Really Neat Jobs and Guys with a Sense of Horror

by L.M.Lewis

A box of Kleenex, a .38 in the keister--it must be love.

Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Author's Note: Mark's hapless former cellmate, Teddy Hollins, appeared in the first season episode The Crystal Duck. Melinda Marshall was Mark's terminally ditzy former girlfriend—the one who landed him in prison in the first place, and reappeared to wreak havoc once again in the third season episode When I Look Back on All the Things. Her husband, the late, lamented Wilson G. Belding, was first mentioned in my story "R.S.V.P.". Kathy Kasternack was the myopic would-be CPA in One of the Girls from Accounting.

Really Neat Jobs and Guys with a Sense of Horror

by L. M. Lewis

Chapter 1—The Rising Young Executive

It had been nearly five years since Mark McCormick had been under any obligation to the State of California to curb his associations with known felons, but old habits die hard. There was still something about a get-together with his erstwhile cellmate, Teddy Hollins, that made him want to post notice beforehand with Hardcastle.

It was a little like filing a flight plan with the FAA; you never knew when some unexpectedly freakish crosswind might come up. It was good for somebody to know where you were headed and when to expect you back.

"Chez Petite?" the judge looked up from what he'd been doing and repeated it dubiously. "Who's paying?"

Mark leaned into the doorjamb. "Teddy is. It was his idea. We're celebrating something."

Hardcastle's face had segued from bafflement to outright worry. "He say what? Nothing with a number in the penal code, I hope."

"Seven years the guy's been straight," Mark admonished. "He's got a job and everything."

"Nine jobs," Hardcastle corrected. "Or is he up to ten, now?" He frowned. "What's the longest he's stayed with anything, five months?"

"Six. That was a couple of years ago—quality inspector." Mark shook his head lightly. "At a condom factory. Horrible job. I'm surprised he lasted that long."

Hardcastle arched one eyebrow.

"Well it wasn't field testing," Mark said emphatically. "They used these air pumps, see. Did you know there's an international standard for inflation tolerance?"

Hardcastle shook his head.

"Yeah, well, there is. It's, um, 16 liters."

The other eyebrow was up.

"Yeah, kinda boggles the mind." Mark's eyes went slightly out of focus for a moment. Then he added, "But after the first couple hundred batches, well, it's awfully repetitive work."

"Too much time for the mind to wander," Hardcastle said quietly.

"Yeah, and that's when Teddy came up with the great idea."

The judge sat back a little, looking like he was steeling himself.

"Animal shapes. You know, like they make at birthday parties with balloons. He got pretty good at it, too. Short stumpy animals worked the best . . . he made this rabbit that—"

"Seems kinda appropriate," Hardcastle interrupted. "A rabbit, I mean."

"Yeah . . ." Mark deflated slightly—a more sober expression that portended a bad ending to the tale, "but he made the mistake of going to his supervisor with it. The idea. He thought maybe a sideline for the company—party favors, see?"

Hardcastle's own expression was fast approaching horrified disbelief.

"Bachelorette parties. Things like that." Mark winced. "And his supervisor, well, she didn't think it was such a good concept."

"Wouldn't hold air, huh?"

Mark frowned. "He was only trying to stretch the product line."

"Ugh," Hardcastle groaned. "Go to lunch."

Mark nodded and glanced down at his watch. "I'll be back by one-thirty. I don't have anybody scheduled till two."

"If you're not back by 1:45, I'll put out an APB."

"No, you'll just call over to that place and rescue me. You know 'Something's come up, need you back here right away.' A filing emergency, or the copier's jammed. Be creative."

"You can't just tell him you have work to do?"

"Well, you know how it is. He gets all excited about stuff. He wants to tell somebody about it."

"I know. You hate to burst his balloon."

00000

He really did. Teddy was one of those guys who couldn't be taken down in stages. Heck, he could hardly be taken down with a flying tackle and a pair of cement overshoes, but there'd been something in the man's expression just once in a while, on dark nights of which he and Teddy had known a few, that made Mark suspect there were depths beneath the buoyancy that shouldn't be plumbed.

Today, however, with the two of them playing mature adults in a swank restaurant and Teddy looking particularly pleased, the depths were nowhere in sight. Mark had tried to tease the big news out of him over the menus, while gently inquiring into Teddy's financial health—Chez Petite hadn't gotten any cheaper.

All he'd gotten in return were bluff general reassurances. Teddy's future was bright. Everything was coming up roses.

"Aphids," Mark smiled, "rust, black spot, canker, blight—"

"That's what I like about you, Skid, you're so much fun to be around."

Mark laughed, but noticed the subject had been temporarily deflected again. The conversation stayed light and inconsequential all the way through the ordering. Mark avoided the steak tartare, and the carpaccio de boeuf. He went with a nice terrine and persuaded a wary Teddy to the same.

"You'll like it. It's sorta like leftover meatloaf."

"No snails or nothing like that?" Teddy whispered.

"I thought you said you wanted to come here," Mark said reprovingly.

"Well," Teddy looked around briefly at the linen and crystal, "yeah, I figured I better start getting used to it."

"You mean you got a job at a snooty restaurant?"

"No." Teddy shook his head and grinned. "It's not that. I mean, I gotta get used to eating in places like this."

"Hell, Teddy, they got a sixteen page menu over at Barney's Beanery. Nobody has to eat here."

"Well, you do if you want to make the right impression."

Mark tried to keep the sudden twinge of worry off his face. "This isn't about a girl, is it? I mean, you don't have to practice for a date at this place. You just order something, and try to eat it no matter how disgusting it looks. And when they stick a cork under your nose you sniff it and nod. That's all. Don't, ya know, lick it or anything.

Teddy merely grinned at this all-purpose advice.

"Nah," he finally said, "not for dates, pal. I figure I'm gonna have to start doing business lunches. You're looking at a rising young executive-type." He took a deep breath. "Theodore Hollins, Executive Consultant to the Products Development Division of Ambruster Industries Incorporated."

Mark found himself mouthing the last couple of words with an otherwise frozen expression. He was aware, in some distant, otherwise unoccupied space in his mind, that he was supposed to be smiling and offering hearty congratulations. He was flashing back, unfortunately, to a different linen-draped lunch scene he'd shared with Hardcastle—the one where he'd announced his appointment as Vice President of West Coast Distribution for Waverly Water Filters.

But Ambruster Inc.—that was a real company. He was pretty sure of that. They made . . . stuff. He wasn't exactly sure what, but it wasn't water filters, at any rate. He dredged up a smile. It felt forced but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. He choked out a totally inadequate and somewhat overdue, "Hey, that's great," which was followed by a more to-the-point, "but how?"

"Yeah, well, that's the crazy thing." Teddy grinned. "I wasn't even looking for a job. I was doing okay, working the late shift over at Kenny's Kar Emporium—I got a promotion and everything: 'assistant detailer'. But it helps to have a little something on the side, just to cover the incidentals. So I was doing some of those consumer surveys—you know, the lady in the white lab coat has you eat some crackers and then you tell her which one you liked best. I'm real good at that. I always know exactly what they want to hear."

Mark frowned. "I don't think you're supposed to tell then what they want to hear. You tell 'em what you think."

Teddy shook his head. "Nah, they only think they want to hear that. Trust me."

Mark considered that, along with the feeling that he'd lost a grip on the conversation. "But . . . Ambruster?"

"Well, yeah, see, I was there, in the little room with the mirrored window—felt right at home—and we were testing nuts.

They certainly were. Mark caught himself. He sighed.

"And what I kept thinking was, most guys, when they eat nuts, what they really want is a beer on the side, especially on a hot day—a little salt, a little beer. It's a great combo, you know?"

Mark nodded soundlessly.

"And then it came to me—'beersicles'—frozen beer on a stick with a crunchy nut coating. How 'bout that? Couldn't ya go for one of those on a hot afternoon? How 'bout at the ball park?"

Mark looked down at the remains of his terrine rustique, which had certainly not been any worse than leftover meatloaf. He thought briefly about some of the other things he'd seen on the menu, some involving snails. He nodded again, still mutely.

"Yeah, 'course you could." Teddy smiled and nodded. "And that's what I said to the lady in the lab coat. Don't know about her though, she'd probably want hers to be a chardonnay on a stick or something like that." He meandered in recollection for a moment, then brightened. "And that's when the guy came in. And he wasn't wearing a fancy suit or nothin' like that. Had his sleeves rolled up . . . but there were people with him in suits, and they kept saying 'Yes sir' and 'No sir', like they knew exactly what he wanted to hear. He came over to me and asked me some stuff, who I was and what I did for a living—"

"You didn't make anything up?" Mark asked in horror.

"Of course not." Teddy looked slightly indignant. "Would I do something like that? Nah. I just told him the truth. I have a lot of varied experiences. I'm . . . well-rounded." Teddy beamed at his self-assessment. "So then he introduced himself: J. T. Ambruster, in the flesh—founder of the company—and he asked me if I was free for lunch."

"You came here?"

"Nah, we went to a hot dog place, down in Redondo. Nice view of the pier. We talked a long time. I thought maybe he was bored and wanted to get out of the office for a while. I didn't think he was going to offer me a job and all that." Teddy sat back in the chair, still smiling. "But that's what he did."

Mark edged back in his own chair, digesting the idea. He was aware that it was going down harder than the terrine. The silence was drawing out a little too long.

"Executive Consultant," Mark repeated. "Products Development." He'd tried to banish it, but the tone of doubt was still there.

It was a mistake many people made, to assume that the happy-go-lucky Teddy was constitutionally incapable of picking up on things. It did happen once in a while. The cheerful continence across from him clouded over somewhat.

"He said he likes my ideas. He says I think outside the box," Hollins said staunchly.

"Teddy, I—"

There it was, the doubtful tone again, and this time Hollins jumped on it, with a definite air of indignation.

"Why not? You always said I don't think like regular people do. Maybe that's a good thing, you know? And why couldn't some hotshot business guy offer me a chance? The judge gave you a break, didn't he? I never said, 'Hey, what's up with that, pally?' Did I?" Teddy shook his head, a quick and more knowing gesture than Mark would have thought him capable of. "And plenty of guys did, ya know. You and some crazy old judge. You should have heard what some of 'em said was up."

Mark frowned. He had heard, unfortunately, and he'd filed it, a long time ago, under 'Who gives a damn?'—at first out of necessity, and later on because he really didn't. He supposed there was some truth in the comparison.

"He made a firm offer," Mark ventured, trying hard to squelch the doubt, "not just joking over a couple of hot dogs and beers?"

"A contract and everything." Teddy nodded eagerly this time. "A hundred thousand a year to start. Stock options, benefits. There's some kinda incentive clauses, too, I think."

"You have actually read it through, haven't you?" Mark asked pointedly. "I mean, you didn't just sign on the dotted line or anything like that."

"Come on, Skid. Gimme a little credit, will ya?" Teddy said, though his smile had suddenly gone stiffer. "And, anyway, this is Ambruster, Incorportated. Fortunate Five Hundred and all that stuff. I've got a health club membership and everything."

"Have you got a lawyer yet?"

Chapter 2—The Grieving Widow

"So that's what made me late getting back to the office this afternoon," Mark said with a jerk of his chin back over his shoulder at the document on the kitchen table.

Kathy Kasternack was leaning over it, looking very focused. Mark finished ladling chili into the third bowl and turned to carry it back to his own seat.

Hardcastle, napkin already in his lap, harrumphed lightly. "You were five minutes away from that APB, ya know. Especially after I called over to the place and they told me you and Teddy had skedaddled."

"Nobody over there even knows what 'skedaddled' means," Mark said with a grin. "And we just ran by Teddy's apartment so he could give me his copy of the contract."

"Which looks pretty legitimate, if you ask me," Kathy said, lifting her eyes and pushing her glasses back up on her nose as she finally reached the last page. But you two are the lawyers. What did you think?"

Mark shot a glance at his more experienced partner, who wasn't saying anything. McCormick finally cleared his throat and ventured cautiously, "Looked okay to me, too."

It appeared that Hardcastle couldn't find any grounds for disagreement, as much as he might have wanted to.

"This guy Ambruster," Mark finally added, "what about him? I mean, he's legit, right?"

"Nothing downstairs in the files on him," Hardcastle answered with a shrug. "No that they're complete by a long shot.

"He's well-known in philanthropic circles," Kathy said. Both men's eyes were drawn back to her abruptly.

She froze for a moment and then smiled apologetically. "Not that I meant it like that. I don't think Teddy is a charity case. He sounds sweet. Besides, J.T. is very well-known for being a boot-straps kind of philanthropist. He usually expects the recipients to put some sweat equity into whatever the project is."

"Sounds reasonable," Hardcastle said. "People appreciate things more if stuff isn't given to them outright."

"And, well, you could talk to my mom about this," Kathy leaned in a little, "but I've heard a few other things about Ambruster. You know, if you're poor, your crazy—but if you're rich, they just call you eccentric."

"'Eccentric', huh?" The judge shook his head. "Nothing wrong with that. Lots of people get called that."

"You get called that, Kemosabe," Mark said with a grin. Then, almost at once, the grin flattened. "But from everything I could find out, this guy built a multimillion dollar company out of a couple of ideas and a lot of gumption. What does he want with Teddy?"

"Maybe he's out of ideas," Hardcastle muttered. "Beer-on-a-stick." He'd started to shake his head in what looked like wonderment, when the phone rang.

He yanked the napkin out of his lap and was up and heading for the counter before Mark had even put his spoon down. His familiar grumbled greeting and a half-startled grunt was all the other two heard. After that he said something to the party on the other end about changing phones. He set the receiver down on the counter, looked over at Mark and said, simply, "Frank," before striding out of the room.

From this McCormick concluded no invitation was being issued. He took the hint and hung up the receiver as soon as he heard the distant, tinny click of the one in the den being connected. Then he turned back to the table, frowning lightly.

Kathy looked curious. "Not trouble, I hope."

"Oh, probably." Mark slid back into his seat and stirred his chili with no particular enthusiasm. "Usually is."

00000

The moment he'd head the name Melinda Marshall, Hardcastle had decided the discussion merited some privacy. He wasn't sure how much of that was controlling what got back to McCormick, versus the additional wrinkle of having to explain it all to Kathy.

"Waddaya mean, she wants to talk to Mark? Is she a suspect?"

"No," Frank said firmly. "Nothing like that. Looks like she's got a pretty solid alibi. They just brought her in to talk to the guys from homicide, to see if they could get anything useful out of her, and the next thing you know, she's sobbing and asking for Mark. It was kinda rough I suppose, finding her husband dead and all."

"How long was she driving around with him in the trunk?"

"Just the one day. But the coroner says he's been dead for at least two before that and she was out of town till yesterday evening, so that puts her in the clear. Anyway, looks like Wilson Belding had been pretty mobbed up since he left the joint. Mighta been up to his old tricks with the decimal points . . . and you know how those guys handle clerical errors."

"No," Hardcastle said, getting firmly back to the point, "I'm not letting her cry on his shoulder."

"You don't think maybe he should decide that?"

Hardcastle glanced nervously in the direction of the hallway, then dropped his voice a notch. "Bad timing, Frank. It'd be awkward."

There was a silent pause and then a brief, "Ahh..." from Frank's end.

"And McCormick's not real good at saying 'no'."

"But I am pretty good at sneaking up on people."

Hardcastle looked up sharply and saw the man, arms folded, leaning lightly against the edge of the doorway as though he'd materialized there.

"I'll call you back in a bit, Frank," the judge muttered into the mouthpiece. He hung up quietly without waiting for a good-bye.

"What did Frank want and why are you saying no for me?"

"Because you mighta said yes, that's why," Hardcastle said gruffly. "Kath still in the kitchen?" he added quietly.

Mark glanced over his shoulder, then turned back, nodded, and stepped down into the den. He settled into the nearest chair, leaning forward. "What the hell is up?" He'd lowered his voice but still sounded angry.

"It's Melinda Marshall . . . I mean Belding. She became a widow sometime the day before yesterday. She found the remains of her dear departed in the trunk of the Caddie this morning."

Mark eyes went a little wider. Then he sat back, frowning. "Wilson was out of prison already? How the hell was that? I got two years and all I stole was a car—" His frown suddenly deepened. "No, I mean—"

"Hah," a grin had flickered across Hardcastle's face, "you want that last bit stricken from the record? Sorry, counselor." But then his expression went grimmer.

"Belding behaved himself and the only thing they convicted him on was one count of embezzlement—white collar stuff. The insurance fraud charges hinged on Melinda Marshall's testimony. All the other witnesses were dead. And then she up and married the guy. He got eighteen months in a minimum security facility. So he could have been out in nine."

"So they think Melinda killed him?" Mark managed to convey some fairly sincere doubt.

"No," Hardcastle shook his head. "Not unless she had help. She was up in San Francisco. Somebody put three slugs into Wilson's head . . . from behind."

"Sounds like overkill," Mark said soberly.

"Sounds like an execution. Question is, did they stick him in the Caddie because it was convenient, or because they wanted the widow to get a message?"

"I dunno . . ." Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. "Anybody who knows Melinda would have to realize even a message written out in block letters might not be enough to get through to her." He looked up slowly. "But what did Frank want? "

"Not Frank—it was her. She wanted to see you tonight. She's still down at the police station."

"She wants a lawyer?"

"Sounded more like she needs a friend."

A low whistle escaped from between Mark's teeth and then, in bemused disbelief, "She's not even on my Christmas card list, Judge. Where does she come up with these ideas? And," he looked down for a moment at his feet on the floor in front of him, "what the hell would I tell Kathy?"

"Maybe what's going on, for starters."

He turned sharply, his startled gaze connecting with figure in the doorway. Her tone had been quietly curious, rather than hostile, but that didn't prevent Mark's cheeks from flushing.

"Melinda Marshall," he muttered, as though he were mentioning a dread disease, possibly one with negative social connotations.

"The Melinda Marshall?" Kathy said.

"I hope there isn't another one," Hardcastle said fervently. "And it's been Melinda Marshall Belding for a while, only now—"

"Oh, my God, there'll be a funeral," Mark said, coming back from some other place. "Calla lilies, you wait and see."

"She's probably gonna want you to be a pall bearer," the judge said grimly.

"I can't believe you two," Kathy said with a hint of asperity. "You're saying the woman just lost her husband and you're—"

"This is Melinda Marshall," Hardcastle interjected, with a little asperity of his own. Then he turned sharply back to McCormick. "You told her the story, right? I mean you've told damn near everybody the story, haven't you?"

Mark nodded mutely then took a breath and waved Kathy in toward a chair. "Listen," he said as she sat, "I know this is going to sound weird, but every once in a while Melinda shows up again. She's sort of like a comet." He paused, his eyes looking a little glazed. Melinda wasn't the only one who'd had a rough day. "Comets," he said quietly, "were once thought to be signs of impending doom . . . they may have been right about that."

Kathy reached out and patted his hand, resting limply on the armrest. "I think you're both being a little melodramatic." The hand beneath hers twitched.

She sighed. "I know what she did was pretty awful, and I don't see how you could ever forgive her for that but," she cocked her head slightly, as if she were considering her next words carefully, "you've got to understand, even though it was an awful thing, if it hadn't happened I don't know how else you could have been running errands for the judge on that morning we first met. And," she drew herself up a little, "if you hadn't been there that day, not only would we not have met, but I'm pretty sure I would have been killed."

Mark raised his eyes slowly. "I'm not too crazy about this kismet thing," he said. "I'd hate to think I'd have to be eternally grateful to her. That'd be annoying and dangerous."

"Don't worry," Kathy reached out again, one last firm pat, "if she comes after you again, I'm good with a shotgun."

00000

Hardcastle called Frank back, but not until after he'd shagged the other two into the kitchen. His official excuse was that he wanted to be capable of technically telling the truth when he said 'McCormick's not here right now.'

He wasn't sure what else he was going to say. He'd hadn't really kept up with the Beldings, and he had no idea if the bloom had already been off the rose before person or persons unknown had put a permanent end to any hope of Melinda and Wilson making it to their third anniversary.

At the very least, he supposed finding a corpse in the trunk of her car would have been an alarming development for Melinda—though her response to things could be hard to predict. It's possible she was only wondering how she'd get the stains out.

No, when Frank finally fetched her to the phone, the voice on the other end of the line was properly distraught, maybe even overwrought.

"Oh, Judge, it was awful." There were a couple little hiccuping sobs and a demure honking—probably into a hanky offered up by Frank.

Hardcastle tried to steer her gently into more practical channels. "You really have to try and think about what the detectives are asking—if there's anything you might have seen or heard that'll help them find the guys who did this."

"But I know who did it," Melinda said, with an unexpected amount of confidence. "It was that awful Mr. Kressender."

Hardcastle frowned, holding the receiver a little tighter. Hearing the name out of context, it had taken him a couple of seconds to place it.

"Bob Kressender? Melinda, he's with the FBI. He's an agent for Pete's sake. What makes you think he's the one who killed your husband?"

Another set of jerking little sobs. Another honk. "He's the one Wilson said he was going to meet with that morning."

"Well, there you go," the judge said quietly. "Wilson was mixed up in something again now, wasn't he?" There was hardly any question to his tone and he took Melinda's silence for tacit agreement. He plowed ahead. "Maybe he'd decided he wanted out; I'll bet that's what it was, huh? And he went to Kressender, or he was going to, at any rate, and the guys he was working for weren't too keen on that, I'll bet."

Q.E.D., he thought. All he needed now were some names to fill in the blanks. Melinda had gone silent on the other end of the line. He sighed.

"I don't suppose you'd happen to know who he'd hooked up with since he'd gotten out of prison."

"He was doing some bookkeeping," Melinda sniffed lightly. "That's all. That's what he said."

"Who for?" the judge prodded gently.

"I'm not exactly sure," Melinda said, followed by a couple more small sobs and a wail. "Everyone wants to know that."

"Frank?" Hardcastle said a little louder. Then, to Melinda, "Can you give the phone back to Lieutenant Harper?"

That took a moment of shuffling, chairs being pushed back. Then Frank was saying something to someone, sounding muffled and blandly reassuring.

Then he was on the line, laconic as ever. "They've been at it for a while with her. Kressender's been going point. I'd say she's not too happy with him right now. I just sent her down to the coffee room with one of my guys."

"Who's on the short list as Wilson's former employer?"

"Tony Brogetti."

Hardcastle stifled a grunt. "Any evidence to go with that?"

"Kressender figures there's some paperwork somewhere, unless Wilson was toting up the numbers in his head. They think he mighta come up with some kind of high-powered scam for laundering big amounts of cash—we've got two guys from the IRS who are real interested, too. It's something involving a computer program . . . I hate this stuff," Frank added in a low mutter.

"Modern times," the judge said consolingly. "But Brogetti, he's very thorough. Does it look like Melinda might be a loose end?"

"Her?" Frank said, sounding a little exasperated. "She's completely untied. But Bob already offered her federal hospitality and she turned him down flat."

The judge heard it, there in the silence, the wheels of thought turning in Frank's head. "Oh, no," he said, trying to sound both determined and unpersuadable, "not here, not a chance."

"Come on, Milt. You did it before."

"Yeah," Hardcastle said heatedly, "and it almost landed me in the lock-up."

He heard a slight chuckle from the other end. Then Frank cleared his throat. "Really, it'd be a public service, and your place is the last one where anybody'd think to look. It'd be so much safer than a safe house. And, besides, you guys are good at this."

Hardcastle hmmphed.

"All those favors I've done for you," Frank wheedled.

"All those cases I've nailed for you," Hardcastle countered, then he let out a long sigh, knowing he'd already given in a few arguments back. The rest was all for show. He was just trying to figure out how he'd explain it to McCormick.

"Anyway, she might say no to the arrangement."

"Nope," Frank said cheerily, "I already asked her and she said it wasn't a problem."

00000

"Not a problem?" Mark said in disbelief. He put his spoon back down in the bowl of ice cream that he'd obviously been mostly just poking at. He pushed back slightly from the kitchen table. "She's gonna stay here and you say 'not a problem'?"

Hardcastle put his own elbows on the table, bluffly fielding Kathy's worried look as well. "Sure," he said casually, "I've got plenty of spare rooms and anyway, we've done it for her before, haven't we?"

He saw Kathy shoot an even more questioning look at McCormick.

The younger man smiled back thinly. "I'll explain it later," he said, with an air of false assurance. Then he turned sharply back to Hardcastle.

"No, she stays in the gatehouse."

Kathy's expression had gone palpably grim, with a degree of penetration that caught even Mark's distracted attention again.

"And I'll bunk with him," he added hastily, pointing at the judge.

"She's not that dangerous," Hardcastle muttered.

"The hell she isn't." Mark's voice had risen, pitch and volume. "She'll go walking in her sleep some night and wind up in your room. Then she'll wake up screeching. Next thing we know there'll be a headline in the front section: 'Former Respected Jurist Accused of Witness Tampering'. Hah," he added, with very little humor, "you'll wind up disbarred. You'll be stuck clerking for me."

Hardcastle considered the scenario for a moment, suppressed a shudder, and said sullenly, "Okay, the gatehouse."

"She'll need a lawyer," Mark added, looking distracted again.

"Yeah," the judge agreed. "They haven't accused her of anything yet, but if she's saying to them what she said to me, it's only a matter of time before they think of something . . . I'll have to offer, I suppose," he muttered.

"No," Mark said, pushing the bowl away completely. He'd obviously lost his appetite. "She's my ex-girlfriend."

Hardcastle looked up, cocking his head slightly. "That doesn't exactly make it your responsibility."

Kathy looked as is she was about to add a word or two of agreement, but was still holding back when Mark said, "It does, in a way, and, after all, she's kinda indirectly responsible for saving Kathy's life." He smiled wanly for a second, then frowned. "You think I can't do it fairly, represent her best interests?"

"Nah," Hardcastle said, after only a moment's reflection, "though it'd be kinda handy, if you did lose a case for her. In the appeals phase she just stands up and says, 'Sorry, Your Honor, it sort of slipped my mind that I once testified against my lawyer in a case that landed him in prison for two years.' That'd get their attention." His eyes narrowed down briefly, then his expression went flat with resignation. "Nah," he said again, "you've got Teddy; I'll take Melinda."

There might have been a slight note of relief that passed across Kathy's face, but it was transient. "She's coming here tonight?" she asked, very levelly, and at Hardcastle's nod she added, "Sounds like you two'll be busy. I'd better get out of the way."

Mark had been staring into his bowl of nearly-melted ice cream. He looked up at her. "We don't mind if you hang around," he said a little wistfully. "You know where we keep the shotguns and everything."

Kathy laughed lightly, but was already on her feet and reaching for the jacket she'd draped over the back of her chair. "Just call me if you need rescuing."

Mark nodded, and got up to see her out the door. The judge stayed sitting, knowing from experience that that process might take come time. He propped his chin in his hand. He wondered how recently he'd updated his file on Tony Brogetti.

Chapter 3—The Wall, with Chink

Kathy and Mark said their goodnights in a more perfunctory way that was their custom. As he watched the tail-lights of her car disappear around the curve of the drive, he realized he'd been distracted, even distant. There was something about the imminent proximity of Melinda that made a guy want to take a vow of celibacy. It had worked that way for him at least, having lasted two years the first time. He wondered if further exposure might make it permanent.

He shook himself from his momentary stupor. The thing to do was solve Melinda's problem--figure out who'd done Wilson in, and make sure he couldn't come after her.

Or . . . he found himself briefly considering the alternatives. No. He tried to remind himself that if it hadn't been for Melinda he never would have had a career in the law, never would have met Kathy.

Kismet, dammit.

He nodded once and headed off sharply to the gatehouse. He wanted to make sure he had his stuff gathered and out of there before she arrived.

He hustled, throwing clothes into a duffle and books into the first empty box he found, but somebody down at the police department must have been in an even bigger hurry. He heard the familiar pitch of an LAPD black and white before he'd gotten the final items piled up by the door.

Hardcastle was already out there, doing his version of the welcome wagon. Mark had to hand it to him, the man looked grimly determined to be cordial. McCormick sighed, still standing in his own doorway, casting one last long look over his shoulder at his soon-to-be-invaded home. Then he straightened his shoulders and headed out to second the judge's condolences.

00000

They'd gotten her settled with a surprising minimum of fuss. If she'd noticed anything unusual about the arrangements, she said nothing. The truth was, Melinda on a good day was not apt to notice things, and this almost certainly hadn't been one of her better days.

Mark carried the last of his essential belongings up to the second floor bedroom of the main house, one he had occupied from time to time, usually in association with painful experiences, tonight being no exception. He pushed the last box into the closet and headed back downstairs.

Hardcastle was just coming in through the front door. He looked more frazzled than usual, by which Mark knew he'd been in conference with his latest client.

"How'd it go?" he asked casually.

A slight, vague wave of the hand encompassed all of it. Then the judge jerked his chin in the direction of the steps leading down to the basement file room. "We're on a deadline here."

"Why?"

"Because I said so," the man groused. "Besides, you want your place back eventually, don'tcha?"

"I'm thinking about maybe joining a monastery. You know, celibacy has a lot to be said for it," Mark mused.

"Right. You know they'll want you to shave your head. The middle part at least."

Mark raised one eyebrow.

"Yeah." Hardcastle nodded once decisively. "Wanna help me pull some files?"

00000

They'd pulled, and they'd read. The refresher course in Tony Brogetti's business interests took until nearly three am.

Then at some point in the last four hours of the night, after he'd finally crawled into bed, Hardcastle was jarred awake by the ringing of the phone. By the time he had fumbled the receiver into his hand and was awake enough to realize who it was, he heard McCormick on the downstairs phone, obviously not yet in bed.

He was telling Melinda, gently but fairly firmly, that she really ought to get some sleep and, no, there were no mice in the gatehouse and, yes, they'd see about getting the Cadillac returned, but it might not be very soon, all things considered.

He waited until Mark had finally disengaged himself, before he finally hung up as well. Someone had to watch the kid's back.

00000

Breakfast was eaten in a silence that was completely compatible with Mark's proposed career change. They were both too tired to do more than grunt in the direction of whatever they wanted passed over. Melinda, fortunately, hadn't put in an appearance.

Partway through the cold cereal and strong coffee there was a knock on the front door. Mark dragged himself upright and steeled himself to be civil, but as he approached the door, he realized that the profile he was seeing through the frosted glass was Teddy's. He was obviously looking off to the left, over his shoulder.

McCormick fumbled with the lock. By the time he got the door open he had forced his expression into a polite smile of inquiry.

"Hey, Skid," Teddy whirled back around, "you got any Kleenex?"

Mark stood there for a moment, frowning. He didn't have time to fully process the request before Teddy went on. "You know you got a lady over in the gatehouse?"

Lady? Mark thought dully.

"Yeah," Teddy nodded nervously into the silence, "and she's, like, crying her eyes out. I asked her what was wrong and she said she needed some tissues. You got any?"

"That's no lady," Mark said, "that's Melinda Marshall." He was still several sentences behind but catching up fast.

Teddy stared at him in blinking incomprehension. "She's crying, Skid."

"Marshall . . . Melinda," McCormick repeated slowly. "Weren't you paying any attention at all the whole time we shared that cell? I dunno, Teddy, I might as well've been in solitary." He shook his head in exasperation. "Melinda."

Something finally clicked. Teddy's eyes went a little rounder. He cast one more glance over his shoulder and then back at Mark in baffled astonishment. Then he cleared his throat and said, "Kleenex, you got some?"

Mark thought, after he'd handed the box over, that he really hadn't been thinking too clearly, probably as a consequence of lack of sleep. He wandered back into the kitchen.

"That was Teddy," he said, very calmly. Hardcastle was still working on a couple of pieces of toast. "He must've been looking for me over at the gatehouse. He ran into Melinda. Says she's crying."

The judge lifted an eyebrow but kept on chewing. Mark disposed of his now-soggy cereal, and dumped the cold coffee, starting over with a fresh cup. The elapsed time was no more than a minute or two, but the nagging concern that had been creeping over him made it seem much longer.

"You don't suppose—"

"Nah," Hardcastle interjected, "he's not her type."

Mark frowned and said, "Was I her type? Was Wilson?"

The judge took a swig of coffee and cocked his head, as if he were trying to calculate the part of the playing field that included both embezzling executives, and dirt track drivers. The only criteria that came readily to Mark's mind were 'men' and 'breathing'—and Wilson didn't even qualify anymore under those rather lax restrictions.

McCormick put his coffee cup down and walked back toward the front of the house and into the den. He heard Hardcastle not far behind him and, as he scanned nervously through the front window, the man nudged up beside him.

"Come on," the judge said, all brisk confidence now, "how many times did you tell him the story?"

"You never believed me," Mark said. "Why should he?"

There was no chance for Hardcastle to defend himself on that charge, or even argue that Teddy might be a better judge of character, for at that moment they saw the man himself rounding the bushes along the path that led out from the Gatehouse to the main drive. Whatever defense Hardcastle had been about to voice, it gave way now to a mutual sigh of relief simultaneously set free by both men.

This was followed, a second later, by a dual intake of breath as Teddy turned back and extended a hand. Melinda took advantage of it to steady herself as she stepped onto the walkway. There was no mistaking it, Mark realized. There was an air of solicitude from Hollins. McCormick knew it wasn't just his imagination at work. He heard Hardcastle mutter a swift imprecation.

"Damn."

Mark thought somehow it might take stronger language than that to sum up the situation and, even now, it was already too late.

00000

It was breakfast redux, for the sake of the company, and they wound up eating it out by the pool. Hardcastle provided the eggs and bacon. Neither of the regular residents of Gulls' Way had much appetite and the two visitors seemed to only have eyes for each other.

This was proving to be a bit of a challenge for them, though, since Mark, after politely seating Melinda to the right at the table, put Teddy to his left and then himself squarely in the middle. Further social intercourse between Pyramus and Thisbe was thus impeded by Wall, who wasn't very inclined to offer any chinks that morning.

Teddy had been reduced to leaning forward over his eggs to offer his condolences and Melinda, with slightly puffy eyes and a reddened nose, accepted them very nobly. Fairly soon, in the nature of conversation, Teddy's new job came up. The Wall wasn't too keen on that, but Melinda was soon perched forward on the edge of her seat, tissues forgotten.

Hardcastle, returning with a second pot of coffee, gave Mark a pointed look and said 'telephone'. McCormick got to his feet reluctantly, excused himself—as if anyone would mind—and headed for the kitchen door. The receiver was still resting in the cradle. He glanced over his shoulder at the judge, who had followed him back in.

"You're just making it more intriguing for them. That's how it is." the older man said patiently. "You know, like Romeo and Juliet."

Mark frowned and looked back out the window and the star-crossed potential lovers.

"But it's so . . . wrong," he said. "Like seeing something really bad about to happen and not trying to do anything about it."

"No," Hardcastle shook his head once, emphatically, "it's like seeing two trains that are gonna crash head-on and stepping out on the tracks to try and stop 'em."

By the time they returned to the table, Teddy had shifted over one chair and he and Melinda were conversing like old friends.

Mark took a seat at the end of the table, trying not to look discouraging. After a moment he cleared his throat and asked, as non-judgmentally as possible, "What did you come over for anyway, Teddy?"

Hollins looked up at him. He blinked once as if the question might be a tough one, or at least the answer had been pushed fairly far back by recent developments. He finally jerked slightly, perhaps in recollection, and said, "Mr. Ambruster. I talked to him. Told him my lawyer asked to see the contract. You looked at it, huh? Whaddja think?"

Mark cast a quick glance at the judge. There might have been the slightest of nods there. He turned back to Teddy. "We all looked it over, Kathy, too. Seems pretty straight."

Teddy grinned. "See? Told ya. Anyway," he hunkered forward a little, without putting anymore space between him and Melinda, "he said he understood, under the circumstances, and he didn't have any objection to talking to you about everything." He grinned and added, "Is that a great guy or what?"

Mark didn't give that any immediate acknowledgment.

"Might be a good idea," the judge caught his eye and gave a sharp nod, "you having a little conference with him, letting him know that somebody has Teddy's interests at heart and is keeping an eye on things."

Mark nodded. Teddy had turned back to Melinda and didn't seem to be concerned with having his career overseen. To Mark, he was starting to look . . . besotted. He winced.

He turned back to Hardcastle again. "You up for a little visit with the man?"

The judge frowned for a moment and replied, "One lawyer, that's prudent, but to have two show up, that'd just look paranoid. Besides, somebody has to mind the store."

"Okay," Mark said. "Yeah . . . but what about . . .?" There was a silent jerk of his head in the direction of his ex-girlfriend, who was giggling at something Teddy had just said.

Teddy chose that moment to experience universal awareness. He broke away from his tête-à-tête with the Widow Belding, and gave Mark an eager look. "I can stay here with Ms., ah, Marshall. She shouldn't be alone at a time like this."

"Oh," gushed Melinda, apparently not disconcerted at the return to her maiden name, "that's just so kind of you. So . . . thoughtful."

Teddy blushed fiercely. He smiled back at her and even reached out to cover her hand with his own.

Mark was suddenly glad he'd stuck to a light breakfast. He rubbed his temples firmly for a moment and then finally sighed and said, to the only person who was still listening to him, "I suppose they'll be okay here for the morning. Hell, no one knows she's here but the cops and they sure as hell aren't in a hurry to get her back."

That got a nod from Hardcastle, after which they both departed with an almost unseemly haste.

Chapter 4—Self-Made Men

Mark stopped off briefly in the kitchen. He had the address and phone number of Ambruster Industries' corporate headquarters. He called, working his way up the command structure in fairly impressive increments that soon found him talking to the CEO's personal secretary. It seemed he'd been expected and he was pleasantly surprised to hear the Mr. Ambruster himself would be pleased to see him at ten-thirty.

The secretary sounded nonplussed, but perhaps a little surprised herself, as though she was reading from written instructions. Mark grabbed the appointed time. He was starting to hope he could produce a favorable report for Hollins but he'd be damned if he'd let him be used by anybody whose intentions weren't strictly legit.

He frowned as he hung up. He cast one last look out the window. The trains were bearing down on each other at a combined closing speed of upwards of one hundred and twenty miles per hour. He shook his head. A guy could only do so much.

He glanced down at his watch and then hustled out to the garage. The truck was still there. He figured the judge had taken one last detour into the file room. He'd seen the gleam in Hardcastle's eye when he'd been talking about Brogetti. Mark figured there was more to this for the judge than getting Melinda out of harm's way, doing a favor for Frank, and annoying his law partner. The man recognized an excuse to poke around and stir things up when he saw one.

For now, though, Mark doubted that anything could be done. The files were extensive, tracing Brogetti's up-through-the-ranks career in organized crime, but much of the recent stuff was speculative. He seemed especially careful for someone in his line of work—which was anything that was both profitable and not available through legitimate channels. He was neither flamboyant, nor careless, and, in McCormick's experience, those were the most dangerous guys of all.

00000

Ambruster's corporate headquarters was iconoclastic—a converted warehouse brought over to office use with a sprightly sense of humor. Mark didn't see any white collars among the white collar workers as he was ushered through a mostly egalitarian and open work space, calmed from chaotic by the liberal use of plants and functional art.

He paused and stared as he passed by something that resembled a wheel from a hamster cage, only about nine feet in diameter. The young woman who'd been escorting him through the labyrinth gave it a sideward glance and said, off-handedly, "The people wheel—it started out as a piece of art. I think it was supposed to represent the futility of human endeavor, but everybody really loves it. One of the guys from engineering even hooked it up so it powers a battery that's connected to the coffee machine—now we call the whole installation 'Synergy #1'—you know, caffeine and running in circles. I love that." She laughed lightly.

"Yeah," Mark smiled, "but is it Art?"

His guide shrugged. "Who the hell cares? It's a lot of fun when you get it going fast and then just hang on tight."

Not much to his surprise, the door to Ambruster's 'office' was open. Permanently so, since there was nothing there to close. The CEO was nowhere in sight, but there were plenty of places he might be within the large but cluttered workspace. Mark's guide stepped over to a device setting on a table near the doorway. It was made of wood and breadbox-sized, with two antennae protruding from the top.

"The door knocker," she said cheerfully. Her hand danced lightly over the top and the resulting sound was both uncanny and oddly familiar.

"The Beach Boys," Mark said. "Good Vibrations."

"Or, in my case, mediocre vibrations, but you should hear Mr. Ambruster play it. He's a whiz."

The man in question had ducked out from somewhere in the back. He was smiling gregariously as he approached them.

"My Theremin. Built it myself in high school shop class. Only got a 'C' for the semester though because I never finished the bird house. I brought it here years ago because my wife said it gave her the willies.

"Yeah," Mark smiled. "Kinda makes you think the aliens are landing."

"Oh, too much glissando'll do that to a person." Ambruster stepped forward, wiping his hand on something rag-like he'd pulled out of his pocket, and then offering a firm and slightly calloused shake. "You must be Mr. McCormick."

"Mark."

"And my friends call me Jack, mostly, when they're not calling me worse. Did Chloe give you the tour?"

"Enough to get the idea," Mark said quietly. "This whole thing about Teddy sending his lawyer over—that was pretty much his lawyer's idea."

"So I gathered," Ambruster said with a smile. "I can understand your concern. I'm not so eccentric that I don't realize I'm eccentric."

"Oh," Mark smiled again, "if it's only eccentricity, you and Teddy'll get along fine." His expression went a little more serious. "And he's really a great guy. It's just that his grasp on reality isn't always too tight. And he's the kind who gets his hopes up pretty fast."

"I gathered that, too," Ambruster replied. He gave Chloe a nod. She waved and departed.

The CEO stuffed his hands into his pockets, as though he might otherwise start fiddling with things and he didn't wish to be distracted. He led Mark over to a corner where there were a couple of comfortable and unbusinesslike overstuffed chairs. The table between them was cluttered with a multitude of apparently unrelated objects.

Jack's hands were now free again, and one—seemingly unbeknownst to the guy in charge—snagged a paperclip off the tabletop. Ambruster looked down a moment later, as if surprised to see it there.

"Clever little things," he said fondly. And then, "We've been working on improving them." He'd already bent the one in question into a more undulating, free-form shape that still, curiously, would hold papers together.

"Teddy Hollins," he said, getting back to the matter in question, "is a prime example of what I call a restless mind. That sort of person is frowned upon in some circles. He's the type that will never finish a birdhouse. But," Ambruster smiled, "that's what the engineering department is for."

"You're serious about this?"

"Never more serious than when I'm talking about ideas. Everything else can be measured out, contracted for, sweated into being. But ideas, the original spark—genius, if you will," Jack spread his hands expansively, one still clasping the reinvented paperclip between thumb and finger, "those are what made this company."

"And you think Teddy's got some of those?"

"I'm betting on it," Ambruster said with an expression of satisfaction. "And I don't mind telling you," he added, in a tone that was only slightly more circumspect, "that if I'm right about what I see in him, the position I offered him is only a starting out place." He looked around him as his hands lowly drifted back into his lap.

"Nothing is permanent," he said quietly. "Life is not possible without change. I, of all people, recognize that. I also believe the greatest thing a man can accomplish is to be the shoulders which allow others to achieve even greater accomplishments."

"That's a lot to decide over a couple of hotdogs at Redondo Beach."

Ambruster laughed. "Not all at that moment—even eccentric genius has its limits." He shook his head and then gave Mark a more serious look. "I have been some time coming to this, years even. I had thought, as any father does, that my natural heir would be the most likely prospect. I was disappointed in my expectations," he said tersely. "To him a paper clip is merely a paperclip, and beer belongs in a bottle."

00000

Hardcastle trudged up out of the basement, file folders tucked under his arm and a cheerful expression on his face. He'd almost entirely pushed the vision of Teddy and Melinda out of his mind while he'd been down there. Now he headed for the den, intending to use that phone rather than the one in the kitchen with its clear view of the poolside.

He had some numbers—it was hard to say which one might be most productive, but he was willing to try them all, if necessary. To his surprise, the first one got his foot in the door, and, against all expectations, he made his way up the food chain in astonishingly short order.

He hoped it was only a general familiarity with his name, and his reputation for persistence, rather than any insider information via the LAPD linking him with recent events. Whatever it was, he found himself speaking to Brogetti's second-in-command without even having to brandish any veiled threats. From there it was a nearly cordial invitation to parley in a public and neutral location, a restaurant in Santa Monica. It wouldn't be crowded at 10:45 in the morning.

He agreed; he really had little choice. He had a nagging notion that neither Frank nor McCormick would approve but he couldn't help that—if Brogetti was agreeable to a conference, he could hardly say no. He hung up the phone and considered the implications of agreeability. A moment later he was on his feet and headed for the back door.

The two were sitting companionably close and Melinda was giggling over something that Teddy had just said. Neither looked up at his approach until Hardcastle cleared his throat.

"I got a little favor to ask ya, Teddy."

Hollins blinked once, slipped a glance toward Melinda and then back again, not quite able to mask his reluctance with his chipper, "Sure, Judge, anything for you."

Hardcastle frowned. There wasn't any way around it. He couldn't send the woman back to the protection of the police—not without Frank knowing something was up, not that anything was actually up, not yet anyway. And, at any rate, he figured there was no way that Brogetti could anticipate a decision he'd only just made himself, not five minutes earlier, so the idea couldn't possibly be dangerous.

"Teddy, I'd like you to take Ms. Marshall . . . um, I mean Belding, over to your place—"

Teddy's look of reluctance melted instantly into an eager smile. "Sure, Judge, like I said, anything." He was grinning. Melissa looked pleased, too.

"Just for an hour or two," the judge added. "I gotta meet somebody."

The happy couple was already on their feet. Hardcastle nodded his dubious approval and followed them.

"Just me let me get my bag," Melinda cooed.

Hardcastle figured it must be love—they only had to wait another fifteen minutes for her to complete that task. He didn't budge though, waiting patiently until the two of them were in Teddy's car and headed down the drive.

He followed along closely behind, sticking with them long enough to be certain that they weren't being otherwise followed. Then he heaved a sigh of relief, gave them a casual wave, and peeled of down the next cross street, heading toward his appointment in Santa Monica.

00000

The restaurant was nearly empty at that between-meals juncture. Brogetti must've known the owner. They were shown without question to a corner booth that permitted a good view of other patrons' comings and goings, while was itself off quietly to the side.

'They' included a grim-faced man who Brogetti introduced as 'My nephew, Louis—you talked to him on the phone'.

Louis didn't look too thrilled with his uncle's decision to keep this appointment and, despite the warmth of the morning, was wearing one of those suits with a cut that allowed a piece of personal armament to be carried discreetly. Hardcastle smiled thinly and nodded once. Knowing Brogetti's reputation, the gun and its owner were probably in perfect compliance with California law.

Brogetti himself looked at ease—more everyone's favorite uncle than a Godfather type. He summoned the waiter and took over the ordering—coffee and pastries—with the air of someone who was used to being taken care of, then sent the man scurrying off. Once that minor interruption was dealt with, he immediately turned to the matter at hand.

"Wilson Belding, you think I had something to do with that, huh?"

"I don't have any proof . . . yet." Hardcastle gave him a steady, appraising look. "But he was working for you."

"And you know how hard it is to find an honest bean counter these days?"

Hardcastle couldn't help it, one eyebrow had gone up and when he said "Wilson?" it was with a tone of utter disbelief.

But Brogetti's expression of irritation seemed unfeigned.

"'Honest'," he repeated. "It's a relative term, I'll grant you. Belding was working for me, and I was getting what I paid for."

"Exactly what was that?" Hardcastle asked mildly.

Brogetti sat back slightly, as if considering things. Then he said, "I don't know why I shouldn't tell you. I'm just a business man trying to make a dollar. Ask anyone." He leaned forward and spread his hands out. "He was taking a look at my books, giving the operation the once over, trying to tighten things up."

"Word is he was supposed to do some fancy stuff with your cash flow," Hardcastle said. "Maybe he got too fancy."

"That was just the word," Brogetti said quietly, but with emphasis. "He never got near any actual cash. He had sticky fingers. I'm not stupid." The man shook his head. "Nah, he was there to tighten up things—make sure not too much of that flow was leaking out of the pipes. That kind of checking takes a certain amount of imagination, you know—a guy with practical experience in diversionary plumbing. The rest of it," Brogetti sighed heavily, "that was just the version that got put out so he could do his work in peace."

"Then it might have been somebody in your operation," Hardcastle pointed out. "Maybe someone was onto your internal audit, someone who was worried about what he'd find."

"I suppose. It might be possible," Brogetti grudged. Then, finally, "I'm checking into it." There was a pause before he proceeded more slowly. "There are certain papers Mr. Belding had compiled. Notes. Trust me, there's nothing in them that would hurt me. Nothing the authorities could make sense of."

Hardcastle nodded once, to indicate he was listening carefully, if not necessarily believing every word.

"Those papers, they might tell me who mighta wanted to take Belding out."

"I'll keep my eye out for 'em," Hardcastle said dryly. "In the meantime, if anyone tries to hassle Mrs. Belding—I'll be calculating the trajectory pretty closely."

Brogetti had assumed an air of formal solicitude—the old-school don and pater familis.

"Please offer her my condolences . . . and my apologies for whatever part I had in bringing these troubles on her home." It was by no means a legal confession, Hardcastle noted.

Brogetti's expression had gone more practical. His tone of address became brisk. "Louis, there'll need to be flowers." And then, back to Hardcastle, still slightly formal, "She have any preferences you know of?"

The judge studied him for a moment and finally said, "Calla lilies. White."

There was a sharp nod of mental notation from the man across the table. Hardcastle had a feeling they were out of things to talk about and, at any rate, he wanted to be the first one back at the office. He got up decisively.

"If you have any luck narrowing down the list of suspects, you know where to reach me," he said, not waiting for his third breakfast to arrive.

Brogetti took no visible offense. Louis looked unremittingly grim. Hardcastle departed.

Chapter 5—The Responsible Adult

He might as well have stayed for the cannolies. The Coyote was parked out back of the law clinic in its usual spot. Hardcastle slunk in, trying not to look too guilty, but the door to Mark's office was open and there was no way to get past undetected.

"And where have you been?" The younger man's tone was somewhere between worried and curious.

Hardcastle never had a chance to consider whether or not he would have lied. At that moment he heard the phone ringing up front, at Joyce's desk, followed by her general and professional greeting and then, a moment later, her saying, "Just a moment Lieutenant, I think he just came in."

This was followed by her leaning around into the front end of the hallway, with a questioning look, and the judge saying hastily, "I'll take it back here—McCormick's office." He ducked in, snagging the phone off the desk almost before it rang. He had a sudden wishful thought that maybe good old-fashioned police work had gotten somewhere in the solving of Wilson Belding's murder.

But Frank didn't sound like he was the bearer of happy tidings.

"You maybe misplaced that Marshall woman, Milt?"

"Ah . . ." For the first time in as long as he could remember, Hardcastle was at a complete loss for words. The search for something to say was complicated immeasurably by McCormick's increasingly intense interest.

"Yeah, well," Frank sighed audibly, "I suppose you couldn't stay home and babysit her night and day, but, Teddy Hollins?" The note of disbelief was almost palpable. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"What happened?" He gave up trying to be discreet. Mark was flashing him major signals requesting clarification. He put up a halting hand. "They were supposed to be at Teddy's, just while I . . . got some things done."

There was one almost inaudible snort from Frank's end. Then he said, "Try the Emergency Department over at St. Mary's. We got a 'man down' call about an hour ago—the man was Teddy." Frank halted in his narrative to add, "Don't worry, they say he's stable. Took a slug in a delicate spot, though . . .. Supposed to be at his place, huh?" It sounded as if Harper was rustling through some papers.

"I followed them partway there. I know no one else was following them." Hardcastle shook his head. Mark looked about ready to lung across the desk. "Listen," the judge said hastily, "we'll meet you over there, okay?"

He'd barely hung up the receiver before Mark, possibly filling in the blanks with something even worse than the truth, was asking questions. Not being in possession of many answers, it was easier to just say, "Teddy, St. Mary's. He was shot but they say he's okay."

He saw the younger man blanch. "Melinda?" he asked quietly.

"She's okay, far as I know."

"No," Mark said impatiently, already up and heading for the door, "I mean, did she shoot him?"

"Of course not," Hardcastle said, equally aggravated as he turned to follow. Then he frowned, fortunately with McCormick's back already to him. "At least I don't think so."

00000

They took the truck, and Mark took the wheel. The trip was made in near-record time. Frank had made good time as well, and they met on the steps going in. Mark was grateful. It was always faster to get in to see someone when Frank was there to flash his lieutenant's shield and look like he wasn't going to put up with anything less than full cooperation.

In this case they were ushered in without delay, and, once there, heard a familiar voice from behind the curtain of one of the cubicles.

". . . and he was so brave," Melinda said breathlessly. "He just threw himself on me and the next thing I knew I was on the ground and he was on top of me and, well—"

That was punctuated by an "Ow," in an equally familiar voice, and then a third, unfamiliar one, said, "Try to hold still, Mr. Hollins; I've almost got it."

He must not have moved, because only a second later came a satisfied, "There it is," followed by a dull clatter as something metallic was dropped, with little apparent ceremony, into an also-metallic receptacle.

"A .38, looks like." The doctor was gazing down into a stainless steel kidney basin when Frank pulled back the curtain.

"Can I keep it?" Teddy asked, lifting his head from where he lay, prone, on the gurney.

"It's evidence, not a souvenir," Mark said with a note of reprimand that didn't quite cover over his relief. He turned to the doctor, who was still studying his quarry. "How bad was it?"

"Muscle damage, the gluteus maximus," the doc said dryly. "He'll live to sit again. You want this?" He rattled the basin slightly. "I can find a cup somewhere."

"Hey," Teddy said, reaching around behind himself trying to make the gown meet, "you wanna pull the curtain there, guys. I'm not decent."

All three stepped inside. The doc edged out. "We'll put a dressing on that and get you some instructions." He cast a cautionary glance at Melinda. "No strenuous activities for a week or so." Then he turned and departed.

Mark had already interrogated Hardcastle on the way over. He uttered "What happened?" in an intense but general way that took in both Teddy and Melinda. "You were supposed to be at your place, Teddy."

"He was so brave," Melinda murmured.

Even Teddy seemed to sense that that wasn't going to do as a defense. He tried for an affable smile. Mark wasn't buying. Hollins let out a sigh, and adopted a slightly more serious demeanor.

"Melinda needed to make some funeral arrangements. She didn't have a car, so I said I'd drive her around, you know, be supportive. This is a trying time for her."

Melinda sniffed once, gently, in counterpoint. Teddy had made it sound almost responsible.

"Still doesn't explain things," Hardcastle cut in. "There wasn't anybody following them when they left the estate."

Mark nodded, then skewered Melinda with a stern look. "You called somebody? Someone knew where you were or . . ." he put his hand to his forehead, "you stopped off at your place."

He raised his head to the moment of silence, only to find that Melinda was nodding complacently. He knew he should have expected it, but he felt his teeth clenching anyway. "Melinda—"

"I needed my things," she said, with an air of ordinariness that was somehow unassailable. "Teddy understood." There was just the slightest emphasis on Hollins' name, as though to point out that there were many, some present in this very room, who never understood.

Teddy had put his head back down. He seemed to understand quite a few things, including when it was better to stay low.

"Maybe you could tell us what you saw," Frank interrupted.

"There was a police man here." Melinda looked around, as if she'd misplaced him. "We told him."

"Tell me," Frank said, almost gently.

"Well," Melinda said, pausing to gather her thoughts, "he was so brave—"

"Teddy," Mark said sharply, "what happened?"

Teddy lifted his head, looking slightly pained but suddenly amazingly sensible, if only in comparison. He reached over and patted Melinda's hand. Then he gave Mark a steady, only slightly apologetic look.

"We went to my place. We made a couple of phone calls—florists and all that. Nobody who knew Melinda. Then we drove to her place, 'cause she needed stuff, you know?" He waited hopefully for understanding. Eventually he dropped his gaze, as if trying to focus, and went on. "We were outside. I'd just parked. We got out and I saw a car. It came up pretty fast—that's why I noticed it—then it slowed way down. Then I saw the gun—"

"Driver's window?" Frank asked.

"Yeah."

"Then the window was down. You saw the driver."

"I saw the gun." Teddy frowned. "That's how it is when someone points a gun at you."

There was a collection of regretful nods from three of the other four people in the room.

"Okay," Frank said, "the car."

"Dark," Teddy said, with a little uncertainty even to that much. "And then I kinda pushed Melinda down, out of the way."

"He saved my life," she sighed. Mark had been wondering when she'd get around to that verse.

00000

The doctor returned, this time accompanied by a nurse. He scooped the slug into a screw-top specimen cup, labeling and initialing it, while she applied the dressing. Teddy winced, then got up in a slow and cautious manner that was entirely un-Teddylike.

Papers were handed over and finally Hardcastle said, "You'd better come back to our place."

"You'll need to be looked after. I can change the bandages for you," Melinda said, cheerfully devoted.

The judge frowned. "The guy who shot you doesn't know you didn't get a good look at him."

"Kinda handy, though," Mark jerked his chin in Hardcastle's direction, "Brogetti having you as an alibi."

The judge looked embarrassedly aggravated. Frank's right eyebrow went up a notch. "Been talking to Brogetti?"

"Some . . . yeah."

"Anything you might want to share?" inquired the lieutenant, sounding as though he'd caught someone passing a note in class.

"Well, I already told McCormick," Hardcastle said with a tone that implied he hadn't been keeping anything secret.

"Mark doesn't count," Frank said sternly.

"Right. Officer of the court," Mark muttered, "member of the Bar."

"You know what I mean," Harper said in aside. "You're his partner for crissake. You two off in a corner plotting is not the same as me knowing what you're up to."

"I wasn't up to anything," McCormick protested vigorously. "I spent the morning talking to Teddy's new boss."

Hollins lifted his head again. "Whadja think?"

"I think it's a good thing he included medical benefits with that contract," Mark said sharply.

"Brogetti," Harper repeated firmly.

"He says," Hardcastle sighed, "he deeply regrets the passing of his valuable employee. He's planning on sending flowers."

Melinda burst into a series of little sobs that ended in a hiccup. Mark grabbed a hospital-sized box of tissues off the counter and passed it to Teddy, who handed them over, two at a time.

Against the glares of Frank and Mark, Hardcastle cast a shrug. "Well, it's what he said. And just because he was sitting in a restaurant in Santa Monica, doesn't mean he didn't have somebody staking out Melinda's place. You know that. But . . ."

"But you don't think so?" Mark said quietly.

"Nah," the judge shook his head. "Can't say exactly why, 'cept that he's more careful than that. Like he said, he knew what Wilson was. I'll bet he didn't let the guy anywhere near his pockets."

"But one of his henchmen," Frank said.

"Yeah," Hardcastle nodded. "And whatever notes Wilson made on the audit—those might help us figure out which of Brogetti's men would have been in the most trouble with the boss. Melinda?"

She looked up from the rapidly growing pile of wadded-up tissues in her lap.

"Wilson's papers. We need to look at them."

Her gaze darted quickly toward Harper and then back at the judge again. She spoke in a small, slightly nervous voice. "It won't get him in any trouble, will it?"

Hardcastle stared down at her for a moment, mentally verifying that the pronoun couldn't be referring to anyone else. "Melinda, he's dead. There isn't any more trouble after that. Not for him, anyway."

She seemed to be thinking about that one for a moment.

Hardcastle spoke a little slower. "You make up a list of the things you need. Mark and I can run over to your place and have a little look around when we pick your stuff up. How's that sound?"

"Probably says something on those discharge papers about a responsible adult being around," Mark cautioned. He looked at Frank who subtly shook his head no. "Okay," McCormick sighed. "Maybe Kathy can come over."

"Who's that?" Melinda asked.

Teddy grinned. "Skid's girlfriend."

"Oh," Melinda smiled benignly on her ex-boyfriend, "I'm so happy for you, Mark. I always knew you'd eventually get over all that and get on with your life. I always hoped you'd find someone."

00000

Frank did go so far as to give Teddy and Melinda a ride back to the estate in his sedan. Mark supposed that whatever discomfort there'd be for Teddy might be partly dispelled by Melinda's frequent admiring comments. Now he and Hardcastle were approaching Melinda's place with a certain amount of caution. It made no sense that whoever had taken a shot at her this morning would still be hanging around, but it all had the feel of unfinished business.

McCormick though that maybe even without the other threat, the idea of being in Melinda's home might have been off-putting. He noticed he was hanging back a little while the judge used the key to open the door. The judge was two steps inside and looking back over his shoulder impatiently before Mark started to move.

There was the chill of the almost-forgotten familiar: the odd knick-knack that he recollected from eight years ago, the way she arranged things. The place was tidy and nicely decorated. Melinda had always had a flair for the superficial.

They moved through to the spare bedroom, the one that Melinda had said was Wilson's office, and where his papers were mostly kept. Mark took note that there was a bed in there.

"Maybe he snored," Hardcastle said, when Mark elbowed him lightly and pointed to it. "Maybe they were used to sleeping alone."

"Maybe," McCormick said laconically.

An hour got them through everything that looked recent and none of it looked inexplicable, or even vague. Wilson appeared to have been a very organized guy.

"So he hid it somewhere." Mark sat back on his heels after replacing six months of electric bills in a folder marked 'utilities'. He scanned the room. "Not here though."

The judge was already on his feet, heading into the other bedroom. Mark got up—slowly, reluctantly—and followed him in there.

A pile of wadded-up tissues on the nightstand next to the phone, a photograph of Melinda and a man who must have been Wilson. He was wearing clothes that were state issue and the setting looked vaguely penal. Mark studied it for a moment, trying to decipher the expression on the man's face. Resigned?

"Here," Hardcastle said, slightly muffled from inside a walk-in closet, "got a couple more file boxes."

"I dunno, Judge, this is kinda more her stuff."

Hardcastle looked down at the box already at his feet, then up at McCormick. "You really think she keeps her own papers?"

Mark furrowed his brow for a moment and then stepped forward, picking up the first box and hefting it onto the bed. Hardcastle turned to retrieve the other while McCormick lifted the lid and stared down into the first one. It was a file box of sorts, but there were no neatly labeled file folders. This was an undifferentiated mishmash of odds and ends.

He thrust his hand in, past wrist-deep, as if he was pulling out the winner of the grand prize drawing. He came up with a slightly yellowed, still-sealed envelope. It had obviously been around the block. He frowned, turned it over, glancing down past the 'return to sender, addressee unknown' stamp, and saw . . . his name.

He'd said nothing, though obviously the expression on his face had attracted Hardcastle's attention.

"Whatcha got?" the man asked, with a hint of concern.

"Ah . . . it's to me." He really hadn't had time to come up with anything but the truth. "From," he squinted down at the smudged postmark, "'81 . . . She wrote to me in prison."

"You sent 'em back, huh? Can't blame ya."

"I never got it. It was addressed to Folsom." He put it down on the bed and dug again, back down to the same level, pulling out two more, then another. He set them down alongside the first. The postmarks spanned two months' time. "She kept trying," he said quietly. And then, "How could she have gotten them confused? Folsom, San Quentin. They don't even sound alike."

"A prison's a prison—"

"Only if you're not in it," Mark shot back.

"But she wrote to you." Hardcastle pursed his lips slightly, as if he were trying to figure out where this sat on the scales. Mark didn't think he could offer any help with that one.

"You gonna read 'em?" the older man finally asked, his tone practical.

"They're . . . hers," Mark protested.

He wasn't quite sure whether he meant they belonged to her, or, more simply, they'd been from her. Hardcastle must've taken him at the first meaning.

"Well, they're addressed to you. She meant you to have 'em."

Mark shook his head slightly and made no move to touch the things.

"What would you have done with them if you'd gotten them back then?" the judge said, still sounding very practical.

Mark considered that for a moment, then gathered the four envelopes up with a decisive sweep of his hand. "Sent 'em back," he said, with more certainty than he felt. He stuffed them deep, back into the box from which they'd come.

"Okay, good," Hardcastle said with a nod. "Like I said, makes sense."

Mark had the idea that he would have been equally supportive of the opposite decision. He smiled slightly as he pushed that idea aside.

"This stuff is hers. I don't think we're going to have any luck here."

Hardcastle looked around. He'd already poked through the other box.

"'Spose you're right," he said with a sigh.

They gathered up the things from Melinda's list and put them in the two suitcases that they'd found in the back of her closet. The overflow went into a couple of shopping bags.

All of that gave McCormick the notion that they ought to run by Teddy's place and grab the man a toothbrush and a change of underwear.

"I know where he keeps the spare key," he assured the judge as they pulled up. There'd be no lock jimmying, even with permission implied. "Just stay here," he added, slightly illegally parked outside the apartment building where Hollins resided, "it'll only take me a sec."

He climbed out, glanced both ways and crossed, then stepped down into the entryway to the garden apartment—a half-basement, in truth and, up till this past week, all Hollins could afford.

He reached for the key, slipped into a crevice behind a rusted metal 'no loitering' sign, but, not much to his surprise, he found the door already unlocked. He sighed. Infatuation, especially when it involved Melinda, made a guy careless, maybe even a little goofy—though it might be hard to tell with Teddy. He grinned guiltily at his assessment and ducked in, reaching for the light switch and flipping it.

No light. He frowned, stepping in further and thinking Teddy should have looked to the utility bills before taking a friend out for terrine rustique. He wondered if there might be a flashlight under the sink. He turned that way, muttering one slightly impatient word, before things went suddenly, and painfully, much darker.

Chapter 6—The Inside Man

Someone nudging him. Shadows. It must be pretty early if it was still this dark. Then he realized the surface under him was too hard to be a bed, and the back of his head hurt like bejeezus.

"What?" he mumbled, to the steady, nagging voice that was uniquely Hardcastle's. The truth was, it was a relief to regain consciousness to that particular litany. It meant things weren't going to get any worse.

"Come on now." Another nudge, then a pat on the cheek. Not a slap, not yet and not at all if he could manage to get his eyes open.

"I'm up, I'm up," he muttered, and he did get his lids pried further apart.

Hardcastle had apparently found the flashlight and looked like he was ready to wield it.

"Don't you dare shine that thing in my eyes," Mark said, with sudden clarity. "I swear, I'll slug you." He struggled to sit up. "What the hell happened?"

Hardcastle's hand was behind his shoulder, giving some assist. "Thought maybe you could tell me. I don't suppose you tripped and fell down in the dark—something like that?"

Mark started to shake his head, winced, and muttered, "No."

"Yeah, well, didn't think so. I waited out there for about ten minutes." The judge looked down at his watch. "Not much more than that."

Mark watched him stand and step over to the light fixture in the entryway.

"Looks like the bulb's unscrewed," the judge said, reaching up and giving it a couple of twists. The sudden flood of incandescent light made Mark wince again and shield his eyes.

"You think you oughta be touching everything?" he asked tersely.

"He was in here, waiting for ya. You think he left finger prints?" The judge stooped down to get a closer look at the damage. "Anyway . . . I don't think he was waiting for you exactly. Does Teddy owe anybody money?"

"If that's what this was all about," Mark said, "We'd've had to double park and stood in line." He ran his hand gently through his hair, finding a decent-sized lump low in the back.

"You're lucky you didn't get shot in the kiester."

McCormick studied his fingers—no blood. "I'd kinda like to think my head is my more valuable asset these days," he muttered.

"Harder, anyway," the judge said as he got up from a crouch and looked around for the phone.

Mark closed his eyes for a moment, listening to him dial and then talk. Warnings were being given, but in an intelligent, succinct way that made him suspect that it was Kathy, rather than Melinda, who had answered the phone. There were obviously questions being asked from the other end—the judge was needing to be reassuring.

It took him a moment to extricate himself from that, after which he turned back and said, "I'm gonna try and reach Frank." Then he added, as if he was trying to slip it in under the radar, "And an ambulance."

"Don't need one." Mark leaned forward a little more, reaching for something to brace himself on, intending to get up. "And you know it, because if I had needed one, you would've made that call first." He smiled a little stiffly, then dragged himself to his feet. "See?" he added in a way that was intended to be undeniable convincing.

The judge gave him a disapproving gaze. He dialed again but it wasn't 911. Mark stood there, under his own power, for the whole length of the conversation, which he presumed was with Frank. It seemed to be going on a little long. He suspected he was being taught a lesson but would be dammed if he intended to learn anything from it. He had studied stubbornness at the feet of the donkey himself.

Still, when that second call was done he said quietly, "Can we go home now?" and then added, rather convincingly, "I'm worried about them."

"Frank's already sent a black and white over there, and he'll send someone here, too—not that I think they're going to find anything."

Hardcastle let out a sigh, looking around at the untidy surroundings.

"Doesn't make any sense," he muttered. "The guy who shot at Teddy couldn't have already known where he lives, otherwise he wouldn't have been waiting all the way over at Melinda's place to do the shooting."

"Home?" Mark asked hopefully, feeling a bit of sway.

The judge, who'd been otherwise occupied, suddenly looked more focused. He offered an arm, which escalated to a shoulder before they were back out the door.

00000

"Straight home?" Kathy looked disapproving as she met them on the front porch.

It seemed a little unfair to Hardcastle that most of the disapproval was directed at him. She'd obviously never had to deal with McCormick in full-bore mule mode. In truth though, Mark didn't much look like the responsible adult right now. He let Hardcastle wave him away from the luggage handling, but got up the front steps under his own steam.

"Where are they?" he asked, once he'd gotten to the door.

"In the gatehouse," Kathy said

McCormick cast a longing look over his shoulder at his invaded home before stepping inside the main house and heading straight into the den.

"Seriously," Kathy said, taking the shopping bags from the judge and following him in, "how do you know you don't have damage up there?"

"I dunno . . . really, sometimes I wonder." He sat down heavily in the nearest chair and closed his eyes for a moment. "I used to date that woman," he said from a little further off. "Teddy you can't blame me for. I was in that cell first."

"I like Teddy," Kathy said. "He's kind of sweet."

"Well, if you're going to dump me for him, just shoot me first. Not in the kiester, though, I don't want to linger."

"'Lingering'," Kathy said dryly. "That sounds like what they're doing out there." Then she looked down at the bags she was still holding. "What do you want me to do with these?"

"Here, for now," Hardcastle dropped the second suitcase next to the first in the hallway, "Unless you think we should go over there and throw a monkey wrench in things."

"No, no," Mark replied wearily. "Remember Romeo and Juliet? Poison, swords. This could get nasty. We've only gotten to bullets and blunt objects so far."

Kathy set her part of the essential belongings down and moved over to take a closer look at the back of his head.

"If you guys wanna linger, I can go down in the file room." Hardcastle jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

"No," Mark said, putting up with the inspection, "stick around. We've still got to figure out what the hell's going on."

00000

Frank showed up, unannounced, halfway through dinner. Mark got up to answer the door; he wasn't all that hungry anyway. Harper gave him a quick once-over then followed him back to the dining room. He frowned as he entered.

"You didn't let those two wander off again, did you?" he said, obviously noting their absence.

"This," Mark said soberly, "is the grown-up table. The kid's table is out by the pool."

"Teddy's having a little trouble sitting," Kathy amended politely.

"A thirty-eight'll do that to a guy," Frank said, shaking his head and pulling out a chair for himself.

"You want some tuna casserole?" Hardcastle asked.

Frank made a face. "What are the kids eating?" Then, not waiting for a reply, he said, "Nah, gotta get home. Claudia's sister is coming into town and I'm in charge of the burgers. Just wanted to drop off what I've got." He untucked the two file folders he'd been carrying under his arm and laid them on the table. The top one he opened, without ceremony. "Turns out the feds have some insider information on Brogetti's operation. Took me a while to pry that loose from Kressender."

"Who's the insider?" Mark asked.

"A member of the family. Louis Brogetti—Tony's nephew."

Mark saw the judge's forkful of tuna halt in mid-ascent and then slowly descend to the plate again.

"Hah," Hardcastle said. "I met him this morning. Brogetti was acting like he was his right-hand man."

"That's who he's supposed to be," Frank said, tapping the file. That's why he's such a catch for Kressender. With a little time and patience, and Louie's willing testimony, he could bring Brogetti's whole operation down like a house of cards."

"Unless . . ." Hardcastle was staring pretty hard at his plate.

"Wilson stepped into the middle of it," Mark finished quietly. "Maybe somebody thought he'd make things too hot for Louie."

"Kressender's involved?" Hardcastle said with disbelief. "You can't be serious. That's what Melinda said."

Mark half shrugged. "You know what they say about monkeys and typewriters and Hamlet. Even Melinda could get it right every once in a while. Besides, who says Kressender even knew what his inside man was up to?"

"Well, he wasn't up to anything today," Hardcastle protested. "He was with me."

"And how'd you get that meeting set up so fast?" Mark smiled grimly.

"Louis, he's the one I talked to." Hardcastle hmmphed. "Yeah," he shook his head in disbelief, "the perfect alibi. His uncle and me. No proof, though, and he wasn't the one who did the actual shooting."

Frank scratched his nose. "Doesn't sound like we're quite ready to swear out the arrest warrant here."

Hardcastle nodded pensively. His chin ended up on his chest. "It might need a little more work."

"No kidding," Mark said, elbows on the table, and feeling just as pensive as the judge looked. He finally sighed, and then frowned at Harper. "What's the other one?" He pointed toward the second folder, still closed and mostly hidden under the first.

"Oh . . . that's the Ambruster stuff. Remember?" He jerked his chin at Hardcastle as he pulled the file out. It was obviously thinner than the other. "You asked me to check into this guy yesterday, before all the rest of this started."

Mark looked puzzled. "You found something?"

"Depends," Frank said, and then quickly added, "I thought I'd struck pay dirt at first. The name's the same but the busy one is his son—also a John Ambruster. Different middle initial, though. He's 'S' as in 'Sam'. His jacket's not all that exciting, either. Lotta juvenile stuff—spoiled rich-kid behavior. He's another one who's still sitting at the kid's table, but he's twenty-seven now. His dad's had to bail him out a couple of times but not recently."

"Better behavior? Mark asked.

"Nah," Frank shrugged. "More like the dad's thrown in the towel. It's sink or swim time for J. S."

Mark took this notion in and held out his hand.

Frank passed the second folder over to him and the thicker one to the judge. Then he looked down at his watch. "Gotta go flip the burgers." He looked up, this time at Kathy. "Keep 'em out of trouble, will ya?"

She looked over her shoulder in the general direction of the pool, then back, starting to shake her head dubiously.

"Not them." Frank smiled. "These two." He gestured to the guys sitting at the grown-up's table, staring down into the two respective files with nearly matched frowns. "I'd like to get all the way through the grilling without any more phone calls tonight."

Hardcastle grunted and Mark grimaced. Kathy's light laugh had an edge of nervousness to it. Frank was on his feet before Milt muttered 'Thanks," and Mark got up to see him to the door.

When he returned, Kathy was poking disinterestedly at her dinner and the judge had pushed his plate aside completely.

"I think I'm gonna have another talk with Brogetti tomorrow," Hardcastle said.

"You think it'll be just as easy to arrange as it was the first time?"

"Only if I can keep Louis busy." He frowned.

"I can probably still catch Frank if I hustle." Mark gestured with a thumb over his shoulder.

"Nah . . . let him have the evening off. I'll call him later."

Mark nodded. He sat again. His eyes were drawn back to the second file. "You gonna need me tomorrow?"

Hardcastle shook his head. "Having a committee show up would just make a guy like Brogetti nervous. Why?"

Mark cocked his head. It still ached and he could feel his neck stiffening up. "I think I'm gonna have an appointment, too."

Chapter 7—The Heirs Apparent

Frank got tapped for the favor, but not until the last burger had been seared, flipped, and served. Hardcastle also waited until Mark and Kathy had finished some low-key lingering. It had been a late-night telephone conference.

It might have been having Teddy and Melinda handy for comparison purposes, but McCormick's behavior seemed particularly sober and mature. It was usually unheard of for him to volunteer to make an appointment with a doctor. Nagging was almost always required. For once the judge didn't even feel any hesitance, leaving him to arrange his own follow-up with the Charlie Friedman.

In truth, he might have even let McCormick slide on this one. He was up for breakfast that morning, maybe looking a little stiff, but otherwise himself. Melinda and Teddy had apparently kept late hours. Neither had made an appearance yet.

"Frank's sending a patrol car around again," Hardcastle said between bites of cereal. "You don't have to worry about sticking around."

"Good," Mark nodded cautiously. "But I should be back before eleven."

It was left at that. Hardcastle departed almost as soon as a call from Frank confirmed that Louis was, at least temporarily, out of service. They both knew it wouldn't last, but Harper thought he could string it out for an hour or so at least.

Mark's parting words to him were "Be careful" and Hardcastle was glad, for once, not to have to return the admonition.

Same restaurant, same booth. Brogetti had sounded surprised to be hearing from him again so soon, but Hardcastle had done nothing over the phone that morning to dispel the impression that he might have uncovered the information the man was looking for.

Somehow, in the intervening twenty-four hours, the guy had taken on an air of unease. It might have been the word that his nephew had been hauled in.

"You know what's going on?" Brogetti said casually, almost before Hardcastle was seated.

"No," the judge said flatly. "Something happened?"

The other man's lips had gone thin. He leaned forward slightly.

"You're up to something. I know it." Then he leaned back again, emphatically. "But they got nothing on Louis. I know that."

"You're probably right," Hardcastle returned the thin smile. "In fact I'd be willing to bet money on it."

He'd shaded it slightly, leaving just enough ambiguity to leave the other man distracted and annoyed, then, moving right along to poison, he asked, very calmly but still with a knowing air, "Who suggested Belding to you? You didn't know him before."

Brogetti handled it fairly well, but the effort it took was revealing. The silence strung out so long that Hardcastle was able to provide his own answer.

"Louis did, huh?"

"I controlled Belding," Brogetti said, answering the question indirectly. "He answered to me."

Hardcastle shrugged. "Maybe so." He'd gotten over the additional surprise at yet another unexpected wrinkle. Anyway, there was something in the mobster's tone that made him think that perhaps he was right.

"And you are suggesting Louis has been disloyal? You haven't offered me any proof."

Of course he had no intention of doing so. He was still digesting the notion that Louie had been Wilson's entrée into the Brogetti operation. And he had no intention of getting Louie canned or even killed. He was only interested in sewing enough discord to shake something loose.

Besides, the poison wasn't working. Hardcastle felt his momentum slowing, he sensed the weight of the uncle's loyalty coming down against doubt. At the same time he found a nagging thought was distracting him as well. He finally voiced it, figuring it couldn't hurt.

"How did Louis know Belding? He didn't look him up in the yellow pages under embezzlers, did he?"

Brogetti gave him an odd look then said, "It was through the wife. She met him somewhere and she came to him for a loan—expenses while her husband was in Clarkville."

"He knows Melinda?" Hardcastle said. The notion was ticking over in his head; it must've shown in his expression. "How well?"

00000

McCormick hung around until the black and white arrived, greeted the officer of the watch and then strolled over to the still-quiet gatehouse. He knocked and waited patiently. It was Teddy who answered, looking tousled and obviously still not one-hundred percent.

"I'm heading out," Mark said casually, without waiting for any 'good mornings'. "The cops are here. Stay put, okay? Both of you," he added, for unmistakable clarity.

"Okay," Teddy said, glancing over his shoulder into the dim room. "She's not up yet."

"Yeah, all that nursing takes it out of a person," Mark said dryly.

"She's really nice," Hollins replied, sounding slightly bemused by it all.

"Oh, Teddy," McCormick shook his head, "you and me, we're gonna have a little talk when this is all over."

"Hon?" It was Melinda, sounding still half asleep. "Who is it?"

Mark shook his head again, then turned and left.

00000

He didn't need the guide this time, wending his way through Ambruster's facility. The secretary had sounded surprised to be hearing from him so soon again, but he'd done nothing to dispel the notion that he and the boss still had unfinished business and he'd apparently been penciled in under the same caveat that had smoothed things the day before.

Of course Ambruster knew they'd settled matters for the most part. His greeting included a raised eyebrow. It occurred to Mark that Teddy probably had been so distracted by the nursing care that he hadn't phoned in to his new employer to tell him he was indisposed.

He hung on to that piece of information while he was ushered to the same chair he occupied the preceding day. He started out with something else instead.

"Your son, the one who thinks paperclips should look like paperclips, is he around?"

Ambruster gave up all pretense of a smile, but he didn't look particularly secretive either. He simply said, "Here? No, he is not currently in my employ." The man frowned. "He still lives at the house, of course. His mother . . ." The last two words trailed off, obviously conveying something that the man did not want to go into further.

Mark let out a sigh. He hated being the bearer of bad tidings, especially when there still wasn't enough evidence to swear out a warrant. It was really only speculation.

"You heard what happened to Teddy yesterday?"

Ambruster's uncomprehending blink was followed by a quick and questioning, "No."

"Shot," Mark said bluntly.

Ambruster's look of confusion could not have been feigned, but Mark knew that didn't clear him completely. The confusion was rapidly replaced by concern, and there was a hint of deeper worry to that. Mark jumped back into it, following his first punch with another quick jab.

"You talked about Teddy—in front of your son, I mean. You told your son you had found someone; what your plans were for him."

This time Mark knew exactly what guilt looked like on Ambruster's face. He realized there hadn't been any there up until now.

"Why?" Mark asked, trying to hide his anger. "Were you trying to bait the man?"

"No," the older man shook his head. "Of course not."

He paused. His chin dropped just slightly.

"Not . . . intentionally." It was a quieter, more thoughtful admission. "I was excited about my discovery."

He lifted his eyes, his expression still clouded by doubt. "Shot? How serious is it?"

"He took a hit to his dignity, but that's never been all that important to Teddy. He's home already."

Ambruster let out a breath and bit his lip. "I haven't seen Jack since yesterday morning."

Mark noticed he hadn't launched himself into an impassioned defense of his son. This was more telling than the slight and circumstantial evidence so far accumulated.

"Your son met Teddy?"

Ambruster nodded. "I brought him here two days ago, to discuss the details of the contract and introduce him to the staff. My son had been waiting for me in the office."

"And he had access to Teddy's papers—the ones you had him fill out?" Mark looked around at the slightly unorthodox surroundings, the looseness of it all. He didn't even need Ambruster's second, more thoughtful nod to confirm that fact.

"Teddy was shot from a car. He didn't get a good look at the man who did it. A few hours later I went to his apartment and was attacked—hit on the head. I think it would have gone further than that, but I wasn't the guy he was after. Two attempts in one afternoon. Someone wants Teddy Hollins dead."

"But couldn't it be—?"

"Just one day after he becomes the heir apparent to an eccentric man with a criminally inclined, disgruntled son." Mark finished his blunt assessment with an equally grim look. "I just want to know, how much did you provoke him?"

The eccentric man apparently was still capable of considerable insight. He was sitting quietly—even his hands were still. He finally said, "Not intentionally. That's hardly necessary with Jack. I believe I provoke him by simply continuing to breath."

Mark studied the man's face, the weary disappointment in it. He finally said, gently, "Nothing's proven."

That might have been true, but Ambruster looked mostly convinced and surely he was in a position to know what was possible. Mark sat back, ran his fingers through his hair, encountered the lump and winced.

"Look," he said, "there's someone you should talk to, he's a lieutenant. He knows some about what's been going on. He won't railroad anyone, but if it was your son, then you don't want him to go any further."

"No," Ambruster looked up sharply, "of course not."

"Good," Mark reached down to the table and a scrap of paper lying there. He took a pen from his pocket and started jotting the name and phone number. "Frank Harper," he said. "Tell him I told you to call. Tell him everything."

He'd meandered out, stopping off at Chloe's desk to borrow the phone. A call to the office confirmed that Hardcastle hadn't gone there after his appointment. Mark felt a certain amount of uneasiness, with Ambruster's son still on the loose, though he doubted that the guy had any idea where Teddy was now. But it was worry, none the less, and he'd already made his mind up to head for home.

00000

Hardcastle left the restaurant with little more than an inkling. Tony either hadn't known much more, or hadn't been in a mood to share. The judge hauled up at a corner phone, dropped a quarter and dialed Frank.

The lieutenant sounded glad to hear from him. "Sprung, ten minutes ago. We couldn't try to hold on too hard and I did give you the hour you asked for."

"Sprung by who?"

"That was the weird thing—he had a very legit lawyer, gut named Terrence Repins; know him?"

"Terry?" Hardcastle frowned to himself. "Yeah. Not a mob associate at all. Does a lot of work in the federal court—used to be a prosecutor way back when. Very legit guy."

"So why's he showing up to get a two-bit hood like Louie out of trouble?"

Hardcastle barely hesitated in his conviction. "Maybe a favor for a friend."

00000

All was quiet back at the ranch. As Mark pulled in he saw the black and white, its occupant looking bored.

"Anybody up yet?" he asked the officer.

In response he got a hooked thumb gesturing back, toward the main house.

"Said they'd be by the pool." The man rolled his eyes, just slightly—a civil servant's comment on the lifestyles of the rich and the infamous.

Mark smiled sympathetically and dismissed him.

"Thanks," he remembered to add as the man started to pull off.

"No problem," he heard him comment dryly. "I get paid by the hour."

Mark watched the vehicle until it took the curve of the drive and was gone. He stood there a moment longer, hands stuffed into his trouser pockets. He finally let out a sigh and glanced over his shoulder, then turned and trudged around the side of the house toward the pool.

He did his best to be unstealthy, even scuffing some loose stones and whistling a couple of tuneless notes before he rounded the back corner and came passed the wall. He stopped short. No noble and selfless protectors lingered by the pool, and there were no angels of mercy to hover over them.

Mark cringed at his brief wave of relief. He quickly moved some dutiful concern into position. Teddy might have gone for a new level of putz on this one, but he was still fond of the guy. He looked back toward the house—no one visible through the kitchen window. He frowned and continued around, past the garage, finally ending up by the gatehouse patio. No one there, either, but the door was slightly ajar.

It vaguely occurred to him that a guard who wasn't aware of that much, wasn't much aware of anything. Paid by the hour. He was half-thinking he ought to mention it to Frank, just a point of information for future reference. He had his hand raised to knock.

"Stay right there."

The words had come from behind him, determined but not loud. He turned almost instinctively and was halfway round before he felt a familiar bluntness against his neck. The muzzle of a gun. This froze him more effectively than the command had, but now he could see his assailant from the corner of his eye.

The face was unfamiliar but the body language was middle-level mobster. That set Mark's teeth on edge almost more than the gun did.

"Oh, you," the man said, quieter still. Obviously the man knew him, even if it wasn't mutual.

Mark thought for a moment he was going to get another whack to the back of the head. He was steeling himself for a quick push sideways, but instead the man said, "Open it."

Clearly what he meant was the patio door. Mark, caught between a rock and a potentially embarrassing place, opted for at least temporary cooperation.

"They might be—"

"I don't give a damn what they're doing," the man muttered, loud enough to carry, at least Mark hoped so. As for himself, he opened the door as noisily as possible.

Teddy was sprawled prone on the couch. Mark saw him raise his head.

"Hey." He looked slightly unfocused, liked he'd resorted to the pain pills.

"Sorry I didn't knock," Mark said half-apologetically. He felt another nudge from the muzzle of the gun, this time in his back. He moved further into the room.

Teddy's eyes were a little rounder. "Who's—?"

Melinda came in through the doorway from the kitchenette, carrying two mugs. She froze where she stood, her eyes even wider than Teddy's.

"Louie?" she said, with a gasp.

Mark jerked his own chin sideways, trying for another look. "Louie Brogetti?" he said. "What are—?" He got another poke in the back and decided that question could wait.

"Oh, Louie," Melinda sniffed, "I told you I couldn't see you any more. Really."

"You were seeing Louie?" Mark resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. "For how long?"

"Not 'seeing'," Melinda said, sounding slightly prim. "I mean, not actually seeing . . . I was married and all."

Mark frowned. "Okay," he started over, "how long were you not seeing Louie for?"

This time the jab almost pushed him forward off his feet. He took a stumbling half-step and regained his balance against the back of a chair. The other two caught sight of the gun.

"Melinda," Louie rasped, "you knew how I felt about you."

She blinked once, as though she were trying to access that information. It apparently wasn't near the front of the file.

Louie growled on. "You said you couldn't see me because you were married."

Melinda nodded slowly.

"But now you're not."

Another nod from Melinda. Mark could see where this was going. The gun wasn't even exclusively pointed at him anymore.

"And now I find you with this guy." Louie's gun hand jerked forward in an angry gesture toward Teddy, its muzzle temporarily being used more for effect than accuracy.

The hand Mark had been using to rub the increasing throb in his temple came down sharply, and almost of its own volition, intersecting Louie's wrist. There was a sudden deafening report, and no time to check for damages before Mark had followed through with a left-handed punch to Brogetti's midsection. The momentum took them both down with Louie now flailing, mostly with his right arm, trying to bring the weapon to bear again.

Mark was vaguely aware of someone moving in from behind him. It was faster than he would have expected from the injured Teddy, but gunfire could be highly motivating. Melinda, he noted with a few otherwise unoccupied brain cells, was still standing over on the far side of the room, like the helpless heroine of a Saturday matinee.

Then it was over. He'd gotten both hands on Brogetti's wrist and the gun was shaken free, skittering across the floor without being fired again. Teddy went scrambling after it, and ended up panting, but holding it up victoriously, and more or less pointed at Louie.

Mark sat back a little, trying to stay out of the line of fire, but still keeping a controlling fist well wadded in the front of Louie's shirt. The man was breathing hard, interspersed with guttural cursing. Mark wasn't sure that the threat of being shot would be enough to stop him if he got to his feet again.

"The cops," Mark said, still trying to catch his own breath, "somebody needs to call them."

Chapter 8—The Face That Launched a Thousand CHiPs

The same officer, looking slightly chastised, got to do the handcuffing duties. Mark glowered him into reading the Miranda off the card and made sure it was letter perfect. This was being finished just as Hardcastle pulled up in the truck.

"Brogetti?" He frowned, looking around at the collection of police vehicles. Now up to three, and the scattering of officers now inspecting the grounds to verify that there were no other intruders.

"I think this time it's more like Othello than Romeo and Juliet," Mark said, rubbing his temple again with increased determination.

"What the hell happened?"

He explained in a distracted fashion. Melinda and Teddy were off giving their versions to the detectives. Mark wondered if Frank would let him read Melinda's when they got it typed up. He thought it might be educational. He'd noticed that neither of the two had struggled much with the notion of being separated for the process, and Teddy had maybe even looked a little relieved.

"He was cussing a blue streak," Mark concluded, winding down to the end of the story, "but it was mostly about how she'd done him wrong, and if he couldn't have her, nobody would."

"Melinda?" the judge said doubtfully.

"Yup," Mark said, in a tone that could not be mistaken for anything but serious. "The face that launched a thousand trips to the pokey. They should name a cell block after her." He shook his head.

"Okay, so," Hardcastle frowned, "he was in love with Melinda," there was still a note of bemusement in the way he said it, but he plowed ahead as though he'd accepted the concept, "but he got his uncle to hire Wilson. Does that make any sense?"

Mark shrugged. "Sure. Got him points with her, and he thought since Wilson was an inveterate book cooker, he wouldn't be able to keep his sticky fingers out of Tony Brogetti's pockets. The favor Louie did for him would get Wilson killed, and Louie would be in the perfect position to comfort the grieving widow."

"But Tony never let Wilson anywhere near the cash," Hardcastle said slowly. "Wilson was employee of the month."

"So Tony gets desperate, goes to the FBI. He figures at least maybe he can get Wilson busted again."

"He was willing to take down his uncle's whole operation to get Melinda?"

Mark saw the look of stark disbelief in the other man's eyes. Even having himself been once a victim of the same strange addiction, he was hard-pressed to explain it in any way that would sound rational.

"Okay," he finally said, "it's crazy, but there you go. Maybe he wanted to start over; maybe he was tired of playing second fiddle to Uncle Tony. Maybe he figured he could pick up the pieces, once it was over, and have Melinda, too."

"You think he killed Wilson?"

"Nah," Mark shook his head, "that must've been some of the other guys in Tony's goon squad—the guys who were doing the skimming." He cocked his head thoughtfully and then added, "Not that he was upset about it or anything. The problem was the timing. He must not've known it was coming because he wasn't in position to sweep Melinda off her feet."

"Instead, Teddy steps into the picture and hashes everything up." The judge was still frowning. "But then who'd he get to take the shot at Teddy?"

"Oh," Mark said, half-startled out of what had been rapidly heading toward a reverie on the perils of love. "Nah, that wasn't his doing, either." He looked over his shoulder at the unlucky mobster, now being put in one of the squad cars. "When you think about it, the guy was pretty hapless for a mobster . . . and he couldn't have been the one who targeted Teddy. Hell, he didn't even know there was a Teddy in Melinda's life until he showed up here."

Mark paused, not sure exactly how the arriving part had happened. He finally gave the problem a vague shrug.

"Kressender's gonna have some explaining to do," Hardcastle growled. "He was so eager to keep his new pet snitch out of Frank's hands, that he sicced a former U.S. Attorney on the problem. I'll bet he let something slip about Melinda." He sighed. "But even without that kind of help, Louie already knew I was involved. Easy enough to find out where I live."

"And then charge over here hoping to be reunited with his one true love?" Mark raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Only to find her soothing Teddy's brow. It's a miracle he didn't shoot him right and there."

"He tried," Mark said flatly.

Hardcastle's eyebrow stayed up in unspoken query.

Mark shrugged again. "I figured he couldn't get us all . . . but if we'd just stood there he sure as hell would of."

"'We'?"

"I happened to be closest, that's all," Mark said, sounding a little defensive, even to himself. Then he added, "Besides, Teddy was laid up."

"You think they've gotten that far?" Hardcastle asked, staring back over his own shoulder at the possible future Mrs. Marshal Belding Hollins.

Mark ignored the innuendo and added, "And Teddy helped. He charged right at the guy."

"Who wouldn't, considering the alternative?" Hardcastle muttered, still staring at Melinda.

Both men were quietly contemplating that when Teddy finally limped out of the gatehouse, apparently also finished with his statement. To their credit, the star-crossed pair didn't retreat right back into where he'd come from. There seemed to be a moment of conference, though, before they headed over slowly, limpingly, toward where the judge and Mark still stood.

"But then," Hardcastle said, never quite taking his eyes off their approach, "who was gunning for them?"

"Jack Ambruster, I'm guessing," Mark said quietly. Teddy and Melinda had made it to the drive and were only a short distance away.

"Teddy's boss?" Hardcastle said in loud incredulity.

"Not the dad," Mark corrected. "His son."

Teddy hobbled the last few steps, looking like the morning's activities had taken it out of him.

"What'cha guys talking about?"

"The guy who shot you," Hardcastle said briskly.

"Ambruster's kid?" Teddy looked back and forth between the two of them in obvious confusion. Then his gaze dropped toward the ground.

"They were shooting at Teddy?" Melinda pursed her lips as though the rules had been changed in the middle of the game, and just when she'd gotten the hang of them.

"Why?" Teddy asked quietly, now looking genuinely puzzled.

"Because," Mark explained patiently, "his dad went and told Jack Jr. that you were everything he wasn't."

"Well, yeah," Teddy's puzzled expression remained, "if you mean an ex-con with nothing to show for thirty years of breathing." It had come out very matter-of-fact—flat and with no note of self-pity.

Mark looked at him straight-on, then finally shook his head once. "Don't you ever let me hear you say that again, Teddy—it's a line of crap. And Ambruster doesn't want to hear it, either. He's expecting great things from you. He says he didn't mean to turn his son into a raving psycho killer and I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He just couldn't help it; he'd found what he'd been searching for and he had to tell people."

Teddy stood there, still looking like he was having trouble taking the idea in. Melinda fidgeted once, and seemed to slip a little ways apart from him.

"That guy," Her expression was very nearly a pout, "he was shooting at you?"

Teddy turned his head toward her, nodding almost absentmindedly.

The pout was definitely now fully in place. "I might have been killed." The half-octave rise in her voice got Teddy's attention.

"Yeah," he said, holding out his hand affectionately, "good thing I was fast on my feet."

"You knocked me down. My wrist still hurts," she added, voice still in the upper registers of incredulity. She held her hand up as exhibit 'A', moving it a little and wincing.

Mark winced, too. Teddy just stood there, stock-still in silence. He did have the sense to withdraw his own proffered hand.

Melinda turned on her heel and strode back up the drive in the direction of the gatehouse. She swung left, quite definitely, passing close by the side of the not-yet-departed police cruiser. There she hesitated for a moment, as though she'd just noticed it.

From this distance they couldn't hear anything, but it looked as if something had been said by the man in the back seat. It was enough, at any rate, to turn Melinda's head in that direction. It didn't look as thogh there were any hard words being exchanged.

Teddy was simply staring after her. Hardcastle had stepped over to his one side, at least partly to get a better view, but now with one hand on his elbow. Mark turned, patted Hollins on the other shoulder and let the judge tug him gently back toward the main house.

"Thisbe has a secret thing for lions," Mark said gently. Teddy broke his gaze from Melinda and was now staring at him uncomprehendingly. At least he responded slightly to Hardcastle's nudging, taking one uncertain step back toward the house.

Mark sighed, took hold of Teddy's other elbow firmly, and helped turn him around.

"I'll explain it all to you. I promise."

Epilogue

Hardcastle hung up the phone and sat back in the chair behind his desk with an air of satisfaction. Teddy lay on the sofa, still mostly prone, with his forearm flat in front of him and his chin propped on that. He looked tired. He'd listened to all of Mark's words of wisdom on the subject of Melinda, nee Marshall, in a patient but desultory way, and the lecture had finally wound down even before the judge had finished putting the last knot in the loose ends.

Mark felt pretty much the way Teddy looked. Every encounter with Melinda seemed to do that to him, but somehow this particular form of misery didn't enjoy having company.

Kathy came back into the den, bearing coffee and Teddy's pain pills. She handed out mugs and then settled down on the armrest of Mark's chair, wearing an ongoing expression of general-purpose sympathy.

"All this mooning around," the judge shook his head. "You'd think the bad guys had pulled one over on us or something."

Kathy, at least, managed a smile, but Mark thought it looked a little strained. All the good karma she'd been willing to grant Melinda probably hadn't come cheap.

"Look," Hardcastle said, "They picked up Jack Jr. about an hour ago. He showed up back at home and his dad talked him into turning himself in. Looks like he might need a psych evaluation but, anyway, he 'fessed up to taking the shot at Teddy. When he didn't hear anything on the news about it, he figured he'd missed. That's when he went back to Teddy's place and waited for him. He admits he slugged you, too, McCormick. So there's two counts of battery, with one of them aggravated. That oughta keep him off the streets and out of trouble for a while—maybe even long enough for him to figure things out."

Mark nodded once. Teddy said nothing.

"And Louie's in so much hot water that prison is going to look good to him. Frank says even Kressender is taking a big step back on that guy—lots of disavowing going on there—but they might eventually kiss and make up if Louie knows enough dirt about his uncle and is willing to spend the next five years in protective custody."

His expression had broadened to a grin, and was infectious enough to tease a quick, answering smile from McCormick as well. Only Teddy still hung on to his somber mien.

It was Mark who started to ask the question the younger man was undoubtedly brooding on. "What about—?"

"Melinda?" Hardcastle finished brusquely. He waved a hand as though the matter was of little importance. "She wheedled her way into police headquarters, Frank says, but Louie made it pretty clear that he'd come to his senses and didn't want to see her—at least not for now. Who knows what'll happen to his mind after a few weeks of solitary in P.C."

There was a brief moment of collective silence broken from an unexpected quarter. Teddy muttered, "I can't believe I—"

"Believe it," Mark cut in abruptly. "It happens."

"She's just a woman," Kathy said firmly, "not some sort of force of nature."

"Don't be so sure," Mark said with an air of only partly mock foreboding. "But this time," he nodded once, "we got out mostly in one piece each—a couple of holes and dents, but no permanent damage. You'll just have to find someone else to take to Chez Petite." He noticed he'd finally pried loose a small smile from Teddy.

"Yeah," Hollins said, "but I won't be sitting for a while, so that'll have to wait."

He didn't seem all that disappointed. Whether it was the prospect of being sans snails or Melinda, the result was the same. His smile gradually took on an air of beatific goofiness.

"Hey, you know," he said, segueing in the usual Hollins' style without signaling his intentions, "how 'bout a thing with wheels and a motor, that you ride standing up? That would be cool."