Back at the office, Brent had an appointment with his investigator, Jack Ruder. Jack was a 50-something ex-FBI agent from L.A. who was living his dream retirement in Santa Barbara. Jack walked into Brent's office wearing a grey G-Man type suit. Lean, fit and looking ten years younger than his age, he could have been on the cover of an FBI training manual "Hey, Jack. Damn it if you don't always look like a cop."

"What're you talking about?"

"Nothing Jack. Sit down, we've got a lot to cover. Now, I've talked to all of the potential witnesses just to feel them out, you know, but you're going to have to get in there and talk to them like a cop."

"I think I may be able to do that, Brent."

"I thought so. Be careful of that Keith Michel. He's a wiseass."

"Should I also talk to Mrs. Haskins?"

"Especially her, Jack. I'd like to know if we're defending an innocent woman or not."

"What do you think?" asked Jack, furrowing his brow and leaning in toward Brent.

"Why, Jack, it looks like you really care."

"Of course I do."

"I see the Boy Scout has never grown up. Me too, Jack. I care whether our client is guilty or not and I just don't buy it. Plus, I believe the old lady. I think someone set her up."

Jack's first stop on his tour was Detective Roland Tomassi's office.

"Hey, Jack, been a while," said Tomassi when Jack popped his head into his office.

"Got a minute?"

"Yeah, come on in."

Jack sat down in one of the two steel chairs in front of Tomassi's not so impressive desk, stacked with papers, files and pictures of his wife and kids.

"I'm on the Haskins case," said Jack.

"What can I do for you, Jack? All the discovery has to go through the D.A."

"I know. We've got the initial discovery. I've looked at the evidence and the reports, and I just don't get something."

"What?"

"Why would the perp rig the ricin to pop off in the victim's face, and then come back to erase all the evidence, but take the flower wrapping home to throw it away?"

"I asked myself the same thing."

"And where are the flowers?"

"We never found them."

"It just doesn't make sense, Rolly. I think you've arrested the wrong person."

"It's what we've got. The evidence is telling us what happened, Jack, not the other way around. Evidence doesn't lie."

"I know, but it doesn't make sense."

"In our world does anything really make sense?"

Jack's rounds with the neighbors were not popping up any new leads either, except for the fact that, whomever he listened to, the person he interviewed seemed to reveal a new possible suspect. There was the pot smoking surfer who made no bones about the fact that he was glad Barbara was dead, the couple with the dead son who didn't feel the slightest bit of remorse about her passing; almost all of the residents in Orange Grove seemed to be happier now that Barbara was gone.

Jack finished his neighborhood tour just as it was getting dark. He decided to top off the day with a visit to Frances Templeton, who grudgingly admitted him into her home.

"I don't have a lot of time, Mr. Ruder."

"That's alright ma'am, neither do I."

Templeton showed Jack in, but remained standing with her hands on her hips and didn't offer him a seat.

"Brent Marks has already talked to me."

"I know."

"Did you also know that Brent represented me in my divorce?" she asked, coldly.

"Yes ma'am, I do. Do you think that this fact compromises his representation of Mrs. Haskins?"

"Well it surely does as far as the Association is concerned," Templeton huffed.

"I don't see that it's relevant in a murder case."

"Well, ask what you're going to ask. I've got about five minutes."

"Did you ever witness Mrs. Haskins to threaten Ms. Densmore in any way?"

"Like I told the detective, she practically attacked Barbara when she just tried to give her a citation."

"You mean when she told Barbara to shove the ticket and gave her the finger?"

"Yes!"

"Did she threaten her life in any way?"

"She was violent!"

"What did she do besides tell Barbara to shove the ticket and show her finger?"

"Well, she..."

"Nothing else?"

"Well, no, but..."

"And you never saw anything else that could be considered a violent threat to Barbara?"

"Well, there was the time she threatened to kill both of us."

"She threatened to kill you?"

"Yes, she did."

"How was that?"

"We had just served her with a notice of default to foreclose on her house..."

"Yes?"

"And she was driving by Barbara's house. We were standing outside and she yelled from the car, 'I wish you both were dead!'"

"I see. That's exactly what she said?" asked Jack, taking notes.

"Yes, she said she wished we both were dead. And now Barbara is dead, and if you get that woman out of jail, I may be next."

As Jack was leaving the rather uneventful interview with Frances Templeton, he noticed a bright light next door. It seemed to be seeping from a crack in the weather-stripping around the garage. Since he needed to talk to Keith Michel anyway, he walked toward the light onto the driveway, and noticed that the side door to the garage was ajar.

"Mr. Michel?" he called, as he pushed the door open wider.

Jack felt a jab in his gut from the dark and looked forward to find the barrel of a shotgun shoved against his abdomen.

"Make a move and I blow you away!"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Jack froze, as a surge of adrenalin brought the hairs on his neck to full alert and beads of sweat instantly popped out on his forehead.

"Hands up!" said the stranger with the shotgun. He was Hispanic, around his mid-30's and wearing surfer gear; probably one of Michel's roommates. Jack immediately complied.

"You got a warrant, Chupas?"

"I'm not a cop. I'm a private investigator."

"You look like a cop."

"Everyone says that," ventured a smiling Jack, his half-assed attempt at humor to lighten the situation.

"What are you doing here, cavron?"

"I came to talk to Keith Michel."

"Why don't you use the front door like everyone else? I could've blown you away." The fat stranger patted Jack down with his left hand, keeping the shotgun pinned against his gut, and removed Jack's Glock 9mm from his shoulder holster. "And you're packin." The stranger tucked the gun into his pocket. "Looks like we got us a situation," he said, taking a couple of paces backward.

"Can I just come in and explain?"

"You ain't explainin nothin."

"Could you at least put the shotgun down? I'm not armed anymore."

The stranger put the shotgun at his side and Jack exhaled nervously, but not loud enough so that the stranger could notice. This business required a thick skin of discipline. Jack recalled the day when, as an LAPD cop before his FBI days, he answered a domestic violence call. One moment, the woman had been standing in front of him in the doorway, animated and ranting and raving about her husband and the next moment she was gone and in her place was a man holding a smoking shotgun with a blank look on his face. Inside, Jack was crumbling apart, but on the outside, he appeared to have nerves of steel when he commanded the man to turn over the gun.

Jack averted his eyes over the stranger's shoulder to try to get a look into the garage.

"Whaddaya lookin at?" yelled the stranger, going for the shotgun.

"Nothing, nothing. Look, just give me my gun back and I'll leave."

The stranger took the Glock out of his pocket, ejected the clip, slid open the slide and checked the chamber, then emptied out the clip, popping bullets onto the pavement, and slammed the slide back with the precision of a knowledgeable gun handler. He handed the gun back to Jack, and immediately took up his shotgun again, standing at ready position.

"Can you please tell Mr. Michel to give me a call?"

"Whadda I look like? An answering service?"

"I'll give you my card, may I?" Jack asked, reaching for his vest pocket, and resisting the urge to answer the stranger's question. The stranger nodded and waved the shotgun. Jack took out the card and handed it to him.

While Jack was on his field trip, Brent was enjoying some well-deserved rest and relaxation, with no clients and no cats. He had gone home after leaving the office to feed the cat, shower and freshen up for his date with Angela. When he arrived to her two-level Spanish style apartment, he practically ran past the fountains and gardens which usually gave him pause because they were so beautiful. It was true that being apart built up anticipation, but it was beginning to be a real killer.

Brent knocked on the door of Angela's apartment, and she opened it, wearing hardly anything but a smile.

"Quick, come in," she said, as she pulled him inside.

"Oh, I get it. You're getting ready, uh, where do you want to go?"

"Brent are you blind?" said the light-haired green eyed beauty in the slinky blue silk bathrobe that barely covered her small round bottom.

"Huh?"

Angela knew that once Brent "got it," all the time she spent on preparation would be appreciated. Sometimes men are so dense, she thought. She leaned forward for a kiss so Brent could not quite embrace her, but could get a good whiff of her scent.