A plate of brownies had pride of place on the desk. The fresh-baked aroma was tantalizing and unexpected at the local headquarters of the California Highway Patrol.

"Oh, is that light too bright? Well, of course it is." Sally Polk drew the blinds in her office. "There, that's better." Smoothing back her gray hair, she smiled benignly as she faced her prisoner, Oren Hobbs. "I can't see Cable Babitt just giving you that red folder." She paused a beat, most likely waiting for a signal that she was on the right track-and that the county sheriff was dead meat. Apparently, she did not believe the fairy tale of a critical piece of evidence getting lost behind Cable's credenza.

Disappointed by Oren's tell-nothing face, she moved on. "So let's say you borrowed that old folder without permission. But wouldn't the sheriff's credenza be locked? I'm so sure I remember a set of keys hanging from a lock on the bottom drawer." Her smile broadened as she waited out the silence of a few seconds. "All right then. We'll just forget those pesky charges of stealing official documents. And-no promises, mind you-but maybe the sheriff can keep his badge."

She turned her back on him to water a potted geranium on a stand in the corner. Smaller plants, pansies and African violets, sat on the window-sills, and personal photographs lined the walls. The whole room was a study in domesticity-and it did not have the look of an office on short-term loan to the lady from Sacramento.

Special Agent Polk sat down at her desk and straightened a stack of papers, then picked up loose pens and pencils and returned them to their glass container-just tidying up in a housewifey way. She pushed the plate of brownies toward him and raised her eyebrows to ask if he would like one.

As he was reaching out to the plate, she said, "Sweetheart, in a manner of speaking, I've got you by the balls." She raised one hand and slowly curled her fingers into a fist, smiling all the while. "Please don't make me squeeze 'em until they split open and spatter the wall. That's gotta hurt something awful." Her voice was so friendly. She was almost motherly, if one discounted her intentions toward his testicles.

But the brownies were good.

He chewed slowly as he stretched out his legs, preparing to spend a few hours in this interrogation. Behind him, the office door opened and-bang!-closed.

Addison Winston appeared, briefcase in hand and wearing the body armor of a silk tie, a suit with a lustrous sheen and diamond cuff links. His eyes were fever-bright. The man was shining inside and out. Smiling, he moved around the desk to hover over the state's investigator. This sort of smile might be the last thing a mouse would see before a cat ripped its head off. "Hello, Sally, old girl. How've you been?"

Agent Polk countered with strained goodwill. "Well, Ad, I can't complain."

"I can," said Winston. "I know Judge Hobbs informed you that Oren was represented by counsel. But here you are-interrogating my client. Oh, Sally, Sally… The judge will be so pissed off." He shook his head in mock sadness. "As if you aren't in enough trouble."

"What interrogation?. Me and your client were only passing the time, just waiting around for you to show up."

This was news to Oren, who had no idea that an attorney was coming.

Ad Winston resumed his smile, merely evil this time. He settled into the chair next to Oren's and stared at the plate of brownies. "She buys them at a bakery down the street. And she gets that fresh-from-the-oven smell by running them through the microwave in the lunchroom. Sally's idea of torturing prisoners… It's scary how often that works."

Sally Polk sat back in her chair with a smile for Oren. "At my regional office down in Sacramento, when we find out Ad's in town, we just run out and arrest whoever he's representing. Then, later on, we come up with the charges. They're always guilty of something."

The lawyer winked at his client. "She's good." He turned his attention back to the CBI agent. "Oren's better. When he was an Army cop, he closed out all of his cases. He was one determined soldier, and his evidence always stood up in court. I won't even bother to dazzle you with the conviction rate, but it was stunning."

"Of course," said Agent Polk, "that was military court, and guilt was always a foregone conclusion-even before the judges sat down." She turned to Oren and spoke to him in the way that women talked down to small children. "Nothing personal, sweetheart. I'm sure you did a very good job. Have another brownie."

"Nonetheless," said Addison, "I'd stack up my client against any cop in this state. He didn't just work domestic disputes on some military base out in the sticks. No, they sent him all around the world. My boy brought in terrorists and killers, smugglers and mad bomber types. He put a goddamn general in Leavenworth."

Untrue. The highest-ranking officer Oren had ever bagged was a lieutenant colonel, and he had yet to meet any live mad bombers. Only pieces of them could be found on the streets of Baghdad. If asked for his job description as a military detective, he would have explained his special knack for ripping a human being's mind inside out-without damaging the flesh. He would have said, "I break people." But he allowed the lawyer's lies to slide.

"You should be begging for Oren's help, not harassing him." Ad Winston continued to smile at the CBI agent as he spoke an aside to his client. "That startled look in her eyes? Obviously, the lady never bothered to check out your military record, nothing past your serial number and rank. To quote your father-a very sloppy job."

Sally Polk leaned toward the lawyer. "Well now, Ad, I have to admit that's an eye-opener. You see, I was gonna let your client off easy-no charge of obstructing an investigation. But with a record like that one… I think he should've known better."

"She's bluffing, Oren. That's Sally's trademark. We met in Sacramento when a major case of hers fell apart in court-a case of hot air."

"The way I remember it, you suborned one of my witnesses."

Addison rested an avuncular hand on Oren's shoulder. "They always send the screwup agents to the hinterlands. But she's the first one ever to be condemned to the Highway Patrol."

"Oh, this is just a temporary assignment, Addison. I won't be here long-just long enough to gut your client. Have another brownie, Oren."

Hannah! Stop that! I can't hear!"

The housekeeper switched off the vacuum cleaner.

After a brief telephone conversation, the judge hung up on his caller. "That was the sheriff. He says Oren's on TV." Not a believer in remote-control contraptions, Henry Hobbs leaned down to turn on the television set. "Oh, my God." He stared at the glowing screen and a scene of reporters mobbing a parking lot. His son stood at the center of this frenzy, and the backdrop was a brick building, headquarters for the Highway Patrol in Saulburg. The shouts of the mob were unintelligible. Addison Winston climbed up on the hood of a trooper's cruiser, and, with a bit of coaxing, Oren joined him there.

"This is Ad's idea of handling things quietly?" The judge raked one clawed hand over his bald scalp. "It's a circus."

More than that-this was Hannah's old premonition come true. She had always pictured the judge's son taking center stage, surrounded by people and bright lights, a screaming public. "The camera loves him."

The cameras could not get enough of Oren Hobbs. When the afternoon sky grew dark with overcast, lights on poles bore down on him, and strobe lights popped in smaller cameras as photographers edged closer.