“Isn’t he there every day?” I asked my friend.

“Yeah, but now he’s sitting right behind me. And I’m making eye contact with him because that’s all I can do. And I hear Davis say she’s calling Junie Moon to the stand, and the judge says, ‘First we’re going to recess for lunch.’ And Red Dog pushes back his chair, pinning me chest to nose with that creep, Twilly.

“And Twilly sneers. And my stomach clenches and my skin gets cold and he whispers, ‘Point, Davis.’

“Omigod, and so Red Dog turns and gives me that withering look again, and I’m not going to lose this case over the testimony of that shrink, am I, Lindsay, am I? Because I’ll tell you, that just can’t happen.”

“It won’t -”

“Right. It won’t,” Yuki said through her teeth, slamming her fist down on her desk. “Because the jury’s going to see the truth, and they’ve got to come to one of two conclusions.

“Either Junie Moon is guilty. Or she’s guilty as sin.”

Chapter 79

THE STANFORD MALL was an open-air dream market with shops grouped on narrow lanes, embedded in gardens. And what shops they were: the big stores Neiman and Nordstrom and Bloomingdale’s, and the high-end boutiques Armani, Benetton, Louis Vuitton.

Hawk and Pidge had taken a seat on a bench outside the Polo shop, surrounded by a small forest of potted topiary, aromas of flowers and coffee wafting all around them. It was a Saturday, and great masses of designer-clad shoppers were out, parading down the little walkways past Pidge and Hawk, swinging their shopping bags, stopping to admire Ralph Lauren’s windows.

Pidge had a video camera about the size of a deck of cards and was filming the parade. If anyone asked what he was doing, he’d tell them the truth – or part of it, anyway. He was in the computer video lab at Stanford. He was making a documentary.

But what he wouldn’t say is that he and Hawk were looking for the winners. The biggest, piggiest oink-oinks of the day.

They had two sets of contestants in mind.

Both couples had college stickers on the rear windows of their cars. They were primo candidates. It was going to be hard to choose, but once Hawk and Pidge had agreed on the winning couple, they would follow them to where they lived and check out their home.

Which one?

The rich and fatty couple loaded down with bags imprinted with designer logos? Or the older, more athletic pair, dressed ostentatiously, sipping lattes as they wandered along the avenues of gluttony.

Pidge was reviewing the footage when the security guard approached. He was late forties, blue uniform with a badge on his breast pocket, a hat, a gun, and a swagger. Every guy in a uniform these days thought he was a U.S. Marine.

“Hi, guys,” the guard said affably. “You can’t take pictures in here. Sign’s right over there.”

“Ah,” said Pidge. He stood. At six two he towered over the guard, so that the smaller man had to step back. “These aren’t pictures. This is a movie. A documentary for school. I can show you my student ID.”

“Doesn’t matter that you’re in school,” the guard said. “For security reasons, no picture taking is allowed. Now you have to either put that thing away or I’ll have to escort you out of here.”

“You dipshit rent-a-cop,” Hawk muttered.

“We’re sorry, sir,” said Pidge, stepping in front of his friend. “We’re going.”

But it was annoying. Hours spent doing their surveillance and now, no winner.

“Gotta make a pit stop,” Pidge said.

The two ducked into the men’s facilities, and Pidge unzipped in front of a urinal. When he’d finished, Hawk took out a book of matches. He lit three or four of them together and tossed them into the waste bin.

They were out in the parking lot when they heard the cry of the sirens on the freeway. They sat in Pidge’s car and watched as the firefighters braked near the Frog Pond, unfurled their hoses, and streamed into the mall.

Many hundreds of customers streamed out.

“I sure love a good fire,” Hawk said.

“Always makes my day,” said Pidge.

Part Four. HOT PROPERTY

Chapter 80

I WAS HEADING “HOME” to Joe’s apartment, battling rush-hour traffic, when my cell phone rang. I jacked the phone off my hip, heard Yuki’s voice screaming my name.

“Lindsay! He’s stalking me.”

“Who? Who’s stalking you?”

“That freak! Jason Twilly.”

“Slow down. Back up. What do you mean ‘stalking’?”

I jerked the wheel left at the intersection of Townsend and Seventh instead of taking a right toward my former apartment on the Hill. It felt like I was swimming against the tide.

Yuki’s voice was shrill. “Stalking as in haunting me, dogging me. Ten minutes ago, he was sitting in the passenger seat of my car!”

“He broke into your car?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember if I locked it. I was carrying like a fifty-pound -”

The signal cut out. I hit speed dial, got Yuki’s outgoing message, disconnected, tried again.

“Fifty-pound what?” I called into the crackle.

“Fifty-pound box of files. I just got my key into the door lock when this arm reached over from inside the car and pushed the door open for me.”

“Before this car thing, did you tell him to leave you alone?”

“Yes! Did I ever!”

“Okay, then, it’s illegal for him to be inside your car,” I said, negotiating a lane switch, passing a rental car whose driver leaned on the horn and gave me the finger.

“You ready to swear out a complaint?” I asked Yuki. “He’s going to go public. So think about it.”

There was a moment of static-filled silence as Yuki considered the media ramifications.

“This guy is sick, Linds. He talks to me like I’m a character in his book. He’s twisted and maybe dangerous. He got into my car. What’s next?”

“Okay,” I said, pulling over to the curb. I took out my notepad and wrote down what Yuki had told me.

“You’re going to have to go to civil court in the morning, get a restraining order,” I said. “But effective now you’ve filed a police report.”

“Tomorrow morning? Lindsay, Jason Twilly wants to scare the hell out of me – and he’s doing it!”

Chapter 81

WHEN I REACHED Twilly’s suite on the fifth floor of the St. Regis Hotel, he was waiting in the doorway, a cockeyed grin on his face, his hair disheveled and shirt untucked and unbuttoned. The fire exit door slammed at the end of the softly lit hallway. My guess, it was Twilly’s paid-by-the-hour guest leaving in a hurry.

I showed Twilly my badge, and he fastened his eyes on the V of my tank top, skimmed the cut of my jeans, then took a slow return trip back to my face. Meanwhile, I was taking in his amazing room – leather-textured walls, a window seat with a great view of San Francisco. Very impressive.

“Working undercover, Sergeant?” Twilly leered.

He’d scared Yuki with this act, but it enraged me.

“I don’t think we’ve met, Mr. Twilly. I’m Sergeant Lindsay Boxer,” I said, putting out my hand. He grasped it in a handshake and I pulled his arm forward, twisted it high up behind his back, and pushed his face against the wall.

“Give me your other hand,” I said. “Do it, now.”

“You’re joking.”

“Other hand.”

I cuffed him, frisked him fast and rough, saying, “You’re under arrest for criminal trespass. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.” When I finished informing Twilly of his rights, I answered his question: “What’s this about?”

“It’s about your illegal entry into ADA Yuki Castellano’s car. She’s filed a police report, and by noon tomorrow she’ll have a restraining order against you.”