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feel like that, and Houghton had said it wasn't that--or was it? Jesus. Some welcome home.
    She went back to her office and dialed their home number. It was busy. And then Trish Barclay walked into the shop and Jessie got tied up with nonsense like the fur jacket in the window, which Trish bought. She was one of their better customers, and Jessie had to keep up the facade, at least for a while. It was twenty-five minutes later when she got back to the phone to call Ian. This time there was no answer.
    It was ridiculous! He had to be there. He had been there when she'd left for the boutique. And the line had been busy when she'd called ... the police had been on their way over. Christ, maybe it was serious. Maybe he had had an accident with the car and hadn't told her. Maybe someone had been hurt. But he'd have said something. Ian wouldn't just let something like that happen and not tell her. The phone rang endlessly, and no one answered. Maybe he was on his way over. It was a little after eleven.
    But Nick Morris needed something "fabulous" for his wife's birthday; he'd forgotten, and he had to have at least four hundred dollars' worth of goodies for her by noon. She was a raving bitch and she wasn't worth it, but Jessie gave him a hand. She liked Nick, and before he left the store weighted down with their shiny brown and yellow boxes, Barbara Fuller had walked in, and Holly Jenkins, and then Joan Wilcox, and ... it was noon. And she hadn't heard from Ian. She tried the phone again and began to panic. No answer. Maybe this time he was on his way over. He had said he'd pick her up at twelve-thirty.
    At one o'clock he hadn't shown up and she was near tears. It had been a horrible morning. People, pressures, deliveries, problems. Welcome home. And no Ian. And that asshole Houghton making her nervous with his mysterious inquiries about the car. She took refuge in her office as Zina went out to lunch. She needed to be alone for a minute. To think. To catch her breath. To get up the courage to do what she didn't want to do. But she had to know. It would be an easy way of finding out, after all. Hell, all she had to do was call down there, ask if they had an Ian Powers Clarke, and heave a sigh of relief when they said no. Or grab her checkbook and run down there and get him out if he was in the can for parking violations again. No big deal. But it took another swallow of coffee, and yet another cigarette, before she could bring her hand to the phone.
    Information gave her the number. Hall of Justice. City Prison. This was ridiculous. She felt foolish, and grinned thinking of what Ian would say if she were calling the jail when he walked in. He'd make fun of her for a week.
    A voice barked into her ear at the other end. "City Prison. Palmer here." Jesus. Now what? Okay, you called, so ask the man, dummy.
    "I ... I was wondering if you have a ... a Mr. Ian Clarke, Ian Powers Clarke, down there, Sergeant. On parking violations."
    "What's the spelling?" The desk sergeant was not amused. Parking violations were serious business.
    "Clarke. With an 'E' at the end. Ian. I-A-N C-L-A-R-K-E." She took another drag on her cigarette while she waited, and Katsuko stuck her head in the door with an inquiry about lunch. Jessica shook her head vehemently and motioned to close the door. Her nerves had begun to fray hours ago, with the arrival of Inspector Houghton.
    The voice came back on the phone after an interminable pause.
    "Clarke. Yeah. We got him." Well, bully for you. Jessica heaved a small sigh of relief. It was disagreeable, but not the end of the world. And at least now she knew, and she could have him out in half an hour. She wondered how many tickets he hadn't paid this time. But this time she was going to let him have a piece of her mind. He had scared the shit out of her. And that was probably what Houghton had wanted to do. He had, too, by not admitting that the problem was parking violations. Bastard.
    "We booked him an hour ago.