Mary, Mary

excuse for a visit.”
    “She’ll see right through it.”
    “Of course she will. Although you’re a very believable hungry person.”
    “How’re
you
doing?” he asked then. “You sound like you’re at about fifty percent.”
    “I’m okay. More like seventy-five. There’s just a hell of a lot going on out here. Big, messy case, John. Way too much publicity. I keep seeing that asshole writer Truscott, too. Though I hear he’s back East again now.”
    “You want some backup? I could boogie out to L.A. I’ve got some vacation days.”
    “Yeah, just what I need, to piss off
your
wife. Thanks, though. I’ll keep it in mind—
if
we ever get close to this Mary Smith.”
    A lot of my best work was with Sampson. Being with him was one of the things I missed most about the police department. I wasn’t through with him yet, though. I had one more idea where he was concerned. When the time was right, I’d spring it.

Chapter 53
    I SPENT THE NEXT DAY at the FBI field office, worked from seven until seven, but maybe there was a light at the end of this particular long, dark, and creepy tunnel. Jamilla was coming to L.A., and I’d looked forward to her visit all day.
    Jam insisted I not bother picking her up at the airport, and we made plans to meet at Bliss on La Cienega. When I got to the restaurant, she was standing at the bar with an overnight bag at her feet. She had on jeans, a black turtleneck, and black boots with pointy toes and steel tips. I slipped up behind her and kissed her neck. Hard to resist.
    “Hey, you,” I said. “You smell good. You look even better.” Which Jamilla definitely did.
    She twisted around to face me. “Hi, Alex. You made it.”
    “Was there ever a doubt?”
    “Well, um, yeah,” she said. “Remember the last time I was in L.A.?”
    We were both hungry, so we got a table and ordered appetizers immediately—a dozen clams on the shell and an heirloom-tomato salad to share. Jamilla eats like an athlete at a training table, and I kind of like that.
    “What’s new on the murder case?” she asked after we’d polished off the tomatoes and clams. “Is it true she’s been sending e-mails since the first murder?”
    I blinked at her in surprise. The
L.A. Times
had been purposely vague about when the e-mails had begun. “Where’d you hear that?
What
did you hear?”
    “Word gets around, Alex. One of those B-level security things the public doesn’t necessarily know about, but everyone else does. It got up to San Francisco.”
    “What else have you heard? B-level stuff,” I said.
    “I hear this lead detective Jeanne Galletta’s a hot ticket. Work-wise, I mean.”
    “She’s no Jamilla Hughes, but yeah, she’s pretty good at her job.”
    Jamilla shrugged off the compliment. She had my number all right. She looked pretty in the candlelight, to my eyes anyway. Now
this
was a good idea: dinner with Jam at a fine restaurant, my cell phone turned off.
    We chose a bottle of Pinot Noir from Oregon, a favorite of hers, and I lifted my glass once it was poured. “Things have been complicated lately, Jam. I appreciate your being there for me. And here for me, too.”
    Jamilla took a sip of wine; then she put a hand on my wrist. “Alex, there’s something I need to say. It’s kind of important. Just listen. Okay?”
    I stared across the table into her eyes and didn’t know if I liked what I saw. My stomach was starting to drop. “Sure,” I said.
    “Let me ask you this,” she said, her eyes drifting away from mine. “In your mind, how exclusive are we?”
    Ouch. There it was.
    “Well, I haven’t been with anyone since we’ve been seeing each other,” I said. “That’s just me, though, Jamilla. You meet someone? I guess you have.”
    She let out a breath, then nodded. That’s the way she was, straight up and truthful. I appreciated it. Mostly.
    “Are you seeing him?” I asked. My body was starting to tense all over. In the beginning of our relationship, I had expected something like this, but not now. Maybe I’d just gotten complacent. Or too trusting. That was a recurring problem I had.
    Jamilla winced a little, thinking about her answer. “I guess that I am, Alex.”
    “How’d you meet him?” I asked, then stopped myself. “Wait, Jam. You don’t have to answer that.”
    She seemed to want to though. “Johnny’s a lawyer.
Prosecution,
of course. I met him on one of my cases. Alex, I’ve only seen him twice. Socially, that is.”
    I stopped myself