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some people do to make a living,'' Josie clucked.
    ''It's better than the dummy they used investigating that incident in the Valley. That testimony was useless when they got to court. Dead weight doesn't fall the same as a live person.''
    ''Sounds like you're planning to go to court,'' Josie noted.
    ''I'm not planning anything.'' He smiled a lovely, old world smile that didn't impress Josie one bit. Sweeping a hand in front of him, he ushered her back inside.
    ''Then you won't mind cooperating,'' Josie asked as she walked ahead of him.
    ''I wasn't aware I was being uncooperative. Mr. McCreary said he was eager to find out exactly what happened to his wife, and I'm doing my best to discover that.''
    ''Really and when, exactly, did Mr. McCreary say that?''
    Babcock turned left into the master bedroom. Josie paused in the doorway. Babcock was standing over a champagne colored evening dress crumpled on the floor, his brow furrowed as if he couldn't quite figure out what this said about the night – or the woman – in question. Josie looked away, letting her eyes wander to the bed. A lavender satin negligee was laid out neatly. Michelle McCreary had intended to go to bed it seemed. But that's not what Josie was thinking about as her bottom lip disappeared between her teeth and she felt a flush of embarrassment. Both gowns – so feminine, so sexy - would have been worn for Matthew and that was a man Josie didn't know. Josie's Matthew liked things simple. Straightforward. Bare. That's how Josie had gone to their bed. She cleared her throat. She had almost forgotten why she was there. Babcock looked up.
    ''You're out of line, here, detective. My client indicated that Mr. McCreary was never asked for permission to search the premises.''
    ''We're re-enacting, not searching.'' His shoulders rotated, his fingers flicked in the general direction of the balcony.
    ''You've dusted,'' Josie countered. ''I can see the residue. I imagine you've looked in a few places that were off limits without a warrant.''
    ''That's what we do when we're called to a scene where there is high profile, violent death. We still might be examining a crime scene.''
    ''You're the only one who seems to think so. You've kept Mr. McCreary from his home without any explanation of why you think an investigation is necessary.''
    ''It's my responsibility to investigate. I was told Mr. McCreary would be going to San Francisco for a while. Mr. Douglas gave me his schedule but didn't ask that I vacate the premises. That indicates to me that Mr. McCreary and his staff are anxious to assist us.''
    Babcock ticked off his list as he circled the bedroom. Finally, to Josie's relief, he exited to the living room. She turned on her heel and stayed close to argue her point.
    ''Come on, Babcock. Whatever you're looking for it isn't here if you haven't found it by now. Clear the premises or you'll be the one with the problem. Matthew McCreary had nothing to do with his wife's death.''
    ''Did I indicate he was a person of interest?'' Babcock raised a brow with the look of a tolerant man who had heard everything and knew he was doomed to hear it again.
    ''Actions speak louder than words,'' she reminded him. ''You've got a production going on outside that looks like you're putting together an exhibit that would give the DA a wet dream. Since when does the LBPD pick up a tab like that for a suicide?''
    ''Are you a criminal lawyer, Ms. Bates?'' Babcock buttoned his jacket - navy over a pair of perfectly pressed khakis. A white shirt. An old school tie. An American flag pin on his lapel. He was central casting at its best.
    ''Do you read the newspapers, detective?'' She countered, even knowing that the matter of Timothy Wren's death and Hannah's trial for murdering her step-grandfather, a California Supreme Court Justice, before that were now only media memories. Other trials, other horrible crimes, more flamboyant attorneys had been in the public eye of late while Josie kept to the ever