"Jeannette," Shiu said.

"Ah, that's right. Jeannette. I must remember." His habitual smile faded. He put a finger to his forehead at the flash of memory. "It just came to me. You gentlemen. The judge. Her husband, right?"

"I'm afraid so, sir. Do you remember the last time she was in here? Mrs. Palmer," Juhle asked.

Adriano scratched his cheek for a moment. "Not recently, I don't think. A month ago, maybe."

"Not two days ago?" Shiu asked.

"Oh, no. Definitely not."

"You're sure? Late dinner time? Say eight or so."

He stared off into the distance. "No. She may have stopped in and bought nothing if I wasn't out here and then maybe left. I might have missed that. I always try to hear the chime and come out if I'm working the back of the store. Like just now with you gentlemen. But she didn't buy anything where I had to use the register. That I would have remembered. And eight o'clock, not a busy time. Of course"-the impish smile returned-"if she ducked under the chime and stole a bottle…"

"No," Juhle said. "She wouldn't have done that."

"I'm sorry, then," Adriano said. "I haven't seen her."

"Home sweet home," Parisi said. "If you want to come in and wait ten minutes, I can give you your clothes back."

"I can pick them up later. Or you can drop them by my place."

"Except we're both here now."

"Okay, sold."

Parisi lived in a stand-alone one-story house adjacent to a grassy park almost all the way north on Larkin, as it turned out, a block up from Ghirardelli Square. The house was a Spanish-style stucco beauty with a tiny front lawn strip, a covered stoop leading to the front door. There was a parking spot between Parisi's driveway and the one next door that wouldn't have held anything much bigger than a shoebox, but that's why Hunt had bought the Cooper.

"You've got a whole house?" he asked as they got out of the car. "How do you own a house in San Francisco nowadays?"

She shrugged. "Says the man who lives in a warehouse."

"Yes, but I rent. More than that, I rent-control rent."

"You'll see," she said. "It's a small house. A friend of my mom's retired and gave me a deal." She fished in her purse, and the small garage door started up. "Don't ask me why, but I never use the front door."

"I wonder why you don't use the front door?" Hunt mused.

She laughed and said, "Don't ask." Then, "Come on, follow me," taking his hand.

They walked into the garage past the black Miata convertible parked there. At what turned out to be the door to the kitchen, she pressed another button on the wall to bring down the garage door again.

Hunt was close up behind her. She was still holding his hand in the darkness, then released it to open the door. "Wait just a second," she said. "Checking something. Good. You can come in now."

It was a small kitchen, modern and functional, that looked like it got a reasonable amount of use. She'd hung several pots and pans on a metal canopy against the wall next to the refrigerator, and a block full of what looked like good knives sat next to a canister of cooking utensils-wooden forks and spoons, spatulas, and brushes-on the counter by the stove. "What did you check for?" Hunt asked.

"To see if I did the dishes. I wasn't sure. I didn't want you to think I was a slob."

"I wasn't going to think that. But if there are dishes to do, that must mean you eat here."

"Of course I eat here. What do you think?"

"I thought you probably ate out every night. Finished your show and then went to some fine restaurant. The high life. Like last night."

She shrugged. "Sometimes. But no. Most nights I'm here, alone, late, working. Ask Amy. She's got the same schedule. But you should know for the record that I'm not a bad cook. In fact, I may be a great cook. You can't be Italian and not be a good cook. It's illegal."

"What's your specialty?"

"Well, of course, my tomato sauce is incredible. And eggplant parmesan. What I was going to…no."

"What?" Hunt asked.

"Nothing."

"Not fair. You can't start and then stop."

"You're right. That would be wrong." She laid a light hand on his arm, then took it away. "I was going to say that as soon as you left, I was going to make my patented peasant spaghetti carbonara, which is really one of the best hangover remedies in the world, and then I was thinking I would see if you wanted to stay and have a bowl with me. But I've already taken up too much of your time."

"I know," Hunt said. "It's been awful."

"Don't you have to go to work?"

"As it happens, yesterday I closed a case that I thought would take at least two days but only took one. So lucky for you, as it turns out, I'd cleared my schedule for today, anyway."

"Lucky for me." Parisi glanced at the wall clock. "Well, despite my doctor's orders, I've got to go in later. I've got an appointment at three. But that still gives us plenty of time. If you want."

"To stay?"

"For lunch."

"You're going to have to twist my arm." Hunt held out his hand. And it worked, she took it again. "That's enough," he said before she'd even pretended to start.

While the bacon cooked and the water boiled, she showed him around. The rest of the house lived up to its billing-small. But like the kitchen-modern, efficient, warm. Parisi kept the house more neat than surgically clean. No clothes lying around, no dishes in the sink. Hunt did stand mesmerized for a minute, surprised by the contents of a locked glass case in the dining room; she had a collection of handguns-pistols and revolvers; a couple of tiny, derringer-style weapons; old-fashioned gunbelts with leather holsters; what looked like snuff boxes.

"You like guns?" he asked.

"Not so much nowadays."

"This looks like a pretty good collection."

"I know. When I was younger I went through a Wild West phase. But I never touch these anymore."

"But they work? They shoot?"

"Oh, yeah. All of them shoot. No point in having a gun that doesn't shoot, is there? But don't worry, they're all registered."

"I wasn't worried."

"I should probably just get rid of them, but…"

Hunt threw a look at her. "Richie?"

Nodding, she sighed and said, "Maybe a little. Come on." She took his hand and led him to the adjacent living room. "After your place, it seems a little cramped, doesn't it?"

"Cozy is more like it. Does the fireplace work?"

"Perfectly. It's the best part of the house."

"Although it might be a little dark."

She squeezed his hand and went to open the plantation shutters over the double-wide living room window. The light brought out a sense of life that had seemed missing before. The blond hardwood floors shone. The framed prints were bright with cheerful color, yellows and reds and greens. Turning, she said, "I don't really open the blinds too often, and I should, shouldn't I? It makes a difference, doesn't it?"

"It's beautiful," Hunt said. "I mean it. You were really getting ready to leave this place?"

She looked around. "I've kind of stopped seeing it, Wyatt." A sad smile. Then, abruptly, "The bacon!"

While the water boiled in the kitchen, she made a comment about how warm it was and took off Hunt's pullover, draping it over a chair. "Do not, I repeat, do not forget this," she said. She was braless under the T-shirt, which was sleeveless and tucked tight into his jeans. He sat at the table and watched her move from the utensil drawer to the table, the table to the stove, the refrigerator to the table. Putting out a bottle of Pellegrino and two glasses. Placing the cooked bacon on paper towels to drain. Some large pinches of salt went into the water pot. She put place mats down on the table, set out red-and-white checkered napkins. One fork and one large tablespoon each. A wedge of Parmesan and a metal grater, then a pepper grinder in the center of the table.