Bob Bolinger farmed out two burglaries, an assault, and an arson before he dug into some paperwork on a fifteen-year-old kid who'd been killed execution-style in what appeared to be a drug deal gone bad. It was an uninspiring case because the killer was a kid himself and wouldn't do more than a few years in juvenile lockup before he was out doing it again. He closed the door, opened the window, and smoked his way through it. By the time he was finished, the big clock on the squad room wall told him it was almost time for lunch.

Bolinger spotted Farnhorst at a desk near the door and invited him for a hot dog on the street. It was a pleasant day outside, and armed with a couple of cans of Pepsi and their dogs, the two detectives found a bench in the green area across the street. The small park was milling with businesspeople who had the same idea.

"How's your boy?" Bolinger asked.

Farnhorst grinned widely and reeled off his sixteen-year-old's latest accomplishments on his way to the state shot put championship. By the time he finished, the only thing left of Bolinger's dog was a mustard skid on his chin.

"How about you, Bob?" Farnhorst asked.

Bolinger lit a cigarette and squinted through the smoke in the direction of the courthouse, where only yesterday Lipton had walked free.

After a pause during which he'd followed his sergeant's gaze, Farnhorst solemnly said, "You don't want to think about that shit, Bob. You gotta forget about it. You told me that same thing yourself. We set 'em up and the DA's gotta knock ' em down. Sometimes they get a strike, sometimes they roll a gutter ball."

Bolinger looked at Farnhorst, then back toward the courthouse before speaking. "I know that. I know what I'm supposed to do and what I'm supposed to think, but the more I try not to think about it, the more it's on my mind."

"But what can you do?"

Bolinger crushed out his smoke and slapped his hands on his knees, then rose from the bench.

"I can call Dean Wentworth."

"From the FBI?" Farnhorst asked, standing as well and jump-shooting his trash into the barrel at the other end of the bench.

"Yeah, I know Dean pretty well," Bolinger said. "The guys in Atlanta hit a wall. Their crime scene was as clean as ours. I spoke to my brother's brother-in-law this morning, and after what happened here, the DA in Atlanta told them to leave it alone. But the FBI, now they could do something about it…"

Farnhorst shook his head doubtfully and said, "With all those bank robberies in the news, I doubt they're gonna pull someone away to chase this. It was a loser. That's just the way it is. It happens. Come on, Bob, you gotta let it go. It ain't healthy."

Bolinger squinted up into Farnhorst's eyes and saw real concern. He smiled and patted the big man on the back.

"Don't worry about me," he said. "I don't have a bunch of kids like you. I need something to worry about… It keeps me going."

Dean Wentworth was the special agent in charge in the Austin FBI office. He was glad to hear from Bolinger and wanted to set up a game of golf, but when it came to tracking down evidence against Lipton, he politely declined.

"I just can't," Wentworth explained. "The one guy I had to spare was working on some local stuff up in Stratford on a deal where some salesman disappeared from a hotel. The killer didn't leave anything behind but a blood-soaked pillow. The dead guy's brother is Ron Tanner, the number three guy over at Treasury, and I got a request from up top to look into it. But now, even that's by the board, and if I do anything at all, I have to put someone back on that case. Really, Bob, I can't take on anything that's not priority one."

"But this is big," Bolinger argued. "Really big."

"Hell, Bob, I got a call from Washington on Tuesday," Wentworth said. "The goddamn vice president was watching CNN the night before he had a meeting with the director, and he asked specifically about these goddamn bank robberies. I can't spare a single man. Fact is, they're sending me six goddamn guys from D.C. to help out."

Bolinger thought for a moment, then broke the silence by saying, "Dean, I need this… as a favor I've never asked you a favor before."

Bolinger knew Dean knew what he was talking about. The FBI agent's wife had been dragged in one night for DUI, and Bob had quietly taken care of it. It was a big marker.

Wentworth emitted a bitter sigh into the phone and said, "You're right. I owe you. But I can't go chasing goddamn phantoms when every goddamn agent between here and Washington is wondering why I don't have these bank bandits locked up. Do you know what'll happen to me if those goddamn Texas Rangers get them before me? Can you say early retirement? Those big-hatted bastards are everywhere. They found that boxcar killer before me, and I had to go through hell with my back broke just to keep my goddamn job. I can't, Bob…"

Bolinger silently waited.

"Okay, listen," Wentworth said, "this is what I can do. You said you had a body with the same MO in Atlanta, right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, I know Vittarelli, the number two guy in Atlanta. I'll call him and do everything I can to get him to put someone on it from Atlanta. Is that good?"

"That sounds good," Bolinger said. "I don't care where they're from. I'll help them out, too, calling around to the other cities where this guy's been doing his seminars. I know we'll find something, but I need a Fed to open the case and keep it alive. I appreciate it, Dean, I really do. I wouldn't ask you like this if it wasn't important."

"Yeah, well, if I can get them to do it, we're even, okay?"

"Okay," Bolinger said. "We're even."

Casey knew the letdown on the day after a big trial was as certain as a hangover the morning after a hard night of drinking. What she wasn't prepared for was the severity of the malaise. It began the moment her mind was sprung from an uncomfortable dream. She bolted upright in bed with a gasp. Taylor was tying his tie in the antique full-length mirror in the corner of the room. He looked her way only briefly before finishing the job and proceeding to his bureau, where he unloaded a stack of underwear and socks into a suitcase that lay across the arms of a high-backed chair.

"What are you doing?" she asked after she'd caught her breath.

"Getting dressed," he said indifferently.

Casey looked at the clock. It was early, just light. She remembered him coming in sometime late, very late. She'd been sleeping.

"You're packing," she said.

"That, too," he told her.

Casey felt a bolt of energy dance up her spine.

"Why?" she said, unable to hide the note of panic.

"Business."

"Where?" she asked, relieved and now angry with herself for the way she felt. If he was leaving her, why should she care? She'd come home after a grueling but successful trial, only to spend her evening with a book. He wasn't a real part of her life. If it wasn't evident before this trial, it certainly should be now.

" San Francisco," he answered.

Casey ran through the possibilities in her mind. There was an old flame of his in San Francisco, a society girl who fancied herself an artist. Taylor also owned a small ball-bearing factory outside the city. Why should she care what the trip was for?

"How long will you be gone?" she asked. She got out of bed and made her way toward the bathroom as if she didn't care.

"I'll be back Sunday night," he told her as she passed him.

"Business on the weekend?" she said.

He shrugged. "Some bankers from Hong Kong want to golf in Carmel."