Now Fairchild was sitting across from Richard Tombo about to order what passed for lunch at Lou the Greek's, a semi-subterranean, dark, and marginally hygienic bar/restaurant across the street from the steps of the Hall of Justice. Today, Judge Villars had dismissed the Donolan morning session at eleven thirty, and so there were still a couple of booths available under the small and grimy alley windows along one side. In spite of Lou's drawbacks, which to Fairchild were legion-the food, the atmosphere, the lighting, the food, the smell, the food, and particularly the daily special, which was the only menu item-it was a popular place within the legal and law-enforcement communities and had been for more than twenty-five years. It was SRO from noon until about one thirty, two and three deep at the bar.

Tombo was either an old thirties or a young forties. Wide-shouldered, substantial without being fat in the waist, a little above average height. His skin was very dark, his head buzzed, his dark suits always impeccable. Hints of gray accented his well-trimmed goatee. A wide, somewhat flattened nose bisected an almost exactly symmetrical face, and this gave him a definable and pleasant look-perfectly normal and yet somewhat unusual at the same time. His deep chocolate eyes, potentially so soulful, often winked out between laugh lines. In his own way, Tombo was as attractive as Parisi, and this, of course, was a large part of the reason Fairchild had chosen them.

Fairchild was finally getting around to telling Tombo about Parisi's reaction two nights ago. "That's what this disappearing act is about, I'm sure. But let me ask you, Rich, did I ever pretend that I had that kind of pull? Haven't I always told both of you to just enjoy this ride while it's here because there's no telling when it's going to come again?"

Tombo picked up a green pod of edamame from a bowl of them on the table, popped it open, and emptied the beans that were inside into his palm. "Evidently she didn't get that message somehow."

"I never lied to her."

"I'm not saying you did." He picked one bean and put it in his mouth. "She might have gotten a different impression is all I'm saying. With you both being so tight and all."

"No tighter professionally, I mean, than you and I have been. It's been a team all the way, the three of us."

The laugh lines showed. "Yeah, well, I wasn't just talking about the professional thing."

"Okay, fair enough. But the first time I got a vibe that she was really thinking New York was on the plate was Tuesday night. That is no bullshit. That's the first time. I mean, that she was counting on it as the next step, that it was actually going to happen. As soon as she said that…well, I had to set her straight. And that's when it started to get a little heavy. What are those things, anyway?"

Tombo, opening another shell, looked down. "Edamame. Soybeans. Great stuff." He looked around the crowded room. "Lou's stepping it up, going gourmet."

Fairchild said, "You notice the special coming in? Tempura dolmas? What is that?"

"As you say, it's the special. Sui generis." Tombo paused, translated roughly. "It's own thing."

"Maybe that, but we've got a ways to go to get to gourmet."

Tombo shrugged. "Depends on your definition. In the Sudan, this stuff would cause food riots." He threw some soybeans into his mouth. "So where is she, you think?"

"Laying low. Sending a message. Trying to get to me."

Tombo clucked sympathetically. "Thinking it's personal."

Fairchild cocked his head, wondering if Tombo was mocking him. "Exactly," he said. "She'll be back by the wrap-up, I'm sure."

"Let's hope."

"Well, if not, you'll carry it fine." The waitress came by with a tray of water glasses, put two on their table, took their unnecessary order for the record-the dolmas special. When she'd gone, Fairchild picked up his glass. "Tell me honestly, Rich, what did you think you were doing after this trial?"

Tombo shrugged. "Going back to billable work. God, that sounds horrible now that I think about it." The eyes lit up again. "Hey, maybe we can pull a few strings and get George Palmer's killer into trial in ten days or so. Wouldn't that be great?"

"Terrific. But wouldn't they have to catch him first?"

"If it's a him. Speaking of which, check this out." Tombo's gaze had gone to the crowd by the door, where two figures who were familiar to him had broken through. "Juhle and Shiu," he said. "And it looks like they're coming our way."

Tombo had been an assistant district attorney for nine years before going into private practice. He knew both Juhle and Shiu and had followed their assignment in the Palmer case. When they got to the table-he'd called it; they were coming right to him and Fairchild-he made the introductions. He and Fairchild made room for the inspectors by sliding over on their benches, and now the seating in the booth was a little tight. And Shiu started right in. "We were just on our way over to Andrea Parisi's firm, and Devin thought you guys would be down here, so we could hit you first. In fact, we were kind of hoping that Parisi would be with you."

"No," Fairchild said. "It's just us guys so far. As you can see."

"Have you talked to her today?" Shiu asked.

"Not yet. She's not due till the afternoon gavel, and sometimes she's got other work and misses that." Fairchild shrugged as though this were no issue at all. "I expect her around for the wrap-up, though, you want to stop by then."

"What's up, guys?" Tombo asked.

"Well, since we're here, anyway, for starters," Shiu said, "we wonder if either of you could tell us a little about the extent of her involvement with the prison guards' union?"

"You mean, beyond them being her client?" Fairchild asked.

"Piersall's client, you mean," Shiu said.

The producer shrugged. "Okay, sure, but she worked on their stuff all the time."

"Maybe I'm missing something," Tombo said. "You guys are on Palmer's murder, right? What's Andrea got to do with that? Or the prison guards, for that matter?"

Juhle stepped in. His partner had said too much already. "We don't know," he said. "All we've got are some dots we thought Parisi could connect."

"About Palmer?" Tombo asked, followed by Fairchild's, "Like what?"

Juhle didn't like to give information out to television people. He offered both men a bland smile and asked his own question instead. "Has she ever mentioned a young woman named Staci Rosalier to either of you?"

Tombo shook his head. Fairchild frowned.

"Ring a bell?" Juhle picked up something in Fairchild's expression.

"No. Not from Andrea. The name's familiar, though."

"She was the other victim," Shiu said. "The other woman with Palmer."

"That's it," Fairchild said. "That's where I heard it. What's her connection to Andrea?"

Juhle reached for an edamame. "That's what we want to know."

Tombo and Fairchild shared a blank look.

Shiu said, "Okay, let's go back to the prison guards for a minute." He turned to Fairchild. "You said she worked with them all the time. So she must have been aware of Palmer's, um, problems with them."

"Sure," Fairchild said. "But who isn't? Some article's in the paper every couple of weeks, right? Inmates killed by their guards by mistake up at Folsom. Mexican Mafia's making a fortune running drugs out of Pelican Bay. They're staging gladiator fights to the death with the prisoners at Corcoran. Half the prison doctors have rap sheets of their own, don't have current licenses, give the wrong prescriptions. And every time, Palmer's threatening that this time he's shutting the union down. The guards are out of control. If the union can't discipline itself, he'll put it under federal jurisdiction. Well, guess who he communicates all this to the union through?"