He flashed me a smile, loving it. "You think so? Thanks. I must have lost twenty pounds since I saw you last."

"How'd you do it? Hard work?"

"Yeah, I did a little work."

He stood and stared at me and I stared back. He was exuding pheromones like a musky aftershave and I could feel my body chemistry start to shift. Mentally, I shook myself. I didn't need this. The only thing worse than a man just out of a marriage is a man who's still in one.

"I heard you got shot," he said.

"A mere.22, which hardly counts. I got beat up too, and that's what hurt. I don't know how guys put up with that shit," I said. I rubbed at the bridge of my nose ruefully. "Broke my schnoz."

He reached out impulsively and ran a finger down my nose. "Looks O.K. to me."

"Thanks," I said. "It still blows pretty good."

We endured one of those awkward pauses that had always punctuated our relationship.

I shifted my bag from one shoulder to the other, just for something to do. "What'd you bring?" I said, indicating the paper sack he held.

He glanced down. "Oh, yeah. I forgot. Uh, subs and Pepsis and Famous Amos cookies."

"We could even eat," I said.

He didn't move. He shook his head. "Kinsey, I don't remember going through this before," he said. "Why don't we fuckin' skip lunch and go over there behind that bush?"

I laughed, because I'd just had this quick flash of something hot and nasty that I don't care to repeat. I tucked my hand through his arm. "You're cute."

"I don't want to hear about cute."

We went down the wide stone steps and headed toward the far side of the courthouse lawn, where shaggy evergreens shade the grass. We sat down, distracted by the business of eating lunch. Pepsis were opened and lettuce fell out of sandwiches and we exchanged paper napkins and murmured about how good it all was. By the time we finished eating, we'd recovered some professional composure and conducted most, of our remaining conversation like adults instead of sex-starved kids.

He shoved his empty Pepsi can in the sack. "I'll tell you the scuttlebutt on that Costigan shooting. The guy I talked to used to work Homicide and he says he always thought it was the wife. It was one of those situations where the whole story stank, you know? She claimed some guy broke in, husband gets a gun, big struggle, boom! The gun goes off and hubby's dead. Intruder runs away and she calls the cops, distraught victim of a random burglary attempt. Well, it didn't look right, but she stuck to her guns. Hired some hotshot lawyer right off the bat and wouldn't say a word until he got there. You know how it goes. 'Sorry my client can't answer this.' 'Sorry I won't let her respond to that.' Nobody believed a word she said, but she never broke down and in the end there wasn't any proof! No evidence, no informant, no weapon, no witness. End of tale. I hope you're not working for her because if you are, you're screwed."

I shook my head. "I'm looking into Bobby Callahan's death," I said. "I think he was murdered and I think it connects back to Dwight Costigan." I sketched the whole story out for him, avoiding his gaze. We were stretched out in the grass by then and I kept having these images of sexual misbehavior that I didn't think would serve. I plowed right ahead, talking more than I should have just to create a diversion.

"God, you come up with something on the Costigan killing and Lieutenant Dolans gonna' crochet you a watch," he said.

"What about Lila Sams?"

He held a finger up. "I was saving the best for last," he said. "I ran a field check on her and came up with a hit. This lady has a string of wants and warrants as long as your arm. Priors going back to 1968."

"What for?"

"Fraud, obtaining property by false pretenses, larceny by trick and device. She's been passing bad paper, too. She's got six outstanding warrants on her even as we speak. Well, wait. Take a look for yourself. I brought the print-out."

He held out the computer print-out and I took it. Why didn't I feel more elated at the notion of nailing her? Because it would break Henry's heart and I didn't want to take responsibility for that. I ran an eye down the sheet. "Can I keep this?"

"Sure, but don't jump up and down like that. Calm yourself," he said. "I take it you know where she is."

I looked over at him with a weak smile. "Probably sitting in my backyard drinking iced tea," I said. "My landlord is head over heels in love with her and I suspect she's on the verge of taking him for everything he's worth."