"Bree's right. Happy waiters don't pee in your soup back in the kitchen. Bree! If you're the one who's cured him of inappropriate f.a.n.n.y patting, more power to you." Flurry rummaged in her backpack as she spoke. After setting most of its contents on the table-an HP mini-notebook, an iPod, a Blackberry, two sets of earphones, a half-full bottle of Saratoga Springs mineral water, and a wallet, she withdrew a fat red-brown accordion file. "Here we go." She handed the file to Bree and returned all the other stuff to the backpack item by item.

Bree picked up the file and set it down again. This was too easy.

"It's like the magician's hat," Dent said. "How did you get all that stuff in there in the first place?"

"We have our ways."

Bree looked at the accordion file but didn't open it. "Is this all your research on the Quinn murder?"

"The part of it I haven't gotten on disk yet. Actually, it's copies, not originals. I'm scanning those whenever I have free time. I've got most of the stuff on hard drive, or stored on flash drives."

"How extensive is your research?"

"Oh, I went way back. If poor Haydee had lived past the age of twenty-three and achieved something more than becoming a B-girl, I could have written a whole book about her. She was bound for glory, that girl was. As for William Norris-I have a raft of stuff on him, but he's your average small-time gangster. Hoods, they called them then. A lot of other writers have been there, done that. No, what's really interesting about this case is the role the Bullochs played in it."

The waitress set down a half bottle of the Pinot, poured Flurry a sip, waited for her approval, and then poured the winegla.s.s half full. She did the same with Bree's beer. Dent's coffee was accompanied by four sugar cubes. The only time Bree ever saw sugar cubes was at Plessey, because her mother loved to soak them in lemon and put them in her tea.

"So what do I have, you ask? I've got the transcripts of both trials-the Norris trial for murder and the sanity hearing for Alexander. I've got every magazine and newspaper article ever written about the case, or the princ.i.p.als in the case. I've got the autopsy report, photos of the crime scene, and photos of the burning cart with Alexander pushing it."

Flurry paused to drink her wine.

Bree still didn't open the folder. "What about the murder book?"

Flurry raised both eyebrows in a query.

"The police file," Dent said by way of explanation.

"The O'Malley-Kowalski investigation? I've got photocopies of that. For all the use it is. I mean, sure, I picked up on a couple of witnesses that weren't mentioned anywhere else. But O'Malley was a drunk. I found a source that said the only reason the commissioner kept him was that they were old Army buddies during the war." Flurry raised her hands and fluttered her forefingers in tandem. "The Big One. That's World War II for us girls, Bree. O'Malley wasn't much use. It looks like the partner, Bobby Lee Kowalski, did most of the work."

"Marines," Dent said shortly. "O'Malley was a Marine."

"Marine, Army, whatever."

Bree didn't want to see the look in Dent's eyes, so she stared straight at Flurry. "Did you get any useful information from Sergeant Kowalski?"

"I only saw him once, but I'm going to go back as soon as I get the time. The old guy's just this side of the grave, but boy, is he smart. Remembers the case like it was yesterday. I got a lot of good stuff on O'Malley. The guy was a total loser. He'd be out of any decent police force in twenty seconds flat nowadays. It's amazing to me how much less oversight there was on the cops back then. Some of them literally got away with murder."

"You don't think the police had anything to do with Haydee's death?" That sort of stuff happened, back in the day. And it wasn't confined to the South.

Flurry emptied her winegla.s.s and poured herself another. "I've got this theory. More than a theory. A conviction." She thumped her slender chest.

"Based on more than hearsay, I hope." Bree's voice was dry. She was stinging over the insults to Dent.

"Oh yeah. The cops turned up a witness that never appeared in court. I've got the interview notes."

"From Kowalski?" Bree guessed. They didn't tape interviews back in the '50s, did they? The junior partner took notes by hand.

Flurry smiled and shook her head. "Not another word out of me, Bree. We've got some negotiating to do."

"The cops turned over every piece of evidence that they had to the DA," Dent said abruptly.

"How would you know?" Flurry wasn't being rude, just inquisitive. She looked at Dent, really looked at him, and for a moment, Bree wondered if she'd make the man at last. "Were you a cop in a past life, Dent?"

"It's their job," Dent said shortly.

"Ha," Flurry snorted. "Like crucial evidence that makes the cops look bad doesn't go missing every day of the week."

"You've been watching too much bad TV," Bree said. "Or reading the wrong newspapers. Every system, in every year going back to Day One and going forward to the Last Trump has or will have corrupt human beings in it. It's who we are. The human race. But it's not pervasive, and it's not worse now than it's ever been."

Flurry put her hand over her heart. Then she saluted. "Hear you loud and clear."

Their food arrived. Dent picked up his hamburger and put it down again. He slumped in his chair and stared at the bottle of Pinot Grigio. Bree was glad it wasn't rye whiskey. Rye whiskey had helped bring poor Dent to his current state. She nudged the conversation back to the case. "Crucial evidence, you said. From this unknown witness."

"Yep. It's going to make one h.e.l.l of a book, one h.e.l.l of a book. Did I tell you I got interviews with two of the three Bulloch granddaughters, too? I got them before Sammi-Rose Spiderwoman slammed the door shut in my face. Marian Lee's pretty lame. She married a guy who runs a very successful car garage. He's a perfect sweetie. But she's miserable, just miserable, not living the life of a Bulloch. Now, Dixie Bulloch's pretty cool. She never married, and she remembers her grandmother pretty well. She's the oldest, and she also remembers that her folks fought over Haydee when she was a little kid. Haydee had been dead for years. She claims that Alexander never got over her." Flurry picked up her fork and stared at her fish taco. "Isn't that the saddest thing? I mean, this guy fell in love with a woman when he was nineteen and that was it. He never fell in love again. The rest of his life was just going through the motions."

Bree, who was not particularly sentimental, tended to doubt stories of everlasting love. Now, everlasting guilt was another story. Hatred lasted, too. She'd believe in a heartbeat that Alexander never got rid of his sense of guilt.

"Anyhow, I've made up a time line, tracking the chief suspects twenty-four hours before and twenty-four hours after Haydee kicked the bucket." Flurry bit into her fish taco, chewed, swallowed, and said, "This food is fabulous!"

Dent had reconsidered his hamburger and eaten his first one, and was now moving on to his second. Bree added a little mango salsa to her own taco and began to eat with the others.

"So," Flurry said, after a long moment spent on the food. "What do you think? I prepared all this because I want you to be so impressed with my researching skills, my writing skills, and my all-out competence that you'll agree to an interview about Franklin Winston-Beaufort. What do you say?"

"I'm not sure I'd be any help at all."

"Of course you will. He's a bit of a mystery, you know, even to folks I've found in the court system who knew him well. Haven't been able to dig up a whole lot about him. He had a pretty decent run as a state court justice. Seemed to have been respected by his peers, as they say. But I've got nothing on his private life. Why did he agree to take on the sanity hearing? You knew the man. You could take a guess. How close was he to the Bullochs? Did he ever socialize with them after Alexander went off to the b.o.o.by hatch? How much did he know about who really killed Haydee Quinn? He was a young, struggling attorney when the Bullochs handed him this high-profile case. After that, his reputation and his revenues soared." She regarded Bree over the rim of her winegla.s.s. Her smile was steady, but there was a determination in her eyes that made Bree wary.

Dent broke his long silence. "I've got a question."

"Lay it on me, brother." Flurry beamed, on top of the world.

Bree recognized these particular high spirits. Flurry was young, in the middle of a project she hoped was going to make her reputation, and best of all, doing work she believed in. Antonia got like that when she'd landed a wonderful part. Bree silently amended that: whenever she landed any part.

"Why do you think we . . . that is, Miss Beaufort here, needs any of the information you're offering?"

"Why?" Flurry seemed taken aback. "You were the one who invited me to dinner, remember?"

Bree fought the urge to leap over the table and give Dent a kiss. She'd been so caught up in the pursuit of this background information she'd forgotten that none of the temporals involved had any idea she'd taken on Consuelo's case. She was moving too fast. She wasn't getting enough sleep.

She was slipping.

"Yes. But I'm representing Justine Coville's interests, Flurry. I'm handling her will, I'm going to be representing her if Mercury tries to fire her unfairly, and I volunteered to handle the return of the peac.o.c.k brooch." She smiled at Dent. "That's the extent of my interest, I'm afraid. This is wonderful research. It sounds like it's going to be a wonderful book. But you've leaped to an unwarranted a.s.sumption here."

"That's not what I heard."

"What did you hear? And from whom?"

"That you're poking your-sorry, that you've taken an interest."

"In the murder? Why in the world should I?"

"You've done it before, I guess. Turned perfectly usual client cases into moneymakers for yourself. The Chandler family hired you to handle the defense of the teenager accused of shoplifting-"

"Petty theft," Bree corrected her.

"And it turned into this big huge deal about a murder with a very high fee. Tully O'Rourke hired you to handle some real estate contracts for her theater, and all of a sudden, you were involved in a murder case, again with a very high fee. And there was that billionaire, Skinner. His heir hired you to handle a dispute over the will and-"

"I also ended up charging a very high fee? Is that what the gossip is?" Bree had a tight rein on her temper. "The accounts of the size of the fees are inflated. I charged the usual hourly fee. It's average for an ABA member in my situation."

Flurry blushed a little. "Sorry. Personally, I think you're terrific, and having met you, I'm wondering just what kind of line my source is feeding me."

"Your source wouldn't be that slick piece of . . ." Bree bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. "You ever meet Payton McAllister?"

Flurry's eyes slid sideways and down. "The name's familiar."

"His firm represents the Bulloch interests, I believe."

"Yes. I believe they do."

"So you think I'm chasing a large fee for myself by involving myself in this case."

"Jumping on the bandwagon, yeah." Flurry shrugged. "You have to grab the opportunity when it comes by. I understand that better than anyone."

"Who's paying this huge fee I'm supposed to be after?" Bree was so furious the room around her was beginning to tilt. "The Bullochs maybe? Justine Coville?"

"Don't be silly," Flurry said uncomfortably. "The Bullochs hate the book and the project. Poor Justine doesn't have a pot to p.i.s.s in. Payton thinks maybe you're after a TV deal." She looked hopeful. "If you are, you can't do it without me."

Suddenly, Cordy's disapproving att.i.tude made sense. Somebody was accusing her of jumping onto the Haydee Quinn murder to make a name for herself in Savannah. An accusation like that would have consequences. The better law firms wouldn't send her referrals. Clients who required discretion would be scared off. She could be ruined even before her temporal practice got off the ground. Someone wanted to see that happen.

She was absolutely certain she knew who that someone was.

"Payton McAllister's no friend of mine, Flurry. There's some history there."

"He hates her guts," Dent said. He grinned. "She keeps beating him up, and he keeps losing."

Bree frowned Dent into silence and turned to Flurry. "So you can take anything he says about me with a large grain of salt."

Flurry twiddled with the stem of her winegla.s.s. Her dark skin had a deep red cast. "I've had the wrong take on this, totally. I apologize. You sure don't act like somebody that wants to hang on celebrity coattails. Which means I guess there isn't any real reason why you'd want to talk to me about your uncle."

"I wouldn't say that. I do understand," Bree said. "This is an exciting project. More than that, it's a worthy one."

"It is, isn't it?" Flurry's high spirits returned in a flash. "Proving a man innocent is a pretty cool thing to do."

"Yes," Bree said soberly. "It's a life's work, isn't it?" She was silent for a long moment, thinking of her face in the mirror at Angelus Street.

Flurry tapped the table impatiently. "Earth to Bree."

"Sorry. I was just thinking of the consequences of all this." She took a deep breath. Whatever her ultimate decision about her own life's work was going to be, she was already in the pool with this case. "I'm fascinated by what you've told me so far. And I'm very curious about my uncle's part in it. I would like to help you, if I can. Quietly, though. I'd rather my name was not a.s.sociated with this in any way."

"You want to help?"

"Yeah. I would. I'm afraid I don't really understand the big picture, though. Tell you what. If you like, I can take some of these materials here-and maybe you can e-mail some of your other research, as you suggested, and I'll run it by my dad. He's seventy-two, and I'll bet he remembers the circ.u.mstances of the case, especially if my uncle had some minor involvement in it. He might be able to come up with some things we've never considered."

"You're not interested in writing your own book about this, are you?" Flurry said suspiciously.

Bree shook her head and borrowed a phrase from Antonia. "I'd rather eat a rat. I have enough trouble settling down to write a brief, much less a ma.n.u.script. How long do you think it'll be?"

"Hundred thousand words, easy."

Bree's dismay was entirely sincere. "No thank you, ma'am. I do like puzzles, though, and so does Dad. And since this has some of our own family history in it, it's going to be really interesting to get a handle on things."

"So we have a deal?"

"We do." Bree reached across the table to shake her hand. Dent, to her surprise, grasped her wrist and drew her hand away. Both women looked at him.

"Restaurant's filled up," Dent said. "Take a look-see."

Flurry twisted around in her chair. "Oh my G.o.d. It's Phillip."

"Tyra and Hatch, too," Dent said. "Bunch of people from the shoot." He scowled. "And there's that jerkola Vincent White."

Bree waved at Justine, who sat with Craig Oliver at her side, apart from the others. She looked lost.

Dent grunted. "They must have wrapped for the night. Now, what I want to know is who are those people over there against the back wall? From the looks they've been shooting at us, they're the Indians. And we're Custer."

Flurry spluttered in a combination of laughter and nerves. "Where do you get these expressions, w.i.l.l.y?"

Bree said wryly, "I'm surprised you don't recognize him, Dent. That's our very own Payton McAllister. And he's sitting with my favorite client of the year, Sammi-Rose Waterman."

"The one in the polyester pantsuit is the second sister," Flurry said. "Marian Cicerone. Have you ever seen a crabbier face?"

Bree leaned forward to get a better look. "You're right. If mental messages could kill, we'd be sprawled on the floor, dead as doornails. They are not happy to see us together, Flurry. Hm. The two sisters are getting up. Rather, Sammi-Rose is getting up, and Marian's pulling at her."

"They're not going to come over here, are they?" Flurry asked nervously. "I hate scenes. Well, not all scenes. Just scenes where I get yelled at. Some scenes are quite interesting."

"Shut up," Dent said, not unkindly. "You're babbling. And no, they're not coming over here. They're leaving."

"I want to get out of here, too." Flurry drained her second gla.s.s of wine. "But I don't want to go out the same time they do. I'm going to have another gla.s.s. I want to wait until they've . . ." She sank lower in her chair. "You said they weren't coming over here. And they're coming!"

Sammi-Rose Waterman seemed to have dined on more wine than food. Her eyes were a little gla.s.sy, and her red lipstick was smeared on her front teeth. Marian Cicerone looked sober, worried, and discontented. She had on a cheap pink pantsuit with a flowered tee that didn't do a lot for her waistline. Payton trailed behind.

Dent rose to his feet as the group approached the table. Payton hung back, looking like he'd just received an audit notice from the IRS.

"You think you're so smart," Sammi-Rose said. She swayed a little on her stilettos. "So smart." She swayed in a semicircle and shook her fist at Flurry. "And you, you little b.i.t.c.h! I'm going to get you, too! Accusing my poor old grandmother of murder. Deaf-deaf-defaming the family. He's going to sue you for slander."

"That's right," Marian said. "We're going to sue you for every penny you've got."

"It's libel," Flurry said pertly. "And it's not libel if it's true. I've got proof, Mrs. Waterman."