Mickey, rocking almost imperceptibly back and forth, just shook his head.

Five minutes later, the car was warm enough that he didn't need her jacket and she gently helped him get it unwrapped from around him. His shivering had stopped and with the surcease of movement, the pain had noticeably lessened everywhere but in his arm and ribs. "No phones," he said. "In fact, turn it off completely."

"But what if we have to call somebody?"

"We'll borrow somebody's, or find a pay phone. We really don't want to use your cell. Starting now."

"Okay." She held down the b.u.t.ton that turned her phone off. "I'm trusting you."

"That's a good idea."

She looked over at him. "So what are we going to do now?"

"Good question," he said. "Dancing's definitely out, though."

"Darn."

"I know. It's a disappointment. I'm a great dancer, actually. You ever go to the swing clubs?"

"Not enough. Drawback of working nights."

"Well, when we get out of this, maybe some Monday or Tuesday . . ." He lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

And eventually Alicia broke it. "Mickey?"

"I'm thinking. You got any close girlfriends you can trust who live alone?"

She considered for a moment, then shook her head. "Not who live alone, no. I'm about the only one my age I know who does. What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking you're going to have to lie low somewhere where the cops won't think to look for you, if it gets to that. Plus, we've got a car problem. This one might as well have a sign on it, so we've got to put it someplace where it can't be seen."

"But then we can't use it."

"That's right."

"So how do I get around?"

"Where do you have to go? That's not close to your biggest problem."

"Good point. But how do you get around, for that matter? You don't have a car anymore either. Plus, you can barely walk."

"There's that too," he said grimly. "You've got to give me a minute here." He gently probed at his head.

"Are you hurting bad?" she asked.

He glanced over at her and tried a smile.

In the living room of her n.o.b Hill condominium, Gina Roake sipped her Oban and said, "You've got a half hour to cut that out completely, buster. I mean it."

Wyatt Hunt, rubbing her feet on the ottoman between them, gave her a grin. "A half hour from now, I'm betting I'll have moved on to other things."

"Promises, promises."

"You wait and see."

"I believe I will." She sighed contentedly, leaned back, sipped her Scotch again. "So how close is our Inspector Juhle?"

"He's waiting until the DNA work comes in on the s.e.m.e.n. But even if he gets a hit, it's still a long way to Tipperary. It all comes down to whether or not he fired her that morning." He nodded appreciatively at her. "And if you're paying attention, I believe that would be your influence at work on Juhle. It's going to be a while before he makes an arrest again before he's got the evidence."

"Let's hope. You'd think they'd teach that in cop school."

"They do. Then they get out into the real world and need to make arrests. Especially when they know who did it, as in this case."

Gina sighed. "And in so many others."

"Well, yes. No argument there."

"So they're convinced it's this woman Alicia?"

"I'd say yes."

"What do you think?"

Hunt considered for a moment.

Roake softly kicked his hands. "It's not a trick question. You don't have to answer if it's going to make you stop."

"Apologies." Hunt's hands went back to work on her feet. "What do I think? I think it's highly unlikely that both Ellen Como and Al Carter independently made up the story about her getting fired the day he gets killed. I think that happened."

"What does she say?"

"She says not. But then again, she would, wouldn't she?"

Roake shrugged.

"So then I think," Hunt pressed, "that if that's true, if Como fired her, then she had a d.a.m.n good reason to kill him. Especially if they were intimate."

"And the scarf establishes that?"

"Pretty much. If it's his s.e.m.e.n."

Roake brought her Scotch to her lips. "Anybody ever see them together out of work? Maybe going into her place? Some motel? One of Sunset's residential units?"

"I haven't heard of that. At work, yeah, according to Ellen. But I don't think Devin and Sarah have gotten around to asking neighbors, if that's what you mean. Except, you know, you're alone together in a limo four or five hours a day, I'm willing to lay odds a determined couple could get in a little nooky from time to time. And it does appear, in fact, that that's what happened, doesn't it?"

"Could have happened. If it was actually Como. Or Alicia, for that matter. Although it might have been neither."

"Neither?"

"Neither. The driver-Carter, is it?-and his girlfriend, if any. Or one of the other young male drivers and somebody they were driving around on any given day."

Hunt stopped rubbing her feet again and chuckled. "Roake, you are definitely in the right field, you know that?"

"What does that mean?"

"It means that your devious defense-lawyer mind just automatically sees all the ways you can rearrange and argue the facts so that the most obvious explanation gets lost in the shuffle."

"Well, sometimes the most obvious explanation is wrong."

"Most of the time, though, not."

"Still. Enough to make the exercise worthwhile."

"From what I've told you, don't you think it's likely Alicia?"

"I have no idea." With a sigh, she pulled her legs back off the ottoman and sat up straighter in her chair. She put her gla.s.s of Oban down on the table next to her seat. "There is simply nothing I've heard that comes close to convicting her, Wyatt. If I were going to be exerting any energy here, I have to tell you I'm still liking Len Turner."

"Who I had a nice chat with this morning, you know."

Roake sucked in a quick breath, concern suddenly obvious in her demeanor. "You didn't do anything to make him feel threatened, I hope."

"No. He was surrounded by his gang at Como's memorial."

"Do you know what, if anything, Juhle and Russo are doing about him?"

Hunt shook his head. "No. Not much, I don't think."

"Looking into his alibis, if any? Trying to get a feel for his financial records? Asking Ellen Como or anybody else about personnel or financial problems that might have come up recently between him and Como? Seeing if Turner has any kind of special relationship with any of the Battalion members?"

"All of those would be included under the general heading of 'not much.' What about the Battalion?"

"Nothing, specifically. And again, just rumors."

"Why am I doubting that, Roake?"

She wilted under Hunt's gaze. "All right," she said. "Although it galls me if this is the way it has to get to Juhle and Russo. They should be looking in this direction already. If I didn't think you needed to know so you'll take Mr. Turner more seriously, I wouldn't mention it."

"Okay," Hunt said casually. "That's a good lead- in. What do you know?"

"I know and everybody knows that one of the Battalion's visible roles is that for only twenty dollars, they hand out little signs you put in your window that your business supports the Sunset Youth Project. You've seen them all over the city, right?"

"Right. So?"

"So what most people don't know is the percentage of contacted businesses of all types that support the SYP. You want to guess?"

"All businesses?"

"Right. Asian cleaners and restaurants, Hispanic mom and pops, Muslim shop owners, law offices, cigar stores, everybody. Take a stab."

Hunt shrugged. "Forty percent."

"Close," Gina said. "A hundred percent."

Hunt was silent for a long beat. "They're selling protection," he said.

"No, they couldn't be," Gina responded. "The city would surely bust them, would it not? Oh, except if they somehow had enough political influence to just let the practice remain a necessary evil, the cost of doing business here. The SYP is really doing a world of good for a lot of people, and that's true. So businesses should be glad to pony up twenty bucks for such a good cause. Plus, they get the nice sign in the window."

"That can't be the entire Battalion."

"No. It's not. It's only a few who go out if somebody doesn't pay.

Trusted senior guys. In other words, professional muscle. On the payroll, and paid for by your tax dollars, by the way."

"And you think Turner's got access to these guys?"

"Not exactly. No."

"Well, then . . ."

"Wyatt, I know it. Fifteen years you're a public defender here, you learn a few things. These kids aren't angels to begin with, you know. Como gives them the jobs, strictly legit, tutoring and cleaning up at Ortega, pa.s.sing out political pamphlets and like that. Eventually the promising ones are in the Battalion, moving up, getting paid decent money. AmeriCorps money, by the way. Life's good. Turner picks a few every year and just tells them if they want to stay on, they'll just do this or that. Break the window on this store, vandalize that flower shop, strong-arm some liquor store clerk. Otherwise, they go back to jail."

"And Como didn't know about this?"

Gina shrugged. "Maybe he did. I don't know. But he wouldn't have had to. Or maybe it was his cost of doing business and he thought it was a fair trade. Or maybe he just found out last week and he called Turner on it."

"You're saying Turner could have one of these Battalion kids kill for him?"

"I'm saying if I were Juhle or Russo, at least I'd try to rule it out. Oh, and if it turns out this is any part of it, I told Jeff Elliot I'd split the reward with him."

"I'll put that in my report if the time comes. With a strong recommendation."

"I've got a strong recommendation for you." Roake drained the last of her Scotch, and placed it down on the lamp table with finality. She reached over, took his hand, and stood up. "If you want to get the lights."

26.

It was by no means the obvious choice.

In fact, it was risky and desperate, but Mickey couldn't think of another solution.

Alicia had abandoned her own digs. If Juhle and Russo were planning to put her under arrest, the next place they would look would probably be Ian's, who was listed at Morton's as her primary contact in case of an emergency. As she'd told Mickey, none of her girlfriends lived alone, so they were out. And once they realized that Mickey had disappeared from the hospital, they would undoubtedly come to his place. They could go to a motel, of course, but that was both expensive and impractical-they would have to register and he, with a black eye and his arm in a cast, would be easy to identify.