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“Looks like it.”
Watching in the bar mirror, Ballard saw a server go to the Purcell table and give the judge a to-go bag.
She took the second genetic-evidence bag out of her pocket and handed it to Paul under the bar. “You have gloves?” she asked.
“Got one already on,” Masser said.
“Good. What are you going to go for?”
“Before he got the call, he had the soup. I’ll go for the spoon.”
Ballard nodded. Masser started to get off his stool. Ballard put her hand on his arm to stop him. “Not yet,” she said. “Wait. Let them get out the door.”
“But they might clear the table,” Masser said. “There’s people waiting.”
Ballard kept her hand on his arm. In the mirror she watched the couple moving toward the door. She glanced over at their empty table with the judge’s napkin balled up on top of it. She swiveled on her stool to watch them leave.
But they didn’t.
The judge stopped in front of the trio of young hostesses to engage in conversation. He was probably a regular and was explaining his reason for departing early. Each hostess made a face of faux empathy and understanding. Ballard checked the table. A waiter hovered over it for a moment, then picked up the check folder the judge had left behind.
Ballard looked back at the judge. He was still talking.
“We’ve got to do this,” Masser urged.
“Shit,” Ballard said. “Okay, go. Try not to be seen.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You know what I mean.”
Masser headed into the dining room just as a busboy was moving toward the judge’s table. Masser pulled his phone from his pocket with his ungloved hand and walked with his head down, looking at its screen. He and the busboy converged at the table, and Masser tripped and lurched into it, his upper body leaning over the judge’s former seat. He pulled back and apologized, holding his phone up in explanation—and to draw the busboy’s attention from his other hand.
Masser returned to the bar and sat down.
“You learn that move in magic school?” Ballard asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Masser said. “One hand distracts while the other hides the rabbit.”
Ballard looked down and saw Masser had the evidence bag open between his legs and was placing the soupspoon in it. She checked the mirror and saw the judge and his wife finally pushing through the door. Ballard waved to the bartender and signaled for the check.
Ballard looked down at her uneaten dinner. The branzino was brushed with a beurre blanc sauce and looked like it had been perfectly grilled.
“We got what we need,” Masser said. “You’re not thinking of leaving this food behind, are you?”
“I want to see why they left without eating theirs,” Ballard said.
“Then give me the valet ticket. You take a few bites while I get the car.”
Ballard reached into a pocket and handed over the ticket. The bartender brought the check and she put down cash to cover it. Then she ate three bites of fish—it was delicious—and went out the door to her waiting car.
They followed the judge’s Mercedes and were surprised when he went back to the house on Arroyo. There was a car sitting on the street outside the house. Its lights were on, and exhaust from its tailpipesteamed the crisp night air. It was a car Ballard immediately recognized as a city plain-wrap—a detective’s car. As they approached, the doors opened and two men started getting out. The headlights of the Defender splashed across them and Ballard recognized the man on the driver’s side.
“Keep going,” she said.
“Well, I wasn’t exactly planning to stop and say, ‘How y’all doin’?’” Masser said.
“Sorry.”
