"Yeah, you're right, I'm sorry, my bad." Juhle hung his head. "Getting cozy with Parisi, that would be wrong," he said with deep sincerity. Then he suddenly brightened. "But, hey, maybe I could invite Connie? If you wanted in, we could make it a foursome."

In his bed Juhle pulled the covers up over his sling with some care. Next to him, Connie stirred. "What time is it?"

"Unreasonable. Near three, I think. You awake?"

"No." Then: "How'd it go?"

"I think we solved the case. Surprise, it's the wife. But I've got to get a new partner."

"You always say that. What'd he do now?"

"Nothing. He's perfect. I hate him. I even invited him to get into a love thing with you and me and Andrea Parisi, the TV fox with the Donolan trial. Turned me down flat."

"I didn't know you knew her."

"I don't, but I could definitely meet her around this case."

"Is she involved in it?"

"I can't see how. But the victim had her business card, and I'm sure I could finagle an introduction."

"Maybe it's me. Maybe Shiu doesn't find me attractive."

"Impossible."

"It would be weird," she agreed. "Are you tired?"

"I could probably stay awake another few minutes in a crisis."

"You know how long it's been? Since the operation."

"Is that the last time? Nine days?"

"Actually, it was the day before that, if you're counting, which makes it ten. That qualifies as a crisis," she said, and rolled on top of him.

Out in the warehouse, practicing silent scales on his unplugged Strat, Hunt heard a muffled scream, Parisi coming back to consciousness. He stepped into the doorway where she could see him.

She was sitting up on his bed, the covers thrown off, in the clothes she'd been wearing last night. "Oh, my God! Wyatt? What am I…?" Her hands came up to her face, and she moaned again.

Hunt unslung his guitar and laid it on the rug. By the sink, filling a glass, he grabbed a bottle of aspirin and crossed over to her. Handing her the glass, he shook out some pills.

"Thank you." She took them all at once, knocked back the water. "What time is it?"

"A little after eight."

Her eyes widened, but the effort was too much. She lowered the glass into her lap. "It can't be that. I've got to…" Swinging her feet to the floor, she tried to stand but didn't make it. Putting the glass on the floor, she fell back onto the bed.

Hunt picked up the glass, went and filled it again, and came back to her. "Drink more water. You need to get hydrated."

She raised her head. "I don't think…"

He wasn't hearing it. "Water. Water will save your life."

She pulled her body up and drank.

"All of it," Hunt said. "You'll be glad you did."

She forced the rest of it down, tried to straighten up again. "I've got to get back home. I've got…"

"You want to give it a minute."

"I can't. I've got…what day is it?"

"Wednesday."

"How did I get here?"

"I didn't know where else to take you. You passed out."

She picked at the memory. "We were…Spencer, that bastard." Parts of it coming back. "All along, he knew…he couldn't do anything about…"

"New York?"

She lay back into the pillow, threw an arm over her eyes. "I've got to call work."

"I can do that for you."

"No." But she didn't move. Lying on the bed, breathing through her mouth.

Hunt got the phone. He had worked for her firm enough that he knew the number by heart. He also knew her secretary, Carla Shapiro, but didn't want to talk to her because she would ask him questions. So he talked to the receptionist. He was Andrea's doctor, and she had a bad case of food poisoning. She was resting and on fluids now and wouldn't be in till tomorrow.

Andrea tried to object. "Wait," she said. "That's too…"

"Maybe this afternoon," Hunt said into the phone, "but I'm recommending against it."

When he hung up, she collapsed back down. "I've really got to get home."

"You've got to get up, you've got to call work, you've got to go home. What you've got to do, Andrea, is give the alcohol time to dissipate. Get more water inside you. You're okay here. Lay back down, close your eyes, cover up. I'll unplug the phone. You go back to sleep."

"Maybe I should."

"No 'maybe' about it."

"But I need to use the bathroom."

"Can you get up?"

"I don't know." She sat up, tried to stand, went back down. "Maybe not."

Hunt leaned over her. "Put your arms around my neck."

"You don't want to…I stink," she said. "My clothes-"

"Shut up. Arms."

She obeyed him. He got her upright, walked her inside the bathroom, then stepped outside it, and closed the door behind him. After the flush, he heard the water running.

"Wyatt." The voice feeble.

He opened the door. She was sitting down on the seat cover, tears in her eyes. Again he got in front of her, went to one knee. "Arms," he said.

After a minute, she moved, and he walked her back and helped her down again to the bed. "You can take off your clothes if you want. You'll be more comfortable. I won't look."

"Okay," she said. But instead of making any movement to do that, she lay on her side and pulled the blankets over her. Hunt took the pillow and tucked it in under her head.

Before he straightened up, she was asleep.

When she woke up next time, she took four more aspirin with two more glasses of water that Hunt made her drink. In the bathroom, she used the new toothbrush Hunt had given her. Now she turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. With the clean white towel Hunt had supplied, she wiped the bathroom mirror in a couple of circular strokes. Her clothes lay where she'd put them in a pile on top of the hamper, under her purse, which she now brought over to the sink. The purse still contained her hairbrush and compact. She wasn't going out without using them.

When she was satisfied, she wrapped the towel up under her arms, then around her, barely preserving a technical modesty.

Wyatt Hunt wasn't in any of the rooms she'd seen, so barefoot and towel-wrapped, she walked out through the bedroom and opened the door. She got a surprise. Hunt was on her right, facing away from her, by an old, cracked leather couch and in front of a six-foot television screen that was turned off. Surrounded by several amplifiers and four guitars on their stands, he was holding a fifth and quietly playing scales on it.

Parisi's gaze went up to the ceiling, way above her. She took a silent step out into the huge open space that looked pretty much like what it was, a converted warehouse. Over to her left, a silver MINI Cooper squatted in one corner. The far wall facing her contained a desk with a computer and file cabinets. On the right-hand corner was some kind of backstop, with a few bats stuck in the fencing. Then, coming around, a set of weights. Finally, the pièce de résistance, one half of a hardwood basketball court, backboard and all, with a Golden State Warriors' logo in the key.

"Wyatt."

He turned. His eyes immediately went to her legs, then nearly as fast came back up. "Hey," he said. "Better?"

She couldn't go that far. "At least there's some hope I might live." She gestured around. "This is very cool."

Unslinging the guitar, Hunt put it back on its stand. Took the moment as an excuse not to stare at her. He cast his eyes around his space. "Yeah. I like it. You want the grand tour? You notice my professional basketball court, bought used from the Warriors for a mere four grand?"

"No. Where is that?" Joking with him. Now looking down at herself. "You wouldn't have something I could wear, do you? I couldn't bring myself to put my old clothes back on."