'That was close enough.'
'You weren't so bad yourself, tough guy,' she grinned, her hand pressed against her chest. 'My heart feels like it's going to jump out of my mouth. I'd better call the police.'
'Not yet.'
'Why?'
'Just get the kids tucked in first. Wait twenty minutes, then call them.'
'Eric?' She sounded frightened.
'I want to ask him some questions first.'
'What kind of questions, Eric? He's just a lousy burglar, for Christ's sake.'
'Maybe.'
She looked at him. 'You're starting to scare me.'
Eric stared at the kid writhing on the floor. 'Get some of that Woolite rug cleaner. He's bleeding on the carpet.'
She stepped into the hall, came back a few seconds later carrying a gun. She handed it to Eric. 'Will you need this?'
He recognized it as a Ruger RST-4.22 with an AWC sound suppressor attached. 'I might.' He looked down at the kid. 'It depends on him.'
The kid stared back, the pain forgotten for a moment. Replaced by fear.
3.
The first thing Fisher noticed about Eric was the scar.
The way it snaked up out of the collar of his shirt like a thin, white vine, clung along the edge of his jaw a few inches, then bloomed into a sunburst pattern just below the right cheek. Like a dandelion ironed to the skin. It was almost pretty, Fisher thought. Almost.
Fisher forced his eyes up from the scar into Eric's eyes. That was worse. The eyes were a flat reddish-brown, like his girlfriend's hair after she put that henna shit on it. Fisher's hand automatically grazed the butt of his S amp;W.38 bolstered to his hip.
'Name?' he asked, his voice louder than he'd wanted.
Eric glanced at Fisher's plastic name tag, then into his eyes. Since the night that punk had invaded his home eight weeks ago, Eric scrutinized everything. Everyone. 'Haven't seen you before.'
Fisher studied Eric's clothes. Expensive, but not flashy. He rated a sir. 'No, sir. First day.'
'Where's Trumball?'
'Gus picked up some kind of bug. Flu, I think. Hong Kong or Singapore or one of those kind that sound more like a vacation than a disease.'
Eric nodded.
Fisher frowned. He'd thought that last little comment deserved at least a smile. He prided himself on his sense of humor. After all, he wasn't like most of the other dumb guards in the company. He had a college education, a degree in anthro-fucking-pology. He'd always wanted to discover some primitive tribe hidden from civilization for centuries. Wouldn't that be something? First white man among all the bare-fitted women he could handle. But when he'd graduated, it was hard to find someone who'd pay him to look for lost tribes and bare tits. Still, he was doing all right for now. Getting by.
When they'd called him this morning to take over for Gus, he'd been thrilled. Working the D.A.'s office was a plum. Used to be only cops did that duty, but what with budget cuts and all, they figured it'd be cheaper to hire private guards. Fisher could understand that. The pay sucked. And you had to buy your own uniforms and those ugly black patent leather shoes. But the work wasn't too hard and he made enough to make payments on his Camaro and still keep Debbie supplied with that henna crap and an occasional lid of domestic grass. Besides, he grinned, she got horny as hell when he practiced his fast-draw at home.
'Anyway, Gus'll probably be back by the end of the week.'
Eric nodded again and started through the door.
'Wait a second, man,' Fisher said, blocking the way with his clipboard. 'You forgot to tell me your name.'
'Ravensmith. Eric Ravensmith.'
'Oh, right,' Fisher sighed. 'The Fallows trial. Go right in.'
Eric did.
The handsome, middle-aged woman stabbing her pencil into the electric sharpener looked up and smiled. 'Good morning, Mr. Ravensmith.'
'Hi, Lynn.' Eric tried to make his voice pleasant, but it just came out flat and dry. 'F. Lee Bailey in?'
'Yes, but don't let him hear you call him that. He and Mr. Bailey were adversaries once in court, not friendly ones either. Calls him Beetle Bailey.'
Eric pushed open the inner office door and walked in. Luther Nichols sat behind his desk and fired a rubber band at Eric. It bounced off his chest.
'What's that for?' Eric asked.
'I heard that F. Lee Bailey remark, buster.'
'Do you prefer Melvin Belli?'
'The one they call King of Tarts?'
'I think that's torts.'
'Ha! The only torte he knows is the kind you eat. That son of a bitch weighs more than you, me and Lynn. The Incredible Bulk.'
Eric stooped over and picked up the rubber band. His face was grim as he flopped down into the chair next to the assistant district attorney's desk.
'You look like shit,' Luther said.
'Thanks. I needed that.'
'There's no point in getting morose. They won't announce the verdict for another hour.'
'How do you think it'll go?'
Luther shrugged. 'The operation was a success, let's just hope the patient doesn't die.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'It means we ran a smooth trial. We traced the Simpleton kid-'
'That's Sempleton.'
'A rose by any other name. Anyway, we traced him back to Fallows. Proved the gun was supplied by Fallows. That ought to be worth something.'
Eric shook his head, rubbed his chin. 'I blew it, didn't I?'
'Well, it didn't help that you'd used a cheese grater on the kid's face to make him talk. Him sitting on the stand with the scabs still showing on his cheek didn't advance our case. Or that broken wrist. Something about a cast makes a jury nervous. Besides, most of what you found out was inadmissible.'
'I had to, Luther,' Eric nodded, his voice firm, unapologetic. 'I had to know that Fallows was behind it. I couldn't take the chance.'
'The cops-'
'The cops couldn't have made him talk. He'd have just sat there until Fallows' lawyer came. At least my way I knew for sure.'
Luther didn't say anything. This wasn't the time. He rearranged a wisp of thin, blond hair back on top of his balding head. 'Give me your honest impression. Am I balder now than when this trial started?'
Eric looked up at him, smiled in spite of himself. 'Yeah, that one strand that went from ear to ear is gone. I think I saw it fall during summation.'
'Damn, I knew I shouldn't have hit the table for emphasis. The shock waves probably loosened it at the root.'
Eric stared into Luther's face, studying each crease and wrinkle. He was an assistant D.A. in a year when the D.A. was running for mayor of Los Angeles. This case had been too hot for a politician to handle personally, so it
