It was already mostly dark outside when LeBaron slid into a corner booth of the downtown McDonald's with his Big Mac, small fries, and vanilla shake. Fortunately, he had nothing planned for this evening. He rarely planned anything for the evenings anymore, because he was no longer fit for human companionship by the time he got home from Mr. Collin's exhausting rat race. Yes, trite as the metaphor sounded, it was exactly what his job was like, a rat maze. Every morning Mr. Collins would phone him up and announce a brand new configuration that had to be run. And every day he ran it.

He took a bite of his Mac and flopped open the Freeman file. The police report was short and utterly without a glimmer of hope. On November 11 an Officer G. Moseby of the Oakland Police Department had been dispatched to a possible burglary in progress at 1411B Ward Lane. A neighbor adjoining the property to the rear had reported a male suspect in dark overalls entering the building through a second story window. When Officer Moseby arrived on the scene, he stationed his partner, Patrolman D. Wilson, as backup in front of the residence. Moseby drew his service revolver and walked up the ungated driveway to the rear of the residence. There he observed a second story window standing wide open just above a low trellised porch. As Officer Moseby was returning to the front of the residence, the suspect, Rufus Abraham Freeman, 24, black male, dressed in a white tee shirt and gray trousers, emerged from a side door off the driveway with a color tv set cradled in his arms. Officer Moseby made contact with the suspect and, when the suspect refused to make a statement, placed him under arrest on suspicion of violation of PC 459, burglary, PC 487, grand theft, and PC 496, receiving stolen property. The tv set was booked into evidence. The building was secured and a note left for the occupant.

Later that day victim Raccoona GeBobath, 53, white female, 1411B Ward Lane, Oakland, telephoned the Oakland Police department. Officer Moseby contacted her and took a statement. According to victim GeBobath, she was the sole occupant of the apartment, had been staying at a friend's house in Berkeley that night, did not know the suspect Freeman, and had given no one permission to enter her house. She identified the tv set. She also reported as missing two large file boxes of computer records which she claimed to be of "inestible" value. Moseby had trouble spelling "inestimable." It was crossed out and rewritten twice, both wrong. He observed that victim GeBobath appeared to be extremely upset. She was advised to contact the victim-witness program for further assistance.

End of report.

Freeman's rap sheet was a full two pages long, which was pretty impressive for someone who had been an adult for a mere six years. Most of his crimes were against property, although there was an aggravated assault charged and dismissed three years ago. Petty thefts totaled three, the last one as a felony. Two prior burglaries. Freeman served six months in the Alameda County jail and was apparently still on probation for a felony burglary conviction of less than a year ago. He had not served any state prison time.

Not yet.

LeBaron leafed through the other pages in the file. Court minutes of previous appearances in the present case indicated that the preliminary examination had been waived in December. It looked like poor Freeman hadn't been paying well enough for even a preliminary examination. Mr. Collins could be very cold.

On a yellow sheet at the bottom of the file were a few handwritten notes in Collins' cryptic scrawl. It took some time, but LeBaron finally managed to decipher the provocative words: "Gray van, Chevy, '87 or '88, Dept. of Agr., G. R. & D." The notation may have been intended for another file. Mr. Collins had the nasty habit of allowing any telephone call to interrupt what he was doing and then jotting down notes on whatever happened to be in front of him. Collins' other notes added nothing new.

LeBaron leaned back in the yellow plastic contour bench which was designed for someone else's contour. He belched and finished off the milk shake, which made him shiver. He pulled a yellow pad out of his briefcase and wrote "Voir Dire" across the top. He would need some snappy questions to ask the prospective jurors in the morning. Questions designed to disclose potential bias, yes. But also questions cleverly enough crafted so that LeBaron could from the get-go begin to indoctrinate the jurors in his particular theory of the case.

But just what was his theory of this case? Mindless stupidity? Irredeemable antisocial personality? Neither was currently recognized as a viable legal defense. He laid down his pencil. Guilty as charged? Probably no plea bargain had been offered. After all, they had him dead to rights, didn't they? And even the D.A. likes a blowout once in a while. Good for the old swollen ego. Well, LeBaron had an ego too, and he would prefer not to have it dragged through the slime of a hopeless trial. He picked up the police report again. There had to be something. . . .

He skimmed through until he came to the words, "She reported as missing two large file boxes of computer records which she claimed to be of inestible value." Now what the hell did Rufus Freeman want with two large file boxes full of computer records? And where did he stash them before he got caught? It didn't make sense. A computer he might take and try to resell. But computer records? What kind of records were we talking about here, anyway? IRS records? Fiduciary records of account? Maybe records of great value that could be reported as an insurance loss? Ah, yes, records of "inestimable" value, perhaps? LeBaron began to get a whiff of insurance scam on the part of the victim Ms. GeBobath. Not that it made his client any less guilty. But if LeBaron could present the victim to the jury as a worse scoundrel than his poor, misunderstood, disadvantaged client, maybe he could assuage that righteous indignation. Maybe he could even intimidate the victim into refusing to testify. It was certainly worth a try.

--2--

Silently Raccoona GeBobath examined LeBaron through the half-closed door. She was an ugly, short, wiry figure of indeterminate age or sex, with close-cropped brown hair, thick and lightly frosted at the temples. Her upper lip bore the vague shadow of a moustache, and her bushy eyebrows met above a pair of intense almond-colored eyes. Above her right eye a large mole sprouted bristly black hairs. Baggy trousers, a pin-striped work shirt, and heavy engineer's boots further obscured her gender.

Uneasy under her unflinching gaze, LeBaron tipped the police report to catch the light from the bare porch bulb and squinted at it. He found her name, verified the entry "female," and cleared his throat. "Ms. Raccoona GeBobath?"

She continued her silent scrutiny. At last she muttered, "Who wants to know?" Her voice had a swarthy, foreign ring that LeBaron couldn't quite pin down.

"I'm . . . ah . . . Jed LeBaron. I'm an attorney. I represent Rufus Freeman. You know who that is, don't you?"

She stared at him poker-faced.

"Er . . . he's the man who allegedly burglarized your apartment." He looked down at the report. "On November sixteenth?"

"Tell him I want my records back. He can keep the tv if he gives me my records back. Okay?"

"That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. The records you reported as missing."

A dark cloud passed over her eyes, and for a moment LeBaron thought she was going to slam the door in his face. Then she reconsidered. "You're not a Mormon, are you?"

"Pardon?"

"I asked whether you were a Mormon? You know, a Mormon?" She stressed the word as if he were hearing-impaired or an imbecile. "A member of the Church of the Latter Day Saints?"

"A Mormon? No. I'm not a Mormon. Why?"

She studied his eyes for a moment. "Wait a minute, I'll be right back." The door slammed shut.

LeBaron stood at the side door. A stub of old concrete sidewalk linked the building with the asphalt driveway. On each side green spears of irises pushed up through the black soil into the cold Oakland night. This must be the exact spot where the unlucky Rufus Freeman, with Ms. GeBobath's color television cradled in his sweating palms, waltzed into Officer Moseby's arms. Jesus! Caught in the act. Red-handed. How was he supposed to defend such an inept bastard? No wonder Mr. Collins didn't want anything to do with the case.

LeBaron grasped the cold brass doorknob and tried to turn it. Locked. From the inside, it would turn. Freeman had climbed up the trellis, pried open the window and entered, picked up the television, then strolled down the stairs and out through this door. Only his timing was shot to hell. Pretty good response time for the police to catch him in the act.

The door jerked open and Raccoona GeBobath held out a small red book. "I knew I had one somewhere."

LeBaron reached out to take it. "What's this?"

"No!" she snapped. "Put your left hand on it. It's the goddamn' Book of Mormon. Raise your right hand. Swear on this Book of Mormon that you're not a member of the Church of the Latter Day Saints."

LeBaron felt a little foolish, but he complied. "I swear that I am not a member of the Church of the Latter Days Saints."

"And never have been."

"And I never have been."

"Good." Satisfied, she drew the door open. "Won't you come in, Mr. LeBaron?"

"Thank you." As he closed the door behind him, he tried the knob from the inside. Sure enough, it turned easily. He followed her up the narrow, enclosed flight of stairs into an unpleasant, musty atmosphere, reeking with spoiled food and hidden disease. "Why'd you have me swear I'm not a Mormon?"

She spun around on the stairs, waving the red book over her head. "'Cause those slimy, lyin', hypocritical sycophants would rather fry their own first born children in boilin' fat than make a false oath on the goddamn' Book of Mormon."

She led him up to a large dark kitchen and motioned for him to sit at the cluttered table. The top was glazed with unattended spills of unknown vintage. "No, I mean, why are you concerned that I might be a Mormon at all?"

She grunted, but didn't answer.

Through a door on the other side of the kitchen LeBaron could see an even messier room, illuminated by swing-arm fluorescent lamps protruding from three desks covered with computer equipment and reference books, topped with layers of papers and open volumes. Ms. GeBobath was obviously a research scholar of some sort. LeBaron hoped her methods were tidier than her work space. The air was oppressive, and LeBaron loosened his tie to ease his breathing.

"Can I get you a cup of coffee?" She snapped on a bare light over a sink full of dirty dishes. In its glare she looked like some hairy, gnarled little atavistic gnome.

"No, thank you." He laid the police report down on the table and the back page stuck. Carefully he peeled it up.

She poured herself a cup from a dirty, half-full Mr. Coffee and pulled up a chair next to him. "Now you tell me how I can help you, an' then I'll tell you how you can help me."

"Fine. The police report indicates you lost some valuable computer records. Is that correct?"

She nodded over the rim of her cup.

"Just what sort of computer records were these?"

"Genealogical records." Her mistrustful almond eyes never left his face.

"Genealogical records?"

Raccoona nodded, watching.

"Where you trace people's ancestors?"

"Correct. All done with a powerful program I designed to extrapolate and compensate for missing data."

"I see." LeBaron started to make a note on his yellow pad, but found it too was stuck to the table. "Now, let me ask you this," he continued, abandoning the pad and bearing down, "did you have any of these genealogical records insured?"

"What, are you crazy? Who'd insure genealogical records?"

That answer didn't fit into LeBaron's scheme. He was beginning to feel sticky all over. "Am I to take it you mean, 'no'?"

"Take it however you like. But, no, my records weren't insured. Why? You think I was trying to rip off some insurance company?" Raccoona's laugh was a husky, bestial thing.

"No, of course not." LeBaron blushed and fumbled through the tacky police report. The Big Mac roiled uneasily in his guts, as if it might have a mind to come back up.

"I'll tell you, I don't blame Mr. Freeman so much. I mean, I think somebody put him up to it. Paid him to snatch my records. He was just doin' his job, doin' what he was paid for. That's what I think. But I have to get 'em back, if he still has 'em. If he hasn't turned 'em over yet."

"Who'd want to take your genealogy records?"

"They didn't want the records. Those were just data printouts." She bent close to him, and he nearly gagged on the smell of rancid sweat. "They were after the program," she purred conspiratorially.

LeBaron leaned away, recrossing his legs. "But who are you talking about?"

She watched him for a long time, then whispered, "The Mormons."

Ah, the Mormons, LeBaron thought. So we come full circle. "The Mormons?"

Raccoona nodded.

"But why?"

"Because I've got a better processor than they do. And I've filled in some of the gaps." She grasped his forearm with a horny claw and leaned close. "And because I know what they're up to."

"Oh?" LeBaron was feeling light-headed and nauseous. He tried to pull back from her sickeningly ripe breath, but she gripped his arm. So close, he couldn't take his eyes off the revolting black hairs sprouting from the center the rust-colored mole above her right eye. "What they're up to?"

"Yes." She let go of his arm in triumph.

LeBaron drew away and struggled to his feet. The room brightened and tilted sickeningly. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down his neck, soaking his tightened collar. "Thank you, Ms. GeBobath." He lurched toward the stairs. "You've been a great help." Somehow he managed to snag the greasy handrail and stump down the flight without pitching head over heels. At the bottom he turned and peered back up.

She hovered unnaturally at the top of the narrow stairs, cackling down at him, "I know what they're up to."

LeBaron would not have been surprised to see her leap off the top step above him, swoop once or twice like a toying raptor, and fly straight out the tiny stairwell window on a rotting broomstick.