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“Just a quick interview, huh? Chance for me to say I talked to the defense lawyer in the DiCinni case. Exclusive.”
    “Give me my keys.”
    “Couple questions. You don’t even have to be specific. Just so I can say—”
    “What part of ‘give me my keys’ don’t you understand?”
    “What I don’t understand is why you are not returning my phone calls.”
    A car on Hill Street honked an L.A. insult at someone. It zapped Lindy’s skull. She felt dazed. That was the word, especially around Sean. Did she want to see him or not? Maybe, but she was afraid. Afraid of what she might allow herself to do if she kept seeing him. Afraid that, with Darren consuming her thoughts, now was not the time to get romantically involved with anyone.
    Lindy brought her leg over the seat and stood her ground. Sean was about six-one, a decided advantage. “Quit acting juvenile.”
    “Like your client?”
    “He’s only my client. Temporarily.”
    “You sure about that?”
    “Off the record?”
    “On.”
    “Keys.”
    Sean shook his head. “Do you know you drive me wild? What is it about you I find so captivating?”
    “Hand them over.” She swung her helmet at his shoulder. It bounced off with a loud fwap .
    Sean’s smile disappeared.
    “Give me my keys.”
    “Take ’em then.” He threw them at Lindy, hitting her in the chest. The keys fell to the asphalt. “What happened to you?”
    “Me?” Lindy was incredulous as she bent down for the keys.
    “What did I do to you that was so bad? We had a good thing going.”
    They had, hadn’t they? Lindy couldn’t remember that many bad moments. Sean had been there for her after a disastrous breakup, and in the short time they’d known each other treated her kindly. Until the night of the meandering hands. But he was a guy. Wasn’t that the natural progression?
    His tone softened. “Lindy, let’s give it another shot, huh? I’ve got some wine cooling at home, we can put on some music, watch the stars come out.”
    “This is L.A., Sean. You can’t see the stars.”
    “I meant on Entertainment Tonight. ”
    “Maybe another time.”
    Sean shrugged. He also let his face reflect an obvious self-satisfaction, with a half-smile that said I know something you don ’ t know .
    Lindy willingly took the bait. “What?”
    “Oh, nothing.” Sean scuffed the ground with his Italian loafer. “Just a little inside information about the DiCinni family, that’s all. Maybe where the kid’s father is. But you wouldn’t be interested.”
    “Cut it out. What do you know, if you think you know anything?”
    “Hey, maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m not the best crime reporter in L.A. Who needs me, right?”
    “Sean, tell me what you know.”
    “Sure.”
    She waited.
    “Tonight. My place. Shall we say seven thirty?”
    3.

    Sylvia Martindale, known to all her friends as Syl, was Mona Romney’s best friend. They’d met in junior high school, back in the days when it was still called junior high school. They’d been cheerleaders together at Grant High School, and even though they went to different colleges—Syl up to UC Santa Barbara, Mona to Cal State Northridge—they remained like sisters, writing all the time, then emailing, and always calling on the phone.
    It was Mona who became a Christian first, in her senior year, during an outreach by the college group at Word of Life church. At first Syl was skeptical, but accepting. She told Mona this phase would probably pass. Mona was always going through phases, like her Sting phase in 1983, and her Bon Jovi phase in 1990.
    But it did not pass like all those other things. It stayed, and Mona stayed in church, which was where she met Brad, and where they were married, and where they dedicated Matthew as a baby.
    It was during the dedication, in fact, that Syl came to church and decided to stay herself. That day had been one of the best of Mona’s life.
    Now they were together in the dark shadows of Mona’s worst phase, the season of