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an hour ago, was the truth.
    "Well, I'm glad you called, Jamie. I'm pleasantly surprised."
    "That’s me. Full of surprises. So, how have you been?"
    "Ah, good. Fine. Sorry, I’m, uh, just a little distracted at the moment."
    "Work?"
    "Yeah."
    "What do you do, Aiden?"
    "I’m a lawyer."
    "What kind?"
    "Criminal."
    "Defense or prosecution."
    "Prosecution."
    "No kidding? Any chance you’re working that case where the judge was shot?"
    "It’s a big case," he hedged.
    "Talked to the wife yet?"
    "You ask a lot of questions, Jamie."
    I bit my lip. Too far?
    "Just trying to get to know you, Aiden," I said, pouring on the charm.
    "Apparently. Listen, I’m kind of tied up here. How about I give you my life story over drinks tonight?"
    Not exactly how I’d envisioned this conversation going. But…
    "Alright."
    "Yeah? Great. Uh, say around nine?"
    "Perfect."
    "Okay. Great, okay then. Listen, I'm really sorry, but I've got to go. But I'll call you on this number later tonight, okay?"
    "Looking forward to it, Aiden. Looking forward to it."
    I hit the end button and dropped down on my bed.
    Okay, so maybe no one was talking to the press. But there was a chance that "Jamie Smith" and her fuck-me heels might be able to garner a little more information out of our ADA than Chip and company. Like if the cops were looking at the wife, if she’d told them about our little sting operation, and if the Bond Agency was about to be plastered all over CNN as the purveyor of murder motives to unhappy housewives everywhere.   
    If I was lucky, I might even be able to persuade Aiden to keep the agency out of the investigation altogether.
    As gears turned in my head, my cell rang. 
    "Hello?" I answered. In a voice that, in hindsight, might have been a little on the imagining-seducing-an-ADA-for-insider-info side.
    "Wow. Sexy. Who did you think was calling? ‘Cause I know that wasn't for me."
    Danny.
    "No one," I hedged.
    "Uh-huh. So, you just answer the phone like a sex kitten all the time? Remind me to call you more often."
    "I was not being a sex kitten."
    "Trust me, you keep talking like that, and you can start charging three-ninety-nine a minute."
    "Thanks for the tip," I mumbled, making a concerted effort to give my voice a pissed off edge. "And, by the way, where were you last night? I was two seconds away from a complete meltdown, and you wouldn’t pick up your phone."
    "I had company," he responded, and I could almost see the smirk on his face. "A couple of nice, young, redheaded bits of company with huge sets of…"
    "Halt! No more details. I get the picture. I take it you were too busy to watch the news, then?"
    "Never watch the news. Too depressing. Why? What happened? Brad and Angie splitting?"
    "I wish. No, Judge Waterston."
    "What about him?"
    "He took a bullet to the head yesterday afternoon."
    Danny was silent on the other end. Then, "Holy shit. What happened, James?"
    I filled him in as best I could. Which, considering all I knew came from Soledad and Tom at the news desk, wasn't much.
    When I was done, Danny just did a low whistle. "Wow. Sucks, babe."
    "That seems to be the general consensus."
    "But you know this isn't your fault. People do weird things. You can't predict them."
    "I know." And I did. It just didn't make me feel any better.
    "Hey, what are you doing right now?" he asked.
    I looked down at the cocktail napkin. "Nothing."
    "Cool. Want to meet for a late lunch?" he asked. "My treat."
    I shrugged. Who was I to turn down a free meal?
     
    *  *  *
     
    Twenty minutes later I met Danny near his place in Santa Monica at the Dungeon, a pizza and hoagie joint with no windows, peeling paint and the absolute best pastrami and onion sandwiches in the known universe. A large, stained bar spanned one side of the room, with a handful of wooden table and chairs sets and a scarred pool table taking up the bulk of the tiny place. A TV was mounted on the ceiling in one corner, the guy behind the bar flipping between a soccer