I said, “The police may have a line on an unsolved case.”

“Really. What’s the deal?”

“Remember when Mary Claire Fitzhugh disappeared? Someone came forward with information about two guys digging what might turn out to be her grave.”

We exchanged idle remarks with our attention turned toward Alita Lane. I glanced at her outfit—brown blazer, tweed skirt, black tights, loafers—wondering how she managed to look so sensible and stylish at the same time.

“Where’d the tip come from?” she asked.

“Someone read an article about the kidnapping. He thinks he might have stumbled on the burial when he was a kid.”

“Wow. That would be a break after all this time,” she remarked. “So what’s your connection?”

“I’m a PI in town. I know Cheney Phillips, the lead investigator.”

“Cool. I’ve known Cheney for years.”

“What about you? How’d you end up here?” I asked.

“I work for the Dispatch. One of the guys picked up chatter about it on the scanner and sent me to see what was happening.”

“Not much at this point,” I said. I’m not crazy about reporters and I didn’t want her probing for my client’s identity. I didn’t even want her to know I had a client because she’d try angling for an interview.

“How’d you hear about it?” she asked. Her tone was casual and the line was delivered as a throwaway as though she had little or no interest in my response. This was crafty reporter small talk designed to elicit information.

“Long story,” I said.

“Mind if I get your name?”

“You can keep my name out of it. This is not about me.”

“No problem. If you don’t want to be quoted, we can keep this off the record.”

“What’s to quote? I don’t know anything.”

“Fair enough. I’m Diana Alvarez, by the way.” She held out her hand.

Without pausing to consider, I shook hands with her and said, “Kinsey Millhone.” The second the words came out of my mouth I knew I’d been had. So much for keeping my name out of it. I was irritated at her for maneuvering me and irritated at myself for being so easily sucked in.

“Nice meeting you,” she said, and then she wandered away.

While I watched, she removed a spiral-bound notebook from her blazer pocket and started scribbling on a page. She struck up a conversation with someone else, and I knew she’d weasel her way through the onlookers until she pieced the story together. No telling what kind of spin she’d put on it. I looked for Sutton, thinking to warn him, but he was nowhere to be seen.

I was happy I’d grabbed dinner, because it took until 8:00 P.M. for the techs to finish their work. Everything seemed to shut down at once. Cheney appeared at the mouth of Alita Lane and walked toward us on Via Juliana. One uniformed officer followed, toting cones and the yellow tape that he’d wound into a loose skein. Gerald Pettigrew and Belle followed, giving no indication whether the dig had served up anything of note.