When my eyes focus through the rivulets of water on the window, I see Caitlin Masters, her hair soaked from the rain. I let out my breath with a sigh of relief and motion for her to come around to the passenger side.

“I’m glad I wasn’t trying to kill you,” she says, sliding into the passenger seat. “You’d be dead.”

She’s wearing a windbreaker with Los Angeles Times stenciled on the chest. From the pocket she takes a barrette and puts the end in her mouth, then flips down the visor mirror above her seat. “Nothing yet?” she asks through her teeth.

“Nope.”

She gathers her fine black hair and pins it in a loose bun behind her head. “There. I should have done that before I left.”

She turns and gives me a dazzling smile. “Well, are you up on the day’s events?”

“I’m up on my events. The rest of the world I know nothing about.”

“Four TV vans covered the Whitestone suspects’ walk to their arraignment. Jackson, Baton Rouge, Alexandria, and a Gulf Coast station. The courthouse looked like it was under siege. The wire services picked up all three of my stories, and they’re being rerun in dozens of papers.”

“That Pulitzer’s getting closer every day. Which judge did the kids get?” Natchez has two criminal court judges, a white woman and a black man.

“The black one. And he gave them bail.”

“On first-degree murder?”

“With a confession, no less. He set it at a million apiece, which is like a billion to those kids’ families. But I heard the NAACP may put up the cash bond. Two hundred thousand.”

“They might as well paint targets on the kids’ backs.”

Caitlin picks up the video camera, switches it on, and trains it on the polished mahogany door of Marston, Sims. It’s set deep in a deep brick alcove; a brass plate on the street announces the presence of the office to the public.

“Night vision,” she murmurs. “Nice. Where’s Kelly?”

“Watching the back door.”

She zooms in on the door, then pans the rain-slickened street. “How much are those bodyguards costing you?”

“Let’s just say I’m going to have to hurry up and finish another book.”

She laughs. “It’s money well spent. That Kelly’s been all over and done some wild things. He’s cute too.”

An irrational prick of jealousy irritates me. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Don’t get all homophobic on me.” She pokes my knee as she scans the street. “Well . . . here comes a familiar face.”

“Where?” I turn the ignition key and flip on the windshield wipers.

“Our side of the street.”

Now I see. A woman is jogging up the sidewalk in tight lycra warm-up pants and a TULANE T-shirt.

“It’s the waitress with the crush on you,” says Caitlin.