C Is for Corpse

doors, towers, and wrought-iron balconies. Inside, there's so much mosaic tile on the walls, it looks like someone's covered them with patchwork quilts. One courtroom sports a cycloramic mural that depicts the settling of Santa Teresa by the early Spanish missionaries. It's sort of the Walt Disney version of what really went on as the artist has omitted the introduction of syphilis and the corruption of the Indians. I prefer it myself, if the truth be known. It would be hard to concentrate on justice if you had to stare up at some poor bunch of Indians in the last stages of paresis.
    I cut through the great archway toward the sunken gardens in the rear. There were about two dozen people scattered across the lawn, some eating lunch, some napping or taking in the sun. Idly, I catalogued the merits of a good-looking man coming toward me in a pale blue short-sleeved shirt. I was doing one of those visual surveys that starts at the bottom and moves up. Uh-hun, nice hips, dressing left... uh-hun, flat belly, great arms, I thought. He'd almost reached me when I checked out the face and realized it was Jonah.
    I hadn't seen him since June. Apparently the diet and his weight-lifting regimen had worked like a charm. His face; which in the past I'd labeled "harmless," was now nicely honed. His dark hair was longer and he'd picked up a tan so that his blue eyes now blazed in a face the color of maple sugar.
    "Oh, God," I said, stopping dead in my tracks. "You look great."
    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