Turner parked his car across the street from a small restaurant and led Decker inside. A waiter greeted the detective by name and seated them.

"You should try the pepper steak," Turner said to Decker. Decker nodded but picked the menu anyway and studied the chicken dishes. As they ate Decker tried to discuss the case, the overnight sightings, but Turner didn't answer much.

"Decker," he said at last, "I get an hour out of that place. Sixty minutes to myself. Now you wanna talk about the game or something, fine. But I need this time away from the case to let it all shake itself into place, you know."

Decker nodded, not happy, but he kept quiet and ate his lunch, thinking about the test results they'd received back from the lab now. They showed that Celia Hartley had been drugged and that there were traces of the drug in the champagne bottle. Why would Peck drug her? She'd been a healthy young woman and could put up a fight, but with Peck's training, he would be able to subdue her in seconds.

Of course Decker had read up on and even dealt with a couple of cases where the perpetrator preferred the victim drugged and helpless. But nothing in any file he'd read on Peck suggested that he'd be such a man. Certainly, he had a reputation with women, going all the way back to Vietnam. But for loving and leaving them, never for hurting them.

Turner refused to entertain the idea of anyone not being 'the type' who would commit murder. With all the murders he'd dealt with, all the different kinds of killers, Decker supposed that he'd become cynical, perhaps even blinkered, as Amy Allen claimed. Agreeing with Amy Allen didn't help Decker's digestion much.

His meal finished, Decker poured himself a glass of water. For a moment, he left it sitting on the table, looking at it and wondering again about the missing champagne glasses. Why take the glasses and not the bottle? If the killer wanted to conceal evidence why take only the glasses and not the bottle?

"I'm getting a dessert," Turner said. He winked at Decker. "If my wife calls, I only had a coffee."

Decker nodded half-heartedly, not caring. He picked his water glass up and almost dropped it as an alarm shrieked out. The diners all looked around and the waiters hurried to the kitchen, looking worried. Turner stood up, Decker following him.

"Fire alarm," Turner said. "Heard it before. Okay everyone," he called out to the rest of the patrons, in his most authoritative tone. "Make your way to the exit now. Don't push."

Galvanised by his orders, the rest of the diners got up and started leaving.

"You," Decker called, when he saw the head waiter come out of the kitchen. "You need to get your people outside." Decker strode over there, making the man scurry ahead of him and back into the kitchen. The workers in there stood around in that indecisive way Decker had seen people react to alarms before.

"Fire exit." Decker pointed. "Move outside. One of you remember to turn off the gas."

In a few moments, he'd brought the kitchen staff around from the back alley to the sidewalk out front, where Turner stood with the customers. The alarm still rang.

"No sign of fire," Decker said to Turner as they waited, studying the building.

"I've seen too many bodies pulled out of places where there wasn't any sign of the fire until it was too late to get out."

This guy's seen too many and too much of everything. Decker glanced at him. Too many of those pepper steaks too. A fire truck arrived and fire fighters started striding around, shouting to each other, going in and out of the restaurant, unrolling hoses.

"Should we just go back to the station?" Decker asked, as a fireman pushed past him. He'd finished his lunch and if Turner wanted a dessert so much Decker would buy him a candy bar.

"I'm in charge of the scene now. You go back if you like."

Decker didn't. He waited while the firemen checked the place and eventually declared it was a false alarm. The patrons who remained filed back in as the fire truck left. Decker and Turner headed back to their table, only to collect their jackets, already well overdue to return to the station.

"What's this?" Decker said, frowning at a large envelope on the table. It had Turner's name on it in big block letters. "You didn't bring that in with you, did you?"

"No." Turner tore open the envelope and took out some sheets of paper inside. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. "What the hell?"

"What is it?"

"It's a toxicology report. From samples taken from two champagne glasses and from one Lieutenant Templeton Peck."

+-+-+

The print deadline had passed and most of the LA Courier Express news reporters had gone home. The tapping of a few typewriters came from the features desk, but the news desk was silent.

Silent, but not empty. Amy sat staring at the keys of her typewriter, mind far away, until heels clacking across the floor made her look up to see Marge crossing the room, her coat on, heading for the door. She would have to pass Amy's desk on the way. Amy at once tried to look far too busy to be interrupted, started typing fast.

"You know that works better if you have a sheet of paper in the roller."

Oops. Amy winced and looked up at Marge, who stood in front of her, frowning down at Amy and her paperless typewriter.

"I had Chris write the latest developments in the Peck story for the morning edition."

"Right... Sorry." She'd only just arrived back a half hour ago, after visiting another prison in the afternoon then spending hours at the courthouse reading trial transcripts and statements.

"You'd better have been out putting together something that's going to make a front page headline." Marge gave her a stern glare.

"I have been. If I'm right about it, then it's a much bigger story than Templeton Peck."

Marge looked interested now and perched on the edge of the desk. "Clue me in."

Amy hesitated. "Um... Could I maybe wait until tomorrow on that?" She put a hand down on her folders when Marge reached for one.

"Someone else gets first look?" The sarcastic tone in Marge's voice was unmistakeable. Amy smiled, not too convincingly.

"It's not that. I just want to get it all straight before I bring it to you."

With a sigh, Marge stood up from the desk. She could order me, Amy thought, but I think that maybe she trusts me.

"Okay," Marge said. "But just remember what I said. You have to decide if you're reporting on this story or if you're part of it. Tomorrow, I want to see what you've got."

"Right."

"Now go home. You look like crap."

"Okay, just got to finish up a few things."

Marge clicked her tongue and strode out. Only after the door closed behind her did Amy take her hand off the folders. She looked up at the clock. Almost nine. Maybe she should go home, but her instinct told her to wait, just a while longer. A colleague passed carrying a cup and she called out to him.

"Hey, would you bring me a coffee too?"

"What am I, the waiter?" However, he nodded and grabbed the mug that sat on the edge of her desk.

While she waited, Amy spread out files and papers and opened her notebook again. Now, she thought, searching her desk drawers. I need a map of LA. And the yellow pages. When her coffee arrived, she rewarded the "waiter" with a smile and he left her to her work. She checked in her notebook and marked off locations on the map with neat black crosses.

The phone rang at twenty five past nine.

"News Desk, Amy Allen speaking."

"Grab a pen." She knew the voice at once.

"Already got one. Go ahead."

Hannibal read off a number, then said "ten minutes" and hung up.

Amy grabbed her notebook and purse and ran down the stairs to the lobby to find the payphone. Then she feared she couldn't trust any phone in the building and instead hurried outside into the street. A chill breeze had blown up and she shivered in her short-sleeved blouse as she waited at a payphone, a quarter ready in her hand, checking her watch until the time crawled around.

At last, ten minutes ticked by and she pressed the quarter into the slot and dialled.

"Yeah?" Hannibal answered after only one ring.

Amy sighed, relieved again to hear his voice. She'd started to feel lonely, cut off from the guys. "It's me."

"I've tried you a few times today."

"I've been out." She'd tell him where later, right now she needed to make sure of something. "Hannibal, is Face okay? Was he hurt in the car wreck? Do you guys need a doctor? I can see if I can contact one for you."

"He's fine." Hannibal's firm voice calmed her fears at once. "Knocked about a bit. Partly by... never mind. He's fine, we don't need a doctor. We got the test results back, Face was drugged, from the champagne. We've handed the results to the police."

Amy frowned. "Handed them? You mean mailed them?"

Hannibal chuckled. "Kid, don't you know me at all by now?"

"Okay, you can explain later," she said, rolling her eyes. "Listen, Hannibal, I've got some information I really need to talk to you guys about."

"Let's have it."

"Not on the phone. It's too big for that. I need to see you."

"Not a good idea."

"Hannibal." She let some of her tiredness and frustration come through in her voice. "I need to meet with you on this. It's not something we can deal with in a five-minute phone call. We need to make a plan!"

Had she just made her choice? She could just type this up as a story and she'd have done her job. Other people would take it from there. But who did she really trust to handle it? Was that even a question? No, this wasn't about her job, it's not just a story, it's the only chance for Face and those other men.

"Hannibal?"

"Okay. I'll call you in the morning at home, at seven thirty. Don't go to work."

"Can't I meet you now?"

"You need rest, kid."

She guessed he could hear it in her voice and she couldn't argue. Despite the urgency of the situation, all she wanted now was her bed.

"Okay. Tomorrow. Speak to you then."