“I doubt it,” said Dar, feeling his feathers ruffled again.

“The bookcase is a rough map of the United States,” said Syd. “You shelve regionally. King’s up there freezing his ass off near the ceiling in Maine. Hemingway’s down there near the floor heating vent, comfortable in Key West…”

“Cuba, actually,” said Dar. “Impressive. How do you shelve your novels?”

“I used to do it according to the relationship between the authors,” she admitted. “You know, Truman Capote right next to Harper Lee…”

“Childhood friends,” added Dar. “Little, weakling Truman was the model for Dill who visits every summer in Mockingbird.”

Syd nodded. “With the dead authors it worked all right,” she said. “I mean, I could keep Faulkner and Hemingway the hell apart, but I always had to keep moving the live ones around. I mean, one month Amy Tan’s tight with Tabitha King, and the next thing I read, they’re not talking. I was spending more time reshelving my books than I did reading, and then my work started to suffer because I was frittering away my days worrying if John Grisham and Michael Crichton were still good buddies or not…”

“You’re so full of shit,” Dar said in a friendly tone.

“Yep,” Syd agreed, and lifted her coffee mug.

Dar took a breath. He was enjoying himself and he had to remind himself that this woman was here because she was a cop, not because of his devastating charm. “My turn,” he said.

Syd nodded and sipped.

“You’re about thirty-six, thirty-seven,” he said, starting with the riskiest territory and rapidly moving on. “Law degree. Your accent’s fairly neutral, but definitely devoid of back east. A little midwestern left in the corners of your vowels. Northwestern University?”

“University of Chicago,” she said, and added. “And I’ll have you know that I’m only thirty-six. Birthday just last month.”

Dar went on. “Chief investigators for even local district attorneys are some of the best enforcement people around,” he said softly, as if to himself. “Former U.S. marshals. Former military. Former FBI.” He looked at Syd. “You were in the Bureau for what? Seven years?”

“Closer to nine,” said Syd. She got up, went to the coffeemaker, and came back to pour them both more of the thick, black stuff.

“Okay, reason for leaving…” Dar said, and stopped. He did not want to make this too personal.

“No, go ahead. You’re doing fine.”

Dar sipped coffee and said, “That glass-ceiling sexism thing. But I thought the Bureau was getting better.”

Syd nodded. “They’re working on it. In ten more years, I could have been as high as a real FBI person could get—right under the political crony or career pencil-pusher that some president appoints as director.”

“Then why did you leave…” Dar began, and then stopped. He thought about the nine-millimeter semi-auto on her hip and the quick-release holster. “Ahhh, you enjoy enforcement more than…”

“Investigation,” finished Syd. “Correct. And the Bureau is, after all, about ninety-eight percent investigation.”

Dar rubbed his cheek. “Sure. And as the state’s attorney’s chief investigator, you get to investigate to your heart’s content and then go kick the door in when it comes time.”

Syd gave him a dazzling smile. “And then I get to kick the felons who were hiding behind that door.”

“You do a lot of that?”

Sydney Olson’s smile faded but did not disappear. “Enough to keep me in shape.”

“And you also get to run interagency task forces like Operation SouthCal Clean Sweep,” said Dar.

Her smile disappeared instantly. “Yes,” she said. “And I’d be willing to bet that you and I share the same opinion of committees and task forces.”

“Darwin’s Fifth Law,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Any organism’s intelligence decreases in direct proportion to the number of heads it has,” said Dar.

Syd finished her coffee, set the mug carefully on the mat, nodded, and said, “Is this Charles Darwin’s law or Dr. Darwin Minor’s law?”

“I don’t think that Charles ever had to sit on a committee or report to a task force,” said Dar. “He just sailed around on the Beagle, getting a tan while ogling finches and tortoises.”

“What are the rest of your laws?”

“We’ll probably stumble across them as we go along,” said Dar.

“Are we going to be going along?”

Dar opened his hands. “I’m just trying to find this movie’s plot. So far it’s fairly formulaic. You’re setting me up as bait, hoping that the Alliance will sic more mafia killers on me. But you have to protect me. That must mean you’ll be staying within sight twenty-four hours a day. Good plot.” He looked around his living room and in toward the dining area. “Not sure where you’ll sleep, but we’ll think of something.”

Syd rubbed her brow. “In your dreams. Darwin. The San Diego PD will be sending extra patrols by at night. I was supposed to take a look at your living arrangements and give a…quote…security-wise sitrep…end quote, to Dickweed.”

“And?” said Dar.

Syd smiled again. “I can happily report that you live in an almost abandoned warehouse where only a few units have been converted to condos or lofts. There’s no security on the stairways…unless you count sleeping migrant winos as guards. There’s little light and zero security on the ground floor where you park your Sherman tank of a sport utility vehicle. Your door’s all right—reinforced, with three good locks and a police bar—but these windows are a nightmare. A blind sniper using a rusted Springfield without a scope could take you out. No drapes. No shades. No curtains. Are you a closet exhibitionist, Dar?”

“I like good views.” He stood and looked out the kitchen window. “From up here you can see the bay, the airport, Point Loma, Sea World…” He trailed off, realizing how unconvincing he sounded.

Sydney joined him at the window. He caught a faint whiff of some scent she was wearing. It was nice—more like the woodsy smell of the forest near his cabin after a rain than heavy perfume.

“It is a beautiful view,” she said. “I need to call a cab and get back to the Hyatt so I can make some phone calls.”

“I’ll drive you…”

“The hell you will,” said Syd. “If this is going to be a buddies movie, you’ve got to shelve the chivalry right up front.” She used the kitchen phone to call a cab.

“I thought you weren’t going to be protecting me twenty-four hours a day,” said Dar. “How can it be a buddies movie?”

Syd patted him consolingly on the shoulder. “If the snipers don’t get you and the Russian mafia doesn’t cut your throat in that killing ground you call a parking area and the crackheads don’t kill you just for the hell of it, then phone me the next time Stewart Investigations calls you out on an interesting case. Officially we’ll be looking for patterns of collision and accident insurance fraud.”

“Unofficially?” said Dar.

“Well, I guess there is no ‘unofficially,’” said Syd, hitching up her heavy purse and walking to the door. “Dickweed’s given me some office space in the courthouse. I’d officially appreciate it if you’d drop in there tomorrow morning so we can decide how we’re going to check through your case files.” She jotted her number on a card. “And maybe I’ll get a glimpse of something that will explain why our late friends in the former Mercedes thought you were worth taking out.”

“They probably confused me with some other guy who owns an NSX and didn’t pay his gambling debts at the MGM Grand,” said Dar.

“Probably,” said Syd, turning back toward him and the apartment as they got to the door. He unlatched it. “How many books do you have in here, Dr. Minor?”

Dar shrugged. “I quit counting after six thousand.”

“I probably owned that many once,” said Syd. “But I gave them all away when I became a chief investigator. Travel light, that’s my motto.” She stepped into the hallway and pointed a finger at him. “I’m serious about you dropping in at the office tomorrow and then calling me as soon as you get a good case call.” She handed him one of her cards with her Sacramento office number written on it and her pager number. The San Diego courthouse office number was penciled in.