Nice house. Tidy, attractive, but all business. Just like the lady herself, Louis thought as he followed her into the kitchen.

The kitchen was painted a bright green in an attempt to match the ugly ’50s tile. There was a Winn-Dixie bag on the floor with some groceries still stacked on the counter-a box of Stove Top stuffing, a can of cranberries, some potatoes. Louis could see a frozen turkey sitting in one side of the double sink.

“You shouldn’t let that sit out,” he said.

Susan was standing at the counter and turned.

“What?”

“The turkey,” he said, nodding.

“It needs to defrost by tomorrow and it won’t fit in the refrigerator,” she said.

“Put it in some cold water.”

“What, you working for the Butterball hotline now?”

Louis shrugged.

She went back to ripping away at something sticky in a big bowl. The stuff vaguely resembled cookie dough.

“Looks too dry,” Louis said.

She threw him a look as she struggled to work the wooden spoon through the dough. “I followed the recipe,” she said.

“Recipes don’t always work,” Louis said. “Add some water.”

Susan grabbed a measuring cup, turning to the sink to fill it. She leaned down, watching the water carefully as it rose to the line.

“How much are you going to add?”

“Enough to make it look normal.”

“Then you don’t know how much you’re going to add?”

“No.”

“Then why bother to measure it?” Louis asked.

She turned. “Look, you came to talk, not cook. So talk.”

Louis watched her pour the water into the dough. She began to work it in, her hips swaying in sync with the rotations her hand made around the bowl.

“I went and saw Cade,” Louis said. “He knows now that we’re a package deal.”

She nodded slowly. “I talked to my boss. He said I can add you to the payroll as an investigator. You are now an agent of the PD’s office.”

Louis looked up at her, not comfortable with the title, especially with the name Jack Cade attached to it.

“Hold on,” Susan said. She left and returned a minute later. She held out a beeper.

“I’m not wearing that,” Louis said.

“Don’t be crazy. I have to be able to get ahold of you.” She slapped it down on the table and returned to the sink.

He picked up the beeper, turning it over in his hands. “Does this mean we’re going steady?”

She threw him a look and went back to the cookie dough. Louis saw something out of the corner of his eye and turned. Benjamin was leaning against the door jamb, watching them. He was a skinny little thing, huge brown eyes behind the big glasses, twig-brown arms poking out of a Star Wars T-shirt.

“You really a PI?” he asked.

“Kind of.”

“You track down murderers and stuff?”

Louis looked at Susan for help, but she was busy.

“What kind of gun you got?”

“I don’t carry a gun right now,” Louis said.

The boy made a face. “What kind of car you got? Sonny Crockett has a Ferrari Spider but it’s not really his-”

“Ben, go do your homework,” Susan said.

“I did it already.”

“Then go watch TV.”

The boy made a suffering face. “Oh man, I wanna stay in here.”

“No. Get.”

“Can I lick the bowl first?”

“I told you before it’s not good for you.”

Louis suddenly recalled something his foster mother Frances used to say to him, and he turned to Benjamin.

“It’ll give you worms,” he whispered.

Benjamin trudged off and fell to the floor in front of the television. Seconds later the Jeopardy theme song came on. Louis watched as Susan opened the oven door. The sweet scent of chocolate chip cookies filled the kitchen. He knew he needed to tread carefully. This was her case, after all, and he had to respect that. He had to find out what her plan was before he tried to force one of his own on her.

Susan started cleaning up the mess on the counter.

“Can I have the bowl?” Louis asked.

She turned. “What?”

“The bowl.”

She gave him a weird look, then brought the bowl over to the table, sitting across from him. He scraped the spoon around the rim and began to eat the dough.

“That junk’s not good for you,” she said.

“Yeah, I know, it gives you worms. I need to know what your trial strategy is going to be,” Louis said.

She swiped a finger in the bowl and nibbled at the dough, like she was afraid to experience it all at once. “My strategy is that Jack Cade didn’t shoot Duvall. Someone else did. A powerful man like Duvall had lots of enemies. My staff, such as it is, is working on his financials now to see if there was anything hinky there.”

“What about that witness who saw Cade at Duvall’s office?”

“A bum named Quince,” Susan said. “He hangs out at the bus stop across the street and he said he saw a man leave Duvall’s office just after nine-thirty. Never saw Cade’s face, just said he looked out of place. He described a black leather jacket. They never found a similar jacket when they searched Cade’s house. Quince doesn’t know what he saw. He’s a homeless drunk who served time.”

“Being an homeless ex-con makes him blind?” Louis asked.

“There you go, thinking like a cop again.”

“Okay, what about the fingerprints? Mobley said Cade’s prints were on the credenza, like he was looking for something.”

“Cade was in the office that morning. Says he leaned against things.”

“They find the weapon?”

“No, and Cade doesn’t own a gun. He can’t.”

“Not legally anyway.”

“Well, they don’t have anyone stepping forward to say they sold him one illegally either.”

“What caliber was the gun used on Duvall?”

Susan thought for a minute. “A seven-point-six-two by twenty-five.”

“A what?”

She chuckled at the puzzled look on his face. “It’s a Tokarev. It’s Chinese, an old semi-automatic. It shoots a 30-caliber bullet from a nine millimeter cartridge. It’s probably a collector’s gun.”

“Doesn’t sound like something Cade would have,” Louis said.

“My thought exactly. He’d be lucky to snare something off the street.”

“Alibi?”

“His son Ronnie. Says he was home watching Star Trek, the New Generation.”

“Next,” Louis said.

“What?”

“It’s called Next Generation, not New.”

She shrugged and took another swipe at the cookie dough.

“I take it the cops don’t believe Ronnie,” Louis said.

“They can’t disprove it. And even though Ronnie is the son, he’s pretty credible.”

“Did they find anything when they searched Cade’s trailer?”

“No.”

Louis put the spoon back in the bowl. He was silent, staring at the squiggles in the Formica surface of the table. He didn’t realize he was shaking his head. But Susan saw it and bristled.

“What?” she demanded.

He looked up. “What?”

“That look. If you’ve got something to say about how I’m handling this, say it.” She crossed her arms across her red T-shirt.

Louis drew in a slow breath. “I think you’ve got to reconsider the Jagger case as a motive in Duvall’s murder.”

Susan’s expression was stunned. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, listen to me,” Louis said. “I’ve been giving this a lot of thought since talking to Cade. He told me the only reason he wanted to sue Duvall was to get big money so he could put his life back together. Ronnie is broke. He owes money all over the place. The nursery business is about to go under. Cade was looking for money, that’s all.”

“So?” Susan said.

“So, he had everything to gain if the Jagger case was examined in the context of a civil suit.”

“He couldn’t have sued him anyway. The statute of-”

“Cade didn’t know that. His intent was to sue, not kill.”

“How do you know Cade didn’t know?”

“He told me.”

Susan gave a derisive laugh.

“You believe him when he said he didn’t shoot Duvall. Why can’t I believe him?”