I am."

"Hey, who propositioned who?  That's point one.  Point two is, I didn't
lie to you.  Everything I said about Laurel is true.  She's Mona's
friend.  I saw her the other night for the first time in months."

"To play tiddlywinks?"  "Not a thing happened.  She flirted and I
flirted and we joked around, but that's it."

"Give me a break."

"Maybe we kissed, but it was innocent, I swear."  "She brought this
champagne to toast your virtue?"

"She'd wanted to go a little further than I did," he admitted.

"And we talked about getting together later, but I swear"

"Don't bother, counselor.  I don't give a damn whether you laid her or
not.  The point is you lied to me.  Again!"

"I didn't lie.  It's true I didn't volunteer that Laurel wanted to have
sex and I was tempted, but I didn't lie!"

"You're parsing."

"You're making something out of nothing."

Her mouth dropped open.

"It doesn't matter whether you're worthy of my trust and respect?"

"Listen, Margot.  I don't exactly recall that we were engaged at the
time I saw Laurel.  In fact, my recollection is I hadn't even met you
when it happened.  Or is this a case of retroactive sin?"

"Don't give me that unjustly accused routine," she returned.  '
"Lieutenant Shimota called her your girlfriend and after he left you
denied it.  Though I'm beginning to see why you didn't disabuse
Shimota.  He obviously knew the truth and you couldn't dupe him like
you could me, trusting little fool that I am."

"Daddy," Arabella protested, "I'm sleepy."

"Give me three minutes," he said to Margot.

"Three minutes."

"Where are my clothes?"

"Still in the car."

"I'd like them so I can get dressed, if that's not too much trouble."

"Can I put Bella down first?"

"Give me the keys," she said impatiently.

"I'll get them."

"No, let me."

"What's the matter?  Afraid I might run into one of your other
girlfriends out there?"

Gabe was clearly annoyed.

"I'll be right back," he said and headed for the stairs.

Margot paced back and forth, hating the bastard, hating the fact that
she was drunk and probably acting like an idiot.  She was hurt and
jealous and confused and disappointed.  Gabriel Rose really was a
con--of both varieties.

A flimflam artist and a jailbird.  And, worst of all, she'd allowed
herself to be taken in by him.

Starting to feel sick and headachy, she went in and sat in the front
room.  What weakness, what failure of character had gotten her into
this position?  Did sleeping for a night or two in your childhood
bedroom automatically lead to a second adolescence?  How could she have
allowed herself to become involved with a small-time, small town
shyster like Gabriel Rose, let alone permit him to take her for a
ride?

After a minute or so Gabe came back downstairs.  He sat in the chair
across from her, looking grave.

"Are you going to get me my clothes?"  she asked.

"Yes, just let me say this.  I slept with Laurel once years ago before
I married Mona."

"I am not interested in your sex life."

"If you're going to hang me because of it, you at least ought to hear
the facts."

She leaned back, folding her arms across her chest.

"When I went over to Laurel's the other night to pick up Arabella, I
found Laurel between boyfriends and horny.  I hadn't gotten laid since
I got out of jail, so I was tempted.  Hell, it took every ounce of
willpower I had not to go to bed with her."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because of Bella."  "What did your daughter have to do with it?"

"She was there."

Margot recalled his story about his wife and Peter Cashen.  She studied
him, sensing sincerity despite her distrust.

"If Bella hadn't been there, I'd have had sex with Laurel, no question
about it," he confessed.

"I don't profess to be a monk."

She considered that.  "It was before I knew you, Margot.  I had no idea
Laurel was coming over here tonight.  She's barely entered my thoughts
since the moment you stepped off the plane.  The point is, I didn't lie
to you.  I cared what you think of me because of my feelings for
you."

"Don't add insult to injury by making up stories about your feelings
for me, because I don't want to hear them."

"You're the first person I've truly liked, who's mattered to me, since
I met Mona."  "Will you please go get my clothes from the car?"

"And if I wasn't quick to tell you every little detail about Laurel, it
was because I knew how fragile things were between us, and I didn't
want to have to explain something that doesn't matter to me.  I didn't
have sex with Laurel, but if I had, it would have been just sex,
nothing but scratching an itch."

"And if the doorbell hadn't rung tonight, what would be going on
upstairs right now, Gabe?"

"I'd be making love with a woman who'd just ended a long-term
relationship with a man who wants to marry her.  I'd be wondering if
she was going to bed with me because I'm so goddamn irresistible, or
because I'd make a good palliative, a convenient antidote to... what's
his name?"

"Richard."

"Richard."  Gabe drew a long breath, seemingly reaching deep inside
myself.  "If anybody has reason to wonder what's really going on
between us, Margot, it's me, not you."

She stared at him, asking herself if she'd been outfoxed or if he had a
valid point.  Hadn't she thought the very same thing of Richard
herself? Gabriel Rose didn't owe her a damn thing, when you came right
down to it.  And maybe he hadn't exactly lied.  Maybe she'd blown this
out of proportion.  Maybe it was wounded pride and too much wine.

When she didn't say anything, Gabe got up.

"I'll go get your clothes and then I'll call a cab."

She watched him leave, more confused than ever.  What was the truth?

Just as importantly, why didn't she trust her judgment?  How could she
confidently walk out on Richard, then agonize over this guy, a man she
didn't know?  Strange as it seemed, that was exactly what was
happening.

Dee Dee slept in her own bed that night, Steven's ghost be damned.  Joe
Eberhart had three bodyguards at the house--which was ironic,
considering she'd already decided to put her neck on the line with
Dakota Jones.  Using her body as bait, she intended to lure him out to
talk him into taking care of Gabriel Rose and his girlfriend, rather
than killing her.  The question was, which would give Jones greater
satisfaction--a million bucks, or revenge?

Dee Dee hadn't told Eberhart what she'd planned.  Everything was
hanging by a thread.  At any moment their operation could be exposed
and the shit would hit the fan.  If Valticos Financial were to survive,
she had to act quick.  It was yet another burden of being in charge.

Exhausted, she decided to go right to bed.  Of course, it wasn't long
before the phone rang, making her turn back on the light.  Her first
thought was that it would be Dakota Jones.  But it wasn't.  Sid Kem was
on the line.

"I know it's late.  Dee Dee.  I apologize, but some information just
came to me that you should know.  The attorney in Sacramento, Gabriel
Rose, may very well have pieced together documentary evidence of
account manipulation from Pritchard's files.  Our man in Sacramento has
confirmed he's got the data.  If he's convinced he's on to something,
he's bound to take action."

She was not surprised.  It had been coming.  But this did confirm she
didn't have a lot of time.

"The question is if he makes noise privately or in public," she said.

"That is the question, isn't it?"  Sid said.

"As long as he's keeping what he's uncovered to himself and doesn't
involve the police, we have a little breathing room.  I guess what I
should hope for is that his intent is to shake us down.  One thing's
clear--this can't be ignored."

"My job is to keep you informed."

"Thanks."

"Anything I can do for you?"  he asked.

"I need to raise a couple of million dollars as discreetly as
possible."

"A couple of million?"

"I'm sure I'll need some fudge room."

"I'd rather not get into that side of things," he said.

"I understand.  But pulling things together is where I need the help.

The money will probably have to come out of the company coffers, but
just how it's done makes a big difference.  "

"Thank God Valticos Financial is not publicly held."

"Give the matter some thought, will you, Sid?  I'll talk to Andrew in
the morning, so if you have input give me a jingle."

"I will."

Dee Dee hung up, then turned off the light again.  She lay in bed,
staring at the dark ceiling and wondering about Gabriel Rose.  He was a
time bomb ready to explode, no doubt about it.  She needed him taken
care of fast.  The question was, would Dakota Jones turn out to be her
angel of mercy or the angel of death?

Hollywood

Dakota Jones pulled his car over, stopping a few doors from Wcs
Corbin's place.  He turned off the headlights, but didn't immediately
get out, taking a few more minutes to ponder his approach.  Finance was
not his thing.  Killing was.  He knew how to engineer a hit.  But
dealing with money--other than simple cash transactions--was a pain in
the ass.

Dakota was smart enough to know Dee Dee Magnin wouldn't be handing him
a million in cash.  What he needed was a way to handle that much dough,
maybe an offshore bank account.  The trouble was, it involved knowhow,
connections he didn't have.  Wcs Corbin was the best money man he knew
and one of the few people he halfway trusted.  Corbin was a former
client--Dakota had done a hit for him a couple of years earlier--who
specialized in laundering money.  He knew about foreign bank accounts
and all that shit.

Of course, Corbin was no $150 an hour accountant.  He didn't do
anything unless he had a piece of the action, which meant Dakota would
have to bring him in on the deal.  Years ago, when his buddy, Ruben
Lopez, was killed, Dakota promised himself he'd never take on another
partner.  If a job required it, he might hire extra muscle, but no more
partners.  On the other hand, he'd never dealt in seven figures
before.

There just weren't very many human lives worth that much moolah.  If he
was going to do this deal, he'd have to bring somebody in on it, and
Corbin was his best shot.

The funny thing was, Dakota liked the guy, which he couldn't say about
many people.  He'd liked Ruben.  He liked Carmen, even if she was a
whore.  Wcs Corbin was maybe the best client he'd ever had.  After
that, the list was pretty short.

Maybe what he liked about Corbin was that he was different.  The guy
had gotten his start in crime way back in Vietnam in the seventies,
running a black market operation under the cover of a civilian
construction company.  He didn't much look like a criminal, or even the
jeweler he supposedly was.  What he looked like was a Montana rancher,
favoring Western shirts and string ties and lizard- skin cowboy boots
instead of business suits.  Considering Dakota was Indian, a cowboy
type was a strange sort to call friend, but Corbin had his kinky side,
too.  Among other things, he had a thing for Aslan women.  His clerks
at the jewelry store were all Chinese.  And he was married to one of
them.  Once after they'd finished their business, Corbin had taken him
to a whore house in Chinatown so Dakota could find out what it was like
"to really get laid."

Knowing it was getting late, Dakota got out and approached the house.

Considering the kind of scratch Corbin made, he could have lived in a
two-million-dollar pad in West L.

A.

" but he kept to middle-class values and middle-class standards.  There
were plenty of toys inside, but other than the bars on the windows,
Corbin's pad looked ordinary.

Dakota knew Corbin was a night owl and the glow of light coming from
inside indicated they guy was probably awake.  Even so, it took several
minutes for Corbin to come to the door.  He was in a tattered old robe
and had a bottle of beer and a cigar in his hand.  He squinted through
the heavily bared screen, taking several moments to recognize him.

"Dakota Jones!"  Corbin said.

"What the fuck happened to your hair?"

"It's my new look."

"Goddamn.  What are you doing here, man?"  The jew- ler looked past him
at the street, his expression wary.

"I was wondering if we could talk business."

Corbin consulted his watch.

"Christ, it's damned near midnight."

"We're talking a lot of money."

Corbin thought for a moment, then unlocked the door.

"In that case, come in."

Dakota stepped inside and Corbin led him to the adjacent front room.

The light was muted, much of it coming from the huge TV in the
corner.

"Letterman" was on.  A young Chinese woman was lying on the sofa in a
little silk robe and probably not much more.  She sat up, startled at
the sight of a bald Indian sauntering in.

"Why don't you go to bed.  Ling?"  Corbin said.

The woman, giving Dakota a sideward glance, padded out of the room,
Corbin giving her a pat on the fanny as she went by.

He turned to Dakota.

"Ling's one of my wife's cousins."

Dakota nodded and sat in the chair Corbin pointed to.

"Want a beer, partner?"  he asked.

Dakota shook his head.

Corbin finished off the bottle, then stretched out in the recliner he'd
obviously been sitting in.  With the cigar between his teeth, he muted
the TV set, then said, "This being a business call, Dakota, why don't
you get to the point?"

Corbin listened as Dakota explained he was considering doing a job that
could involve a fee running to seven figures and that he needed a way
to handle that kind of money.  "Thought maybe you could help me run it
through some offshore account or something."

"Possibly."  "What would you want for that?"

"You're asking about my fee."

"Yep."

"It'd be steep, I'm afraid."  Corbin took a drag on the cigar.

"How much?"

"Forty percent."

"Forty?"

"You're asking me to become involved in a criminal enterprise over
which I have no control.  But the jail time would be just as unpleasant
as if it were my party, Dakota."

"I'll give you twenty.  All you have to do is take in the money and
hand it over to me at the other end."

"Wire transfer in, cash out?"

"Yeah."

"I'd need to set up a special account."  "How long would it take?"

"A day or two, if it's an emergency."

"It's an emergency," Dakota said.

"Thirty percent, but I can't go lower.  Honestly."

"Okay," Dakota said after a moment or two of reflection.  He figured
Corbin's fee didn't much matter because he was going to make Dee Dee
pay it, anyway.  But he also knew to be taken seriously, he had to
sound like a businessman.

"Deal."

"I don't need to know what sort of service you'll be rendering,
partner," Corbin said, "but I do need an understanding of your
requirements."  "I just need to be able to tell my client how to pay
me, and I need to know the money's there."

"That we can do, no problem."  Corbin drew on his cigar again.

"Sure I can't offer you something to drink?"

Dakota Jones shook his head.

"No, thanks."

Corbin studied him, smiling in the end.

"With that shaved head, you look like a pretty evil dude."

"This whole thing started because somebody tried to stiff me," Dakota
explained.

Corbin nodded.  "As I recall, the mere thought of getting stiffed makes
you grumpy."

"Everybody who's ever tried is dead."

Corbin rolled his cigar between his fingers.

"You are a man with a reputation, I must say."

Dakota and Wcs Corbin both knew what they were talking about--the
importance of his money being there when he was ready to make his
withdrawal.  It was business, but it was also about people keeping
their word.  Dakota hated getting screwed more than anything he could
think of.  No surprise there.  He was Indian.  He knew what it was like
to be lied to and deceived, but he also knew how to make the white man
pay dearly.  Or, in this case, the white woman.

Thursday, July 20

Carmichael

1 hanks to his beloved daughter, Gabe was up and fixing breakfast at
6:00 a. m. " making for a very short and largely sleepless night.

Arabella had awakened at two in the morning, upset at finding herself
in a strange room.  Gabe had ended up bringing her into bed with him
and she'd gone right to sleep.  He hadn't fared so well.  He couldn't
get the irony of what had happened out of his mind--when he awoke in
the morning, his two-year-old would be at his side, not the woman who'd
propositioned him.

Gabe was convinced, though, that if he came out of this with nothing
but Bella, he'd have what mattered most.  Margot Girard was cute as a
bug and he liked her a hell of a lot, but destiny seemed to be giving
him a thumbs- down on their prospects.

When she'd left the night before with her wet clothes in a plastic sack
and her aunt's picnic basket in hand, she'd hardly said much of
anything.

"I'm going to sleep on what's happened," she told him.

"Unfortunately more is at stake than my feelings."

He took that to mean there was Del's murder and his cause to be
considered, but there was no reason to take heart in the allusion.  She
could just as easily been thinking about how much of the retainer she
wanted returned.  No,

he wasn't optimistic.  Maybe this was one dream he had to let go of.

Just after he had Arabella bathed and dressed, Mona called.  Her tone
was icy enough to freeze over the river.

"Shall I bother apologizing?"  he asked.

"Don't waste your time.  But I would like you to meet me at my
attorney's this afternoon, assuming I can get an appointment and you
manage to show up."

"What do you intend to do?"

"Get the custody order changed.  I'm hoping we can work something out
without getting into a pissing match."

"You'd rather no baby-sitter at all than a flaky one.  Is that what
you're saying?"

"I can't go on dealing with someone who is completely unreliable.

Plus, how can I trust you with Arabella?  "

"Mona, I didn't get your message."

"I left it in two places.  What more can I do?  You don't have an
answering machine, a real office or for that matter a real home.

Dealing with you is like dealing with an itinerant laborer.  "" I
wonder why that is, Mona?  Could it be because you and Peter have
everything I owned?  "

"No, it's because you're a god damned psychopath, an irresponsible one
to boot.  Laurel told me you were with a woman and that you were both
drunk.  What kind of babysitter is that?"

Gabe wanted to point out it couldn't be any worse than a mother who
screws her lover while her child plays on the floor next to the bed,
but he decided discretion was the better part of valor.  "The fact of
the matter is, my friend didn't even stay, Mona."

"You say it like you expect a medal."

"Look, I don't question what you and the judge who sentenced me do in
the privacy of your bedroom, so there's no reason for you to question
what I do."

"Armand's and my relationship has absolutely nothing to do with you,"
she snapped.

"He never even called me until long after you went to jail."  "No, if
he hadn't waited for a decent interval, he'd have been disbarred."

"What an outrageous accusation!  I can't believe you have the
gall...."

"Listen, there's nothing to be gained with accusations.  Just keep in
mind the game works both ways.  Last night things got screwed up,
you're right.  I could have checked for messages and I didn't.  But I
don't see any need to make a federal case out of it.  I'll contest any
attempt you make to change the custody order and I can get just as
nasty about it as you.  So spare us both a lot of trouble and accept my
apology."

"I'll let you know when my attorney's available," she replied coldly.

"If you can't make it, then I guess I'll see you in court."  With that,
she hung up the phone, "Shit," he said, replacing the receiver.

Then he glanced over at Arabella, who'd gone to the window and was on
her tippy toes, peering out.  Mona hadn't said a thing about getting
her back.  If he was so damned irresponsible, why wasn't she at the
door with a sheriffs escort to pick her child up?

Gabe dialed Mona's number, figuring he'd better find out what her
expectations were, but she didn't answer.  Either she'd gone out the
door pretty damned quick or, more likely, she was refusing to answer
the phone, knowing what he'd be calling about and glad for the
opportunity to put it to him.  Just what he needed--to drag a
two-and-a- half year old around with him all day.

Wondering if they had another hot day in store, Gabe turned on the
little TV that Ted kept in the kitchen to watch "Daybreak" on Channel
13 where Dewey Hopper did the weather.  There was something about the
combination of Dewey, the weather and the early hours of the morning
that really appealed to him.  Back in the days when he was still a
hotshot, working horrendous hours,

Gabe would get up in the morning, climb on his Stair- Master and watch
the news and weather while he paid his dues for the sake of his
cardiovascular system.

Mona, who was not a morning person, couldn't understand Dewey's
appeal.

"How can anybody be cheerful at this hour?"  she'd once said on a rare
early-morning appearance at the door to the spare bedroom where they
kept his exercise equipment.

"That man makes me want to throw up."

"The guy's great.  Who do you want greeting you at dawn?  Boris
Karioff?"

She'd stared bleary-eyed at the screen while Gabe puffed and Dewey
chirped.

"Dewey Point?"  she'd intoned, reading the graphic where the dew point
was indicated.

"Jesus."

"A morning smile sets the tone for the day," Gabe had replied.  Of
course, he was goading her, as he was wont to do.  He never claimed to
be the saint in their marriage.

But after his fall, Mona got her revenge.  She sold Peter all of Gabe's
exercise equipment, throwing in the exercise room TV for nothing.

Dewey Hopper and Gabriel Rose never again greeted the sun together in
that house.

Ted's TV was more welcoming than Mona's.  Onscreen the show was coming
out of commercial and going to the weather.  After chatting with the
news anchors for couple of moments, Dewey bounced up from the desk and
made his way over to the weather map.  "Looks like another hot one,
boys and girls," he said, doing a slow pirouette across the screen.  '
"Triple digits are forecast all up and down the Central Valley, so keep
that water bottle handy, especially if you'll be spending a lot of time
outside.  And it'll be a good day for a dip in the pool."

Gabe glanced over at Bella, who was tapping on the windowpane with her
finger.

"Swim, Daddy."

He abandoned Dewey and went over and lifted the little tyke into his
arms.  Together they looked out at the river.  Arabella pointed her
finger at the water.

"Swim."

"It's going to be hot enough, sweetheart, that's for sure.  But this is
not the best time to jump in the water.  Daddy's already up the creek
without a paddle.  He's got to work today.  And you 're going to have
to help me.  How about I promote you from heir apparent to legal
secretary?"

Bella threw her arms around his neck and hugged him fiercely, as though
she'd understood.

"Daddy, Daddy," she squealed.

"Come on, short stuff.  Let's you and I go see if we can find us a new
apartment."

Just then the phone rang.  He took the call in the kitchen.

"Gabe, it's Margot."

He was stunned.  So surprised that for a moment he was mute.

"Aren't you speaking to me?"  she asked.

"Well... yes, but I thought you weren't speaking to me."

"That's not a very effective way to deal with one's lawyer."

"You mean I'm not fired?"

"Peter Cashen has agreed to come to Aunt Harriet's in an hour.  If you
want to ambush him, you might want to be here."

Gabe was heartened by the fact that she still wanted him on the case,
but that could have more to do with her sense of obligation to Del than
her feelings for him.  In fact, he was sure of it.

"I very much want to be there," he said, "but I do have one small
problem."

"What's that?"

"Batgirl will be with me, I'm afraid."  "Are we talking about the
blonde with the boobs, or are we talking about your daughter?"

"I'm talking about Bella.  I won't be seeing Laurel again, I'm quite
sure."

"That's too bad.  Last night turned out to be a disaster for you all
around, didn't it?"

"It's okay.  At this point my backside's calloused.  But there's no
question, bad luck definitely knows where to find me."

"Bad luck, Gabe, or bad choices?"

"Maybe a little of both."

"Be here in an hour."

He hung up the phone and gave his baby a kiss.

"Take a tip from your old man, Bella, and stay away from lawyers when
you grow up.  They seem to bring out the worst in a woman.  Either that
or it's me.  What do you think?"

Arabella grabbed his ears and gave them a pull, giggling
hysterically.

"You're right," he said.

"It's me."

Los Angeles

Dee Dee arrived at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center shortly after eight.

She talked to the nurse about her father, looked in on him and, finding
him unchanged, turned her thoughts to the twin problems that had been
weighing on her all night--the crisis at Valticos Financial and Dakota
Jones.

She had already decided to go for it, to play to win it all.  But to do
that, she needed to convince Jones to go along with her.  The question
was if he'd even give her a chance to make her pitch.

Her father's doctor came by, making his rounds.  Dee Dee talked to him
for several minutes, hearing little to give her hope.  Then the nurse
told her she had a call.  Dee Dee excused herself and went to the phone
in the small waiting room where she'd talked to Dakota Jones the night
before.  It was him.

"Go to the southwest corner of Hollywood and Vine tonight at eight," he
said.

"Start walking south and keep walking until you see me.

Follow my instructions.  If I spot anybody watching you, even from two
blocks away, you're dead.  Have fifty thousand dollars in cash with
you, large bills.  Oh, and have two million dollars standing by, ready
to be wired to my overseas account.  "

"Two million?"

"I figure you owe me half a mil for service rendered.  Five hundred
thou more buys your safe return.  And five hundred each for the two you
want aced.  Unless my math's fucked up, that adds up to two mil."

"Mr.  Jones, I want to do business with you, but you've got to be
reasonable."

No response was forthcoming.  She waited, her heart beating faster and
faster.  She was about to blurt out, "All right, two million," when
Jones said, "Okay, a million and a half for the package.  Half up
front, half on delivery of the corpses.  But that's my final offer. You
so much as try to talk me down anymore and you can kiss your sweet ass
goodbye."

"I'll have seven hundred and fifty thousand ready to be sent wherever
you want."

"See you tonight, Dee Dee."

Sacramento

It was a beautiful morning, the blistering heat still a few hours away.
As she waited for Gabe, Margot sat on the porch, enjoying the
pleasantly mild temperature and the smell of the honeysuckle.  The
events of the previous evening had upset her, but the problem went
further than her disappointment with Gabe.  Her own reaction troubled
her, as well.  How could she have gotten so upset?  The guy was a hunk,
so she shouldn't have been surprised that she wasn't the only woman who
found him desirable.  And it was only natural that he'd take advantage
of that from time to time.  What made her think it really mattered? 
Gabe never could have been more to her than a distraction, anyway.

By morning, though, she'd cooled down, finally getting things in
perspective.  It would have been a mistake to let Del's case fall apart
just because Gabriel Rose turned out to be a man of hazy virtue and
uncertain veracity.  And he did seem obsessed with the idea of
vindicating her cousin.  That was all that mattered now.  At least,
she'd convinced herself of that in order to make the call.

Margot did care about getting to the bottom of this.  There was no
ignoring the fact that somebody was worried enough about what she and
Gabe were doing to break in and steal her cousin's box of evidence.

Someone was desperate or paranoid or both.  And she fully intended to
find out which.  So, she'd made some calls to various state agencies
that morning to learn what she could about Sun State Bank.  If she and
Gabe were going to investigate further, possibly even talk to Marvin
Hamburger, they needed to find out everything they could about the
operation.

When Margot saw the Jaguar coming up the street, a twinge of
anticipation went through her.  Gabe obviously had gotten to her more
than she wanted to admit, which explained why she'd been behaving more
like a girl of fifteen than a woman of thirty.  But now that he was
exposed, she felt confident she could handle both him and her feelings.
Allowing a personal relationship to develop had been her mistake.  If
they stayed focused on the case, things would be all right.

Checking her watch, Margot saw that he was twenty minutes early, which
was good because they'd have a chance to talk before Peter arrived.

Gabe didn't park in front of the house, stopping a few doors up the
street instead.  Whether Peter would recognize the car or not, it
seemed like a good idea.

Gabe got his daughter out of the back seat, having strapped her in
well, judging by the time it took to get her out.  As he came up the
sidewalk, the toddler in his arms, Margot went to the head of the
stairs.  Gabe was in a light- brown summer suit and looked handsome.

With the little girl in his arms, it was difficult to see him as
deceptive and pernicious as he sometimes seemed.  To the contrary, his
tenderness with his daughter made him all the more sympathetic.  But
she knew she couldn't allow something like that to soften her
resolve.

"Good morning," she said.

Gabe stopped at the foot of the steps.  He and Arabella peered up at
her.  The two of them made a compelling sight.  Margot admonished
herself to hold firm to her intentions and to see this as strictly
business.

"You look nice," he said simply.

"Very pretty, in fact."

Margot knew the proper response was a perfunctory one, so she thanked
him mechanically, then said, "It's good that you're early.  We need to
talk about how to handle Peter."

Gabe just stood there, not in awe, exactly, but appreciative as he
continued to stare.  She was in a pink linen dress and she did feel
pretty.  And feminine.  But to acknowledge his awareness would be a
mistake.  She wrung her hands momentarily before catching herself.

"Well, come on in and get the baby settled.  I thought maybe Loma could
look after her while we meet with Peter."

"That's what I was hoping, too."

Gabe mounted the stairs, his daughter round-eyed and silent in her
father's arms.  She was in shorts, sandals and a T-shirt that said.

Daddy's Girl on the front.  Margot smiled at the child, taking her
little hand when Gabe got to the top step.

"So, this is Batgirl, is it?"

"Batgirl, Supergirl, you name it."

"Definitely Daddy's Girl," Margot said, brushing Arabella's cheek with
her finger.

The little girl thrust a finger into her mouth and turned away shyly.

Margot chuckled.

"What a little angel."

They stepped inside and she closed the door.  "Believe it or not there
was a box of my childhood toys in a closet upstairs," she said.

"I pulled out my teddy bear and a doll.  They might help keep her
occupied."

"Great."  Gabe stared at Margot a bit sadly.

She looked into his eyes, seeing things she didn't want to see, feeling
things she didn't want to feel.  Before she crumbled, she turned
away.

"Loma and Aunt Harriet are in the sun room," she said.

"Let's get the baby settled."

They found Harriet Pritchard and the maid.  A blanket with the toys was
already on the floor.  Gabe put Arabella down and she immediately
snatched the teddy bear.  Harriet laughed and babbled incoherently, her
tone indicating she was delighted.  Loma got down on the floor with
Bella, who hugged the bear but kept an eye on her father.  After a
couple of minutes, she seemed at ease.

"I think she'll be fine," Gabe said.

"She's an adorable child."

"Obviously, she takes after me."

Margot gave him a look, but resisted further familiarity.

"Maybe we should talk for a few minutes."

They left the sun room without eliciting objection from Arabella.

Loma's cooing in Spanish and English distracted her.  Margot led the
way into the front room.  They sat in matching crushed velvet chairs
that were in surprisingly good condition, considering their age.

"I did some phoning around this morning, to see what I could find out
about Sun State Bank," she said, assuming a businesslike tone.

"I

thought it might be nice to know who the principals are, that sort of
thing.  "

"Good thinking."  "Made some interesting discoveries, Gabe.  Sun State
is owned by a bank holding company called Valticos Financial,
headquartered in Beverly Hills.  And guess what?  Valticos also owns a
number of other financial institutions around the country, including
Dixie Southern."

"No kidding."

"Makes you think there could be something to Del's conspiracy
theory."

Gabe nodded, watching her.

"Funny thing, though," Margot said.

"The name Val- ticos Financial is familiar to me, but I don't know why.
Seems I've heard it mentioned recently, but I don't know in what
context."

"Maybe you've got an account with them that just got bumped to thirty
percent."

She laughed.

"Yeah, that must be it."

"Could be you saw it in some of Del's papers."

"Possibly, but I don't think so.  It doesn't seem like it was that
recent.  Anyway, I decided to see what I could find out about them. One
of my financial backers happens to be an investment banker in L.A. I
called Todd and asked what he could tell me about Valticos Financial.

Ironically, he'd just gotten back the night before from a two week trip
to Greece.  He wasn't terribly familiar with the company, but he did
know that it was privately held.  The principal is a guy by the name of
Demetrius Valticos, a Greek immigrant who'd come to this country as a
child.  He's elderly now, but developed a reputation over the years of
being a free-swinging, scorch-and-bum type businessman.  "

"Meaning?"

"I guess he runs close to the edge.  Todd thought the old boy'd gotten
himself in trouble with the regulators on a few occasions.  During the
eighties, when the Republicans opened up the banking industry, Valticos
apparently took every advantage he could.  Since his company was
privately held, Valticos could wheel and deal more easily than most of
his competitors."

Gabe stroked his chin.

"Sounds to me like the sort of guy who just might have found your
cousin a pain in the ass."

"I've been thinking the same thing."

"When we're in L.A. it might be interesting to call on Mr.  Valticos,"
Gabe said.

She blanched at the comment.  He seemed to notice.

"Or is the trip off?"  Then he added, "Dumb question.  Of course it's
off."

Margot shifted uncomfortably.

"Maybe after Peter leaves we can discuss how we want to proceed."

Gabe lowered his eyes contritely and Margot felt badly.  What was it
about this man that made her want to hug him one minute and bop him in
the nose the next?

"So," she said, "how do you think we should handle Peter?"

"I think we use the Pug O'Conner method--we come out swinging."

"Figuratively speaking, of course."

Gabe gave her a wink.

"Of course."

"I'll let you take the lead."

"Peter will be ever so grateful."

They heard footsteps on the porch then and the doorbell ring.  They
looked at each other.

"May the best man win," Gabe said, rubbing his palms together
eagerly.

Margot nodded.  She hoped this was a good idea, but it was too late for
second thoughts.

"I'll let him in," she said.

Gabe watched her go, his eyes sweeping appreciatively over her
attractive little figure.  He'd come hoping there wouldn't be hostility
between them and was pleased things were turning out to be more than
civil.  Even so, there was no cause for optimism.  Better he be
resigned and allow developments to surprise him, if that's what fate
had in mind.

But the immediate problem was Peter Cashen.  Hearing his former
partner's voice in the entry, Gabe steeled himself.  This would be
their first encounter of consequence since Peter had exacted his
revenge in court.  Though this wasn't about them, he knew there would
be no avoiding the past.

"I've taken the liberty of asking my attorney to sit in,"

Margot was saying to Peter a moment before the two of them appeared at
the entrance to the sitting room.  "I hope you don't mind."

Peter looked into the room and, upon seeing Gabe, he stopped short.

His expression darkened.

"Hi, Peter," Gabe said.

"Come on in and make yourself at home."

"What's going on here?"  Peter was clearly not happy.

"Margot, if this is your idea of a joke, I'm not amused."

"What's the matter, sport?"  Gabe said.

"You aren't afraid, are you?"

"Afraid of what?"

"The truth about your relationship with Margot's cousin."

Peter looked back and forth between them.  He was angry.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"If I'm not mistaken, you used that line when I caught you stealing
from me."

"Is that what this is about?"

"No," Gabe said, getting to his feet, "let's just call it evidence of a
pattern of behavior.  Objection overruled."

"Very funny."

Gabe sauntered over to where Peter and Margot stood at the entrance to
the room.  Peter tensed noticeably.  The two of them looked into each
other's eyes, each swelling his chest a bit.  Margot shifted
nervously.

"There is serious business to discuss," she said.

"Don't worry, Margot," Gabe said.

"I've exacted my pound of flesh, and Peter's exacted his.  The only
question now is if his failures of character will cost him or if he'll
continue skating on thin ice."

"You're worse than a bad joke, Gabe," Peter said.

"And damned lucky to be walking the streets."

"After what you did to Del, you'll be lucky to practice law, let alone
continue enjoying your freedom."

"If we're talking about criminality, I acknowledge I'm talking to an
expert."

"I do have a knack for stepping on bugs, Peter, old buddy.  But I
haven't sold a client down the river yet.  That seems to be your area
of expertise."

Peter Cashen smiled sardonically.

"Is this an exercise in name-calling, or do you have something
meaningful to say?"  "Del came to you with a good case, and you used
him to your own advantage, a clear violation of the Code of Ethics, not
to mention criminal law.  Would you care to explain yourself?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The words were unequivocal, but not the tone.  Peter was obviously
shaken.

"Fortunately, Del kept records of his activities," Gabe continued, "but
he didn't fully understand how you screwed him.  We, on the other hand,
have a much better idea."

"This is a crock of shit," Peter Cashen said angrily.

"I resent this, Margot.  And I consider it underhanded."  Then he
turned to Gabe, stabbing his finger in his direction.

"If you're going to throw around accusations, Mr.  Pillar of Virtue,
you'd better come up with something specific, or keep your god damned
mouth closed."

"You sold out your client."

"Is that right?  To whom?"

Gabe had come.  this far, he decided he might as well go all the way.

"Valticos Financial, who else?"

Peter was momentarily stunned, but quickly recovered.  Even so, his
neck turned red.

"This is ridiculous," he blustered.

"I refuse to be a part of your silly game."  To Margot he said, "You've
let this sonovabitch corrupt you.  And believe me, you'll regret it
before this is over.  I feel sorry for you both."  With that, he turned
and stomped out of the house.

Margot looked a bit bewildered.

"What do you make of that?"

"I think we hit a nerve."

"He was definitely unhappy."  "More than that.  Did you see his eyes
when I mentioned Valticos?"

"I saw him turn red."

"Yes, but his eyes changed.  And there was also something he didn't
do.

Did you notice?  "

She thought for a moment.

"Well, he didn't exactly deny it."

"Exactly."  "But maybe he was just so offended by the accusation he
didn't bother."

"If I just said to you, I know for certain you'd conspired with Jerry
Goblinski to murder Del, what would you say?"

"Who's Jerry Goblinski?"

"Right," Gabe said.

"Shouldn't Peter have asked who or what Valticos Financial was?"

"He might have known."

"Also bad.  I think the bastard is up to his ears in this thing.  And
after this little charade, I have a hunch he might have blood on his
hands, as well."

Margot looked surprised.

"You don't think he was in on Del's murder, surely."

"I'm not saying that, but I'll give you odds he's on speaking terms
with the people who are.  I don't know about you, but I'd put Demetrius
Valticos at the top of the list of coconspirators."

"That's quite an accusation."

"More like a working hypothesis.  But don't you think it would be
interesting to see Mr.  Valticos's reaction to some hard questions?"

"Sounds like you still want to go to L.A.," she said.  "The more
important question is, do you?"

Margot bit her lip as she toed the hardwood floor.  She seemed torn,
but also unhappy.  Gabe realized he'd pushed too hard.

"It isn't essential that we both go," he said.

"I'm under a retainer.

I'll take care of it myself.  "

"I was planning on flying home this evening, anyway.  I've accomplished
what I came here to do."

"So, what are you saying, Margot?"

He saw her fighting with herself.  Gabe resisted the temptation to
touch her.

"I have two tickets," she said.

"One is for you."

He was elated, but for her sake refused to let it show.

"That was very considerate of you."

"Flight's at seven-thirty," she said.

"What time would you have to pick me up?"

"Six ought to do it."

"What will you do with Arabella?"

"Track down Mona, I guess, and beg her to take me off the hook."

Margot shook her head.  "I hope I never become an ex- wife."

"You don't fit the image, I must say.  To be honest, though, I'm not
sure how you've avoided being a first wife."

"It's the one sure way never to become an ex-wife."  Cocking her head
delightfully, she then said, "Shall we go see how your daughter is
doing?"

Detective Al Hernandez had a feeling he'd never turn up a Hindu hit
man.  It just didn't ring true.  So he went back to see Jerry
Goblinski's sister, sure she knew more than she'd told him.

Jean Trigo lived in a run-down rancher near Los Pad- rinos Juvenile
Hall.  The houses had mostly one-car garages, which meant there were
lots of campers, pickup trucks, trailers and boats parked at the curb
or in the driveways.  Some of the homes were well maintained with green
lawns and flower beds.  The Trigo place, among the worst on the block,
had a front yard of dirt and poorly mowed weeds.  An ancient wreck of a
car was sitting on blocks in the driveway.  The old man next door who
was hand- watering his perfect lawn probably wanted to fire bomb the
place.  Hernandez could hardly blame him.

The detective knew from earlier visits that Trigo was a divorcee, that
she had a couple of teenagers and a smaller kid.  He also knew that her
brother gave her money fairly regularly and that she was bitter about
his death, not only because he was her brother, but also because it had
cost her financially.

Hernandez knocked on the front door, recalling from his last visit that
the bell wasn't working.  Jean Trigo answered, looking much like she
had before--dumpy in an oversize shirt and shorts.  She was heavy and
her ankles were covered with sores, possibly infected insect bites. 
Her short brown hair looked clean, but style less

"Oh, the cops again," she moaned, seeing it was Her- nandez.

"Haven't I suffered enough?"

"Don't you want to see your brother's killer brought to justice?"

"I don't know who killed him and it wouldn't do me any good if I
did."

"I won't take up much of your time, Jean.  Just a few questions."

"So what are they?"

"Could I come in?"

She did not look enthusiastic, but she allowed him into her cramped
front room occupied by a German Shepherd, a tabby cat and her youngest,
a chubby kid who she immediately sent off to his room.

"Sit down, officer," she said lethargically.

Hernandez, under the eyes of the dog, sat on the sofa after pushing
aside a small pile of clean laundry.  She sat at the table to one side
of the room, as far away as she could get.

"When Jerry stayed over, he slept right there on the sofa where you're
sitting," she said wistfully.

"You know, I still can't believe he's dead."

"Losing family's tough."

"Tell me about it," she said, shaking her head.

"I'm pretty well down to my kids now, and they're mostly a pain in the
ass.  So, what are your questions?"

"I've found out a little more about Jerry's buddy."

"Oh?"

"He's Indian.  That strike a familiar chord?"

Jean Trigo hesitated an instant, then shook her head.

"No."

Hernandez could tell she was lying.

"Come on, Jean, I know it does.

This could be the guy that put a bullet in Jerry's head, and quite
possibly the one who killed Danny Ortiz, too.  "

"I wouldn't know."

"But you can give me the name.  I know you can."

"Why should I go throwing around names of people when I don't know
nothing?  That's a good way to piss people off.  What would I get out
of it except a broken head?"

Now Hernandez was certain.

"Nobody has to know where I got the name."

"You offering around-the-clock protection, too?"

"I can be very discreet."

"Yeah, sure."  She picked up a pack of cigarettes, drew out a smoke
with her lips and lit it, using the lighter on the table.  She exhaled
toward the ceiling.

Hernandez could tell she was wavering.

"Danny Ortiz's mother gave me everything she had, but she was old and
Danny never talked to her," Hernandez said.

"At least not about this."

"What makes you think Jerry said something to me?"

"You and your brother were close."

"It's true I practically raised him, but why should he tell me about
his friends?"

"Because he did, Jean.  I can see it in your eyes.  Jerry trusted
you."

"Yeah, and now he's dead, ain't he?"  "I want to bring his killer to
justice.  All I need is a little help."

The woman took another deep drag and stared up at the ceiling like the
answer to her dilemma might be written up there.  She drummed her
fingers on the tabletop.

"Okay," she said after a minute.

"Dakota Jones.  That's the guy's name.

But that's all I'm saying because it's all I know.  And unless you want
the county raising my kids, you didn't hear the name from me.  "

"Did you say Dakota Jones?"  He wasn't sure he heard her right.

"Yeah.  Know him?"

Hernandez shook his head.

"What kind of name is that?"

"Indian, I guess.  They all aren't named Sitting Bull, you know."

He shook his head again, smiling.

"Of course, why didn't that occur to me?"

"Huh?"

"Oh, nothing," he said.

"Dakota Jones.  Is that his real name?"

"How the hell should I know?  Jerry called him that.  And I don't know
a damned thing more, except that the guy is the meanest sonovabitch to
walk the earth according to my brother.  Swear to God, that's it,
though."

"You've been helpful, Jean, I appreciate it."

"Yeah, well, do me a favor and forget you've been here, all right?"

"Don't worry, I'm going to put this guy away."

"It can't be too soon."

Beverly Hills

When Andrew Lincoln walked into her office, Dee Dee expected him to say
the police were in the reception with a warrant for her arrest.  The
expression on his face was that gloomy.

"It's bad news," she said.

"I can tell."

"I just had a call from Cashen, Dee Dee."

"Cashen?"

"The attorney in Sacramento we bought off."  "Yes, of course.  And?"

"He met with Gabriel Rose and the woman this morning," Lincoln said,
dropping into a chair.

"They sort of ambushed him, to hear him tell it.  Cashen couldn't say
just what they know because they weren't specific.  He thinks it was a
fishing expedition, but the point is Valticos Financial was mentioned.
In other words, they're closing in on us."

"Shit.  Then it's only a matter of time before they go to the cops."

"Cashen's got contacts in the Sacramento force.  First thing he did was
call to see if Rose has been talking to them.  The impression he got
was that Rose is playing solitaire."

"Along with his girlfriend," Dee Dee said.

"Yes.  It's a stroke of luck."

"Seems to me we're at a crossroads, Andrew.  I've got plans for the
guy, but the question is if I can put them into effect in time."

"I suppose we can dangle money in front of his nose," Lincoln said.

"But at the rate we're going, it won't be long before half the
California bar is on our payroll."

"Yes, we've got to put a stop to it."  She checked her watch.

"It'll be several hours before I can take my next step.  I guess all we
can do is hope this guy.  Rose, wants to play hero a little too
much."

"I've completely run out of ideas," Lincoln said.  "The main thing for
you to do is keep our own people in line.  I'll worry about Rose and
the woman."

"Right," he said, lifting his long body from the chair.

Dee Dee watched him leave.  She was starting to feel like the boat was
filling faster than she could bail.  Her father used to say that was
when people made mistakes-when they felt trapped and overwhelmed.

She had to keep a cool head and stay tough.

Her intercom line buzzed.  She picked up the phone.

"Detective Leahy here to see you," Jon told her.

"Christ," she said, realizing her resolve was being tested right up
front.

"All right, send him in."

A few moments later Dennis Leahy stood at her door, looking phlegmatic
as ever.

"Thanks for seeing me on short notice."

"I don't believe there was any notice.  Detective."

He half grinned.

"You know what I mean."

She went around her desk and met him at the seating group.  Leahy
didn't wait for her to invite him to sit.  Dee Dee was no sooner seated
when the detective said, "Dakota Jones."

Dee Dee did her best to appear nonplussed, though her stomach all but
did a flip.

"Is this a pop quiz or what?"

"Thought you might recognize the name."

"Cartoon character?"

"No, the guy's a hit man.  A professional killer.  We're in the process
of connecting him with a couple of recent homicides, including Jerry
Goblinski."

"That name is familiar," she said.

"He's your fan, the guy with the clipping about your case in his
pocket."

"Oh, that's right, the dead man I'm supposed to know because of a
newspaper clipping."

"Might sound like minutia to you, Mrs.  Magnin, but it's bits and
pieces that make a case."

"What, exactly, is the case.  Detective Leahy?  You've got me
thoroughly confused."

"Can I be direct?"  he asked.

"Certainly."

"I think you know more about these people than you've let on, and it
puzzles me."

"Oh, I think I'm beginning to understand.  This is a game of
intimidation.  You know I shot my husband in selfdefense, so, having
nothing there, you're trying to connect me with dead criminals, using
any excuse you can find.  Anything to justify the taxpayers paying your
salary."

"You're getting a little personal there, aren't you, Mrs.  Magnin?"
"Personal?  You accuse me of lying or withholding information or
whatever, and you say I'm getting personal?"

"When I was here the other day and mentioned an Indian, you knew who I
was talking about.  Like I say, I find all this very puzzling."

"Well, you know what, detective, you're just going to have to figure it
out with the help of my attorney, because I'm not dealing with you
anymore.  Unless you intend to arrest me, I suggest you stay away from
me.  And if you do make an arrest without cause, God help you."

He smiled.

"I can work this case either way... with your cooperation or without
it."

"It's going to be without it, then.  I'm afraid you'll have to
leave."

Leahy stood and, nodding politely, left her office.  Dee Dee sat very
still for a minute, then got up, went into her private bath and threw
up.

The Great Central Valley

Notwithstanding his uneasy feelings about Arabella, Gabe was glad to be
winging his way to L.

A.

Margot had assumed the demeanor and mind-set of a nun, restricting
conversation to their case and harmless small talk.  Since they'd been
airborne, she'd occupied herself reading a script, which he suspected
was an excuse to shield herself from intimate conversation.  Gabe used
the time to fret over his daughter, who Mona seemed willing to turn
into a political football.

The scene at Mona's lawyer's office that afternoon had been unpleasant.
Delta Willoughby, a fat feminist with bull doglike tenacity, knew that,
legally speaking, Mona's current complaint was a waste of time.  But it
did give her a billing hour and it was good for general harassment
purposes.  Delta was not one to shrink from inflicting pain on any man.
In her book, male suffering was a worthy objective, irrespective of the
sufficiency of the claim involved.  She knew the psychic satisfaction
of her clients was as important as the financial settlements she
brokered. Probably the most galling thing about Delta was the way she
seemed to enjoy her work.

Rather than screw around, Gabe decided to cut to the chase.

"As you know.  Delta," he'd told her, "my tank is empty, but I can
probably scrape together enough bucks to settle this.  How about we
fine me five hundred bucks and leave things status quo ante?"

Delta and Mona conferred, countering at a thousand.  They settled for
seven-fifty, even though it meant trimming the budget for his new
apartment.  On his way out the door he'd said to Mona, "Rather than
make a promise I can't keep, I won't commit to taking Bella this
weekend. I'm going to be in L.A. on business and don't know when I'll
be getting back."

"But I've got plans for the weekend," she'd protested.

"Fifteen minutes ago your position was you never wanted me to see my
daughter again.  What's the deal?  Am I Simon Legree or Mary
Poppins?"

She'd glared.

"It's not the end of the world.  The Swingin' Armenian can probably get
it up, even if there is a kid in the house.  All I ask is that you
leave her in her room."

"Fuck you, Gabe."

"Sorry, but I had to get something for my seven-fifty."

"Why don't you leave, Mr.  Rose, while you still have your balls,"
Delta had said.

And so he'd excused himself and went on to his next ordeal--getting
Angela Little Deer to sign off on an out- of-town trip.  They'd
conferred by phone.

"What's the purpose of the trip, Gabriel?"

"I'm doing a five-million dollar deal with a Columbia drug lord and he
hates the weather in Sacramento.  It was either meet in L.A. or
Bogota.

I figured you'd more likely goforL.

A.

"

"Very funny," she'd said.

"I should say no and let you twist in the wind."

"Angela, you take this probation supervision business much too
seriously.  Allow a little humor into your life."

"My, but aren't you in high spirits this afternoon?  Is it that woman I
saw you with?  Are you in love, Gabriel?"  "Would you go easier on me
if I said yes?"

"Maybe."

"Then yes, Angela, I'm in love."

The funny thing was, the notion wasn't such a stretch.  Over the past
few days he'd been thinking about love more than he had in the previous
ten years.  Maybe it was testimony to Margot's virtue, or maybe it grew
out of his need, or maybe it was a combination of both.

Just thinking about Margot made him feel warm inside and he rolled his
head toward her.  He could smell her perfume.  It made him want to bite
her neck--or maybe lick it.  He studied her profile, liking the
delicate turn of her nose.

"Are there any nice cheap motels anywhere near your place?"  he
asked.

Margot put down her script.

"Depends on what you consider cheap."

"Well, seeing as that's sounding ominous, how about freeway overpasses
with large cardboard boxes?  A bathroom's not important."

Margot shook her head, but couldn't help a chuckle.

"I

previously mentioned the possibility of you sleeping on my guest couch
and you're wondering if the offer is still open.  Isn't that the point
of your question?  "

"Knowing how tenuous my position is, Margot, I didn't want to be
presumptuous."

"I've been thinking about the issue, to be honest."

"I know the reasons for your doubts," he said.

"Maybe we should focus on the positives.  The benefits to me are
obvious, but let's find some for you."

"This I want to hear."

He said, "Well, I don't snore, but I could be useful in the event of a
burglary."

"That's true of a lot of dogs, Gabe."

"Yes, but I also do dishes and I'm capable of intelligent
conversation."

The corners of her mouth bent and she slowly shook her head.  "What if
I spring for the motel room?"

"Then you lose all the benefits."

"And spare myself the negatives."

"Ami that scary?"

"I don't trust you," she said.

"Have I ever hurt you?"

"You've disappointed me."

"I may be inept, Margot, and shit does follow me around, but my
intentions are always good."

"Are they?"

"Bet I care more for you than your recently departed boyfriend."

She raised her brows at the remark.

"What makes you say that?"

"He was just using you."

"The last time Richard and I spoke, he asked me to marry him."  "Yeah,
I know, but what happened was, you bruised his ego and he's feeling
insecure."

"But your ego is irrelevant, is that what you're saying?"

"No.  It's simple, really.  I've been thinking about it and I realize I
haven't been so happy in years as I've been over the past few days.  I
can only attribute it to you.  It doesn't even matter particularly that
we didn't sleep together the other night.  The fact that you thought
poorly of me was the deepest cut.  And the fact that you've given me a
glimmer of hope has left me... well, elated."

"At a certain level, I know it's a mistake letting you into my life any
more than you already are," she said.

"I hung on to Richard when I shouldn't have.  Maybe I have a problem
with strays, I don't know."

"All I can say is, I don't bite."

She laughed and touched her cheek.

"But enough melodrama," he said.

"Read your script and I'll formulate a plan of attack on Marvin
Hamburger and Demetrius Valticos.  We can resume negotiations when we
land."

Taking a chance, Gabe put his hand on hers.  He only left it there for
a moment or two, but the important thing was she didn't flinch and she
didn't pull away.

Hollywood

Dee Dee took a taxi to the corner of Hollywood and Vine.  As she
stepped onto the curb, she glanced around.  A small group of kids
nearby were laughing and smoking.  There were several tourists and one
dingy street person wearing an army jacket and stocking cap despite the
warm temperature.  He was the only one who paid attention to her,
giving her a silly grin.  Dee Dee ignored him and began walking south
down Vine, as Dakota Jones had instructed.

She was in a yellow blouse, yellow linen pants with a white belt and
white sandals.  She carried her purse and a small duffel bag stuffed
with hundred-dollar bills, amounting to fifty thousand in all.  Dee Dee
was so nervous that the palms of her hands were wet and she had to keep
switching the bag from side to side to keep the handle from slipping
from her grasp.  It hadn't taken a warning from Joe Eberhart to tell
her that she was taking a very great risk.  A lamb to slaughter were
his words.

She really had less of a choice than Eberhart imagined.  Oh, she could
have flushed her father's company down the drain and run for cover, but
who knows how serious Jones was about killing her?  After living in an
armed camp for five years, would she be able to start going shopping
and eating in restaurants again?  Or, would she have to wait ten years?
What kind of life was that?  No, she'd been right from the beginning.
Pay the man and take her chances.  The trouble was, she couldn't be
sure Jones wouldn't take the bird in hand--kill her and pocket the
fifty thousand.  He'd probably done hits for far less than that.

But Dee Dee had decided to gamble that the satisfaction of snuffing her
wouldn't equal the promise of a million and a half dollars.  There was
a chance he'd dismissed her offer as a trap, but she was counting on
the man having a taste for risk, in addition to greed.

Dee Dee knew her father wouldn't approve of what she was doing, so it
was just as well he was in no condition to protest.  But she also knew
that in her shoes he'd do the same thing.  It was very different seeing
a loved one risk her neck than to take a chance with your own.  Her
whole life she'd dreamed of doubling the size of the empire and making
Valticos Financial the largest privately held financial institution in
the country.  To realize that dream, she had to take chances.

After a block, there was no sign of Dakota Jones.  Dee Dee glanced
behind her to make sure he wasn't there--or worse, some of Eberhart's
men.  She'd warned him not to take it upon himself to play hero.  If
she'd miscalculated, she only had herself to blame.  It was her
father's interference last time that had got her into the situation she
was in now.  They also would have gotten off much cheaper.

Dee Dee crossed Selma.  There were no familiar faces rruncane 301

in sight, though there was a short guy in a Filipino shirt half a block
back.  After another block, she was beginning to wonder if maybe the
Indian wasn't using this as a test run, maybe watching her from afar,
just to see if she was playing it straight.  If killing her was his
goal, she'd already given him ample opportunity.  Even if this turned
out to be no more than a stroll through Hollywood, maybe she was
gaining trust.  The problem was, she suddenly had to go to the
bathroom. It was just nerves, but that didn't make it any less
urgent.

After crossing Sunset, Dee Dee checked behind her again.  The Filipino
shirt was gone, for which she was grateful, but then she noticed him
across the street and behind her.  She didn't think he was one
ofEberhart's guys.  Maybe he was nobody.

Continuing to trudge along, she began wondering if Jones was going to
make her walk all the way to Long Beach.  Maybe the bastard was a
sadist.  Maybe he wanted her to get a bad case of blisters before he
gunned her down.

Another block of walking with no Indian on the horizon and Dee Dee
started getting annoyed.  Plus, her bladder was getting progressively
more distressed.  She considered looking for someplace where she could
make a pit stop.  Surely Jones wouldn't regard that a breach of
trust.

Checking again, the Filipino shirt was nowhere to be seen.  That was a
relief.  But it wasn't like the streets were empty.  The only
suspicious presence was a youngish guy in a polo shirt, also half a
block back.

When she gave him an extra long look, he stopped and peered in a
window.  Dee Dee couldn't decide if that meant anything.

In the next block she saw a bar ahead and decided she'd go in, whether
Jones liked it or not.  But as she approached a parking lot on the near
side of the bar, a car pulled across the sidewalk, stopping dead in
front of her.  The driver, a bald man, wore sunglasses, despite the
hour.  He grinned at her and said, "Hi, Dee Dee, why don't you go
around to the passenger side and hop in?"

Until he spoke she hadn't realized it was Jones.  He looked so
different.  And it happened so quickly and unexpectedly that she
froze.

"Come on," he said sharply, "I don't have all day."

Gathering herself.  Dee Dee went around the vehicle and opened the
door. Looking in, she saw he had a gun in the hand lying on his lap.

Her heart choked.

"If I wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead," he said, somehow
managing to sound reassuring.

"Put the bag and your purse on the floor and get in."

Dee Dee did as she was told.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," he said.

"One false move and I shoot, so don't even try to pick your nose.  I
remember the stunt you pulled last time."

"Last time you kidnapped me.  All I was trying to do was defend
myself."

Jones checked for oncoming traffic and punched the accelerator.  The
car lurched into the street.  He turned the wheel with one hand, while
holding the gun in the other.

"Yeah, well, this is a kidnapping, too.  Only it's a consensual
kidnapping.  Know what the difference is?"  He looked at her.

"Huh?"

She shook her head.

"One big word."  He laughed.

"Get it?"

Dee Dee smiled weakly.  She was too nervous to banter with him.  To
speak at all took most of her willpower.

"Where are we going?"

"I thought we'd drive around for a while and see if we grow a tail."

Dee Dee sensed he was thinking about money rather than killing.

There's something in a person's voice that's different when they're in
a dealing frame of mind.  She'd learned that from her father.  That
heartened her.  It seemed she had Jones pegged, after all.  But she had
an immediate problem--her bladder.

She said, "So, can we discuss business?"

"Sure, but first open the glove compartment."

rruncane juj

"Why?"

"Just do it."

Dee Dee did as she was told.  Inside was a pair of handcuffs.  She
looked at Jones.

"Attach one bracelet to your left wrist," he said.

"What are you going to do?"

"Just do what I tell you," he said angrily.

She had a terrible feeling of dread but she complied.

"Now what?"

"Attach the other bracelet to the door handle."

"What?"

"You heard me.  I don't want you fucking with me like you did last
time."

"Okay, fine, but could I ask a favor, first?"

Jones snorted derisively.

"You want a favor?"

"Yes, I need to use the ladies' room."

He shot her a glance.

"Is that a fact?"

"Yes."

"Well, you didn't plan ahead, did you?"

"Look, you aren't going to be an asshole, are you?"  "Lady, I am an
asshole.  Now put the cuff on the door handle."

Groaning, she reached her arm across her body and attached the free
bracelet to the door handle.  Having to twist that way only made her
problem more urgent.

They drove around randomly for about ten minutes, going one direction
for a couple of blocks, doubling back after a few quick turns, then
heading off another way.  Jones, who'd watched the rearview mirror
closely, appeared to relax after a while.

"Well, seems like you played it straight this time," he said.  "Can we
talk business then?"

"I assume you got the fifty Gs in the bag."

"Yes."

Jones turned off the boulevard they were on and went down a side
street.  The area was residential.  He pulled over and looked for a
long moment into the rearview mirror.

Finally, he reached over, took the bag and unzipped it.  He peered
inside, then felt around with his hand.

"So far,.  so good," he said, closing it and tossing it into the back
seat.

"Okay, who do you want aced?"

"Gabriel Rose, a lawyer in Sacramento, and Del Prit- chard's cousin, a
woman named Margot Girard.  I found out this evening just before
leaving the office that the two of them boarded a flight for L.A. at
seven-thirty.  So, you won't even have to leave town to earn your
seven-fifty."

"Isn't that convenient, though."

"I've arranged for someone to follow them from the airport, so you'll
be able to locate them easily."

"My, but aren't you the picture of efficiency."

"I want this job done, Mr.  Jones, and I want it done quickly.  That's
the reason I'm willing to pay a ridiculous amount of money.  But I've
also got to pee.  So can we please go to a service station or
something?"

"You know, Dee Dee, that somehow doesn't ring true.  I don't believe
you."

"What can I do to convince you, pee in the goddamn seat?"

"You're a lady, you can hold it for twenty minutes."

"Twenty?  What harm will it do to let me go to the bathroom?"

Jones put the car in gear and moved smartly up the street, ignoring her
plea.

"Jesus Christ."  She was in pain now.  What started out as discomfort
was becoming quite urgent.  Jones headed east on Melrose, then jumped
onto the Hollywood Freeway.

"You're going to make me wait, aren't you?"

"Told you I was an asshole."

She muttered to herself, hating the bastard.  Even knowing she was
probably fortunate to be alive, she was still in misery.  Nor did it
help when they reached the San Her nardino Freeway interchange and
headed east.  Dee Dee had visions of them driving to Palm Springs or
some damned place.

"Are we almost there?"  she moaned.

Jones laughed.

"You sound like a god damned kid."

"I really am going to pee in the seat."

"It'll only be a few more minutes."

They exited when they reached Alhambra and Dee Dee took heart, though
she couldn't imagine why he was driving clear out here.  "Are you going
to at least tell me where we're going?"

"You'll find out when we get there."

It occurred to her that he still planned to kill her and was simply
finding a more suitable location to put a bullet in her head.  But,
because of her problem, it was hard to find the energy to worry about
it.

Soon they were on a quiet, innocuous residential street.  After a
block, Jones pulled into a drive that ran along the side of a little
bungalow to a detached garage.  She didn't bother asking what next.

Jones took a key to the handcuffs from his pocket and handed it to
her.

"Unlock the cuff on the door, then hand me back the key."

Dee Dee complied.

"Now hand me your purse."

She took it from the floor and gave it to him.  He looked inside,
probably to make sure she didn't have a weapon, then handed it back.

Jones got out of the car, took the bag of money from the back seat, and
came around to the passenger side.  He opened the door.

"Get out."

She did.  Jones took her by the arm and they went to the back door of
the little house.

"I trust this place has a toilet," she said as he unlocked the door.

"Yeah, and just to show you I'm a prince, I'll even let you use it."

"What a guy."

They went through the surprisingly clean kitchen and into a short
hallway.  Jones pointed to a door.

"That's the can.  But leave the door open."

"What?"

"I said, leave the goddamn door open."

There was anger in his voice.  Dee Dee wasn't about to argue.  She
raced to the toilet, which, unfortunately, faced the door, peeled down
her pants and dropped onto the seat.  Finally able to let go, she let
out an audible sigh.  Relief.  Heaven.

Jones was gentleman enough not to stand there, but he did walk back and
forth past the doorway a couple of times, half glancing in.  When Dee
Dee had her pants up and flushed the toilet, he reappeared.  She
ignored him, washing her hands in the freestanding basin, the handcuffs
that dangled from her wrist banging on the porcelain.  Then she turned
to face him.

"Okay, I've played the game your way, Mr.  Jones.  I've been
cooperative.  But if I'm going to authorize a transfer of funds to your
offshore account, I'd like a little consideration.  Let's transact our
business and then I'd like to leave."

"I'm afraid that's going to be a problem.  Dee Dee."  "What do you
mean?"

"You're not going anywhere until there's a million five in my offshore
account."

"What?"

"I think you heard me."

"But our deal was half up front and half on delivery."

"That's right.  But since I don't trust you, I'm going to keep your
body as collateral.  First thing in the morning, you transfer the first
half.  Then, after I've whacked Rose and the lady, you'll transfer the
second half."

"You're going to keep me here until after you've killed Rose?"

"Sad, but true."

"But that wasn't our deal."

"Figure it this way, Dee Dee.  You've been kidnapped and I'm holding
you for ransom."  He chuckled.

"You forgot I'm an Indian.  I know what it's like to get fucked over.
But I also know how to keep it from happening again."

"Oh, shit."

Venice

As they rode in the taxi from LAX to her place, Margot's insides were
in turmoil.  She knew women who actually liked this stage of a new
relationship"--the strutting and preening stage," as her college
roommate, Caroline Webber, called it--but Margot found it
nerve-racking.  She'd either push a guy away or rush into sex, just to
get the scary, unknown part behind her.  The approach she chose was
usually the former, but with Richard, it had been the latter.  She'd
propositioned him the night he'd gotten back from that trip to New
York.  The sex hadn't been great, but the way she looked at it, the
first time was over with and she was free to focus on the future.

Things later were better because of it.

Gabe had been quiet the past few minutes, making her wonder if he, too,
was suffering from uncertainty.  All she'd committed to was letting him
sleep on her sofa, but he had to know there were other possibilities.

"You spend much time at the beach?"  he asked, rolling down the window
a bit to get some of the ocean air.

"You'd think so, considering I live a block away, but I really don't.

Sometimes in the evening I'll take a walk along the beach, just to
clear my lungs and my head.  I'm not a sun worshiper.  "

"I know how that is," Gabe said.

"I've lived right on the edge of the Sierra for years and have never
once gone skiing."

The taxi turned down Margot's street and stopped in front of her
place.

"This is it," she said.

They got out and, while Gabe unloaded their bags, she paid the
driver.

As the taxi pulled away, Margot noticed Otis Oxiey seated on his stoop
next door.  She could tell he was smoking one of his cigars by the
glowing red dot in front of his face--that, and the fact she could
smell it.  She suspected he also had a bottle of malt liquor in his
hand.

"That you, Mama?"  Otis called before she could speak.

"Yes, it's me, Otis.  Home again."

He stood and sauntered toward them.  It was only a few steps.  As
usual, he was in one of his muscle shirts, shorts and flip-flops.  He
carried the cigar in his hand, his white teeth like the grill of a Mack
truck.

"Got company, I see."

Margot introduced the men.  Otis checked Gabe out, then offered his
hand.  The degree of his approval or disapproval was difficult to
tell.

He quickly turned his attention back to her.

"Seems like there's all kinds of peoples who wants to keep company with
you, honey."

"What do you mean?"  "There was some candy ass honky hangin' around
here today, watchin' your place.  Pardon my French, Mr.  Rose," he said
as an aside.  "Anyway, I seen him sittin' in his car and then he got
out and walked back an forth a couple times, lookin' like he was tryin'
to figure out if you was home.  He took off, though, before I could
grab him by the neck.  And then there's that guy up the street watchin'
us now.  Don't go tumin' around and gawkin' 'cause you'll just tip him
off.  The motherfucker come around the corner right behind your taxi
and, when he seen it stop, he pulled over and turned off his lights."

Margot felt a clutch of fear and had to fight herself to keep from
turning around and looking up the street.

"Soon as you folks goes inside, I'll take me a little stroll up the
street and find out what he doin'."  Otis beamed.

"So, you stayin' long, Mr.  Rose?"

Margot and Gabe exchanged glances.

"No," Gabe said, "not long."

"Don't mean to stick my nose in places it don' belong," Otis said.

"It's just I sort of like to know if Margot is goin' to have a man's
protection or if I'll be needin' to sleep with one eye open."

"Oh.  Well, I ... uh..."

"I'll let you know if I feel I'm in danger, Otis," Margot
interjected.

"I very much appreciate your concern."

"Shit, you know me, honey.  The guys in the white hats, they ain't all
white.  No offense, Mr.  Rose."

"None taken."

Otis beamed.

"Now you two go on inside, and I'll see what we got up the street in
that car."

Gabe picked up the cases and Margot led the way to her door.  She
unlocked it and they went inside.  She turned on some lights, closed
the door and turned the dead bolt.  The woeful sigh she gave was
spontaneous.

"Trouble seems to have followed us from Sacramento," Gabe said, putting
down the cases.

"Or was waiting for us here."

He smiled in a reassuring way.  "By all indications you have a pretty
effective Neighborhood Watch program."

"Otis is my guardian angel.  And he's a doll."

"More like a middle linebacker, I'd say."

"But quite gentle with his friends."

"That would be the group I'd opt for," Gabe said.

"But I'm not so sure he sees me that way."

Margot laughed.  "Well, he is protective of me, I have to admit.  Otis
positively hates Richard.  Calls him Mr.  Highfalootin'."

"Otis can't be all bad then," Gabe said, chuckling.

"You don't even know Richard."

"I know enough."

She gave him a look.  The jealousy she heard in his voice pleased her,
though there was no reason why it should.  She looked toward the door,
her anxiety returning.

"Now I'm sorry we didn't grab a bite on the way here, after all.  The
thought of going out again to pick something up gives me the
willies."

Gabe, who'd been very cautious and discreet all afternoon, stepped
toward her, taking her hands.

"You don't have to go out, Margot.  I will.  Besides, if somebody is
following us, they're undoubtedly after me."

"That's a good idea.  You go out and get yourself shot or mugged so I
don't have to worry."

"You'd care?"

"Of course I'd care," she said with unmistakable disapproval.  "The
level of trust I feel and my willingness to sleep with you--or lack
thereof--has nothing to do with my concern for your welfare."

"I feel better."

"I'm not a bitch, Gabe."

"I know you aren't.  That happens to be a subspecies I'm very familiar
with."

The remark made her laugh, but a knock at the door brought her up
short.

"I'll get it," he said.

Gabe opened the door.  It was Otis.

"Mother fucker took off, same as the one this afternoon," he said,
looking past Gabe at her.

"Don't think it was the same guy, but then white folks all looks
alike."  His grin nearly reached his ears.

"Just kiddin'.  Listen, you two kids be careful now, hear?"

"Thank you, Otis," Margot said, moving to the door.

"As always, you're a wonderful neighbor."

"Ain't nothin'.  Mama.  But to be safe maybe I sleep with an eye open
just the same."

"I'm sure we'll be fine."

"Yeah, I'm not as soft as I look," Gabe volunteered, "What you do, Mr.
Rose, if you don' mind me asking' ?"

"I'm a lawyer."

rruncane 3/1

"Oh, shit."

"But I've done jail time, too," Gabe added, his mouth bending into a
quirky smile.

Otis shook his head.

"All due respect, Mr.  Rose, but I think you's fucked up two different
ways."

"You're not alone."

To Margot, Otis said, "Well, I guess you know what you's doin'" "I
do."

"All right then.  Good night."

Otis took his leave.  Gabe closed the door and faced her.

"Think I qualify as one of Mr.  Oxiey's friends?"  he asked.

Margot shook her head.

"No," Gabe said, "I suppose I don't."

Canoga Park

Dennis Leahy sat in his favorite chair, his feet propped up on the
ottoman.  Across the small den, images of Dodger Stadium nickered on
the TV screen.  He watched with heavily hooded eyes, the intermittent
action keeping him from falling asleep.  Leahy did enjoy his evenings
at home. There was nothing like a belly full of corned beef, a beer at
his elbow and a game on the tube.

His wife, Mary, was in the kitchen talking on the phone to her
sister.

He could only hear bits and snatches of the conversation, but they were
discussing their children--that and their mother's health were the
usual topics of conversation.  For several minutes Mary had been
lamenting the fact that Laura, their youngest and the last still in the
nest, wanted a tattoo.

"I don't care if it's only an inch long," Mary complained, "she'll have
it forever.  Why can't kids think past next Saturday night?"

It had been a topic of conversation at dinner and Laura had ended up
leaving the table in tears.

"Why won't you let me live my own life?  It's my body!"

"When you're earning a living and filling your stomach with bread you
buy," he'd told his daughter, "then you can put anything you want on
your butt."  That was the remark that had sent her running from the
table.  "Besides, if it's on your butt, who'll ever see it?"  he'd
called after her.

Laura had stuck her head back in the door.

"I will!"

Mary had gone to Laura's room to mediate and Leahy had retired to the
den to watch his game.  After four kids, he should have known that
parenting with the mentality of a cop was about as practical as trying
to talk a street junky into visiting Betty Ford.  Fortunately, Mary had
never had aspirations outside the home.  She'd been a full-time mother
beginning ten months after their wedding.  Leahy's contribution had
been taking his sons to ball games and getting the family to mass with
some regularity.

His attention was drawn back to the game when the Dodgers loaded the
bases, but then Mary, whose timing was always impeccable, called to him
from the kitchen.

"Dennis, it's your office."

Leahy got up from his chair, un kinking his body, and ambled into the
other room.  Mary handed him the phone, obviously annoyed that her
conversation had been interrupted.  One ironclad rule of the household
was official calls for him took precedence over everything.

"Leahy," he said, taking the phone.

"It's Page," came the detective's voice.

"Got some good news and some bad news," he said.

"The Magnin woman took a cab to Hollywood this evening.  Got out on the
corner of Hollywood and Vine.  Started walking south on Vine.  We had
two men following her on foot.  A few blocks down she gets in a car
driven by a male.  They took off and, before we could bring up a car,
they were gone."

"Get an ID on the car?"

"Description and partial plate.  We're working on it."

"How about the guy?"

"Bald.  Sunglasses.  Thirties.  Possibly Hispanic.  Possibly Native
American."  "Dakota Jones?"

"We think maybe so."

"It would be nice to have picked the sonovabitch up, but I do find the
fact that the Magnin woman is playing footsie with him to be
interesting."

"We thought you'd like to know."

"Let's pick her up."

"Check."

Leahy hung up the phone.  His wife was taking the dishes out of the
washer and putting them away.

"The phone's all yours, honey."

She nodded.  He could tell she was unhappy.  He went over and put his
arms around her.

"What's the matter?  Is it Laura?"

"Yes.  I think you should go in and talk to her."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Tell her you love her."

Leahy always found such advice--which he'd heard often over the
years--alien to his being.  But his wife had certain insights he didn't
have.  Sometimes it was best just to do it and not ask why.  The
Dodgers were beckoning, but Dennis Leahy headed toward his daughter's
room.

Alhambra

Dakota Jones sat in the front room of his rented house, staring at the
wall across from him.  The sound of the TV in the second bedroom where
Dee Dee Magnin was handcuffed to the bed annoyed him, but he was
causing her enough discomfort that he didn't want her bored on top of
everything else.

So far his plan was working to perfection, even though Dee Dee wasn't
the patsy he'd thought she'd be.  She'd built in a few safeguards of
her own.  First, she'd arranged things with her bank enabling her to
authorize the transfer of up to $750 thousand by phone, but the second
seven- fifty could not be transferred by her without the concurrence of
her executive vice-president, which he was instructed not to give
unless and until he'd confirmed that Gabriel Rose and Margot Girard
were dead.  And to ensure the job was actually done as agreed, her man
would not accept a change of instructions unless Dee Dee gave it to him
face-to-face.

Which meant Dakota couldn't put a gun to her head and get the funds
without doing the deed.

Of course, he could always take the first half and walk away, but three
quarters of a million for pulling the trigger twice was the easiest
money he'd ever make, aside maybe from what he'd be collecting in the
morning.  And he did have Dee Dee chained to a bed and in no position
to change her mind.  So, in a sense, they had each other by the
balls.

"Mr.  Jones!"  she called from the other room.

It was the third time she'd called him in the last half hour.  Dakota
got up from the chair and made his way to the second bedroom where Dee
Dee Magnin sat propped on the bed, each wrist handcuffed to the corners
of the wrought iron headboard.  When he'd first shackled her, she'd
looked at him with round eyes, certain he was going to take advantage
of her helplessness and rape her or something.  He saw no point in
using something like that against her because he was a businessman, not
a sick sonovabitoh.  And besides, he wanted her cooperation, not her
body. The woman wasn't bad-looking, true, but she wasn't his type. 
Once he had his dough, he could buy a lifetime supply of pussy, if
that's what he chose to do, and it wouldn't make a dent in his
wallet.

Seeing him at the door, she said, "I'm sorry to bother you again, but I
dropped the remote control and if I have to watch this show for five
more minutes, I'm going to vomit."

Dakota went around the bed and, finding the remote control on the
floor, picked it up.  The first two times she'd wanted to change
channels he'd come in to do it for her.  Finally he realized it was
easier to put the remote in her hand.  But now she'd dropped it.

"It would be a lot easier if you'd just trust me," she said.

"No, it would be a lot easier if you wouldn't drop the damned thing."
"Have you ever been handcuffed to a bed and tried to use a remote
control?"

"No, I'm not dumb enough to get myself in that situation," he said
dryly.

"Very funny."  "Hey, remember which one of us is the kidnapee here, Dee
Dee.  Just because I'm treating you good, doesn't mean I want lip."

She managed to look contrite.

"I'm sorry."

He was about to put the remote in her hand when he heard shouting
outside.  Dakota quickly hit the mute button and listened.  Again, he
heard the plaintive sound.

"What's that?"

"Sounds like a kid crying to me."

Listening closely, Dakota realized she was right.  He went and peeked
out the blind.  There were a couple of little girls playing in the
neighboring yard.

"Yeah," he said.

"Kids."

"So, are you going to give me the remote or not?"  Dee Dee said.

"Okay, but I've got a question.  When were you supposed to find out
where Rose and the Girard woman are?"

"I was hoping to find out as soon as I got home, but seeing as I'm
handcuffed to this bed, that's going to be a little difficult, isn't
it?"

"Can you call somebody and find out?"

Dee Dee thought.

"Possibly."

"Then let's do it."

"Should I also mention I won't be coming home tonight, so that people
don't start filing missing person's reports?"

"I guess it wouldn't hurt."

Dakota got one of the pirated cell phones he'd bought, and a pad and
pencil, then removed the handcuffs.  He gave her the phone.

"I don't have to tell you to watch what you say."

"No."

"Who are you calling?"

"Andrew Lincoln, my Number Two."

Dee Dee dialed a number and, when she'd finished, Dakota took the phone
from her.  He listened to it ring.  A woman answered.

"Is this the Lincoln residence?"  he asked.

"Yes."  "Put Andrew on, will you?"

"Who's calling?"

"Dee Dee Magnin wants to talk to him."

"One moment please."

He heard the woman on the other end calling, "Andrew, it's for you!

It's Mrs.  Magnin.  "

Satisfied, Dakota handed the phone back to Dee Dee.

"When you're through, tell him not to send the posse."

Dee Dee listened for a moment, then said, "Andrew, it's me.  Do you
have an address yet for those two people?"

Dakota watched her jot something on the pad.

Then she said, "Would you do me a favor?  Call Joe Eberhart and tell
him I'm okay, but that I might not be back for a while.  This is
proving to be more complicated than I expected.... Thanks, Andrew."

She disconnected the call and handed Dakota the phone and the slip of
paper.

He looked at the paper.

"Venice," he said.

"Will you kill them now?"

Dakota smiled.

"Jesus, you are in a rush, aren't you?"

"As a matter of fact, I am."

Venice

They split the pint of pistachio ice cream he'd gotten up at the corner
grocery when he'd gone to get the falafels for their dinner.

"What's this?"  Margot had said when she'd unpacked the grocery bag
earlier.

"Do you think I'm too skinny, too?"

"Who says you're too skinny?"  he'd asked.

"Richard."

"You look fine to me."

"I won't look fine if I eat stuff like this all the time."  "Doesn't
hurt to splurge every once in a while.  It's good for the soul."  "No,
it has nothing to do with the soul.  I think men like to control
everything that goes into a woman's mouth, like they like to control
everything else.  If she's thin, they want her fatter.  If she's fat,
they want her thinner."

"Couldn't be that you're projecting, could it?"

"I don't like to be psychoanalyzed, Gabe."

"Is it me?"  he'd asked.

"Or are you just in a grumpy mood?"

"I think that question calls for a change of subject."

They'd had their dinner without bickering.  actually without much
conversation at all.  Gabe could tell she was torn about
something--probably the fact that he was there.  When he'd dished out
the ice cream, splitting the pint between two big bowls, she'd given
him a look but said nothing.

"I'll eat whatever you don't want."

They sat across from each other, spooning the ice cream into their
mouths.  Margot ate a surprisingly large amount before sliding her bowl
over to him.  Because of her comment earlier, he elected not to say
anything about it.

"So, ever have a desire to marry and have a family?"  he asked.

"What is that apropos?"

He shrugged.

"Nothing."

Margot rested her chin on her hand and reflected.

"I don't know if I'd call it a desire, but I've thought about it, of
course."

"Has there ever been anybody beside Richard?"

"My, but you're certainly full of questions."

"Just trying to keep the conversational ball rolling."

"Gabe," she said, looking him in the eye, "you confound me.  In fact,
I've never been so confused in my life as I have since meeting you.  I
don't know why I invited you to stay here.  It was dumb."

"You want me to leave?"

"No... if you want to know the truth, I'd rather make love with you.

I'm not saying I will, of course, I'm just letting you know how I feel.
"

"Any more comments like that and you're going to have me confounded,
too, Margot."

She got up from the table and went to the sink.  Turning around, she
leaned against it.

"I'm sorry, Gabe.  I shouldn't have said that.

Strike it.  "

"It can be stricken from the record, but the fact is the jury still
heard it."

She looked at him long and hard, her expression critical, though not
necessarily critical of him.

"Are you afraid?"  she asked.

"Of what?"

"Whoever it is that's harassing us, following us.  I have a funny,
ominous feeling about it."

"That's not good," he said.

"No, it isn't."

"What can I do to help?"

She hesitated.

"Seriously?"

He nodded.

"When I'm upset, I love to be held.  Could you sleep with me without
wanting sex?"

"It's a tall order, considering the way I feel about you."

"How do you feel about me?"

"I'm very attracted to you.  I told you that.  And I don't just mean
physically, although that's part of it.  Laurel showing up the other
night was one of the worst things that's ever happened to me."

"I'm sure she'd be pleased to hear that."

"Laurel's a nice person in many ways, but frankly I don't care.

Besides, her interest in me is only about an inch deep.  "

Again Margot stared at him, shifting her weight in a way that signaled
she was very conscious of her body.

"I'm going to go take a shower," she said.

"I wouldn't mind one myself."

"Then you first."

"You sure?"

"Come on, I'll get you a towel."

Gabe took a last bite of ice cream and followed her to her bedroom.  It
was small and delicate, like she.  But there was also something solid
and pure about it.

On the antique dresser was a somewhat dated picture of a smiling young
couple.  Gabe assumed they were her parents.  There were three
paintings on the walls, one a small impressionistic nude.  The little
armchair in the corner wasn't even Mama Bear size, it was closer to
Baby Bear.  He found himself drawn to the room, just as he was drawn to
her.

Margot took a towel from the armoire and handed it to him.

"Bathroom's through that door," she said, pointing.

Gabe went and got his shaving kit and sleeping shorts from his bag.

Once in the bath, he undressed, turned on the water and stepped into
the stall.  He'd just lathered up when the door opened behind him.  He
turned, finding Margot standing there naked.

"We can save water if we shower together."

She stepped in and he kissed her.  She hugged him fiercely, her round,
but firm little breasts pressing into his stomach.  They both grew very
excited quickly, their kisses becoming desperate.  The stream of water
plastered her hair against her temples and the edges of her cheeks.  He
pushed it back with his thumbs and kissed her again.

They left the shower, scarcely drying themselves.  Margot moved ahead
of him, jumping onto the bed and pulling the covers up to her chin.

She peered at him with the innocence of a child as he approached the
bed and crawled to her side.  She blinked at him, her lashes still
wet.

Gabe lightly kissed her lips.

"This is so much better than being mad at each other," she said
softly.

"I couldn't agree more."

Funny, he realized, but his marriage seemed to have been governed by
precisely the opposite principle.  The tension between him and Mona had
a sexual dimension, but it was never satisfying to the soul.  This
woman was endearing and touched his heart.  Gabriel Rose believed he
was actually falling in love.  "Would you hate it if we spent the night
with you on one side of the covers and me on the other?"  she asked.

"It would be less than gratifying, let me put it that way."

"So you do want sex."

"Margot, you jumped naked into the shower with me."

"I can't deny that," she said.

"Isn't what you're really asking is if this is only sex?"

Nodding, she said, "Maybe."

"Well, it isn't only sex.  I've told you how I feel about you.

Connected.  In a way I've never felt before.  Is it because we're both
lawyers and have that in common?  Maybe.  Is it because we both feel
passion for Del's cause?  Maybe.  But I'm inclined to think it has more
to do with.  "

"With what?"

"I don't know, call it an intuitive understanding.  I feel you know and
understand some things about me that other people don't."

"That's exactly how I feel about you!"  she said excitedly.

Gabe ran his fingertips over her cheek and she smiled at him with
glistening eyes.  He kissed the shell of her ear and nibbled on the
lobe.  "Can I get under the covers?"

She nodded eagerly.  By the time he pressed his naked body against
hers, he was as hard as a steel rod.  Margot took him in her small,
cool hand. She kissed his chest, rubbing her nose in his downy mat. 
"When was the first time you thought about doing this with me?"  she
asked.

"I'm not sure if it was when you walked off the plane or later, when we
were having lunch."

"Men.  Please say it was at lunch, Gabe.  At least by then I was
starting to be a person."

"I cannot tell a lie--notwithstanding evidence to the contrary--but the
fact is, you've got a hell of a little body.  And it turns me on."

Margot kissed his chin.

"And you've got great buns."

He chuckled.  "Does this mean the cerebral part of the evening is
behind us?"

She laughed.

"All right.  Have your way with me."

Gabe kissed her neck with mock ferocity, making her yelp.  Then he
kissed her shoulders and arms.  When he came to her breasts he found
her nipples already hard.  Drawing his hand up between her legs, he
discovered she was moist.  She lifted her pelvis against his finger and
they kissed again.

Any restraint they'd clung to quickly melted, and they were soon
entwined in each other's bodies, squeezing, probing, biting,
clinging.

And then he entered her, eliciting a small gasp followed by softness
and surrender.  Climax came quickly to them both.

Margot lay with her dainty mouth open, sounds of plea ;

sure welling from within.  She was still twitching.  The hot, i
flowered scent of her body rose in his nostrils and he I wanted to
swallow her. Instead, he held her to his chest |S and, for the sake of
decorum and to maintain his credibility, he restrained himself from
telling her that he loved | her.

Friday, July 21

Alhambra

Oecause the bathroom window was large enough for her to crawl-out,
Dakota Jones wouldn't let her shower with the door closed.  But there
was a shower curtain and, to his credit, he didn't stand in the hall
watching.  Dee Dee had slept in her clothes rather than accept his
offer of a T-shirt to use as a nightgown.  Whether he'd been respectful
thus far or not, she wasn't about to do anything that might give him
ideas. She did remove and rinse out her lingerie, however.

When she finished her shower, she pushed the door halfway closed for
privacy.  Jones, who she heard walk past the door, didn't object. 
Given the man's vicious nature, his restraint surprised her.  It would
have been easy for him to have taken advantage of her.  Perhaps he
thought leaving her alone would make her more cooperative and would
therefore pay off in the end.  What the bastard didn't realize was that
her greatest regret was she hadn't killed him when he'd kidnapped her
from the spa.  And maybe deep in her feminine soul she knew that the
last chapter of this episode hadn't been written.  Once Jones had his
money, there would be nothing to stop him from doing whatever he
wished.

Dee Dee quickly dressed.  As she did what she could with her hair,
given the limited resources, she heard the sounds of children outside.
Innocent voices.  What a contrast to the current state of her
existence. Turning from the mirror, she found Jones leaning against the
wall in the hallway, looking at her, his arms folded across his chest. 
The smirk on his face was ominous, especially considering he'd probably
been studying her backside.

But he surprised her by saying, "When's the earliest we can call your
bank?"

"Nine," she said, her relief palpable.

He consulted his watch.

"We've got a little time.  Want something to eat?  I've got a couple of
doughnuts left over from yesterday."

"Coffee?"

"Instant."

Dee Dee shrugged.

"Beggars can't be choosers."

She walked past him and toward the kitchen.  Jones already had water on
to boil--in a pan--and a sack of doughnuts sitting in the middle of the
ancient Formica kitchen table.  No plates, no napkins.  She sat in one
of the two yellow vinyl chairs.

Jones poured water from the pan into a couple of mismatched mugs.  He
put one on the table in front of her.  Dee Dee did not bother to ask
for skim milk for her coffee.  Jones tore open the sack, its remains
serving as a platter.

"Help yourself," he said.

Dee Dee thought of her usual breakfasts, fully prepared, everything
properly if not elegantly laid out.  It had been that way since she was
a child.  She looked into Dakota Jones's eyes, disguising her
contempt.

For the privilege of enduring this, it would cost her a million and a
half dollars.

The Indian consumed one of the doughnuts in about four bites, licking
the frosting off his fingers.  Dee Dee thought of the fresh fruit, bran
muffin, yogurt and French blend coffee she should be having at home.

Only then did she fully appreciate what a savage this man was.

"So, why did you marry Magnin?"  Jones asked her.

The question was unexpected.

"You tell me."

"You're a tough cookie and he struck me as a limp dick."

"Is that a compliment to me, Mr.  Jones, or an insult to Steve?"

He gave an indifferent shrug.

"I knew the guy."

"And I didn't know him well enough," she said.  "Then, when you did
know him well enough, you shot him."

She was amused.

"Maybe I don't like men who get in my way."

"You and me would last about ten minutes, lady."

It was not a thought she wished to dwell on and was glad when it
passed.  Jones slurped his coffee.  Dee Dee had a sip of hers.

"After I speak to the bank and get the first installment transferred to
your account, then what happens?"  she asked him.

Jones, his coffee mug poised at his lips, had another quick sip.

"I go call on your lawyer friend."

"Then you're going to kill him and the woman right away?"  "I have to
get the lay of the land.  Maybe I do it today, maybe I can't.  These
things aren't automatic, you know."

"And you're really going to keep me here while you're poking around?"
"I want you to have an extra good reason to make sure I get paid."

"Can't we find a compromise solution?"

"I can't think of anything that would work as well," he said.

"Will I be handcuffed to the bed the whole time?"

"Yeah."

"How long will you be gone?"

"Use the toilet before I go and you'll be fine."

Dee Dee pushed the mug of coffee away, her bladder already aching at
the thought.  She really hated the bastard.  He again checked his
watch.

"It's nine.  Let's call the goddamn bank."

He took her by the arm and led her to the front room.  Dee Dee sat in
an easy chair.  Jones pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket and
handed it to her.

"Here's the name of the bank in the Cayman Islands, the phone number
and the account number."

Then he picked up a cell phone from the coffee table.  It was not the
one she'd used the night before.  Dee Dee dialed her bank and got
through to her personal banker who'd been prepared for the call and
knew of her intentions.

"Bill," she said, "here are the particulars on that wire transfer."

She read off the information on the slip of paper Jones had given
her.

Then she ended the call.

"How long before it's in my bank?"  Jones asked.

"It should be there in just a few minutes."

The bastard actually grinned.

"Ain't technology wonderful?"

"Ain't it."

Jones, showing a bit of anxiety for the first time, got up and walked
back and forth in the front room, his gun in his belt.  Dee Dee could
picture herself using it on him, but she also knew she needed him.

While they waited for her money to wing its way to the Caribbean, God
only knew what the attorney, Rose, was doing.  The worst part was that
she was completely dependent on this madman to save her.  Funny that
the very same guy, a man she detested, should be both her captor and
her champion.  And all because of her stupid fucking husband.

At moments like this Dee Dee thought of her father and how he'd
vehemently opposed her marrying Steve.  Her poor dad.  If anything
terrible happened to her, at least he'd be spared that pain.  The
thought made her want to see him, but as things were, she couldn't even
check on his condition, unless.  "Mr.  Jones, would you mind if I call
the hospital and see how my father is doing?"

"Maybe later.  Not now."

"But I can't call him while you're gone."

"Will you shut the fuck up!"  he snapped.

"I've got other things on my mind."

Dee Dee was taken aback by the sudden outburst.  Her hatred burned all
the hotter.  If Jones was aware of her glare, he ignored it.

After another minute or so of pacing he said, "Well, I'm going to try
and call the Caymans now."

Taking back the slip of paper, he sat on the arm of the sofa and
dialed.  Dee Dee waited, her feelings deeply mixed.

Jones listened, a frown creasing his tanned brow.  Then he looked at
the phone like it was a rattlesnake.

"Fuck.  They say the circuits are busy.  What does that mean?"

"Too many calls being made, probably."

"I don't believe it.  Here, you try the operator or something.  Find
out what's wrong."

Jones thrust the phone at her.  Dee Dee took it and called the
international operator, explaining the trouble in getting through to
the Caymans.  When the operator told her what the problem was she asked
him to repeat what he'd said, then handed the phone back to Jones.  He
listened, then threw the phone against the wall, knocking a hole in the
plaster.

"Goddamn it!"  he screamed.

"What do they mean there's a hurricane and communications are down?"

"Severe storms disrupt telephone service to the Caribbean," she said.

"Could be there's no electricity to run the bank's computers, too."

"So, how long will take to get things fixed?"

"I have no idea."

Jones glared at her.  He was evil incarnate.  Grabbing her by the
shoulders, he jerked her to her feet.

"Hey," she protested, "the weather's not my fault!"

Jones spun her around and whacked her on the side of the face, knocking
her to the floor.  It happened so fast, she hadn't seen it coming.  The
room was spinning as she looked up at him, seized by panic, deeply
fearful for her life.

"I

don't want to hear about it, bitch.  Got that?  "

Dee Dee nodded vaguely, her head in a daze.  Jones took her by the arm,
pulled her to her feet and dragged her to the bathroom, shoving her in
the door.

"You'd better piss, because you won't be getting another chance."

Margot pulled into a slot in the parking lot of the Sun State Bank
building at around ten o'clock.  She glanced over at Gabe, her thoughts
warm, happy, intimate, no longer defensive.  She was glad, after the
long drive down to Orange County, to be able to look into his eyes and
savor him.  Once there had been surrender, everything in a relationship
changed.  She wasn't sure what it was about sex, but it always seemed
to accelerate things, whether for better or worse.  That was one reason
she liked to get the first time out of the way quickly.

"This doesn't look like the most promising spot to park and neck," he
said, "but I'm willing if you are."

Taking his hand, she interlaced her fingers in his and pressed it to
her cheek.

"After last night, I'm surprised you have the strength to talk, much
less want to neck."

"Just looking at you, Margot, fills me with amazing recuperative
powers."  He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips.

She sighed.  Gabriel Rose had been one of the best lovers she'd ever
known.  No, not one of the best; he was the best.  She'd come so many
times last night, she'd lost count, which was amazing since she'd had
multiple orgasms maybe once or twice in her life.

"What's your secret?"  she'd asked, lying on his chest after the time
she'd been on top.

"Jail."

"No, come on."

"I'm serious.  You know how people seem to appreciate life more after
they have a near-death experience?  Well, if I'd killed Peter instead
of redecorating his scalp, I'd still be in a jail cell, imagining
nights like last night, rather than actually experiencing them."  He
pinched her cheek.

"You might have had a little to do with it, as well."

At the time she hardly cared who to thank or praise.  The Sacramento
County Jail could take the credit as far as she was concerned.  But as
wonderful as the sex was, they'd shared an intimacy that was rare.

"How long have we known each other?"  she'd asked him earlier at
breakfast.

"I believe this is our fourth anniversary."

"Four days!  Gabe, that's practically immoral."

"I'm not going to argue with success."

They'd finally set off from Venice in search of Marvin Hamburger,
having agreed that making love wasn't the only worthwhile objective in
life.  As they'd dressed, though, they'd debated whether or not to go
right to the man at the top, Demetrius Valticos, or start lower in the
food chain.  "I think before we hit the big man, we see if we can turn
up some more dirt," Gabe had said.

"And peons are more likely to talk."

So, they'd driven down to Orange in her sporty blue Miata to see what
Marvin Hamburger had to say.  As they'd sped along the San Diego
Freeway, Gabe had asked her about her relationship with Otis Oxiey,
perhaps suspicious that there may have been more to their friendship
than she'd allowed.

"Jealous already?"

"Take it as a good sign."

"Otis and I are very fond of each other, but there's never been
anything romantic between us."

"Not because he wasn't willing."

"Well, you claimed it was Miss Boobsie who was hot for your bod.  And
you didn't exactly deny you were hot for hers."

"That was all before I met you, my love."

"I think Otis and I will remain friends," she said, quite serious.

"I hate to share, but I also understand."

"It seems strange, I know, but Otis's and my friendship mostly evolved
from the Sunday paper.  He brings me my copy and I make him coffee for
his trouble.  Then we talk."

"About?"

"Anything.  What's in the paper.  His wives or children or
girlfriends.

Or Mr.  Highfalootin'," she added with a laugh.

"Sports, of course.

Last weekend we.  "

Gabe had looked over at her as her voice trailed off.

"What's the matter?"  "Gabe, remember when I told you that Valticos
Financial sounded familiar, but I couldn't say why or where I'd heard
the name?"

"Yes."  "Well, it just occurred to me.  Last Sunday Otis and I talked
about a shooting that had taken place in Bel Air the previous night.
The woman who shot her husband, supposedly in self-defense, was
Demetrius Valticos's daughter."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive.  I remember now.  But what was her name?  It was pretty, I
remember that.  And unusual.  Deanne, maybe?  No, that wasn't it.

Darlene?  No.  The husband had a plain name.  Jim or Bob or Tom or
Steve.

Yes, Steve.  And she was called.  oh, it's right on the tip of my
tongue. "

"Daria?"  Gabe said.

"Daria and Steve Magnin?"

"Yes, that's it!  How did you know?"

"Spencer Shimota mentioned the names to me several days ago.  Wanted to
know if I knew them.  Didn't mean a thing to me, but he felt it was
somehow connected to Del's murder."

"More than somehow," Margot said.

"If she's Deme tri us VaJticos's daughter, then there very well could
be a connection to Del.  But what would her shooting her husband have
to do with our case?"

"Who knows?  Maybe there's no significance.  But one thing you can say
is that the same names keep popping up."

"Yes, it's almost eerie."

"Let's see, who all have we got?  There's Hamburger, the Valticos
family, Peter Cashen and a band of thugs, several of which are already
dead."

"But some who aren't," she said.

"Right.  There are a few overly persistent ones."

"If we work through this methodically," Margot said, "we're bound to
get to the bottom of things."

She patted Gabe's thigh and looked at the Sun State Bank building with
its gold logo of a rising sun.

"Shall we go inside and have a word with Mr.  Hamburger?"

"Why not?"

They got out of the car and entered the building.  A branch office
occupied the lower floor.  The corporate offices were on the second,
third and fourth floors.  They went to the second floor.  The
receptionist, a curly haired blonde in her early thirties, gave them
the bad news.

"I'm sorry, but Mr.  Hamburger is on an extended leave of absence," she
said.

"I talked to him a few days ago," Gabe said, taking his business card
from his pocket.

"When did he leave?"

"He hasn't been in the office for a couple of days."

"Could we reach him at home, perhaps?"

The woman shook her head.

"I don't think so.  I believe he's leaving soon to go abroad, if he
hasn't left already."

She interrupted the conversation to take a call, which she transferred.
Gabe handed her his card.  The woman gave it a cursory glance.

"You're a lawyer."

"Yes.  There's a very urgent matter we need to discuss with Mr.

Hamburger," he said.

"Is there anyone we could talk to who might be able to put us in touch
with him before he leaves, assuming it's not already too late?"

The receptionist glanced around, running her fingers through her curls.
Then, lowering her voice, she said, "Is this about his divorce?"

Gabe glanced at Margot.  She saw it instantly--mischief in his eyes. 
He cleared his throat.

"Our business with him is confidential, but I won't say no to your
question."

The receptionist nodded knowingly.

"Some of us were wondering if his wife was going to get screwed.  Why
the bank would care, I don't know, but if they're helping him to cheat
her out of a fair settlement, it just isn't right."

"I'm glad somebody sees it that way," Gabe said.

"Listen," she said, lowering her voice further, "I don't know if
Marvin's still there, but he left his condo a couple of days ago at Mr.
Caldwell's suggestion and moved into a motel up on North Glassell, near
the college.  I know because he called Mr.  Caldwell and left the
number.  I had it for a while, but I don't think I do anymore."  "How
about the name of the motel?"

"The Starlite."

"Thank you," Gabe said.

"Mrs.  Hamburger will be eternally grateful for your sense of fair
play."

They left, going to the elevator.

"Sense of fair play," Margot said, shaking her head.

"I only lie when the cause is just."  "Like saving your butt, Gabe?"

"Hey, I'm the good guy in this, remember?"

When the elevator doors opened, they stepped inside.  They were alone,
so she pulled his face down and gave him a kiss.

"Mmm," he said.

"Keep that up and I just might take you to a motel."

Sacramento

Spencer Shimota returned from the lockup and sat down at his desk.

Much as he hated to admit it, he was beginning to think Gabriel Rose
was as much a victim as a villain.  It was also clear to him that the
bastard was in danger.  Considering the way he felt about the guy, it
wasn't something to lose much sleep over, but the woman, Margot Girard,
was in the middle of it, too.  That was cause for concern.  Especially
knowing that the dynamic duo was down in L.

A.

" oblivious to what had happened in their absence.

An hour earlier Shimota had phoned Al Hernandez, the police detective
in L.

A.

" to give him a heads-up.  Hernandez wasn't in, so Shimota left a
message.  As he pondered the situation, he began to realize that what
they were dealing with was a two-headed monster.  One head was in L.A."
the other up here.  The police at each end were dealing with only one
piece of the problem.  How the two were connected, though, was
unclear.

Gabriel Rose probably had a better idea than anyone, which explained
why he was in more danger than he probably realized.

The phone rang.

"Shimota."  "Lieutenant Shimota, this is Detective Dennis Leahy of the
LAPD.  Al Hernandez passed your message on to me.  I'm working a case
that he felt may be more directly connected with your homicide
investigation.

I understand you have a suspect that may be in the L.

A.

area?  "

"Suspect may be the wrong word," Shimota said.  After giving Leahy a
quick rundown on the Pritchard murder and Gabriel Rose's involvement,
he told him about the most recent development.

"Last night Pritchard's place was burglarized with tragic consequences.
Pritchard's invalid mother apparently awoke during the break-in and
suffered a fatal heart attack.  Fortunately, a neighbor had seen a
prowler earlier and called 911.  The suspect was apprehended leaving
the residence.  So far so good.  The guy, it turns out, is named Bobby
Freitas, a former PI.

from your neck of the woods.  Anyway, we go to Freitas's motel and what
do we find but the box of Del Pritchard's papers, the ones we picked up
in the street that first night.  Somehow the papers got from Margot
Girard's possession to Freitas's.  Most likely, it was through Rose. 
"

"Rose sounds like a loose canon," Leahy observed.

"To put it mildly.  Anyway, it seems both Rose and Margot Girard,
Harriet Pritchard's niece, have dropped out of sight.  They aren't at
the place where Rose has been staying.  The night of the Pritchard
burglary, the maid was off and the replacement aide for Mrs.  Pritchard
didn't know a thing.  Turns out we weren't able to reach the regular
maid until this morning.  She tells us that yesterday Margot Girard
left with Rose for L.A. We try and contact Margot at her place in
Venice but get no answer.  Naturally, she needs to be informed of her
aunt's death, but I'm personally concerned that she may be in danger,
if only by keeping company with Gabriel Rose."

"Maybe we should pick her up," Leahy said.

"Out of curiosity, how does your case tie in?"  Shimota asked.

"Tenuously.  Al Hernandez has been investigating the Jerry Goblinski
and Danny Ortiz homicides, the pair of ex- cons who were involved in
your case.  As you may know, he's identified a primary suspect, a
contract killer by the name of Dakota Jones."

"Yes, I know about Jones.  We're looking into the possibility that he
was the trigger man in the Pritchard homicide."

"Turns out that we've connected Goblinski and Jones to a homicide I'm
investigating.  A businesswoman and society type by the name of Daria
Magnin shot her husband last weekend, allegedly in self-defense.  I
haven't been able to make a criminal case against her, but I have
turned up connections between her and these underworld types.  Last
night we had a report of Mrs.  Magnin being seen in the company of
Dakota Jones.  Unfortunately, we weren't able to make an arrest and
Daria Magnin has dropped out of sight.  She isn't at her residence and
nobody at her office has any idea where she is."

"You said this Magnin woman is in business.  What line of work?"

"Banking," Leahy replied.

"Jesus."

"Bingo?"

"Yeah, bingo.  We considered the possibility that bank consumer
accounts somehow figured into Del Pritchard's murder, but couldn't see
how.  The documents we picked up the night Pritchard was shot, the ones
that were found in Freitas's motel room, involved credit card accounts.
I've been trying to find a connection between all this and Gabriel
Rose, but it occurs to me that he may be ahead of the curve."  "You
mean he found a different connection?"

"That's what I'm thinking."

"Why don't we pick up Mr.  Rose, too?"  Leahy said.

"Why not?"

"Maybe I should send some people out to Venice."

Orange

They pulled into the Starlite Motel and Gabe jumped out of the car and
went into the office.  A young guy in a short-sleeved shirt, tie and
ponytail manned the desk.  Gabe asked if Marvin Hamburger had checked
out yet.

"About twenty minutes ago," the kid said.

"Damn.  I suppose he's on his way to the airport."

"The South Pacific, I think."  Gabe had begun to lament his bad luck
when the kid added, "But he said he was going to eat lunch before
heading out of town.  You still might catch him."

"Don't suppose you have any idea where he went."

"He did say something about getting his last bunrito for a while, so I
assume he was going to eat Mexican."

"And there are forty-seven Mexican restaurants in town."

The kid grinned.

"Forty-nine, I think.  The best one that's close is Manuel's.  It's a
block north, same side of the street.  Mr.  Hamburger did go in that
direction when he left."

"I know this sounds funny, but I've never met Marvin.  What does he
look like?"

"You aren't a cop, right?"  the kid said, suddenly suspicious.

Gabe took a ten-dollar bill from his pocket and laid it on the counter,
resting his hand on it.

"No, Ed McMahon sent me with a million-dollar check for Marvin.  It'd
be a shame if he missed his golden opportunity."

The kid laughed.

"Marvin's short, bald, pale, sort of chunky.  Wears thick glasses."

"What was he wearing?"

"Let's see... blue Hawaiian shirt."

Gabe pushed the ten over to him.

"Marvin thanks you and I thank you."

The kid looked at the bill, slowly nodding.

"He gets a mil and I get ten."

"Did you send in your prize claim form?"  Gabe asked.

"No."

"There's the explanation, sport."

Giving the kid a wink, Gabe went back outside to Margot's car.

"Well?"  she said as he climbed in.

"I lied again," he said.

"Did it do any good?"

"Let's go have a burrito and find out."

As they drove up the street to Manuel's, he explained what happened.

"What if he didn't come to this restaurant?"  she asked as she pulled
into the parking lot.

"Margot, my luck is bound to turn after the run I've had."  "What was
last night?  Chopped liver?"

He reached over and gave her cheek a pinch.  "That was my personal
life, honey, a realm of pure bliss, thanks to you.  I was referring to
my professional life."

"Nice recovery, Gabe.  No wonder you did so well in the courtroom."

"Let's hope it works with Marvin."

They went inside.  Gabe was pleased to see a guy in a blue aloha shirt
fitting Marvin Hamburger's description sitting in a back corner
booth.

"Lock and load, Margot," he said.

"We're going up Hamburger Hill."

"He's here?"

"Tweety Bird in the corner there."

"Frontal assault?"  Margot said.

"Frontal assault."

Gabe indicated to the hostess they were going to join a friend, and the
two of them marched back to the booth where the infamous Marvin W.
Hamburger was having his last meal on American soil.  He looked
startled when they loomed up.  Gabe slid into the banquette on one side
of the guy, Margot on the other.  Hamburger wiped the smudge of sour
cream from the corner of his mouth with his napkin as he sputtered.

"What are you doing?"

"My name's Rose, Marvin.  I'm the attorney representing the estate of
Del Pritchard.  Remember we spoke on the phone a couple of days ago?"

Hamburger's eyes rounded.

"And this is Margot Gtrard.  She's Del's cousin and executor of the
estate."

"Oh, geez."

"Geez is right," Gabe said.

"We've put together our case without your cooperation and we're ready
to take down Sun State Bank, Valticos Financial and--sad to say--you
too, Marvin."

"No, I--I have nothing to do with any of that," Hamburger stammered.

"All I did was sign letters.  What they did with the books I didn't
know anything about."

"What you signed, Marvin," Margot said, "was my cousin's death
warrant."

Hamburger shook his head violently.

"I don't know anything about Mr.

Pritchard being killed.  Swear to God.  In fact, when you told me about
his being killed, Mr.  Rose, I called headquarters and demanded to know
what was going on.  I'm just a nobody whose name was on some form
letters, that's all.  "

"Bullshit," Gabe said.

"They're hustling you out of the country because you hold the key to
this thing."

"Oh, no.  Honest.  It all came from the people at Valti- cos.  We just
did what we were told."

"Look, Marvin," Gabe said lowering his voice conspiratorially, "I'm
going to level with you.  The police are moving in fast on the
killers.

Arrests are being made, even as we speak.  You white-collar criminals
will be next.  Justice will be done, I guarantee you.  But Miss Girard
and I have this little problem.  We're putting together a civil case
and we fully intend to clean Demetrius Valticos's clock.  But we need a
few more pieces of the puzzle.  We'd like your cooperation.  "

"Why should I cooperate with you?  You're trying to put me in jail."

"Hey, we aren't trying to put you in the slammer.  Whether the D.A. can
nail you for fraud or conspiracy, I don't know.  Miss Girard wants her
cousin's killers brought to justice, but it's the civil case we're
focused on, and that's where you fit in as far as we're concerned."

Margot interjected.

"If you help us, Marvin, we're willing to forget your wrongs, the pain
you caused Del."

"That's right," Gabe said.

"A little help could change us from adversaries to friends."

Hamburger swallowed hard, looking back and forth between them.

"You're headed for the airport, aren't you?"  Gabe said.

He nodded.

"When's your flight?"

Hamburger checked his watch.

"In three and a half hours."

"There's two ways this could go, Marvin.  Either the cops are at the
gate waiting for you, or you get on your plane and fly off to paradise.
The whole thing hinges on whether we make a phone call or we don't make
a phone call."

The banker picked up his water glass with a trembling hand and took a
couple of gulps.

"What do I have to do?"

"Tell us exactly how the scam worked."

Hamburger sighed, his head dropping.

"I signed a contract.  I'll lose everything.  My retirement.  Their
help with my divorce.  They're even paying for this trip."

"Marvin, do you have even the smallest inkling what life is like in
Folsom Prison?  Do you know what it means to be some dude's bitch in a
high security prison?"

"Please," the man said, closing his eyes, "I don't want to hear."

"The story, Marvin," Margot said, "and we forget we ran into you
today."

"Four hours from now," Gabe added, "you'll either be in heaven or hell.
Think about it."

"All right," Hamburger said, nodding, "all right."  He took a deep
breath.  "There was nothing magical about the program.  Everything was
based on consumer apathy and ignorance.  Valdcos owns eighteen
different financial institutions around the country offering consumer
accounts.  According to a prearranged schedule, blocks of accounts were
transferred from one institution to another, usually following the
pattern of going from low interest rate jurisdictions to higher ones.

In order to keep the pipeline full, accounts were also purchased from
outside institutions having no relationship with Valticos.  "

"The point being to raise interest rates on the accounts," Gabe said.

"Yes."

"That's done every day," Margot said.

"So what's the scam?  I get bank card offers at promotional rates all
the time."

"Yes and the competition's keen," Hamburger said.  "What the Valticos
institutions did to attract large balance transfers and free spenders
was to offer ridiculously low rates for longer periods, or even low
fixed rates.  After a reasonable period of time the account would be
transferred to a sister institution.  Then they immediately jacked up
the interest rates, whether they had a right to do so under the account
agreement or not.  The key was selling or swapping accounts between
institutions.  When the consumer got a letter saying the account had
been sold and the new interest rate was raised to whatever, they'd
usually shrug and pay it.  Even if the rate was locked in we'd bounce
it up after the transfer."

"And people put up with that?"  Margot said.  "Eight times out of ten
they would.  It only meant ten, twenty, thirty, forty bucks more a
month, depending on the size of the account.  To a lot of people it was
easier to pay than bitch.  For Valiticos it meant millions more in
income each year."

"Consumer apathy," Gabe said.

"Exactly."  "What if people objected?"  Margot asked.

"We'd get letters and phone calls.  Half of those we'd beat just by
stonewalling.  We'd send a form letter saying the guaranteed rate was
only binding on the originating institution.  Roughly half the
customers would buy it, some would grumble and close the account.  But
every once in a while we'd get somebody who'd really get pissy,
threaten to take the matter to the banking authorities or file a
lawsuit.  If that happened, we'd back down.  Somebody higher up the
line would write a letter of apology."

"That's what happened with Del," Margot said.  "Yes.  Mr.  Pritchard
was especially difficult because he dug deeper than most people and
figured out what we were doing.  It turned out he had accounts in
several of our institutions and noticed his accounts were being swapped
back and forth.  He also opened a couple of accounts for the express
purpose of testing us.  When he thought he had the goods on us, he
started screaming conspiracy and class action law suit.  Needless to
say, he wasn't interested in our offer to reduce the rate on all his
accounts to rock bottom.  He wanted blood.  At one point, he had a
lawyer and everybody figured a law suit would be next, but then that
died down.  I don't know what happened."

Gabe and Margot exchanged looks.

"Mr.  Hamburger," she said, "you wouldn't happen to know the name of
the lawyer, would you?"

He shook his head.

"I may have heard it, but I don't remember.  Once it got to that stage
everything got passed on up to Valticos in Beverly Hills."

"Does the name Peter Cashen ring a bell?"  she asked.

He reflected.

"You know, that might be it.  The name's definitely familiar."

Again Gabe's and Margot's eyes met.  He felt a surge of adrenaline in
his veins.  She nodded slightly, indicating she understood what he was
thinking.  Gabe took a deep breath, refocusing on Hamburger.

"So Demetrius Valticos himself has been pulling the strings," he said.
"Not for quite a while.  He had a stroke and retired some months back.
His daughter's been running the company."

"Daria Magnin?"

"Yes, that's her."

"Then she's the one who engineered this fraudulent scheme?"  Margot
said.

"No, Valticos Financial has been operating like this in one form or
another for years.  We... I mean they ... h&ve he highest profit
margins in the industry.  For a long time,

I wasn't aware of how things worked.  It was kept to the key people.

But then when this guy Pritchard .  your cousin, ma'am.  started
raising hell, I kind of got sucked into things.  Soon I realized that
everything was done according to plan.  For a while I bought the BS
about administrative errors, computer glitches and all that.  It wasn't
true. These people knew exactly what they were doing.  "

"And they wouldn't stop short of murder to keep their money machine
rolling," Margot said bitterly.

"I swear to all I hold holy, I didn't know about that," Hamburger
insisted.

Gabe put his hand on the man's shoulder.

"We believe you, Marvin."

Again the banker looked back and forth between them with desperate
eyes.

"So, what happens now?"

"I believe you have a plane to catch, my friend."

"Then you really are going to let me go?"

"Do I look like a man who'd lie?"

"Believe me," Hamburger said, "I can't thank you enough.  I'll always
be grateful."

Gabe got up so Hamburger could slide out.

"Don't forget to pay your check on the way out."

The banker nodded, thrusting his pudgy hand toward Gabe.

"Thank you so much."  Then he shook Margot's hand.

"I'm so sorry about your cousin, Miss Girard."

"Thank you."

Marvin Hamburger hurried off, the tails of his aloha shirt bouncing.

Gabe sat down again.  Margot gave him a look.

"What?"

"Gabriel Rose," she said, "you are incorrigible.  You had that poor
little man ready to pee in his pants."

"What are you complaining about.  Miss Girard?  You were chiming right
in, I noticed.  Anyway, my fibs got the desired result, didn't they?"

She wagged her finger at him.

"You're scary."

"My motives are pure."

"How will I know when you're telling me the truth and when you're
not?"

"Honey, if it feels good, then don't worry about it."

"That's something only a man would say."

Gabe laughed.

The waitress came to clear away the dishes and wipe off the table.

"Are you folks going to have lunch?"  she asked.

Gabe looked at Margot.

"What do you think?  Want a burrito before we launch our attack on
Valticos Financial?"

"Sure."

"I'll bring you menus," the waitress said, leaving.

Margot studied him thoughtfully.

"Isn't it about time we go to the police?"

"We haven't one shred of evidence connecting Valticos to Del's
murder."

"The police can worry about that."

"Come on, Margot, let's at least drive up to Beverly Hills and look
this Daria Magnin in the eye.  I'd sort of like to see her reaction
when I drop the name Peter Cashen."

"I know my opinion doesn't count for much, but I think I'd rather the
two of us hop on a plane for Hawaii or something."

"We can do that, too," he said, brightening.

Margot gave him a woebegone look.

He took her hands, looked into her eyes and said, "Indulge me."

Alhambra

Dee Dee had been handcuffed to the bed for over an hour.  Her cheek
throbbed and, for the first time, she had doubts that she would be
coming out of this alive.  Dakota had been on good behavior because he
wanted that million five.  When he'd slugged her, she'd seen his tme
colors.  But she wasn't expendable yet.  Before he'd left, she'd heard
him trying to call the Caymans again.  The result was the same.

"I'm headed for Venice," he'd told her.

"I'm going to check out the situation.  Sorry about losing my temper
earlier."  Words of contrition, but it hadn't stopped him from gagging
her.

"Wouldn't want the neighborhood disturbed by some woman yelling about
being chained to her bed."

Dakota Jones was an animal, but she was the one chained like a rabid
dog.  Her arms and shoulders ached and she was beyond pessimistic.

Another of her ominous premonitions descended on her, and she began to
fear her life was nearing an end.  She'd made a terrible, terrible
mistake trying to do business with the man.  It seemed her father was
right, after all.

Dee Dee could accept that, but she couldn't give in.  Her father
wouldn't go down without a fight, and neither would she.  Obviously she
couldn't trust Dakota Jones to play fair.  Her best chance of surviving
was to escape.  But how?  Yanking on the cuffs angrily, all she
succeeded in doing was to hurt her wrists.  Tears flooded her eyes.

As she lay in misery, helpless.  Dee Dee heard a thump against the side
of the house and children's voices.  There were more thumps, and she
realized that some kids were playing with a ball in the side yard
between the houses.  She wondered if she could attract their
attention.

The gag prevented all but the most muffled cry.

With only her wrists cuffed, Dee Dee was free to move her legs and
feet.  By twisting her body she was able to touch the outside wall with
her foot.  She tried kicking it, but only managed a dull thud.  That,
too, wouldn't attract much attention.  If anything, it might scare the
kids away.

Jones had kept the blinds closed.  If she could open them, someone
might look in the window and see her.  By stretching her leg as far as
she could, she managed to touch the edge of the blinds with her toe.

The lift cord was too high for her to reach, but by flicking her toe
she was able to shake the blind a little.  Dee Dee jiggled it, but even
if the kids outside happened to notice, it was unlikely they'd
investigate.

Then it occurred to her that if she could get a grip on the blind, she
might be able to pull it down.  The trouble was, she needed to get an
inch or two closer to be able to hook her big toe around the bottom
slat.  Dee Dee stretched her arm and torso as far as she could, pulling
so hard if felt like her arm was going to pop out of the socket.  The
extra stretch did give her enough extension to hook her toes around the
end of the heavy bottom slat.  Unfortunately, she couldn't get much
purchase.  Jiggling it seemed the best she could do.

As she listened to the voices of the frolicking children, she agonized.
Why couldn't the little bastards be the nosy type?  She'd always found
kids to be a pain.  Why couldn't these make themselves a nuisance?  The
ball continued thumping against the house, and Dee Dee stretched for
all she was worth.  In a final, desperate attempt, she managed to get
the slat off the sill.  Now the question was, could she exert enough
downward pressure to pull the blind loose?

Certain that at any moment the children would go away, she stretched
and strained and pulled with all her might.  Sweat began running down
her brow.  Once she thought she saw the head box buckle and she heard
creaking.  She discovered she could give the bottom slat a shove with
her toe and it would swing back and forth.  Dee Dee realized then that,
when it swung toward her, it would be close enough to hook her toes
over the end of it.  If she timed it right, she might be able to get a
good purchase.

She tried three or four times, but couldn't get it.  Then on the next
swing toward her, she did get a good grip.  Pulling her leg downward
with all her might, the blind came crashing down, spilling bright
sunlight into the room.

Dee Dee sucked air into her lungs through her nose, her body aching.
Outside there was a sudden silence.  No voices, no thumping ball.  She
prayed desperately that she hadn't scared the children away.  She
screamed through her gag and threw her body up and down on the bed as
violently as she could, then stopped to listen.

Silence.

Dee Dee looked beseechingly at the window, seeing nothing but the side
and roof line of the adjoining house and a patch of blue sky.  And then
two little faces came into view at the base of the windowpane--two
pairs of eyes and a head of brown hair and a head of blond hair.

Peering in and seeing her on the bed, the eyes grew round.  There were
cries of surprise and the faces disappeared.

Dee Dee, uncertain whether to be elated or decimated, began to cry and
curse and yank desperately at her bonds until she collapsed with
exhaustion, realizing her fate was no longer in her hands.

Venice

Dakota Jones had driven past twice, seeing nothing suspicious.  After
the second time, he parked at the end of the street and walked to the
house.  Having no idea what his pigeons looked like, he decided on
direct confrontation.  He'd discovered that sometimes brazenness was as
effective as guile.  Mostly, he tried not to be predictable.

Ringing the bell twice and getting no answer, Dakota considered whether
to hang around for a while and see if Rose and the woman returned soon,
or to kiss it off.  He was about to turn from the door when he heard a
gruff voice.  "What you want, man?"

There was a large black dude in a muscle shirt standing on the stoop of
the house next door.  He had a scowl on his face.

"I'm looking for Mrs.  Girard.  Isn't this her place?"

"Yeah, that her place, all right," the guy said, making his way toward
him.

"What you want?"

"I don't see that's any of your business.  Jack," Dakota said, not
appreciating either the guy's tone or manner.

"Maybe I make it my business."

Jones felt his temper rising, but cautioned himself he didn't need
trouble.

"Hey, I mind my own business, why don't you do the same, huh?"

The muscle boy, having several inches on Dakota and quite a few pounds,
got right in his face.

"The lady, she a friend of mine.  She like me to keep an eye on things
here.  You either gots business or you don't."

Dakota was formulating his response when he saw a car coming slowly up
the street.  It wasn't just any car.  It was a plain sedan with two men
in it.  Dakota froze.  He could spot a cop from a hundred yards.  His
heart leaping now, he glanced down the street the other way, thinking
he might have walked into a trap.  He saw no one, but when the cop car
slowed and the guys looked right at him, he knew he was in for a
confrontation.

"Hey, motherfucker," the black dude said, "ain't you listenin'?"

Dakota, his back to the street, reached under his jacket and pulled his
gun far enough out for the sonovabitch to see.

"Let's you and me start walking up the street, pal.  One false move and
you're a puddle of blubber."

The black guy didn't need to be asked twice.

"Hey, man, no reason to take this personal," he said, turning.

"Shut up!"

The two of them went along the sidewalk past the cop car, which had
virtually come to a stop.  Jones had Mr.  Muscle and a line of parked
cars between him and the cops.  But escape was not going to be easy. 
He heard a car door opening.

"Jones!"  one of the cops shouted.

Dakota's instinct was to shoot.  Whirling, he fired at the driver who
was half shielded by the car door, his service revolver drawn.  The guy
went down.  The cop on the passenger side ducked behind the vehicle. 
At the same moment the black stud grabbed him by the shoulder and his
gun hand.  The weapon fired, hitting the black guy in the leg.  He went
down.

Dakota instinctively dropped to a knee behind the parked car next to
him.  "Drop your gun and stand up with your hands over your head!"  the
second cop shouted at him.

In response, Dakota fired a couple of rounds at the cop car, then
turned and ran up the street.  Glancing back, he saw he wasn't being
pursued.  He figured the cop would call for help and check his buddy
before coming after him.

Running at full tilt, he nearly ran over a woman coming around the
corner with a kid in a stroller.  She screamed at him, but Dakota
ignored her.  He was in his car and roaring up the street in twenty
seconds.

"Puck!"  he screamed, slamming his fist against the steering wheel. 
The bitch, Dee Dee, had sent him into a trap.  Well, if she was
counting on him being captured, she had a surprise coming.  When he got
back to Alhambra, he was going to make her pay.  Really pay.

Alhambra

Dee Dee's brain was spinning as she heard them battering the back door.
After the woman had peered into the window.  Dee Dee knew this would be
next.  The funny thing was, she had mixed feelings.  Not that she
wasn't thrilled at the thought of being rescued, but having to explain
things was not something she looked forward to.  The danger for her was
nearly as great as for Dakota Jones.

There was a final, loud crash and Dee Dee knew they were inside the
house.  It took a few moments before a patrol officer appeared at the
door of the bedroom, gun drawn.  He checked behind the door and looked
into the closet before coming to the bed.  She had never felt so
relieved as when he pulled the gag from her mouth.

"Thank God," she gasped.

"What happened?"  the cop asked.  He was young, Hispanic, his name
Alvarez, according to the name tag on his uniform shirt.

"My boyfriend thought this was funny," she said.

"He went to the drugstore to get some condoms and didn't come back.
He's probably drunk in a bar, knowing him."  "Does he always cuff you
to the bed and gag you when he leaves?"

"No, but we're into bondage.  This is basically an accident.  If the
bastard did go off some place and get drunk, I'm going to kill him.

Could you please get me out of these things?  "

A second cop appeared at the door.

"The place is clear."

"Get the firemen in here with their bolt cutters," Alvarez said.  He
looked closely at Dee Dee's cheek.

"What happened to your face?  Your boyfriend slug you?"

"No, ran into a closet door."

He gave her a skeptical look.  The firemen came in, and in three
minutes Dee Dee was free from her bonds.  She sat on the bed, rubbing
her wrist.

"So, what's your name, ma'am?"  Alvarez asked, sitting next to her on
the bed and taking a notepad from his pocket.

"Officer, as you might imagine, I really have to go to the bathroom
badly.  Will you give me five minutes?"

"Sure, go ahead."

Dee Dee got her sandals and purse and went into the bathroom where she
did relieve herself, but she had another plan, as well.  The bathroom
window was not large, but it was big enough to make her escape.  She
crawled out, lowering herself to the ground without enduring worse than
a minor scrape on her arm.  Rather than going directly to the street,
she circled around the adjoining house.  Out front the fire truck was
pulling away.  The police car with its flashing lights still sat at the
curb.  Half a dozen neighbors, one old man, three women and some
children, stood on the sidewalk talking.  Dee Dee took off up the
street the other way.  She made it to the corner without incident, then
headed for the boulevard.  For the moment she felt free as a bird.  But
she was under no illusions.  Disaster was waiting.  It didn't give up
that easily.

Beverly Hills

It was starting to feel a little too much like Custer's Last Stand for
Andrew Lincoln's taste.  Dee Dee had dropped out of sight.  Her
personal banker had called, wanting to know what to do about the wire
transfer in light of difficulties they were having due to the storm in
the Caribbean.  The police had come by and had called twice, inquiring
where Dee Dee was, and Lincoln's secretary had just advised him that
Peter Cashen was in the reception, demanding first to see Dee Dee and
now him.  Andrew decided to deal with Cashen.  He buzzed his secretary
and asked her to bring the lawyer back.

Cashen came into Lincoln's office, looking like a man who'd narrowly
escaped a police raid at a house of ill repute.

"Peter," Andrew said, assuming the chipper demeanor of the placid
executive he had once been, "what brings you to L.A.?"

"What the hell is going on?"  Peter Cashen demanded without ceremony.

"Could you be more specific?"  "I called and told you Rose is down here
and has a bug up his ass."

"Yes, you did.  So?"

"Well, what's with the police connecting Mrs.  Magnin to Del
Pritchard's death?  And how long is it going to be before I'm dragged
into this thing?"

"Peter, I have no idea what you're talking about."  "Last night I
called this friend of mine, a lieutenant in the Sacramento Police
Department. He told me that a connection is developing between
Pritchard's killers and a woman running a bank down here.  Naturally I
didn't say anything, but I knew what he was talking about.  If this is
true, Andrew, I want out completely and I want out now."

"How do you propose to get out?"

"I'm returning the fee you paid me," he said, taking a check from his
coat pocket, 'and I want all record of the transaction removed from
your files.  The deal never happened.  I demand assurances.  "

Andrew already had enough on his mind and had no desire to contend with
this on top of everything else.  "Mister, you're in no position to
demand anything.  You got in bed with us, and that's where you're going
to stay, at least for the time being.  Now, why don't you get out of
our hair, so we can resolve this thing?"

The phone buzzed and Andrew Lincoln picked up the receiver.

"Andrew, it's me."

It was Dee Dee's voice he was shocked.

"There's someone in my office, give me a moment."

"No, listen, Andrew," she insisted, "I only have a second.  Have the
police been there?"

"Yes, with questions," Lincoln said, his eyes on Cashen.

"Okay, I'm taking a taxi and I should be there in forty-five minutes or
so.  I'm going to try to slip in discreetly-don't tell anyone except
Jon that I'm on my way.  But I want you to do something for me.

Call my banker and cancel the wire transfer to the Caymans, if it
hasn't already gone through.  "

"It hasn't.  I checked maybe half an hour ago, figuring that would be
one way to find out if you're still alive."

"I'm lucky I am."

"Things here are not the tranquil sea you might hope for," he said.

"It couldn't be worse than what I've been through.  Now I've got to
run."

The phone went dead and Andrew Lincoln hung up the receiver.  He looked
at Cashen.

"That was Mrs.  Magnin, wasn't it?"  Cashen said.

"Why don't you go back to Sacramento?"

"I'm not leaving until we have an understanding.  I'll be in the
reception."  With that, Cashen turned and walked out of the office.

Lincoln considered having security throw him out of the building, but
he didn't have time for that now.  He called Dee Dee's banker and
passed along the message.

"You called in the nick of time," the man said.

"They've just gotten back into business down there and are working on
their backlog."

Dee Dee's assistant, Jon, walked in right after Lincoln hung up.

"I

had the strangest call just now and thought you ought to know about
it," he said.

"What's up?"

"This guy asked to speak to Dee Dee.  When I told him she wasn't in
today, he said that maybe I should get a hold of her because he was on
his way, and what he had to tell her would reduce Valiticos Financial
to ruins, if she didn't act quickly."  "Did he give you his name?"

"Yes.  Gabriel Rose."

"He's headed here?"

"Right.  Said something about having car trouble on the San Diego
freeway and wanted to make sure Dee Dee would be available when he got
here."

"Interesting turn of events," Andrew Lincoln said, shaking his head.

"So, what should I do?"  Jon asked.

"You can ask Dee Dee.  She'll be here in forty-five minutes.

Alhambra

Dakota Jones drove a Lexus sport utility vehicle, the first wheels he'd
stolen in twenty years, knowing he couldn't take a chance that the
police were on the lookout for his car.  He still hadn't decided what
to do with Dee Dee Magnin.  The bitch was lucky he had so far to drive.
Before he'd cooled down, he'd been ready to kill her.  And he still
might, if she gave him lip.

Rounding the corner onto the street where his rental house was located,
Dakota came to a screeching halt.  There was a fucking cop car sitting
out front, emergency lights flashing.

"What the..."  he muttered.  Then he realized.  The bitch must have
gotten loose!

Jamming the vehicle into reverse, he backed into the intersection and
headed over to the boulevard.  She'd fucked him over twice.  First she
had the cops waiting for him in Venice, and now she'd gotten away.

Once on the boulevard, Dakota started looking for a pay phone.  When he
found one, he stopped.

He dialed the Cayman Islands bank, finally getting through.  Carefully
following the steps Wcs Corbin had given him, he asked for verification
of deposit on the account.

"I'm very sorry, indeed, sir," the bank officer on the other end said,
"but we have no deposits in the account whatsoever.  Our computers were
off line and we were without communications for a number of hours, so
your correspondent may have had difficulty getting through."

"How long have you been up and operating?"  Dakota asked, the color
rising in his face.

"About an hour at this point, sir."

"If somebody wired you money from Los Angeles, would you have gotten it
by now?"

"By now, yes.  Everything is current.  Perhaps if you enquire of your
depositor?"

"Yeah, I'll do that," Dakota said.  Then he slammed the phone into the
cradle, wishing it was Dee Dee Magnin's skull he was bashing.

He returned to his vehicle and sat, fuming.  A police car went past,
but paid him no special attention.  Dakota knew that, had it not been
for a bit of luck, he could either be dead or under arrest right now.

But he'd been screwed, just the same.  He'd left the fifty grand in the
house, which meant he didn't even have that.

The bitch really had put it to him this time.  Having shot that cop, he
knew the heat would be on.  He needed to get his ass out of L.

A.

That was clear.  But the thought of Dee Dee Magnin screwing him so many
times and getting away with it was almost more than he could bear.  In
fact, it was the worst thing he could imagine.  No, he wouldn't allow
her the satisfaction.  Even if it cost him everything.

Beverly Hills

"Dear God," Jon said as Dee Dee came walking into the executive
suite.

"I know," she said, not stopping on her way to her office, "I look like
hell.  Believe me, I feel worse than I look."

Jon got up from his desk and followed her.  She waved at him to close
the door and went directly to her private bath.

"Jon," she said, rinsing her face with cold water, "send somebody over
to my house for some fresh clothes, a total change."

"Anything else?"

"Yes.  Tell Andrew I'm back and eet him in here."

"Detective Leahy has been asking about you."

"I imagine he has.  Oh, is Joe Eberhart in the building?"

"I believe so."

"I need to see him, too."

Dee Dee took a towel and gently patted her swollen cheek.  What she saw
in the mirror made her want to throw up.  She could see Jon behind her,
the question on his lips.

"I was bit by a very large mosquito," she said.

"Right, boss."

She turned around.

"So, anything you need to tell me before you get to work?"

"Leahy wanted a call as soon as we see you."

"Fuck him."

"And if he calls again or shows up?"

"Tell him to go see Sid Kem."

"Mr.  Kem has called twice."

Dee Dee considered that.  "Get Sid on the line after you alert Andrew
and Eberhart."

"Yes, ma'am."

Jon left, and Dee Dee turned again to her image in the mirror.  She
knew things were slipping away, but she wasn't quite ready to throw in
the towel.  Her father would never let go and neither would she. 
unless it was the only way to keep from going to jail.

The thought of her poor father sent her to the phone to call the
hospital.  It hadn't been easy being the dutiful daughter, not
considering the way things had been going lately.  When she got
through, the attending nurse told her there was still no change in
Demetrius Valticos's condition.  Everything was in limbo, it seemed.

Andrew Lincoln was the first to arrive, with Joe Eberhart right on his
heels.  She dealt with Eberhart first.  After all, nothing else
mattered if Dakota Jones walked in the door and shot her in the head.

"The sonovabitch kidnapped me," she said.

"I got away.  As my father would say, it's time to circle the wagons.
Tighten the place up so Jones can't get in here."

"Right away."

"Jones has a new look, by the way.  His head's shaved bald."

"Check."

Dee Dee addressed Andrew.

"What's the status of the wire transfer?"

"I got it canceled."

"Good.  I'm seven hundred fifty thousand dollars richer, but Dakota
Jones is seven hundred and fifty thousand madder.  Joe, I'll bet you
half of it the bastard will try to shoot his way in here."

"He won't succeed, don't worry."

"I hope you're right."

Eberhart left.  Dee Dee turned her attention to Andrew Lincoln.

"I think maybe the time has come to put the contingency plan into
effect.  The police are getting close.  God only knows what's happened
with Rose and his girlfriend.  I have no idea if Jones killed them or
not.  I don't suppose you've heard anything."

"Surprisingly enough, I have.  Rose called."

Dee Dee's mouth dropped open.

"He called here?"  "Yes.  Jon spoke to him.  I found out right after I
talked to you."

"What does he want?"

"I didn't get to quiz him, but from the sound of it, he wants to
threaten us."

"In other words, he wants money."

Andrew shrugged.

"God only knows."

Dee Dee pondered what it could mean.  With all that had been happening,
coherent thought did not come easily.  But she did see a certain irony
in the development.  She'd sent a vicious killer after the guy, and now
she finds out he's going to come waltzing right into her office.  "I
guess the mountain's coming to Mohamad," she said.

"Rose isn't the only problem.  Cashen's showed up, too."

"Here?"

"He was in the office earlier.  I don't know whether he's still in the
building or not."

"What does he want?"

"To give us our money back."

"You're kidding."

"No, he thinks he's going to save his ass."

"And he plans on turning state's evidence, I suppose."

"Who knows?  I brushed him off.  We've got bigger problems."

"Right.  You'd better get to work.  I'll contend with Rose and Cashen
if and when they show up," she said.

"Good luck."

Lincoln was no sooner out the door than Jon buzzed to say that Sidney
Kem was on the line.  Dee Dee took the call.

"Sid, I'm in a pickle."

"I'm listening."  "Last night I met a contract killer by the name of
Dakota Jones to pay him a blackmail demand.  Apparently, my dear
husband hired the guy to kill that fruitcake up in Sacramento and now
he's trying to hold up Valticos Financial.  I gave him fifty thousand
in cash and the bastard proceeded to kidnap me.  Threatened to kill me
if I didn't wire seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars to his
numbered account in the Caymans."

She paused.  Kem was silent.

"Sid?"

"So far your actions have been foolish, but not criminal," he said.  "I
understand that.  Unfortunately the police spotted me making the
initial contact with Jones and they think I'm in bed with him."

"Which you aren't."

"Of course not."

"Good."

Dee Dee took a deep breath.  "Understandably, the cops want to talk to
me.  I want you there.  The guy investigating Steve's death, Detective
Dennis Leahy, is handling the matter."

"Yes, he and I have traded calls."

"Well, contact him and find out what he wants.  If it's to question me,
let's do it here, if possible."

"When?"

"I'd prefer to put it off until tomorrow, but if he threatens an
arrest, make whatever arrangements you have to."

"I understand.  Anything else?"  "Just a general question, Sid. 
Between a killer and me, they'll believe my story over his, right?"

"Unless corroborating evidence points to another conclusion."

"Good.  That's all I need."

"I'll be in touch," Sidney Kem said.

Dee Dee hung up the phone and dropped her face into her hands.  Once
again she had that horrible, ominous feeling of foreboding.  She felt
like a high-wire artist at mid- span.  The breeze was rising and there
was no net.

Culver City

"You're the last guy on earth I expected to come through that door,"
Tony Case said, wiping his brow with his handkerchief.  Tony was 350
pounds and a sweater.  He got up from his desk and leaned across it,
offering Dakota Jones his hand.

"Almost didn't recognize you without that ponytail."

"Things change."

"What brings you to see me?"  Tony asked, continuing to dab his cheeks
and jowls.

"I need a little help and some advice," Dakota said.

"But no money, right?"

"Who knows, maybe I'll even give you a little for your;

trouble.  "

Tony gave him a shit-eating grin.  "Now that would be a switch."

Six years earlier.  Tony had contracted with Dakota to have his
partner. Jimmy Weems, killed.  Tony and Jimmy owned one of the biggest
and most successful janitorial service firms in Los Angeles County--C
and W Contract Janitorial.  The two of them had gotten into a pissing
match that had turned real nasty.  Dakota didn't know the details of
their dispute, except that Weems had threatened to make a deal with the
IRS at Tony's expense and to send Tony's wife a raunchy video of a
cruise off Baja with a couple of bimbos.  Basically it was blackmail
and, rather than pay Jimmy off.  Tony paid Dakota, instead.

"Let me tell you my problem," Dakota said.

"There's a building in Beverly Hills I've got to get into.  I can't go
in the front door, so I figure maybe I should go in the back, like
through the employees' entrance.  I'm hoping maybe you got the
contract."

"What's the building?"

"The Valticos Financial Building on Wilshire."

"I know it, but I don't have the contract there, Dakota.  Sorry.  Most
of those bigger places have their own staff.  My accounts are smaller
places that can't afford full-time personnel."

"Shit."

"Now there's a chance I can pull a file and get you a name of somebody
in management.  For a few years my janitorial supply department
provided the Valticos Building with supplies, but we lost the account
to a competitor maybe two years ago."

Dakota shook his head.

"A name won't help.  I got to get in the place tonight or tomorrow.
Pronto, in any case."

"I wish I could help."

Dakota pondered the situation.  "Let me ask you.  Tony, how does it
work when you supply a building?"

"It's like anything else.  They order what they need.  Our delivery
truck takes the stuff over.  Most large accounts are serviced
monthly."

"And the delivery guy does what?  He takes the shit in the service
entrance?"

"Yeah, typically."

"And somebody takes the stuff."

"It's signed for by somebody.  Could be a maintenance supervisor,
building engineer or even a security guy.  Depends."

"Would whoever signs know which company the supplies are coming
from?"

"What do you mean, Dakota?"

"Let's say I arrive at the building in one of your trucks and I bring
in some toilet paper and some soap.  For all they know the account got
changed again and now it's you selling them the shit."

Tony Case studied him, his pudgy hands folded over the mound of his
stomach.

"You want me to lend you a truck so you can get in the building,
right?"

"It's an idea."

"Dakota, I'd have to know what you planned to do before I got
involved."

"No, you wouldn't.  Tony.  You'd just have to be unlucky enough to have
one of your trucks stolen.  The keys to the truck, a C and W uniform
and a couple of boxes of toilet paper and I'm in business.  I could
steal all that right out of your yard, right?"

Tony Case was hesitant.

"Five grand cash for your trouble."

Tony drew a long breath, his large body rising in the chair.

"When do you want it?"  "How about now?"

"You're a man of action, aren't you?"  Tony said.

"Ask Jimmy Weems," Dakota replied with a grin.

"If you can find him."

Beverly Hills

Los Angeles at rush hour was nobody's idea of paradise, except maybe
for a few masochists.  Gabe and Margot had j driven up from Orange
County, losing over an hour stalled by the side of the freeway, and
were only now reaching the intersection of La Cienega and Wilshire.  It
was nearly six.  Most offices were closed, the hot, frazzled workers on
their way home to a cold beer, a Little League game, or a dip in the
pool.  It was, after all, a Friday afternoon in July.  Gabe and Margot
were relying on the fact that Daria Mag- run would be sufficiently
curious or paranoid to wait around for them--assuming she'd gotten
there herself.

"I bet she's not here," Margot said as they drove along Wilshire,
looking for the Valticos Financial Building.

"I bet she is."

"What makes you think so?"

"It's in her interest."

"Not everybody enjoys confrontation, Gabe.  Besides, she's a woman."

"And that makes her a wimp?"

"No," Margot said, "it makes her a conciliator rather than a
confrontationalist."  "You have more faith in your gender than I do.
Besides, think about what happened to your dear departed cousin."

"We don't know that Daria Magnin is responsible for that.  All we know
is that the company took exception to what Del was doing."

"Hey, are you getting cold feet.  Miss Girard?"

"No, Gabe, I have a bad feeling about this, that's all."

"Why?"

"I don't know, I just do."

Dakota Jones pulled the C and W Janitorial truck up to the service
entrance of the building.  There were two guys at the door talking. 
One was a uniformed security guard, the other was in plain clothes,
wearing a loose-fitting shirt.  He was smoking.  The bulge under his
arm told Dakota he was packing, too.  It appeared they were prepared
for him.

Dakota checked himself in the side mirror as he stepped out of the
truck to make sure the wig looked okay.  He'd debated between a spiky
blond job and the black, slicked back style he wore.  The blond thing
changed his looks the most, but it also drew attention.

Walking to the rear of the truck, Dakota raised the pulldown door.

Tony had given him a blank invoice and told him what to write in, which
Dakota had done in his own handwriting.  He had four boxes of tissue,
which constituted the bogus order.  Dakota pulled the hand truck out
and stacked the boxes on it.  One of his jobs in prison was moving
supplies, so the work wasn't totally alien.

As he pushed the hand truck toward the door, the guy in uniform held
out his hand.

"Hey, man, what are you doing making a delivery this time of night?"

"Special order," Dakota said.

"Somebody here was yellin' about there being no paper in the crappers,
so they sent me over with a few boxes.

I get overtime, so what the shit.  "

"Heh-heh," the guard said.

"Hear that, Phil?  The toilet paper guy don't give a shit."  He laughed
some more.

"Well, I don't know who you're going to find to sign for it, but go on
in."

"They told me I'd probably have to go up to the office and maybe take
some rolls to each head on every floor.  Our sales rep fucked up, so I
gotta stock the crappers."

"But you don't give a shit because it's overtime, right?"

"Yeah, right," Dakota said, grinning.

The guard opened the door for him.

Before he started in, Dakota said, "My truck all right there?  This
could take a while."

"Yeah, sure.  I'll keep an eye on it."

Dakota wheeled the hand truck inside.  Nobody was around.  He stuck his
head in a door with a sign that said Staff Only.  It was a small locker
room and it was empty.  He pushed the truck through the door, lifted
the lid to the top box, reached inside and removed his gun.  Then he
pulled out his shirttail and stuck the gun in his belt, letting the
shirt fall down over it.  Next he took half a dozen rolls of paper and
went to the elevator.  Now all he had to do was find Dee Dee Magnin.

The security seemed awfully stringent for a building housing the
administrative offices of a bank holding company, Gabe mused, even one
as large and affluent as Val- ticos Financial.  But it wasn't a
complete surprise.  Even before going through the metal detectors and
being forced to produce identification, Gabe knew that Daria Magnin had
reason to be paranoid.

Margot's uneasiness seemed to Gabe to have gotten the best of her and
her wariness lingered.  She had said very little since they'd parked
the car.

"Hey, cheer up," he said, giving her a nudge with his elbow as they
waited for the elevator.  "Never let the enemy see a long face."

"Don't you think maybe we've gotten a little too ambitious?"  she
said.

"Ambitious?"  "I'm sure the police would be happy to take care of Ms.
Magnin."

"They'll get their crack at her, Margot, don't worry."

An elevator car arrived.  The doors slid open.  There was a janitor
inside with an armload of toilet paper.  When they saw he wasn't
getting out, they stepped into the car.  "Why is it so important that
we stare her down?"  Margot asked as the doors slid closed behind
them.

"I want to do it for Del," he replied, noting the button to the top
floor had already been pushed.

"As his lawyer, I want them to know they couldn't silence him.  I
didn't know your cousin well, but I have a feeling this is what he'd
want."

"Is that the real reason?"  she asked as the elevator began its
ascent.

"What else?"

"Couldn't a little of your own stuff be involved?"  "Like my ego?"

"Like your pride."

Gabe shrugged.

"I'm human.  I don't deny it."

Margot moved closer to him, lowering her voice.

"I think it's obvious these people are dangerous."

He glanced at the custodian, keeping his voice low, as well.

"They're cowards, the kind that hire thugs to do their dirty work.  But
that's not the part that concerns me.  It's making them repay what
they've stolen.  That's what Del wanted, and that's what he's going to
get."

The elevator reached the top floor.  Margot stepped out.  The janitor
tossed his head, indicating Gabe should go ahead, and he did.

The reception area was large, the back wall all glass and opening onto
a panoramic vista of the Los Angeles basin.  Downtown L.

A.

was a distant cluster of high-rise buildings huddled in the murky haze.
A fashionably dressed young man was seated behind a sculptured desk, a
cluster of potted palms behind him.  There were two other men present,
as well.  Both were large.  Gabe's and Margot's arrival brought them to
attention.

It was the young man who spoke to them.

"Mr.  Rose and Ms.  Girard?"

"Yes."

"Please be seated," he said.

"Ms.  Magnin is occupied at the moment, but she won't be long.  I'll
let her know you're here."

They went to one of the butter-soft leather sofas and sat.  One of the
heavies, obviously a security type, confronted the janitor, who'd
ambled along behind them.

"What do you want?"

"They called for more toilet paper," the custodian said.

The big guy turned to the younger man behind the desk.  "You call for
more paper?"

"No."

"They said in the private toilet of the president."

"Somebody screwed up," the dapper young man said.

"Dee Dee didn't ask for toilet paper.  Maybe it was the regular rest
rooms, down the hall.

Take it there.  "

The janitor trudged off.  As silence fell over the reception area, Gabe
could hear voices from behind the closed double doors.  One was a
woman's, the other a man's.  He couldn't hear the words clearly, but
the man's voice sounded familiar.

"Margot," he said under his breath, "who does that sound like in there?
The guy, I mean."

She listened a moment.

"I don't know, who?"

"I'd swear that was Peter Cashen."

Margot listened again.

"Gabe, I think you might be right."

The young man at the desk closed a file he had open and picked up his
phone, pushing a button.

"Dee Dee," he said, "Mr.  Rose has arrived."

He listened for a moment, then said to them, "She'll see you now."

Gabe and Margot got up, she giving him an uncertain look.

"I hope you know what you're doing," she said out the corner of her
mouth.

The young man opened the door and Gabe followed Margot into Dee Dee
Magnin's office.  Peter turned, staring at them, aghast.

"Well, well," Gabe said, "if it isn't Peter Cashen, paragon of the
Sacramento bar."

Peter looked at Dee Dee in disbelief.

"Jesus Christ, what are you doing bringing them in here?  What is
this?"

"Apparently a meeting of conspirators anonymous," Gabe said.  Then to
the woman, he said, "Mrs.  Magnin, I presume."

"Mr.  Rose, I've heard so much about you."

"I bet you have."

Dee Dee came from behind her desk.

"Considering we've only just met, you're rather unkind, Mr.  Rose."

"After what Margot and I learned this morning... well, let's just say,
I'm not a fan of Valticos Financial."

"What in the hell is going on?"  Peter Cashen demanded.

"If I had to guess," Dee Dee said, "Mr.  Rose is here for
show-and-tell."

"Very astute."

"The question," Dee Dee said, looking him up and down, 'is if we end up
in the O.

K.

Corral or somewhere more pleasant.  "

Gabe grinned, enjoying the woman's sense of theater and the look of
growing dismay on Peter Cashen's face.  Meanwhile Dee Dee turned her
attention to Margot.

"You're Del Pritchard's cousin."

"Yes, my late cousin."

"I'm sorry about his death."

Gabe saw no forgiveness on Margot's face.  To the contrary, he sensed
her combative spirit rising.  The two women, both small in stature,
seemed to be squaring off like a pair of miniature titans.

"Are you sorry, Mrs.  Magnin?"  Margot said.

"Yes, though maybe not for the reasons you'd prefer.  Most of the
misery I've been through lately is because of his death.  So, if only
for selfish reasons, it would have been much better if he hadn't been
killed."

"How did he die?  Did you have him killed?"

Dee Dee slowly wrung her hands, clearly not comfortable.

"Let's sit down," she said, gesturing toward a seating group next to
the glass wall overlooking Los Angeles.

Only Peter did not take a seat, looking torn between stomping out in a
huff and sticking around to find out how deep the cuts would be.

Finally, he settled on hovering nearby.

Dee Dee Magnin sat in an armchair, striking a Lincolnesque pose despite
her diminutive stature.  She crossed her legs.

"No, I had nothing to do with Del Pritchard's death."  She drew a long
breath.

"My husband paid to have him killed.  The idiot decided to play big
shot and hire a professional killer.  This was behind my father's and
my back.  Neither I, nor anyone connected with the company, apart from
Steve, had anything to do with it."

"But you're husband's conveniently dead, isn't he?"  Margot said.

"Yes, I shot him in self-defense, and it had nothing to do with
protecting either myself or the company from the consequences of the
murder.  I'll be honest with you.  Initially Steve and I argued over
what he'd done to your cousin--I was horrified--and it led to his rage
and abuse.  I shot him to protect myself.  I truly am innocent of that
crime."

"Let's go back a step," Gabe said.

"What about Bozo here?"  He yanked his thumb in Peter's direction.

"What's his part in this?"

"I've been used," Peter exclaimed.

"That's my part in this."

"To the contrary," Dee Dee said coolly.

"Mr.  Cashen has been blackmailing Valticos Financial.  He's demanded
payments to keep a lawsuit against the company from reaching court, a
suit that would have been brought in the name of Mr.  Pritchard."

"That's a lie!"  Peter shouted.

"You retained me to evaluate your legal exposure to a class action
lawsuit, which had nothing whatsoever to do with my brief relationship
with Del Pritchard."

"Don't be an ass," Dee Dee returned.

"Isn't it obvious we're at the moment of truth here?"

"I couldn't have put it better," Gabe said.

"For the record, Peter's in bed with Valticos Financial, one way or
another.  Let's move on."

"This is absurd," Peter said, pacing.

Gabe couldn't help taking pleasure in Peter Cashen's anxiety.  The poor
bastard was being skewered, but he couldn't bring himself to walk out
without learning of his fate firsthand.

"I'm warning you all," Peter blustered, his face reddening, "I'm not
going to be the fall guy for this.  I know absolutely nothing about
criminal activity, and I'll go to the police if you force me."

"Too bad you didn't go to the police at the beginning, when you found
out what was going on here, Peter," Gabe said.

"I had no idea."

"Bullshit," Dee Dee said, losing patience.

"You were paid off and it's easily proven."

Peter froze, his mouth agape.

"You're going down," Gabe told him.

"If it's only losing your license, your days of screwing people are at
an end.  I promise you."

"Sit down and shut up, Peter," Margot added.

"I want to get on with the discussion."

"Finally, someone talking a little sense," Dee Dee said.

"I might have expected it'd be a woman."  She got to her feet.  As she
moved past Peter on her way to her desk, she gave him a shove in the
chest and he went backward into an armchair.  She sat in her big
leather executive chair.  "Look people, the facts are simple.  Valticos
Financial has been interpreting the agreements of our consumer accounts
very liberally for a number of years.  You three know better than I
that we're vulnerable to a class action lawsuit.  The question is not
what you know, but what we're going to do about it."

Gabe got up and went to the desk, noticing that Dee Dee removed her
hand from the pencil drawer that had been open.  She partially closed
it, giving him pause.  She looked up at him innocently, and he went on
with his thought.

"You can come clean, Mrs.  Magnin, and tell your story to the police,"
he said.

"Oh, I'm perfectly aware of my options," she replied.

"It's your options that are a lot more interesting.  Let me ask some
questions.

Who else has been informed about your investigation, or are you three
it?  "

Margot came over, standing next to Gabe.

"Why don't you assume that there's a tape with the entire story in a
safe deposit box with instructions it's to be opened in the event of
our untimely deaths," she said.

Dee Dee smiled with admiration.

"I like your style."

"I wish I could return the compliment," Margot replied coldly.  "The
bottom line is, what matters is not what any of us think of each
other," Dee Dee continued, "it's that I've got a substantial amount of
money available to ensure that this matter goes no further.

I'm prepared to write a check.  All I need to know is how much.  "

Peter joined them.

"You're talking about all of us?"

"You may have to decide among yourselves who gets what," Dee Dee
said.

"The point is, I want silence.  I want this brouhaha to go away.  I
want it to go away now."

Gabe shook his head with disbelief.

"Mrs.  Magnin, I don't think you understand our position.  Del
Pritchard died to put an end to your scheme.  We're here to make sure
that happens."

A silence fell over the room.  Dee Dee regarded the three of them.

"I'm not talking tens of thousands of dollars, Mr.  Rose.  I'm not
talking hundreds of thousands.  I'm talking millions--all yours, if
you'll cooperate."

"We're not interested in your money," Gabe said.

"We want justice."

Dee Dee blinked.

"Justice?  What kind of an idiot are you?  Didn't you hear what I said?
Millions!"

"You're wasting your breath with this moron," Peter said.  "He threw
away a law practice out of some perverse sense of honor, and now he
wants to sink us all so he can pretend to be noble."

Gabe turned to him, his choler rising.  Peter glared back.

"You are a stupid, fucking idiot, Gabe.  Don't you see these people
have money and they're willing to use it?  Why beat your head against a
wall in court when you can have your fee five times over for walking
away?  Wake up, man!"

"Peter, you were a slimy piece of shit the night you screwed my wife in
front of our kid, and you're a slimy piece of shit now."

"You know something," Peter said, poking his finger at him, "you were
stupid and self-righteous then, and you're stupid and self-righteous
now."

Gabe felt the anger exploding inside him.  He grabbed Peter by the
collar and drew his fist back.

"Gabe, don't!"  Margot shouted.

He froze, teetering between smashing Cashen in the face and letting him
go.  Given what he'd just learned, even a D.

A.

might understand his outrage and excuse him, but there was more at
issue than the degree of evil confronting him.  His ability to make the
right choices was at stake.  Gabe let Peter go.

The terror on Cashen's face melted and he drew himself up,
straightening his jacket.

"Maybe you did learn something in jail, but you're still a goddamn
idiot."

"Maybe.  But this time I'll enjoy seeing them take you away in
chains."

Just then there were sounds of a commotion in the outer office.  They
heard a cry, then several zipping sounds.  They turned toward the door
en masse.

The double doors to the office slowly swung open.  The custodian Gabe
had seen in the elevator appeared, an automatic with a silencer
dangling from his hand.  Behind him a body could be seen on the
floor.

The man at the door, his face black with anger, stared past them at Dee
Dee.  When he pulled his wig off and tossed it aside, Gabe glanced back
at Dee Dee, who slowly opened her pencil drawer.

"Dear God," Margot Girard murmured, her voice a ghostly whisper as the
man came slowly toward them.

Gabe's blood, already full of adrenaline, choked his heart.  He didn't
understand what the hell was going on,

except that the janitor's only interest seemed to be Dee Dee Magnin.

"You left without saying goodbye," he said to her.

"You gave me no choice."

"We had a deal."

"The deal wasn't to chain me to a bed," she said, her voice
trembling.

"How could I trust you to release me, once you got your money?  I had
to leave when I got my chance."

Gabe and Margot backed off to one side, Peter to the other as the man
came closer.  "Funny, but I never did get my money."

"There was a storm."

"But the fucking storm's over," he shouted, his voice rising violently,
"and there's no money in the goddamn account.  You sent me to Venice
thinking the cops would get me, but they didn't."  "Dakota, I swear to
you I had every intention of going through with the deal."

"Then why were the cops waiting for me?  And why wasn't the money in my
bank account this morning?"

"I don't know," she stammered.

"I swear."

"Swearing won't do any good, bitch.  You just ran out of time."  He
started to raise his gun.

Peter started edging toward the door.  The man saw him and, without
taking his eyes off Dee Dee, aimed at Peter.

"Freeze, asshole!  Nobody in this room moves unless I say so."

Peter stopped in his tracks.  Gabe put his arm around Margot.  Her body
trembled.  He didn't feel all that steady himself.

"I stopped the transfer after I got away," Dee Dee said.

"If you'd played straight with me, everything would have gone
smoothly."

"Yeah, the cops would have grabbed me."

"I don't know how that happened, honestly.  But it's not too late.  We
can still do this.  These are the people you were supposed to kill.
Right here," she said gesturing toward him and Margot.

Dakota glanced at them.

"Yeah, they were in the elevator with me.  But what the shit do I care?
This is about you and me."

Gabe was incredulous.  What were they talking about?

"No, Dakota, listen to me," Dee Dee implored.

"The money is in my account, ready to go.  One call and it's in the
Caymans.  Why kill me and lose the money?  I can transfer two million.
Kill them and you walk out of here a rich man."

Peter suddenly bolted and Dakota casually turned and shot him in the
back, the gun making a terrible hissing sound.  Peter spun and fell to
the floor in the outer office, his body twitching slightly as he
groaned.  Margot gasped and shrunk deeper into Gabe's arms.

"Oh my God," she murmured.

The gunman paid them no mind.

"You know why I'm not walking out of here a rich man?"  he said to Dee
Dee.  "The goddamn banks are closed and you got no way to pay me.  I'm
here to make a point, and the point is, you're dead."

"You'll have it first thing in the morning!"

Laughing, the gunman raised his gun to fire.  Gabe didn't know if
they'd be next; he didn't know where this insanity was leading.  All he
knew with certainty was that he couldn't let this happen.  He lunged
for the man's outstretched arm as the gun went off, the shot going
astray and shattering the desktop.

Margot screamed and Dakota swung his gun, catching Gabe on the side of
the head and dropping him to the floor.  Gabe lay stunned, staring up
into the barrel of the gun.  Dee Dee, meanwhile, pulled her gun from
the desk drawer and pointed it at Jones.  The gunman and Gabe both
looked at her.

"Go ahead," she said, calmly.

"Shoot him!"

"How can you do that?"  Margot screamed at her.

"He just saved your life!"

"Shoot him, goddamn it!"  Dee Dee said through her teeth.

Dakota looked at her from the corner of his eye.  Gabe stared up at
him. He saw the gunman calculating.

"Shoot him or I shoot you!"  Dee Dee cried.

Dakota straightened, letting his gun hand hang limply at his side as he
turned to face her.  "Why should I do you any favors?"

"The money."

"Fuck the money."

With that he raised his gun to shoot her, but Dee Dee fired first.

Jones was knocked backward to the floor.

Dee Dee Magnin stared at his motionless body, her chest heaving.  Gabe
rose first to his hands and knees, then got to his feet.  He was
wobbly. Margot took hold of his arm.  "Now what are you going to do?" 
he asked Dee Dee.

She clearly didn't know what to say.  She contemplated the gun in her
hand.  Just then they heard the sound of the elevator doors opening in
the reception area.  They turned and saw two men in business suits and
two uniformed police officers step from the car.  The police reacted
immediately to the bodies in the outer office, drawing their weapons.

"A million dollars for each of you, if this ends right here," Dee Dee
said in a low voice.

"A million each."

One of the men in the business suits appeared at the door, his gun
drawn.

"Detective Leahy!"  Dee Dee cried, putting her gun down on the desk.

"Thank God."

"What's going on?"  the detective asked, stepping over Peter Cashen.

Dee Dee came around the desk.  She pointed at the gunman's body.

"That's Dakota Jones.  He came in here shooting.  But before he got us,
I shot him."

Leahy moved cautiously into the room, bolstering his weapon.  In the
outer office the police were calling for emergency medical assistance.
Leahy looked at Gabe and Margot.  "Who are you folks?"

"I'm Gabriel Rose," Gabe said.

"And this is Margot Girard."

Margot still had her arm around him.  She looked questioningly into his
eyes.

The second man in a business suit, older than Leahy, entered, his
expression distraught.

"Dee Dee, are you all right?"

"Yes, Sid, I'm fine.  Shaken, but fine."

The man approached, embracing her.

"Dear God," he said, looking down at the body of Dakota Jones.

Leahy checked for a pulse on Jones, then came to where the others were
gathered.  Gabe and Margot both stared at Dee Dee.  He was certain
Margot was thinking the same thing as he.  Dee Dee had the gall to
smile.

"Mr.  Rose saved my life," she said more to the room than anyone in
particular.

"And I saved his.  Jones was about to shoot him when I shot Jones.
Isn't that right, Mr.  Rose?"

Gabe couldn't believe how sincere and innocent she sounded.  He saw in
her everything that he hated in this world: the greed, the hypocrisy,
the corruption, the selfishness.  Yet, ironically, Dee Dee Magnin had
shot Dakota Jones in self-defense.  It was doubtful the D.

A.

would be able to pin a criminal conspiracy charge on her.  She'd
attempted to induce a murder for hire, but how far would that get?  Her
attorney would claim she'd acted in desperation, under duress, or had
simply tried to distract Jones until she could act.  Gabe had doubts
serious charges would ever be brought.

"Mr.  Rose?"  Detective Leahy said.

"Miss Girard?"

Gabe did not look at him; he continued to stare at Dee Dee Magnin, who
looked back at him with imploring, oddly innocent eyes.

"You can keep your million dollars, Mrs.  Magnin," he said at last.

"I don't want your money.  Besides, you're going to need it when I slap
Valticos Financial with the mother of all class action suits."

"What's he talking about?"  the man with Dee Dee asked.

"He's posturing, Sid," she said, "trying to drive up the settlement
figure.  If that's what he wants, fine.  We can deal with him in
court."

"I don't know what you folks are talking about," Leahy said.

"But I've got questions about what happened here."

"We'll answer your questions," Margot said, "but we'd like to do it
somewhere else.  This place has a terrible stench."

"How about down in the building lobby?"  Leahy said.

"I'll be down in a while."

Gabe took Margot's arm and they headed for the door.  One of the police
officers was tending to Peter Cashen, who was conscious, but having
difficulty breathing.  He looked frightened.  Gabe was aware of Peter's
scar gleaming in the late-afternoon sunlight coming in the window.

"Mr.  Rose!"  Dee Dee called from the other room.

He and Margot looked back.

"Give my business proposition some thought," she said.

"It's never too late to do the sensible thing."

Gabe did not respond.  He had a terrible headache and only one
desire--to take Margot home and maybe walk hand in hand with her along
the beach.  When they got into the elevator car, and the doors closed,
he hugged her and she hugged him back.  Neither of them said a word. 
It wasn't necessary.

Saturday, August 5

Carmichael

-Tug 0"Conner was getting his weekly barber shave when Gabe arrived at
the nursing home with Arabella.  Herbert Schaefer, the old German who'd
cut Pug's hair for thirty- five years, was a man with girth and jowls
and thick silver hair.  He drove out to Carmichael every Saturday to
give him " relief from the goddamn electric blade," as Pug put it.

The two old men interrupted their ritual to acknowledge Gabe's arrival.
Pug, a soap-smudged cloth around his neck, studied the child with the
same critical eye he considered everything.  "Cute little squirt.  Who
the hell does she look like?"

"Me, of course."

"That's an objective opinion, if I ever heard one."

"You ever seen the mother.  Pug?"  Herb asked.

"Yeah, but don't ask me about kids and mothers."

"Then she looks like her father," the old German said, lifting Pug's
chin with his finger.

Pug looked at Gabe over his nose, the corners of his mouth turning down
in bulldog fashion.

"So, what the hell happened in L.A.?"

Gabe gave him a rundown of events, complete with a blow-by-blow
description of the happenings in Dee Dee Magnin's office.

"You're lucky you didn't get your ass shot off," Pug said.

"There's a certain irony in the fact that I saved the life of somebody
who tried to get me killed."

"They going to charge her?"

"Haven't yet.  They're investigating.  My guess is no.  Most of what
she said, she said under duress.  Margot and I told the cops we think
Dee Dee had a contract out on us, but it won't be an easy case to
make.

They're talking to Peter about it now, as I understand it.  There was
doubt for several days that he'd survive.  "

"Now there's a sorry sonovabitch if ever there was one," Pug said.

"The bar's going after him, almost certainly.  Charlie Ames told me."

"Daddy, down," Arabella said, squirming.

Gabe put her on the floor, and she stepped in front of Pug and watched
him getting his shave.  Schaefer took a dollop of shaving cream and put
it on the end of her nose, making her giggle.

"So, you're in the good graces of the bar again," Pug said.

"Ames apologized to me," Gabe said.

"I guess Peter's relative ignominy makes me look good by comparison.
After all, he screwed a client.  I only clobbered another lawyer." 
"The corrupt bastards usually get found out in the end, kid."

"It couldn't happen to a nicer guy."

"So, what are your plans?"  Pug asked.

"Besides babysitting."

"I'm going to be doing a lot of that, as a matter of fact.  Mona's in
Hawaii with Arm and Hammer for a week."  "Azumian?  He married her?"

"No, they're on a little vacation.  But the relationship seems to be
heating up.  And Mona told me she might be amenable to me spending more
time with Bella, like maybe most of the time."

"Because Armand's not into kids?"

"Exactly," Gabe chortled.

"Let's see, how did Mona put it?

"Armand adores Bella, but he's not suited temperamentally for
parenting."  " Pug laughed.

"There's a jail full of criminal defendants who say he's not
temperamentally suited for the bench, either."

Herb Schaefer finished shaving Pug and began wiping the last of the
shaving soap off with a hot wet towel.  Arabella watched with
fascination, giggling when Schaefer slapped on some shaving lotion.

"You want some, pumpkin?"  he asked her.

Bella twisted her body back and forth shyly, two fingers in her
mouth.

Schaefer wiped the last of the soap off her nose with the towel, then
put a little shaving lotion behind her ears.  She beamed at her father,
then came flying into his arms.  Gabe hoisted her onto his lap and gave
her a hug.

Pug pulled the cloth from around his neck with his good hand and gave
it to Herb, who'd begun putting away his things.

"So, Del Pritchard's killers are dead," Pug said.

"Yes, but his cause lives on.  We're going to press ahead with a class
action suit against Valticos Financial.  The banking authorities are
investigating, too.  Whether Dee Dee Magnin ends up facing criminal
charges or not, she's in for some rough sledding.  We're looking at a
wrongful death suit against the company and Steve Magnin's estate.  I
understand Steve's sister is considering a wrongful death suit against
Dee Dee herself.  All I can say is the Valticos lawyers are going to be
busy."

"Death by civil action."

Gabe chuckled.

"Something like that."

Herb Schaefer had finished up.  Pug took a twenty from his pocket and
extended it toward the barber.

"No, I'm not taking it."

"Well, I'm not keeping it.  Give it to Catholic Charities or whatever
the hell you want."

Schaefer took the bill, stuffed it in his pocket, said his goodbyes and
left.

"We do that every week," Pug explained to Gabe.

"He won't take my money, so I tell him to give it to the church, under
the theory it will soften my road to hell."

"So, how are you doing, Pug?"  He pointed to his limp arm.

"This isn't going to change, but I'm on the verge of walking again.  I
could be out of here in as soon as a month or two."

"Hey, that's great."

"I don't know what the fuck I'll do."

"Consult."

Pug threw his hand at him.

"I don't have the patience for bumblers, but we'll see."  Then he
appraised Gabe.

"I'm seeing a little glow in your cheeks, kid.  Wouldn't have anything
to do with that girl down in Hollywood, by any chance."

Gabe grinned.

"It could."

"I'm an old man who can't even remember his fantasies.  Give me
something to smile about."

"Margot was up last week for her aunt's funeral and to begin work
settling the estate.  We spent some time together."

"And?"  "Well, we're taking things slow.  Pug.  Did find the time for a
couple of romantic meals, enjoyed a couple of bottles of wine from the
case Spencer Shimota brought by."

"Shimota?"

"We had a little bet.  Spencer graciously paid off."

"You seem to be on the up-bound all around, kid."

"I hesitate to get too euphoric," Gabe said.

"Reality has a way of biting you in the ass."

Arabella began squirming again and Gabe put her down.  She went over to
Pug and stood looking at him.  He gave her a crooked grin.

"You've never seen such a funny-looking old man in your life, have you,
squirt?"

Bella reached out and touched his paralyzed hand.  Pug stared at her
little face for several moments and glanced up at Gabe, his eyes
shimmering.

"I've had lots of victories and triumphs in my life, kid," Pug said.

"And maybe I've done a few worthwhile things along the way.  But I made
one big mistake, and it was a doozy.  I never found a wife, never had
kids and grandkids.  Now here I am, alone."

"You've got people who care about you, Pug."

"Maybe.  In any case, it'll have to do."  He wiped his eye, not as
embarrassed as Gabe might have thought.

"You don't need advice about women from me, but if that gal in
Hollywood seems like the right one, don't let her get away, Gabe."

"You kind of liked her, didn't you?"

"She's a pistol.  Looking at her, I could almost remember the fantasies
of my youth."

"You've been a mentor and an idol to me for years, Pug, but this is one
occasion I'm ahead of you.  In the morning Bella and I are flying down
to L.A. Margot's been working on her project and looking after a
neighbor who got shot because of us, but she's agreed to take a couple
of days off, and she and I and Bella are going to drive down to San
Diego to see the zoo and the aquarium."

"That's great," Pug said, wiping his other eye.  He smiled at Arabella,
who was totally taken by him.

Watching the two of them, Gabe couldn't help but think of his sister
and father.  The week before, he and Dr.  Wil- egard had talked about
them a great deal.  He was getting close to picking up the phone and
giving them a call.

Pug continued to stare at Arabella, the tears flowing down his
cheeks.

He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face.

"It's time to take your daughter and get out of here, Gabe.  I've got
reading to do."

Gabriel Rose got to his feet and picked up Bella.  Before going, he
bent over and kissed Cyrus 0"Conner on top of his head.  Then he said,
" We'll be back, Pug.  And next time I'll bring you a bottle of
Shimota's Chardonnay.  Were it not for you, I wouldn't even have it. 
"

Pug waved him off with the hand clutching the handkerchief, but he
somehow managed to smile.  Gabe left, carrying Arabella outside into
the bright sunshine.  He'd parked his junker in the street in the shade
of a big shade tree.  Before putting Bella in the baby seat in back, he
gave her a hug.  She hugged him back.

An old man crossed the street up at the corner.  He reminded Gabe of
Del Pritchard.  It amazed him how much had changed in the twenty-two
days since Del had stumbled into Rudy Herman's office with his box of
evidence.

Or had things changed?  Maybe the same old stuff was there, the good
along with the bad.  Maybe it was just a case of Gabe seeing the world
with new eyes.  He could almost hear Pug explaining it in the simple,
direct way he saw life: "Do the right thing, kid, and the rest will
take care of itself."

Until one night, when everything changes, and they cross the line
between friends and lovers.  MIRK Available 17th November 2000 M2oo

Three years after the Lucy movesjip a Yermc rebuild h^life with
herplained Al|J|ldireaten P|iL f 'iift'"--^ .

it^ith the help of Sebastian Rechvini "" reveal a dangerous tangle off'
vengeance and'

THE WATERFALL

CARLA NECGERS

Kate is attractive, successful and miserable.

After three failed engagements she realises it's time for a PLAN.
os/ajm/s: ^ ^

HAlt U AC^f ^4^4CAt MA.  ^CCM^t.

A wickedly funny tale about one woman's best laid plans.  MiRK
Published on 22nd December 2000 M203

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