THIS WAS BIG, no doubt about that, anyway. Even James Truscott was on hand. The news conference on the blue Suburban got covered by everybody and their big brother, and was sure to be the lead item on every report until something else even more dramatic turned up on the L.A. murder case. Hopefully, it would be the capture of the Suburban, and then Mary Smith, male or female.

I didn’t appear in the small group on camera with Detective Jeanne Galletta, but I met up with her minutes afterward. She was getting attagirls all around, but she broke away to come over and see me.

“Thanks for the help. The wise counsel,” she said. “So did I look like a fricking raccoon on national TV?”

“No, you didn’t. Well, yeah, you did.” Then I smiled. “I remember you saying one time, you have to eat, right? You still interested?”

Jeanne’s worried look returned suddenly. “Oh, Alex, not tonight.” Then she winked and grinned. “Gotcha. Yeah, we could eat, I guess. What are you in the mood for? Actually, I’m starving now. Italian sound good?”

“Italian always sounds good to me.”

Jeanne’s apartment was on the way to the restaurant, and she insisted we stop. “I need to check out my face in my own mirror, with lighting I trust and know,” she explained. “This will only take five minutes, maybe seven minutes tops. Come up. I won’t jump your bones, I promise.”

I laughed and followed her into a redbrick building somewhere off of Santa Monica.

“Maybe I will jump your bones,” she said as we walked up the stairs to her apartment.

Which is exactly what happened as soon as she shut the door behind us. She spun around fast, grabbed me, kissed me, and then let me go again.

“Hmmm. That was kind of nice. But I’m just messing with you, Doctor. Ten minutes, just like I promised.”

“Seven.”

And then Jeanne scooted down the hall to her bedroom and the lighting she could trust. I’d never seen her so loose and lively; it was almost as if she was a different person away from the job.

It took her a little more than seven minutes, but the wait was worth it, the transformation kind of startling, actually. She’d always struck me as attractive, but she looked kind of tough at work, and definitely all-business. Now she wore a silk T-shirt with jeans and sandals, her hair was still wet from a quick shower, and Detective Jeanne Galletta seemed softer, another side of her revealed.

“I know, I know, I look like hell,” she said, only we both knew different.

She hit her forehead with the palm of her hand. “I forgot to offer you a drink. Oh, God, what is it with me?”

“We only had five minutes,” I said.