C is for Corpse

He sighed and I could almost see him run a hand through his hair. "About the same. She treats me like dirt. I don't know why I let her back in my life."

"Must be nice to have the girls home though, isn't it?"

"Well, yeah, that's true," he said. "And we're seeing a counselor. Not them. Me and her."

"Maybe that will help."

"Maybe it won't." He caught himself and changed his tone. "Ah. Well. I shouldn't complain. I guess I did it to myself. I'm just sorry it ended up affecting you."

"Don't worry about it. I'm a big girl. Besides, I've got a way for you to redeem yourself. I thought maybe I could buy you lunch today and pick your brain."

"Sure. I'd love it, only lunch is on me. It'll help assuage my guilt. How you like that 'assuage' stuff? That's the word of the day on my vocabulary calendar. Yesterday was 'ineluctable.' I never did figure out how to sneak that one in. Where do you want to go? You name the place."

"Oh, let's keep it simple. I don't want to spend a lot of time on social niceties."

"How about the courthouse? I'll pick up some sandwiches and we can eat on the lawn."

"God, right out in public. Won't the department talk?"

"I hope so. Maybe Camilla will get wind of it and leave me again."

"See you at twelve-thirty."

"Is there something you want me to research in the meantime?"

"Oh right. Good point." I gave him a quick synopsis of the Costigan shooting, leaving Nola Fraker out of it. I'd decide later how much of the story I could trust him with. For now, I fed him the public version and asked if he could take a peek at the files.

"I have a vague recollection of that one. Let me see what I can dig up."

"And one more thing if you would," I said. "Could you run a check through NCIC on a woman named Lila Sams?" I gave him her two a.k.a.'s, Delia Sims and Delilah Sampson, the birthdate I'd taken off the driver's license, and the additional information I had in my notes.

"Right. Got it. I'll do what I can. See you shortly," he said and hung up.

It had occurred to me that if Lila was running some kind of scam on Henry, she might well have a prior record. There was no way I'd have access to the National Crime Information Center except through an authorized law-enforcement agency. Jonah could have the name run through the computer and get feedback in minutes and at least then I'd know if my instincts were accurate.

I tidied up my office, grabbed the bank deposit, and locked up, going next door for a few minutes to chat with Vera Lipton, one of the claims adjusters for California Fidelity Insurance. I stopped off at the bank on the way over to the courthouse, depositing most of the money to savings, with enough to my checking account to cover current expenses.

The day, which had started out on preheat, was cranked up to broil by now. The sidewalks shimmered and the palms looked bleached out by the sun. Where occasional potholes in the street had been filled, the asphalt was as soft and grainy as cookie dough.

The Santa Teresa Courthouse looks like a Moorish castle: hand-carved wooden doors, towers, and wrought-iron balconies. Inside, there's so much mosaic tile on the walls, it looks like someone's covered them with patchwork quilts. One courtroom sports a cycloramic mural that depicts the settling of Santa Teresa by the early Spanish missionaries. It's sort of the Walt Disney version of what really went on as the artist has omitted the introduction of syphilis and the corruption of the Indians. I prefer it myself, if the truth be known. It would be hard to concentrate on justice if you had to stare up at some poor bunch of Indians in the last stages of paresis.

I cut through the great archway toward the sunken gardens in the rear. There were about two dozen people scattered across the lawn, some eating lunch, some napping or taking in the sun. Idly, I catalogued the merits of a good-looking man coming toward me in a pale blue short-sleeved shirt. I was doing one of those visual surveys that starts at the bottom and moves up. Uh-hun, nice hips, dressing left… uh-hun, flat belly, great arms, I thought. He'd almost reached me when I checked out the face and realized it was Jonah.

I hadn't seen him since June. Apparently the diet and his weight-lifting regimen had worked like a charm. His face; which in the past I'd labeled "harmless," was now nicely honed. His dark hair was longer and he'd picked up a tan so that his blue eyes now blazed in a face the color of maple sugar.

"Oh, God," I said, stopping dead in my tracks. "You look great."