He woke up Connie while he was putting on his clothes. "Hey," he said quietly.
"Hey. Isn't it Saturday?"
"Yep. Sorry to get you up. I want to ask you something."
She shifted, pulled herself up onto the pillows. "You're going in to work?"
"That's what I wanted to ask you about." He came over and sat on the edge of the bed. "Wyatt's latest theory on Palmer and Parisi looks like it just got some corroboration. We've had four calls identifying Rosalier's kid or brother or whatever he is. The picture? Any normal day, I go in and talk to some of the callers, see how sure they are, how reliable. Then I pull a warrant if I can tell a good enough story to a judge."
"Which you can."
He shrugged at the compliment, rested his hand on her thigh. "Here's the thing, though. Last night, this was just Wyatt with an idea. Today, if these witnesses are legitimate, there's some chance things will unravel fast."
"And you've got to be on top of it."
Another nod. "At the very least, I've got to see if I can make my suspect talk to me again before she gets lawyered up."
"It's a she again?"
"Oh, yeah. A definite she." He nodded. "Carol Manion."
Connie almost laughed. "No. Really."
"I'm not kidding." He rubbed his hand over her leg. "But I've been trying to tell myself to go slow, make sure I do everything by the book. If I screw this up-"
"How are you going to do that? Have you screwed up anything yet?"
"No. But I don't have much to show, either."
"But now you might?"
"Now I think I do."
"So what's the problem? Go get her."
"Just like that?"
"That's what you do, Dev. You play by the rules, okay.
You don't cheat. But you get it done, don't you? You always get it done."
"So far. I've been lucky."
"Not just lucky. Good. Careful. By the book. But you don't have to do the book slow. That's never been your style. Slow would have gotten you dead last year, instead of being a hero." But she saw something in his face. "Hey, you, look at me. Don't you dare let those small and ugly people get inside of you, you hear me? You know what you did, what you had to do. You didn't second-guess yourself. You acted bravely and wisely and saved a lot of lives in the process."
"And lost one."
"No. Shane wasn't anything to do with you. He was gone before either of you moved. We've been over this, babe."
"I know." A silence settled. "I'm talking about the Manions, you know. If it's her and if it gets political again and I get squeezed-"
"If, if, if…we don't do if. Remember? If she's killed somebody, bring her down."
"Maybe three people."
"And you want my opinion should you go downtown?"
"I think I just got it."
She broke a smile, came forward with a kiss. "Don't walk," she said. "Run."
Mickey slept well and, undisturbed throughout the night, woke up a bit later than he'd imagined he would, as the last bit of ground fog was dissipating. He threw his sleeping bag back into the trunk and crossed half the valley again over to St. Helena, where some small counter-style restaurants had already opened for breakfast. After cleaning up a little in the restroom, he went and sat alone at one of the six tables, each one dressed with a perfect orchid and a starched white cloth. He ordered his Peet's French Roast coffee, a Roblochon-and-chive omelette of Kelly Ranch organic eggs, with a side of Yukon Gold hash brown potatoes, house-made ancho-chili ketchup, and an Acme Bakery brioche. His waitress, Julia, was about twenty-eight years old, and when he first saw her, Mickey tried to remember when he might have heard about Julia Roberts going into waitress work, but the moment seemed to elude him.
She was nice, too.
After she'd refilled his coffee cup three times, he refused the fourth and leaned back in contentment, asking for the check.
"You're sure? Nothing else?"
"Well, there is one thing, if you don't mind."
"Sure. Anything."
"Maybe you can tell me why I live in San Francisco and not here."
"Oh, I love it down there."
"I do, too, but I love it here more."
"I know." She seemed to be floating in some ethereal place, completely unconcerned and unaware of the passage of time. Suddenly, but in no hurry, she looked all around her, taking in her elegant surroundings. "This place really is like nowhere else."
"Especially today."
She flashed a wicked smile. "Don't tell me you're going to the auction."
"Okay. I won't tell you that."
"But you are?"
"Actually, sadly, no."
"Well, that is sad, but if you were, I was going to hate you for a minute there."
"And now you don't have to. Do you work here all day?"
"Is that a line?"
"It could be. It might not be. If it was a line, would it offend you?"
"No."
"Okay, then, let's call it a line."
"That's sweet, but I've got a boyfriend." Her smile touched his heart as she told him she'd be right back with his check. He watched her with terrible longing as she waited on the other tables, as nice and efficient with each of them as she'd been with him. Maybe she was a robot, a Stepford wife in the making. But damn…
When she came back to him, she leaned over and confided in him as though they were old friends. "Don't look now," she said with quiet excitement, "but the older couple and the boy at the front table? They are going to the auction."
"Who are they?"
"The Manions. Mega high rollers. Manion Cellars?"
Mickey threw a quick glance toward them. "Out eating breakfast just like normal folks?"
"Actually, they come in here a lot."
"You think they're taking the kid to the auction?"
"Maybe not. But if they do, I doubt they'll let him bid."
But the Manions had paid their bill, and now they were getting up. Mickey, fighting sticker shock at the twenty-eight-dollar breakfast tab, decided he could make back some of it by going on the clock for Hunt. He left two twenties for Julia under his plate-might as well leave her with a good memory of him. At least he wasn't cheap.
He walked out onto the street, which now at a little after nine was beginning to come alive, although there was no sign of the Manions.
Which, he thought, was impossible. They'd only left the restaurant thirty or forty seconds before he had followed them out, and he'd seen them start off to the right. He didn't think they could have even made it to the nearest corner. They must have entered one of the adjacent shops, so he started strolling, window-shopping. Four doors up, an old-fashioned barber's pole slowed him down, then drew him inside.
"I just thought you'd want to know." Mickey was back in his car in St. Helena, fresh from his own haircut.
"I do want to know," Hunt said. He hadn't gotten out of the holding cell until three thirty in the morning, Shiu and Poggio making his life unpleasant just because it was so darn much fun. They'd protected the lives of the good citizens of San Francisco by verifying Hunt's permit to carry a concealed weapon, by making sure that his PI license was valid, then graciously informing him that they were letting him off with a warning for carrying the wrong weapon on his permit. He felt that Shiu honestly expected him to say thank you.
Now at least he understood why Juhle hated him.
By the time he'd retrieved his car and gotten back home, it was close to five o'clock, and he'd crashed in his clothes for about four hours, until Mickey's call woke him up. "But," Hunt said, "I thought you weren't going up there."
"Yeah. I changed my mind." Mickey waxed poetic for a moment or two about the day's probable delights, including the breakfast he'd just eaten, which would have been worth its exorbitant price tag even if Julia Roberts hadn't been his waitress.