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off the clumsy compliment, crossed her arms, and looked expectantly at Herb.
    For a moment, his expression settled into seriousness, longing, and his eyes searched Sylvia's face. Beneath their deep mahogany surface, her irises were flecked with warm gold. The small scar near her left eyewas a shade lighter than her skin. Her lips were parted just enough to reveal teeth a little bit crooked. He had a sudden urge to kiss her.
    Instead, he said, "You always look terrific." But he read her impatience and switched gears with a question. "What's eating you?"
    "Tell me about Lucas Watson."
    "What's to tell? You're the shrink."
    "How long has he been your client?"
    When he frowned, Herb's forehead creased like linen and he peered out from under a mono-brow. "Duke Watson is my client, has been for years. The governor just appointed him chairman of the Interim Tax Committee." Herb's voice softened, and he eyed Sylvia thoughtfully. "Are you aware of that?"
    Sylvia absorbed the information: Duke Watson now held a position of influence over every commercial enterprise in the state. Perfect for a man who had a reputation as a rabid control freak. Even better if the governor wanted to pass the torch on to him in the next election.
    Herb bit into a bread stick and crumbs fluttered into his water glass. "I took Lucas as a client with the manslaughter trial, three years ago, as a favor to the old man."
    "I read Malcolm's evaluation."
    "Yeah, but the judge wouldn't admit the expert testimony." Herb grinned. "Judge Mahoney. The honorable fartbag thinks you guys are nuts."
    "Has Lucas had a full psych battery since the trial?"
    Herb eyed Sylvia silently while a busboy delivered vodka and coffee. When he was gone, Herb said, "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"
    "Just one more question." Sylvia took a sip of coffee. "Why did you wait until the last minute to call me?"
    "Hold your horses, what are we talking here?"
    "You knew that the parole hearing was coming up."
    "Hell, 'Late' is my middle name."
    Sylvia's expression hardened. "Did you think I might do a lousy job because I've been distracted by Malcolm's death?"
    "Oh, come on, Sylvia, I knew you'd do a great job."
    "Herb, don't bullshit me."
    "Shall I take your order?"
    Herb spit a tiny spray of vodka from his lips. He turned to face the flustered waiter. "Surprise me, pal. I'll take the chef special, whatever, the daily."
    "A green salad," Sylvia said.
    The decibel level in the restaurant had gone up as more customers streamed in for lunch. Tables were clustered in small rooms of what had once been a Territorial hacienda. Now, the old well shaft was covered with a sheet of thick Plexiglas set in the floor of the bar, and plates arranged with chile wonton and cilantro squab tacos were served from the stainless steel kitchen.
    Using crayons supplied by the restaurant, Herb began doodling notes to himself on the white paper tablecover.
    Sylvia spread her fingers on the table. "Your client has some major problems."
    Herb snickered. "You know how guys in the joint are, Sylvia. Lucas has done his time and he deserves a break." He turned to stare as a young woman in a knit dress walked toward the bar. "If you want, you can talk to my paralegal. He's dealt with Lucas on most of the prep for the hearing."
    Sylvia pulled a manila folder from her briefcase, and set it on the edge of the table. "Here's the evaluation."
    "Great."
    Sylvia spoke slowly. "There are no signs of organicity or schizophrenia or a schizophreniform disorder, and, apparently, there are no auditory or visual hallucinations."
    "Hey, that's good, isn't it?"
    "But the MMPI indicates that Lucas suffers from persistent, nonbizarre delusions—somatic, grandiose. There's also a high degree of paranoia . . . an inability to relate to others—suspicious, defensive, that sort of thing. I'm guessing a paranoid personality or delusional disorder. Mix that with a good dose of antisocial traits and you've got a potent