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owner, a smiling man with full cheeks and a bustling manner, takes such pride in the place I’ve never eaten there when he hasn’t been behind the cash register. He welcomed Nancy and me before leading us to a table separated from its neighbor by a clear glass panel. Though the restaurant isn’t huge, there’s always a sense of privacy accompanying the intimacy, and it’s become my favorite place in Back Bay .
    I ordered a Dry Creek Fume Blanc from the ponytailed waitress, whose command of English still reflected the tinkling accent of her homeland. The mixed appetizer plate for two (shrimp toast, spring rolls, and five or six other delights) arrived so quickly you almost couldn’t believe it was freshly prepared, though one taste convinced. And, as always, the entree dishes of Tamarind duck and garlic pork and pad Thai noodles were truly to die for.
    Nancy spooned a few more finger-sized slices of duck onto her plate. “So, you given any thought to what we’ll do for the weekend?”
    “No. You?”
    “I was thinking of a road trip.”
    I had some wine. “To...?”
    “Mystic Seaport.”
    “In Connecticut ?”
    “It’s only a hundred miles or so, John. We could stay at a bed-and-breakfast Saturday night.”
    I pictured the bills in piles back at my office. Nancy warmed up to her subject. “One of the other prosecutors went last weekend, and she said it was neat. The seaport itself has all kinds of shops set up the way they were in the whaling days, with ships and demonstrations of sail rigging and anchoring and so on. Be a real nice break from the city, not to mention my judge-review homework.”
    As good an opening as I was likely to get. “I don’t know, Nance. I might have a case I’m starting that would make it tough for me to take off like that.”
    She blinked. “You don’t know whether you’re starting the case or not?”
    “I told the lawyer who wants to hire me that I needed to talk with you about it first.”
    “Me?” Nancy sipped some wine. “I don’t understand. If it’s a case I’m working on, you really shouldn’t take it, but otherwise there’s no conflict.”
    “Not directly, maybe. But... Nance, it’s Alan Spaeth.”
    Her face lost all color, and I suddenly had the impression that if she hadn’t set her glass down, she’d have dropped it. “You can’t be serious.”
    “Steve Rothenberg asked—”
    “I know who the defense attorney is, John. Everybody in the office is on eggshells about it.”
    “But Steve said you weren’t one of the trial lawyers assigned.”
    “I’m... I’m not.”
    “ Nancy , I met with Spaeth at Nashua Street .”
    She stared hard at me. “And?”
    “I don’t think he killed Woodrow Gant.”
    Nancy coughed out a breath. “I don’t believe this.”
    “But you just said there’s no conflict.”
    “I don’t care what I just said.”
    “Nance, when we talked about this last week—”
    “Last week you asked me about a news headline, John. Now you’re talking about helping the man’s killer.”
    Her voice was rising, so I thought I should lower mine. “ Nancy , you mentioned loyalty to your boss before. Well, I have some loyalty to Steve Rothenberg, too. Besides, I’m really talking about trying to find out who shot Gant because I don’t think Spaeth did.” Nancy ’s face seemed to close down. “You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?”
    “About Spaeth’s innocence? Yes. But—”
    Nancy reached for her totebag and started to stand. “Do what you feel is best, John.”
    “Wait a minute.”
    She stepped around the table. “I said, you should do what you feel is best, and it’s obvious that means you should take on this case. But I can’t... I have to get out of here. I’ll call you.”
    I swiveled in my chair. “ Nancy —”
    “I’ll call you,” she repeated over her shoulder.
    The owner was trying not to look from Nancy to me as she strode out of the restaurant. The waitress, who’d been in the kitchen,