He had wondered how long she would last at the company. Nic, he knew, was a woman who liked her little luxuries – her treatments at the upscale spa attached to that swanky new Beverly Hills hotel, her membership of the exclusive sports club where she claimed to spot top models and celebrities (names which, in truth, meant little to him). But she had been in the job almost a year now and was already earning quite respectable bonuses – $10,000 three months ago and $15,000 last month. Lakeland must really rate her, he thought. Lakeland. The name made the muscles on the back of his neck tense up. What was it about the good-looking bastard that he didn’t like? There, he’d answered the question himself. Under that thousand dollar suit Lakeland had a muscular physique, toned by hours of gym work at the sports club. He still boasted a full head of hair. And he was ten years younger than Jordan.

He turned on the radio and tried to banish thoughts of Lakeland from his mind. The words of I Had Too Much To Dream Last Night seemed to mock him, with their taunts of being haunted by a love lost. He switched channels, but automatically jumped to the next preset when he was assaulted by some god-awful pop, the creation of one of those horrendous reality TV programmes. He stopped his search of the airwaves when he heard something from his college days, a track – what was it called? - The Golden Road by The Grateful Dead. That name reminded him of something, a phrase someone had said during a case. He ran through some of the cases he had worked on over the years. The college shooting in which ten students and two professors had been killed and another twenty left with horrific injuries; unusually the gunman, a twenty-year-old student did not turn the weapon upon himself, and later had tried to plead insanity, a defence that Jordan had effectively destroyed. Today the killer languished in some godforsaken prison on the outskirts of the desert. Then there was the kidnapping of a two-year-old girl by a middle-age woman who had given birth to twins, only to have both of them die in the first few days of life. In that instance, it was clear she had been suffering from some sort of psychiatric illness brought on by the loss of her babies and, instead of going to prison, the state had ordered her to be sent to a secure hospital.

The phrase came back to him, more clearly this time.

‘I always think the dead are grateful – it’s the ones left behind who suffer, those are the people I feel sorry for.’

It was a woman’s voice, he was sure of that. Was it one of the victims’ relatives? The mother of one of those students killed in the college massacre? A therapist or counsellor who had seen the devastating effects of murder on a family? Just then his cell buzzed. It was Nic.

‘How’s it going? Still in traffic?’

‘No, it’s clearing now. So should be back in fifteen.’

‘Okay. I’m just going over to Marcie’s. Call me when you get back.’

‘Okay, hon.’

‘Bye.’

He was hungry now and looked forward to the supper of Osso Buco and Risotto alla Milanese. He pressed down on the gas and overtook a couple of slow moving cars and a Winnebago. The 110 freeway seemed to lose its traffic, lights changed from red to green at his approach and he turned into the complex of tree-lined streets that led to his house in Pasadena in what seemed like record time. As he drew up outside his home – a newly-built, double-fronted house with four bedrooms and a hot tub out the back – he was about to call Nic on her cell to tell her that he had made it back earlier than expected, but then decided to surprise her. He would get on with the cooking, so when she returned she could step into a kitchen rich with the aromas of veal, white wine and Parmesan. He was looking forward to the weekend. He didn’t have to drive over to see his children in Sherman Oaks - his ex-wife, Veronica, had taken the kids to see her mother in Washington State – and although he would have to put in some hours in his study he wouldn’t have to go back to the office. Tonight, he could enjoy a couple of bottles of that Margaux he had ordered from his wine supplier. Saturday morning he and Nic could laze around in bed – usually that was when they made love – and then they could go for a drive in the hills or take a walk down Rodeo, where he could buy her something special.

The doors of the carport opened automatically – and a light came on overhead - as he steered the car into the neatly ordered space. He unlocked the door into the laundry room, the smell of freshly washed linen reminding him of his dead mother, and into the kitchen that opened out into an enormous living space. He hit the lights - a dozen or so small spotlights set into the ceiling - that illuminated the dining room table, which had been perfectly and elegantly set for four. In the centre was a vase of pink peonies.

Taking a fat glass tumbler from one of the cupboards in the kitchen he walked over to the drinks cabinet and quickly made himself a scotch and soda, without ice. He took off his tie and jacket, flinging them over the black leather sofa, and flicked on the CD player. He always liked to listen to rock or alt country when he cooked; he selected a compilation album from the Austin City Limits music festival. Jerusalem by Steve Earle rasped through the house. He took another swig of the drink and reached for a chopping knife. From the vegetable store he took out a couple of onions, a bulb of garlic and a heavy bunch of tomatoes still on the vine. Quickly and expertly he skinned one onion and then the next, and then started to slice. As he opened the icebox and took out the butter he noticed a lumpy package on the third shelf down from the top. Inside the old-fashioned waxy paper would be the four pieces of shin of veal he had asked Nic to buy for him. He’d have to go and have a look at the new deli Nic was raving about.

He hadn’t cooked Ossobuco for a few months and tonight he was looking forward to it. The memory of that rich mix of veal, white wine, butter, tomatoes, onion and garlic, garnished with parsley, lemon and yet more garlic, made his mouth water. He could almost taste it.

He cut a thick slice of butter and dropped it into a wide casserole pot set on the hob. As the butter started to bubble and melt he dropped the onion into the dish and gave it a good stir. He peeled three cloves garlic, chopped them into small pieces and added them to the pot. A heady aroma filled the room as he continued to stir the mixture.

When he finished his scotch he opened the icebox and took out a chilled bottle of Chablis, some of which he would add to the dish. He poured himself a glass. With a slotted spoon he scooped out the browned onion and garlic from the pot and set them aside in a white china bowl. He added more butter to the pot, but the heat was still a little high and the fat began to burn a little. He would need to stir it constantly to prevent it from blackening and so, with his left hand, he reached into the icebox for the veal. He felt for the waxy paper and brought the package out. It was generously plump, he thought; perhaps the deli had given Nic slightly larger pieces than they needed. It wouldn’t be a problem, as he could always mince anything that was left over and make them into veal burgers for lunch the next day.