"Tfthey get around to ex-girlfriends from three years ago-and that's an if- so what? They have no grounds for a search warrant, and if they are digging that hard, they'll know who's on my speed dial. At the risk of sounding smug, this isn't an address you kick the door in on. You ring the bell, inquire politely, and then go off and shore up one helluva case."

"These guys don't bother with warrants."

"I am willing to take that risk," Induma said. "Now let's focus on making that risk worthwhile."

Wisps of smoke curled from the red candles. "My only way out of this is to get more evidence in my pocket. To hand it off to someone as an insurance policy. And to disappear before they disappear me."

Induma looked down sharply. "Run away again?"

"Not before I warn Baby Everett. The more this thing heats up, the more they're gonna want to tie up loose ends. And she's the biggest one."

Induma didn't move her gaze back to me. "You slipped them," she said. "But there's no saying you can do that again."

"I'd better get well out ahead of them, then," I said. "Are your channels still open at the crime lab? Could you get a DNA analysis through there?"

She hugged the cushion harder, glanced down at the lab report. "In case you get close enough to pluck a hair out of the president's head? Probably. I configured the damn storage network. If I say there's a glitch, the director gives me the run. But even if I can get into the DNA databases, I doubt Bilton's info is in there with the general population's."

"It's gotta be on record somewhere, in case his body has to be identified after an explosion or a fire or if someone shot down Air Force One or something."

Induma said, "Even if we do confirm Bilton's DNA profile with the paternity report, he could still argue that the report's been doctored. You'd need to track down the original at the lab center or wherever."

"How about the Polaroid?"

She gestured for it, and I pulled it from the rucksack. Biting her lip, she tilted it to the light. "It looks old, way pre-Photoshop. Pretty goddamned convincing. Let's assume it's real. And let's assume this woman is Jane Everett. It's still not hard evidence of anything."

"I'm not going into court. I just want leverage. And Bilton's response to the stuff I've found proves I've got it."

"Still, it would be nice to have something concrete about any part of this whole cover-up."

"I do."

Her brow furrowed. "What?"

"Homer was a dentist," I said.

"Yeah?" She blinked. Then blinked again. "Oh, no. Oh, no."

Homer strolled down the stairs, wearing a pink puffy bathrobe. His shaggy hair, when wet, touched his shoulders. The sash was stretched to its limit, barely holding the flaps in place across his distended belly.

Induma said, "Fetching."

Homer said, "We do our best."

"I need you to do something for me," I said.

Induma said, "Buddha wept."

"This thing in my cheek is a bone fragment. I need it. And I can't go to a hospital. I know this isn't exactly your field, but I want you to cut it out of my face."

Homer stared at me, then shrugged. "Okay."

I went to the kitchen and returned with a variety of kitchen knives. Fortunately, Induma had quite a selection. She said, "I think there's an actual scalpel upstairs. Alejandro bought it for one of his sculptures."

"Great. You have a digital camera, right? We should film the thing coming out of my face so we have proof of where it came from."

Homer appraised the knives, then watched Induma lay down a sheet on the sofa.

I said, "Listen, you can do this. I know it feels like you can't. But you can."

He looked calm enough. I must have been reassuring him for my own benefit.

He said, "Do you have any anesthetic?", "For you or for me?" I said.

He didn't smile.

I looked at Induma. "I don't think we have any."

She said, "One of Alejandro's club buddies left a gram or so of coke in the glove box of my Jag. I haven't flushed it yet."

I said, "You want to blow cocaine in my face?"

"No," Induma said, "you want me to blow cocaine in your face."

She got the folded square of magazine page holding the coke, soaked the scalpel in alcohol, and we settled down, Homer standing over me in the Some Like It Hot bathrobe, eyes closed, no doubt trying to recall the principles of facial surgery. I lay on the sheet like a corpse, gripping Induma's hand in mine, waiting for the blade. The scalpel neared. His hand was trembling. He wiped his brow and stepped back.

"Do you have any scotch?" he asked. "I need a highball to settle the shakes."

As Induma started for the bar, I gazed up at his pale features.

"Better make it a double," I said.

Chapter 33