"Maybe not, after he's seen my motions."

"But Amy… Bartlett isn't a juvenile!"

"He's seventeen, Jason. He's a boy."

Brandt threw his head back, brought his hands to his face, finally looked at her over them. "I don't believe you're doing this."

Wu took a step, about the limit she could trespass without coming behind Brandt's desk. "Jason, listen to me. You know when Andrew said in court that he didn't do it? He might have been telling the truth."

"No, he wasn't."

"But what if he was?"

"So go to trial downtown and get him off. But for God's sake, do yourself a favor and get it out of Warvid's courtroom first."

But she shook her head. Intense now, she leaned in to him. "He's already suicidal, Jason. As it is now, he thinks he's going to be in prison the rest of his life."

"That's where he should be. He killed two people, Amy."

"Maybe, but he's innocent until-"

Brandt barked a laugh of pure disdain. "Oh, give me a fucking break."

"You read his stuff, Jason, you know-"

"I know he's dangerous; that's what his writing shows me. He's a sophisticated criminal mind who thinks he can use you, and is on his way to proving it."

"He tried to kill himself to manipulate me? Is that what you're saying?"

Brandt shrugged. "I heard the shirt he used ripped. Maybe he tore it a little first."

Wu reacted in a blaze of rage. "Bullshit, Jason! That's just such bullshit!"

Suddenly, behind them in the hallway loomed the imposing and, to Wu, increasingly sinister form of bailiff Nelson, knocking on the door behind her. "Is everything going along okay with you people?" He moved in closer, lowered his voice. "The sound's traveling pretty good in the hallway here."

Brandt spoke over Wu's shoulder, the voice relaxed and friendly. "We're fine, Ray. Just a friendly little pretrial conference between two country lawyers."

Wu's eyes were flashing, her color high. She whirled and brushed by Nelson. "Excuse me, please." Jogging, in her tennis shoes, she disappeared around the corner of the hallway.

Brandt found her car, the last in a long line of them parked at the curb downhill from the front entrance to the YGC.

She was in the driver's seat, sitting with both hands on the wheel, head down. From the sidewalk, Brandt hesitated, then touched the passenger window with a knuckle, leaned over so she could see who it was. She reached over and unlocked the door. When he'd closed it again behind him, they both sat in silence for the first seconds. Finally, Brandt, eyes sideways, let out a long sigh. "I shouldn't have said that in there. I don't think your boy faked it."

She kept her own eyes forward, her hands back on the wheel. "I came down here as a courtesy to you, Jason. I wasn't playing any more games." She paused. "With this case or with you. The other night…" The words stopped. She looked over at him.

"We don't have to talk about that."

"Yes, we do, I think." Then. "You were right. There's something wrong with me."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." She moved her hand from the steering wheel as though she were going to touch him, but stopped, dropped it into her lap. "Can I tell you something?"

"Sure."

"That night, at the Balboa… I didn't go into that thinking about Allan or Andrew or the deal I thought I'd made. That was just us. That was real."

"All right."

"That's all I want to say."

"Okay, then, I've got one. If it was so real, why'd you kick me out?"

"I didn't kick you out. You left."

"After you said, and this is a direct quote, 'You'd better be out of here by morning or we're in trouble.' You don't remember saying that?"

Wu shook her head slowly from side to side. "I didn't mean legal trouble. I meant… I meant if this was supposed to be a one-nighter and neither of us wanted to get serious, you had to leave before we went any further."

"But we already-"

She turned on him. "I didn't mean the sex."

Brandt blew out heavily. "No. I know. I know what you meant." A long silence. Then. "You figured I was playing you." He chuckled. "I love this."

"Me, too. It's perfect."

"A microcosm of life itself," Brandt said. "Makes me think, though, that maybe we want to go in and get out of Bartlett now."

Wu shook her head. "We can't. I can't abandon him, and if you drop out, the seven-oh-seven gets continued, plus you'd have to give a reason, which would probably get you fired."

Brandt suddenly saw something over Wu's shoulder, and he swore. Across the street, Ray Nelson was leaning over the roof of his car, lighting a cigarette. Seeing them both now looking at him, he raised a hand in greeting, then opened the car door and got in.

"He saw us," Wu said.

"Yes, he did. But so what? We're sitting in a car, having a discussion."

"Do you think he followed us out?"

"I don't know. Why would he?"

"I don't know. To have something on us." Wu looked after Nelson's car, now driving away. "The guy creeps me out."

"Ray? He's a pussycat after you get to know him," Brandt said.

"I don't want to get to know him."

"No, honestly, you probably don't. But maybe him seeing us out here was a good object lesson, after all."

"In what?"

"The wisdom of being seen together outside the courtroom."

25

Top down on the convertible, with coat and tie off and the top button of his shirt undone, Hardy with his headphones on might have been mistaken for a stressed-out executive zoning out to his relaxation tapes. In fact, he was waiting across the street from the murder scene, listening again to the tape of the other male actor in the play, Steve Randell, to whom he'd talked at Sutro after he'd finished with Alicia North and Jeri Croft.

When Juan Salarco pulled into his driveway at a little after three o'clock, Hardy sat up, slipped the recorder back in his pocket, put up the car's hood and got out. Across the street, Salarco exited his truck and immediately went to the small garage and opened it. By the time he turned around, Hardy was standing by his driver's side fender. He raised a hand with an exaggerated nonchalance that he didn't come close to feeling.

He realized that ever since he'd concluded his careful review of the tape he'd made with Juan, he'd begun to imagine that Andrew Bartlett might be innocent. But, he reminded himself now, that belief hinged on what Salarco told him in the next ten or fifteen minutes. If he had in fact heard two gunshots, or even what might be interpreted as two gunshots, Hardy's hopes and maybes would be out the window. He hadn't recognized before this moment how invested he'd become. "Hey!" he said, low-key.

Salarco's boyish face broke into a ready smile. "Deezmus," he said, coming forward to shake his hand, crushing it effortlessly. "I try to get you this weekend, after you call, sí?"

"Sí, but my wife had an accident skiing. She's okay, but it took up some time. Now I'm wondering if I can take up a little more of yours."

Salarco took a minute, perhaps translating the request, then nodded. "Sure." He pointed. "First, I unload though, the truck, okay?"

The sun was bright overhead, but a light breeze kept the day cool enough, and Hardy decided to pitch in. It seemed the natural thing to do, lifting the rakes, shovels and wire trimmer from their positions in the wooden slats on either side of the truck while Juan wheeled the mowers and heavier gear down his makeshift wooden ramp and around into the garage. When they finished, Juan locked up the garage and the truck, and then they walked up the indoor stairs together.

At the door, Salarco called out, "Hola," got a female response and went straight through the living room, past the television with its American soap opera on the screen, to the cheerful kitchen. Hand-sewn curtains- bright yellow cotton with a red and orange floral print- cast shade over the back counter and the Formica table, but they only covered half the windows, and allowed in bright shafts of sun.