Adjourned by Lee Goldberg

matter how good it might feel, Macklin lectured to himself. A man can't live that way.
    We'll see . . . , a voice inside chided him.
    "Hey, Brett, what the hell happened to your house?"
    Macklin turned and at first glance didn't recognize the man coming in the hangar wearing reflecting sunglasses, a pink satin scalloped shirt, and designer jeans.
    "Mort?" Macklin asked incredulously.
    "Of course it's me." As Mort came closer, Macklin noticed his friend's uncharacteristically dark tan and the cloud of Pierre Cardin aftershave that surrounded him. "But not for long. I'm nearly Mortimer Neville."
    "You're nearly out of you mind. What is all this shit?"
    Mort patted himself on the rear. "One pair of Sassoon jeans." He tapped the rim of his glasses. "Porsche shades." He ran his hand down the scallop cut of his shirt. "One genuine Morey Geyer scalloped shirt from Palm Springs, and, to top it all off"—Mort unbuttoned his collar to expose his hairless chest—"a summer tan from Al Bonzer's Sunset Strip tanning boutique."
    Macklin groaned. "Jesus, Mort, you look ridiculous."
    "Listen, Brett, your opinion doesn't count. You have no taste." Mort took off his sunglasses, folded them, and slipped them into his breast pocket. "Cheshire does. I went by the place to model my threads for her first and get a real opinion, but I couldn't find her. What happened to the place anyway? It's scorched."
    Macklin suddenly realized Mort didn't know, that his friend had been back in Los Angeles for only a few hours.
    "Hey, Brett, what's wrong?" Mort said, the glow disappearing from his face. "You look like you're about to puke."
    Macklin didn't know how to begin. There was no right way. "Mort, she's dead."
    "Huh?"
    "Cheshire, she's been murdered." Macklin grasped Mort's shoulder. "Someone put a bomb in my car and she was blown up."
    Mort squinted his eyes quizzically and tilted his head toward Macklin. "What?"
    "Cheshire is dead," Macklin said carefully.
    Mort swatted Macklin's arm away. "It's you, isn't it?"
    "What?" Macklin snapped.
    "Mr. Jury. The killing. It isn't over, is it?" Mort glared at Macklin. " Is it!? " he yelled.
    Macklin frowned and exhaled slowly. "No, it isn't, Mort. I'm not sure it ever will be."
    Without warning, Mort smashed his fist into Macklin's stomach and, before Macklin could recover, followed through with an uppercut that sent Macklin sprawling onto the floor.
    "Fuck you, Brett, just fuck you."
    Turning his back to Macklin, Mort walked toward the hangar door.
    "Mort," Macklin rasped, propping himself up on his elbows. "Wait, I need your help!"
    Mort kept walking.
    "Damn it, Mort, I loved her, too!"
    Mort stopped, his shoulders sagging.
    Macklin stood up shakily. "We can make them pay, Mort. Together."
    Mort looked over his shoulder. "Who are they?"
    "A bunch of psychos who kidnap kids, force them to have sex in porno movies, and then kill them." Macklin held out his hand to him. "Will you help me?"
    Mort turned around slowly and sighed. Macklin waited, his hand out.
    "Please?" Macklin prodded.
    Mort nodded, reached out, and shook Macklin's hand. "I'm sorry I hit you. I was pissed. I know it isn't your fault."
    "It's all right, I don't blame you. I thought it was over, too."
    Macklin told Mort about his meeting with Stocker and Shaw, the surveillance of Saputo, his meeting earlier that day with Harlan Fitz, and the phone call he had just made to Orlock.
    "What do you want me to do?" Mort asked.
    "I want you on the roof of the building across from the warehouse, taking pictures and covering me," Macklin said. "If I get into trouble, call Shaw."
    "All right."
    "You have a gun, don't you?"
    Mort hedged with silence. He hadn't used a gun since his alcoholic days on the LAPD chopper patrol.
    "Yes or no, Mort? Do you have a gun?" Macklin knew Mort had been a crack shot once and thought he probably wasn't too bad now.
    "Yes," Mort said. "But, Mack, I haven't fired a gun since—"
    "No arguments," Macklin interrupted. "It