Justice for All. Joanna Wayne

go with him this afternoon, so I better run.”

      Too bad. Callie would love to hear more, especially how a man from Sacramento knew so much about Bernie Brusco.

      More info to share with Max tonight—which brought to mind a few other problems. Like why having an old friend to dinner to discuss a police investigation incited titillating sensations at the edge of her consciousness.

      But then she’d never understood her feelings for Max Zirinsky, not since that night she’d boo-hooed in his arms over his pompous, self-centered cousin, whom she’d had the poor judgment to marry.

      She was ready to trash what was left of her salad and get back to her office when she heard Mikki’s laughter over the clatter of banging trays and chatter. Mikki spotted her at the same time, smiled and came hurrying over with a heaping plate of spaghetti and meatballs and a slice of coconut pie.

      “Are you expecting a crowd for lunch?” Callie asked as Mikki started unloading her tray.

      “I hope not. I plan to eat every bite of this myself. I missed my midmorning apple and I’m famished.”

      “Busy morning?”

      “Swimmer’s ear. I think half the population of Courage Bay under fifteen years of age is water-logged. The rest are sunburned or else they’re faking stomachaches so they don’t have to leave their friends and go to summer camp.”

      Mikki forked a tangled mass of dangling spaghetti and slid it between her lips.

      “And wasn’t that man who was murdered last night the same guy you saw in the emergency room Friday night?” she asked as soon as she’d swallowed.

      “One and the same.”

      “Did you see the headlines in the morning paper?”

      “No.”

      “Another one bites the dust. They devoted half a page to talking about the Avenger. They make this killer sound like a cross between Superman and the Terminator.”

      “You know how the media loves hype,” Callie said.

      “Hype’s one thing. Glorifying a killer is another. What if we all went around killing everyone we wanted dead?” She broke off a bite of her bread and slathered it with butter. “And I caught a bit of the noon news. They showed your friend Max. He’s more than just a nice butt, you know. You really should go after him.”

      “Go after him?”

      “Yeah, you know, flaunt your stuff the way you did in that red dress Friday night. The poor guy was practically drooling.”

      “I didn’t notice his tongue hanging out.”

      “Tongues can be tricky. Sometimes you have to go in after them.”

      “That’s as gross as watching you sit here in your size four pants and shovel down what amounts to a month’s calories for the rest of us.”

      “Someone has to eat this hospital food. But speaking of calories, your favorite resident at the Keller Center is putting on too many pounds again.”

      “You must be speaking of Gail Lodestrum.”

      “None other than our emotional wreck who’s carrying not one but two fetuses in her womb.

      “Did you go up this weekend?”

      “Yesterday. Cortina delivered, and I couldn’t wait a whole week to see the new baby.”

      “Boy or girl?”

      “A dark-haired boy. Perfectly healthy, and totally adorable.”

      “Great. Not good news about Gail, though.”

      “No. I tried to talk to her, but she shut me out like always, except to ask when you’d be back. For some reason, you seem to be the only one she trusts.”

      “She’s only fifteen,” Callie said. “I probably remind her of her mother.”

      “The mother who kicked her out of the house when she found out Gail was pregnant. I seriously doubt it. When are the twins due?”

      “Early September, but I think they’ll come early,” Callie said, pushing her salad plate out of the way and propping her elbows on the table. “She clams up every time I ask her about the father, but I have a feeling she hasn’t told him about the babies. If she did, she might get a little support there. Or maybe not.”

      “She’ll tell you all before it’s over. They always bare their souls to you, even when they won’t talk to the counselors at the center.”

      “Pregnant women and dogs like me.”

      “And police chiefs.”

      Callie felt a slow burn that she was certain reached her cheeks. One of the surgery residents stopped by the table to hit on Mikki before Callie had time to respond. “Great timing,” she told him without bothering to explain what she meant. She said a quick goodbye and headed back to her office.

      She was sure Mikki was wrong about Max. If he was attracted to her, she’d be the first to know.

      Wouldn’t she?

      UNLOCKING AND OPENING the door, Callie stepped inside the rambling beach house she’d inherited from her aunt Louise. Late afternoon sunshine poured through the windows, adding a golden glow to the cream-colored walls, honeyed pine furniture and vivid colors of the upholstered pieces. Pickering got up lazily from his spot in front of the back door and came to greet her.

      “Hello, boy. Did you miss me?”

      He licked her hand in answer.

      Callie slipped out of her shoes and left them at the door, loving the feel of the polished wood against her bare feet as she padded to the kitchen to drop off the white deli bags that held tonight’s dinner. Finger foods that she and Max could eat around the pool as the sun settled to a ball of fire and dropped into the Pacific.

      Taking a minute, Callie rummaged through the day’s mail, which she’d picked up on her way in. A few advertising circulars, a couple of catalogs, and an engraved invitation to a wedding reception. Which reminded her of another engagement. The Cravens’ annual garden party was Saturday afternoon. She’d have to remember to call her regrets tomorrow.

      Though the party would be nice—social affairs in Marjorie Craven’s beautiful English garden always were—Callie wanted to drive up to the center on Saturday and have a talk with Gail. Keeping the mother of twins healthy took precedence over tea and scones.

      Callie’s thoughts drifted back to Max as she chose an assortment of wine and arranged the food on serving plates. The last time he’d been to this house had been a rainy night eight years ago, just three weeks after she and Tony had moved in. Looking back, she’d never been sure why Max had stopped by that night. He’d never done it before or since.

      The room grew warm as the memories rushed in. Okay, if she kept this up, she was likely to hurl herself into Max’s arms again and he’d run off for another eight years.

      It was only six-forty. If she hurried, she’d have time for a quick swim before he arrived. That should cool her off.

      She slipped into a black bathing suit and was about to dive into the pool when her cell phone rang. The caller ID said Mary Hancock. The swim could wait a few more minutes.

      “Hi, Mary.”

      “I was visiting a friend in San Diego today, and I just heard about Bernie,” Mary said, her voice hoarse and broken. “The newscaster said he’d been murdered.”

      “I’m sorry, Mary. I had no idea you didn’t know or I would have called you earlier.”

      “They’re saying the Avenger killed him.”

      “That’s speculation.”

      “Not according to the news. The Avenger made a mistake. Bernie