I'VE NEVER BEEN ONE FOR SMALL TALK. LUCKILY, neither is David. We stand together beside the Hummer waiting in silence for his friend. I don't know what he's thinking about. I'm thinking about the various, creative ways I will kill Sandra should the opportunity present itself.

David's friend is punctual. He turns out to be another example of that rare and remarkable American breed: the giant pro football player. He's a good four inches taller than David, outweighs him by seventy-five pounds. He's dressed in jeans that fit too well to be anything but custom tailored and a tee under a denim jacket. His hands are encased in leather driving gloves and his feet in reptile-skin boots. He walks like the Hulk. Must have been a defensive end.

David introduces him as "Charmer Moss."

"Charmer?" I say, returning a firm handshake. His hand is the size of a dinner plate. "For real?"

He smiles. His skin is rich dark mahogany and the contrast of perfect, white teeth in the handsome face is dazzling. "My wife says that's more my mother's editorial comment on my father than any reflection on me."

"What do you think?"

He shrugs. "Don't know. My father died before I was born."

He looks past me to my car and the smile fades. "Shit. What the hell happened to your car?"

David and I watch as he surveys the damage. He makes a complete circle of the car. "Never seen anything like this. You get caught in a dust storm? Sometimes high wind and sand can scour the paint right off a car."

I wish it were something as simple as a dust storm. "No. No dust storms. Can you fix it?"

That brings back the smile. "Didn't David tell you? I can fix anything. If it's cosmetic, the way it looks, I can repaint and replace the windows. Only take about a week. Do you need a loaner? I've got a sweet '69 Mustang convertible you can have for the duration."

"Shit," David says. "I'll take the Mustang. Anna can drive my Hummer."

"In your dreams. I spent the afternoon driving that colossus of yours." I turn to Charmer. "I'll take the Mustang."

He returns to the cab of the tow truck and comes back with a clipboard. He asks and I answer insurance questions, give him my personal information, and arrange to be at his shop tomorrow morning to pick up the Mustang. David says he'll bring me to the shop himself before going to the hospital for Gloria.

"So you're still seeing her, huh?" Charmer says. He gives David a sideways squint. "Heard she got herself in some trouble."

David looks down and away. "Yeah. You might say that."

He doesn't elaborate, and, living up to his name, Charmer doesn't push. His mama would be proud.

I get my purse and Gloria's things out of the trunk. I slip the ignition key off the key chain, and David and I stand aside as Charmer maneuvers the tow truck into position and starts the Jag. I don't realize I've been holding my breath until he drives the Jag up onto the bed. The engine sounds fine. At least that's something. Charmer secures the car and in another ten minutes, he's on his way.

"Nice guy."

David nods. "The best. It's early yet. Want to get some dinner?"

My automatic response to human offers of food revs up to spout the usual litany of excuses why I can't. Except for one thing. David is right about it being early. I'm not about to give him a reason to call Tamara back tonight because he's free sooner than he expected. Especially with no way to keep an eye on them.

"Sure. I ate a late lunch, so I'm not particularly hungry but I could use a beer."

He smiles. "Good. It's been a while since I've been to Luigi's. It's in your neighborhood. How about it?"

Great. I nod and attempt a smile back at him. Now let's hope I can restrain from projectile vomiting at the smell in the one Mission Beach restaurant whose motto is "If you don't like garlic, go home."

My plan is to keep David occupied until it's too late for him to consider contacting Tamara. I figure until ten or so. Then I'll read that last chapter in Frey's book.

When I face Sandra the next time, I'll be prepared.

To do that, I have David swing by the office on our way to Luigi's. I tell him I want to pick up the papers Jamie's office faxed to me yesterday.

Yesterday? Has it only been one day?

He waits for me in the car while I run inside. I do grab the papers along with Frey's book and stuff them in a briefcase. Then we're off to a place that used to be my favorite eating joint.

Luigi's is a block from my cottage. It's small, dark, cramped and always busy. The owner is not Italian at all, but Greek. He's a short, middle-aged guy with a penchant for long-sleeved designer shirts and well-pressed jeans. He runs his place like a general commanding troops. But Ted can cook. His meatballs are world renowned-at least to hear him tell it-and I can personally attest that there are none better in San Diego. I've eaten my fair share.

Before the vampire thing turned garlic into a weapon, that is.

Ted is behind the bar when David and I walk in. He does a double take and slams a glass down on the counter so hard, it shatters. He snaps his finger to the barkeep to clean up the glass and stomps out to meet us, scowling.

"So. You aren't dead, after all. Figured you had to be, it's been so long since you dropped by. So what was it? Amnesia? You forget your friends in the neighborhood now that you have a fancy office downtown? You find another place that feeds you better than Luigi's?"

He looks like he's winding up for a long tirade. I can't speak the smell is so offensive. At the moment I think I'm going to have to run out or puke all over his Gucci loafers. He takes David's arm in one hand and mine in the other and steers us to a booth by an open window. It's already occupied, mind you, but that doesn't stop Ted from shooing the couple out, gathering up their dishes, and plunking them down on a table in the center of the place. They're too stunned to object. Even if they did, Ted wouldn't care. He's a force of nature. His place, his rules.

David and I slide in. Neither of us has spoken a word. Ted's storm passes as quickly as a cloudburst, and by the time he's signaled for the busboy to wipe down our table and bring setups, he's beaming at us.

"How about a nice Chianti?" he says. "For the antipasti. Then I'm going to cook something special for you. You two leave everything to Ted."

He heads for the kitchen like a robin after a worm. At least here by the window, I can smell fresh air. I scoot as close as possible to it and gulp down the nausea. What I do to protect my friends. This is not going to be fun.

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