Moment Of Truth

'Probably ripped it when she fell backwards, like when she was being stabbed.'

'You'd think it would just fall off. The shoe has no back. Stupid shoes.'

'Sexy, though. They do it for me. You know what else

so

I like? I go for those big shoes. What do they call them? Platforms. The ones they wear in porno. I like the white ones with the high heel. Or the red. I love the red.'

'You're a highbrow guy, Kovich.'

'Damn straight.' Kovich knelt closer to the floor and braced himself on his hand. With his butt in the air and his broad nose grazing the rug, he looked like a big dog at play. 'You're about to thank me, Mick.'

'Why?'

'Look.' Kovich pointed beyond the body, on Brinkley's side. In the path of the tech's vacuum cleaner glinted something tiny and gold. It was wedged in the thick wool of the patterned rug, which was why Brinkley hadn't seen it from his angle. Kovich waved off the tech with the vacuum and both detectives leaned closer.

'Wacky-lookin' thing,' Brinkley said. A gold twinkle sat embedded in the swirling Persian paisley. It looked like a tiny piece of jewelry. He looked closer but wouldn't move it until it was photographed. 'What is it?'

'An earring back. My kid, Kelley, loses them all the time.'

'What's an earring back?'

'It's for pierced ears. It holds the earring on. Don't Sheree have pierced ears?'

'No.' Brinkley didn't say more. Someday he'd tell Kovich that he and Sheree had separated. Meantime, he looked at Honor Newlin's head at the same time as Kovich. She still had her earrings on; a single, large pearl on each lobe. He leaned over on his hand, peered behind her ear, and squinted. The left earring back was still on. 'This one's fine. You check the other.'

On his side, Kovich tilted his head like a mechanic under a chassis. 'Okay here, too.'

'So they're not hers.'

'Wrong, skinny.' Kovich righted himself. The body lay between them like a broken line. 'They could be hers, just not to these earrings.'

'Fair enough.'

'See? You're not the only dick in the room.'

'Just the biggest.'

Kovich laughed and stood up, as did Brinkley, hoisting his slacks up with a thumb and giving the body one last going-over. It stuck in his craw that the techs had grabbed the knife. Couldn't leave the murder weapon in place. Had to get it tested stat. That was the problem with a goddamn box job. Everybody rushed around like a chicken and things got messed up. In the most important cases, they should be going the slowest, not the fastest. He looked away in frustration.

At the end of the dining room table sat the two place settings, untouched. It was fancy china, white with a slim black border, and in front of each plate stood wine glasses and water goblets of cut crystal. Brinkley hailed one of the crime techs with a print kit. There should be a Scotch glass, two of them,' he said.

There were two, Detective. They're already bagged. Rick there' – she waved toward a red-haired young man – 'he's got the Polaroids.'

Terrific.' Brinkley wanted to scream. He strode to the redhaired tech, got the photos, and examined them one by one. Shots of the body, from every gruesome angle. Where were the glasses?

There. A crystal tumbler lay on its side next to the body, with liquor spilling out like a dark snake. Three separate views. Another Polaroid of a matching tumbler shattered on the parquet floor. Five photos of it. Brinkley glanced automatically at the floor. It had been swept up. 'Goddamn it!' he finally exploded.

'What'sa matter?' Kovich asked, appearing at his side.

They fucking collected the broken glass! I wanted to see where it fell!'

'You got the pictures, and they'll test everything. You know that. We'll get the reports.'

They couldn'ta waited?' Brinkley flipped through the

Polaroids, seething. The focus was fuzzy. He couldn't tell squat from the photos. 'We're gonna miss shit!'

'Nothing to miss, Mick.' Kovich spread his bulky arms, gesturing at the dining room as expansively as if he owned it. 'We got the doer. What's to miss?'

'When does Newlin throw up?'

'Who cares?'

'Me! Bad guys don't throw up after.'

'Calm down, bro. This ain't your typical bad guy, I'll give you that. Okay, I'll give you that. You're right, but listen and stop bitching. This is how I think it went down.' Kovich punched up his aviators at the bridge. 'What we got is a guy, a regular guy, a regular rich guy who lost it. A lawyer who saw a move and took it without thinking. He's not a punk, so he tosses ' em after. Or like he said, when he sees he ain't gonna get away with it. He's not upset he did it, he's upset he's goin' down for it. Like you said, he's a lawyer.'

Brinkley considered it. 'So you don't think he's the type either.'

'Not the normal type doer, I know.' Kovich stood closer. 'But whether he's the type or not, you know that don't mean shit, Mick. Newlin did it, all right. Just 'cause he's sorry later, or it freaks him out, or turns his stomach, or it's the one time in his life he breaks the law, he don't even jaywalk before he knifes the wife, don't mean he's innocent. I like him, Mick. I really do. He's our boy and everything here jives with it.'

Brinkley scanned the crime scene wordlessly. He had to admit Kovich could be right. It was all consistent. The dinner table, set for two. The Scotch glasses. The appetizer platter, untouched. Cold filet mignon, her favorite, Newlin had said. The outside of the meat was seared black and the inside was a spongy, tender pink. It was served cold and sliced, and next to it sat a dollop of speckled mustard and knotted rolls with shiny tops.

Kovich followed his partner's eyes. 'Jeez, I haven't had

a steak like that in a year, not since Billy retired. Remember we took him downtown, to The Palm? Jeez, I love The Palm.'

'No.' Brinkley stared at the platter. Next to the mustard was a large pool of gloppy, smooth goo. A tan color. It didn't look like a dressing for the steak. 'Look at that, Kovich. That's hummus.'

'What?'

'Hummus.' Brinkley knew it because of Sheree. When she turned Muslim, she started eating all sorts of shit. Out went the greens and pork ribs, in came the bean soup and whole wheat bread. 'It's a dip, made with chickpeas and tahini.'

'Tahini? Isn't that an island, like Hawaii?'

'No, it's a paste. From sesame seeds.'

'Looks like baby shit.'

'Tastes like baby shit.'

'You eat that?'

'Only to save my marriage.' They laughed, then Brinkley stopped. 'It ain't the kind of appetizer most people put out.'

'Like cheese balls.'

'Right.' Brinkley didn't know what a cheese ball was, but didn't ask. Kovich ate trash. Ring-Dings and hot dogs. 'Like cheese balls.'

'Okay, so?'

'So why they serving hummus with meat? Wife's got the appetizer out and she's waiting for Newlin to come home to dinner.' Brinkley shoved the Polaroids into his pocket and waved at the platter, thinking aloud. 'Newlin says the wife likes filet. We know she likes Scotch. They Scotch and meat people, dig?'

'I guess, Bill.'

Brinkley let it go. He felt like he was on to something, whether it was something that mattered he didn't know. 'So why they got hummus, too? Meat people don't eat hummus. Hummus is a substitute for meat. You eat either hummus or meat.'

'I understand. One or the other. So, you think Newlin eats hummus?'

'No. No man eats hummus. Not unless he wants to save his marriage.' Brinkley wasn't joking. 'People who eat meat don't eat hummus. Don't work that way.'

'How the hell do you know that, Mick?'

'I just know.' He didn't want to get into it. Sheree's conversion. The white keemar she took to wearing, covering up her fine body. All the time reading the Koran. It was the beginning of the end for them. The hummus is for somebody else. Whoever else was at dinner tonight.'

'What? Kovich pushed up his glasses, leaving red marks on his nose.