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He
knew he could save time finding archived case files by making inquiries with
the San Francisco Police Department. And that meant reaching out to Dominique.
He was not sure he wanted to call her just yet, and had thought he might resist
for longer than one day. Well, he decided, he had as legitimate an excuse as he
could have asked. He punched her number on his cell.
    At 7:00 PM. Ray walked over Nob Hill, watching the
sun sink and stain the sky a purple-blue patina. A cable car clanked up the
hill, arms of tourists jutting and pointing at the stately homes. On his right,
La Dolce Vita, an Italian bistro where he had eaten dozens of times with Diana.
The life he had lived. A black fury threatened to swamp his senses. He shook
off thoughts of the past and entered the restaurant.
    The noise level was deafening. A row of impossibly
good-looking people sat at the bar, waiting for their tables. Ray sat at the
section near the window that looked over Hyde Street. He would watch for the
crescendo of craning necks that he knew would follow Dominique Arnello into the
restaurant. It was more than a trophy exhibition. Her impeccable bearing
elevated walking into a moving art. The artistry of the banal, one of the keys
to living.
    While studying law at the University of
California, Dominique’s friendship redeemed the drab social life that plagues
most first year law students. Starting law school at age forty one, she was
older than most of her classmates. Her high-voltage intellect and sleek figure
comprised an unusual combination of gifts, and for that, many of her classmates
could never forgive her. She refused to look the part often assumed by young
female law students: either the devout, unsleeping scholar of law, or the
sharp-tempered courtroom medusa with swords sticking out of her hair. She was
just Dominique, kind, intelligent, and seemingly there for the sheer joy of it.
    Dominique arrived at the restaurant a few minutes
later, black curly hair down to her shoulders, a lavender business suit with a
strategic amount of cleavage, showing to great effect, a string of pearls. The
wave of heads rolled as expected.
    Ray took in the sight of the woman he had once
known so intimately — olive skin, deep eyes the color of fallen oak leaves. He
thought she looked unbelievably healthy, radiant as a newly fired sun.
    She saw him right away and cut through the crowd.
He reached out and they embraced. They looked at each other, so much to say.
The host guided them to a table. They ordered a bottle of Cabernet. Both flush
with muted excitement, talking in that tender way when people meet for the
first time in years. The wine came and they relaxed.
    “Do you keep in touch with any of the old crew?”
    “I hardly see anyone. Once in a while I see
Patrick in court. Remember him?”
    “He was the guy who tore pages out of the first
year assignments.”
    “You remember that!” she laughed. “He always
denied it.”
    “Not convincingly,” said Ray.
    The noise level in the dining room was rising as
wine glasses were drained.
    “Didn’t you two shoot pool all through the first
year?”
    “If you are referring to my billiards sessions, I
can only say the time spent was exaggerated. Pool relaxed me.” Ray took a
drink. “That, among other things.”
    Dominique looked at him and smiled. The waiter
brought some sourdough bread.
    “What are you working on these days?”
    “The usual,” said Dominique. “Some overcharged
drug cases. Black teenagers from Oakland getting maxed out in federal court.
And the kingpin, some white dude, free in the suburbs somewhere.” She sipped
her wine. “So what brings you to California?”
    Ray told her about Lucas Michaels and his efforts
in locating a missing girl. “She slipped beneath the radar looking for her
California dream.”
    “Let me know if I can help. If you need office
space. “
    “I will. Thanks.”
    “Any leads?” Dominique asked.
    “A big one surfaced today. Municipal Court