"I have no way to know. He denied all knowledge, yet he had the file. He's interested in Jodi Taylor, and he's linked her to the Johnsons. He had Monroe Johnson's address, so he may have approached them, but I don't know that."

Lucy Chenier stared into midspace, thinking. Now that we were on the serious stuff, she seemed intent and focused and on the verge of a frown. Her court face, I thought. A mix of the tennis and the law. I had more of the Bloody Mary and watched her think. Watching her think was as rewarding as watching her move, but maybe that was just the vodka. My mouth tingled pleasantly from the spices, and I wondered if hers was tingling, too.

She said, "The documents you're describing are part of the files sealed by the state. The biological parents would've been given a copy, what you might call a receipt for the child, but there's no way Mr. Rebenack should have a copy."

"Only he has it." I wondered what it would be like to kiss someone with a tingling mouth.

She said, "Still, that document doesn't prove that Jodi Taylor is in fact the child given up by the Johnsons. We'll have to open the state files for that. We'll have to approach Edith Boudreaux to confirm that what you've found is correct. If her father is incapacitated and her mother is dead, then it falls to her to give the state permission to open the files. That's the only way to officially confirm that Jodi Taylor was born to Pamela Johnson."

"And that we'll do tomorrow."

She nodded. "Yes. I think it's best if we approach her at the boutique. We'll make contact there, on ground where she's comfortable, and ask to speak with her in private. That should be me, because I've done it before and because women are less threatened by other women."

"You mean, we don't just walk up and say, hey, babe, how'd ya like to meet your long lost sister?"

Lucy Chenier smiled, and had more of her drink. "Perhaps in California."

I said, "Is your mouth tingling?"

She looked at me.

"From the spices."

"Why, yes. It is."

I nodded. "Just wondering."

The waitress took the salad plates away and came back with the étouffée for Lucy and the crawfish platter for me. A bowl of bisque was in the center of my plate, surrounded by a mound of boiled crawfish on one side and the fried crawfish tails on the other. The fried tails looked like tiny shrimp, curled tight and lightly breaded. I forked up several and ate them. They were hot and tender and tasted in a way like sautéed baby langostinos. "Good."

Lucy said, "The bisque is like a soup that's been enriched with crawfish fat. The heads have been stuffed with a mixture of crawfish meat and bread crumbs and spices. You can pick it up, then use your spoon to lift out the stuffing."

"Okay." The bisque was a deep brown, and several stuffed crawfish shells bobbed in it. I did as she said and dug out the stuffing and tasted it. The stuffing tasted of thyme. "This is terrific. Would you like one?"

"Please."

I spooned out one of the stuffed shells and put it on her plate. She said, "Here. Try the étouffée."

The étouffée was a rich brown sauce chunky with diced green bell peppers and celery and crawfish tails over rice. She forked some onto one of the little bread plates, then passed it to me. I tasted it. These people have redefined the word yummy.

She said, "Does the étouffée you get in California taste like this?"

"Not even close."

Lucy Chenier picked up the stuffed shell I had given her and spooned out the filling. As she did, a brown drop of the gravy ran down along the heel of her hand toward her wrist. She turned up her hand without thinking about it and licked off the drip. I felt something swell in my chest and had to swallow and then had the rest of the Bloody Mary. I said, "Would you like another?"

Nod. Smile. "Maybe one more. I have to drive."

I flagged at the waitress and showed her two fingers. Two bags of ice and a cold shower, please. Lucy said, "You eat the boiled crawfish by breaking the tails out of the body, then pinching the tail so that the shell cracks and you can get out the meat." She took one of my crawfish and demonstrated. "You see?"

"Unh-hunh." Maybe if I concentrated on the food. The food could save me.

"Then you put the head in your mouth and suck it."

I blinked at her as she put the head in her mouth and sucked it. She smiled simply. "Gets out the juice."

I coughed and covered my mouth. I drank some water. Think about the food. The food. The waitress brought our drinks and I drank mine without stopping. Lucy looked concerned. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." I shook my head. "Not a thing."

She sipped her new drink and ate some more of her étouffée. I noticed that most of my food was gone and most of hers was still on her plate. I hope she didn't think me a glutton. "Are you from Baton Rouge?"

"That's right."

"Your accent is sorter than the others I hear."

She smiled. "I'm not the one with the accent, Mr. Cole."

I spread my hands. Busted.

"I went to LSU for prelaw, but I attended law school in Michigan. Living with Yankees can devastate your accent."

"And you returned home to practice."

"My boyfriend was here, working, and we wanted to be married. He was a lawyer, too. He still is."

"How about that."

"We were divorced four years ago."

"That happens." I tried not to beam.

"Yes, it does." It seemed as if she was going to say more, but then she went 'back to the étouffée. "Now tell me about you. Do you have a background in law enforcement?"

"Nope. I've been licensed for twelve years and, before that, I apprenticed with a man named George Fieder. George had about a million hours of experience and was maybe the best investigator who ever lived. Before that, I was in the army."

"College?"

"University of Southeast Asia. The work-study program."

She shook her head, smiling. "You look too young for Vietnam."

"I looked older then."

"Of course."

"May I ask you a personal question, Ms. Chenier?"

She nodded, chewing.

"Have you sought out your birth parents?"

"No." She shook her head, then used the back of her wrist to move her hair from her eyes. Fingers still sticky from the crawfish. "The vast majority of adopted children don't. There may be a minor curiosity from time to time, but your mom and dad are your mom and dad."

"The people who raise you."

"That's it. A long time ago a woman gave birth to me, and gave me over to the state because she felt it best for both of us. She now has her life, I have mine, and my birth father his. I can appreciate on an intellectual level that they birthed me, but emotionally, my folks are Jack and Ann Kyle. Jack helped me ace algebra and Ann drove me to the court every day after school to practice tennis. Do you see?"

"Sure. They're your family."

She smiled and nodded and ate more of the étouffée. "Just like yours."

"Yet you've devoted your career to this kind of work."

"Not really. Most of my practice is in the area of divorce and custody disputes. But I don't have to want to recover my birth parents to appreciate that need in others. All of us should have access to our medical histories. Because I feel the weight of that, and because I'm in a position to help those with the need, I do."

"You share a mutual experience with other adopted children and you feel a kinship. All brothers and sisters under the skin."

She seemed pleased. "That's exactly right." Amazing how a little vodka can dull the senses, isn't it? She put down her fork and crossed her arms on the table. "So, Mr. Adventure, tell me what you think of our Louisiana crawfish. Is it the most incredible thing you've ever eaten?"

"I ate dog when I was in Vietnam."

Lucy Chenier's smile vanished and she looked uncertain. "How… adventurous."