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The waitress arrived, took his order, and retreated. Archie went back to studying the gallery of velvet landmarks, but gradually the tenor and tone of the conversation taking place beside him began to sink in.

Half of the conversation. The feminine half. Beau was taking pains to keep his voice down.

“But he’s not your kid. That’s the point.”

An unintelligible response from Beau. His was not a happy expression, that was for sure. Archie stared at his beer glass. He didn’t want to hear this, but at the same time, it was impossible not to listen in.

“Yes, I get that, Beau. But you made your choice. You were adamant this was how it had to be.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Archie could see a silken sweep of pale hair, a small sandal-toed shoe tapping nervously beneath the table, and a glittering rock on Mrs. Langham’s clenched left hand.

Another low response from Beau.

This time it was met by a slightly louder, “Is that why we’re having dinner here? Because you think I won’t throw a scene in public?”

Archie couldn’t help looking up, couldn’t help catching Beau’s look of angry frustration—directed all at the woman—couldn’t help seeing the real pain behind the other emotions.

Archie’s last partner had gone through a painful and protracted divorce. He did not, not want to feel sympathy—he did not want to feel anything at all for Beau—but, if he was reading the situation correctly, this was brutal. Not something he’d wish on anyone, especially that kid, whoever he was.

“What is it they say? Unintended consequences.” The woman rose, gathered her purse and cardigan. “Thanks for dinner.” She made her way through the crowded tables, head held high, ignoring the whispers around her.

Archie’s view of Beau’s table was blocked by the timely, if annoying, arrival of his salad.

“Ground pepper?” the waitress asked.

“Sure.”

A couple of turns of the peppermill and the waitress moved away. Archie heard Beau requesting his bill.

Archie kept his full attention on his salad as if his future depended on counting lettuce leaves. He could feel Beau looking at him, but if there was one thing he knew how to do very well, it was fake it.

Beau’s bill arrived at the same moment as Archie’s lasagna.

Beau chatted pleasantly with the waitress, while in an alternate universe Archie ate his lasagna and pretended he couldn’t hear everything being said. Not that there was anything revealing in that exchange. Just chitchat.

He knew without looking when Beau finally pushed back his chair and rose, knew that Beau hesitated, knew the moment Beau turned and headed for the door.

He did not relax until he felt the whisper of night air against the back of his neck.

Only when he was confident that Beau was gone, did he put his fork down and sit back.

There was awkward and there was excruciating. That had been excruciating. He really wished he had not overheard even the little he had.

Despite everything that had happened between them, he didn’t wish Beau ill. At the same time, he was not about to let his sympathy for Beau’s situation—assuming he understood the situation correctly—influence any of his decisions.

He slowly ate his meal, oblivious to the people around him, and asked for the bill. He paid for his meal, finished his beer, and walked back to his hotel.

He had planned to spend the evening trying to locate Professor Azizi, but when he walked into his room, he saw the red light on the phone blinking, indicating he had a message. He assumed it was Judith and prepared for another round of pleasantries, but when he listened to the recording, it turned out to be from Frances Madison of Madison Law, requesting that he return her phone call no matter how late the hour.

Archie sat in the wingback chair by the window overlooking the moonlit garden, and phoned Ms. Madison.

She answered on the second ring.

Archie identified himself and the don’t-spam-me note in her voice gave way to a much friendlier tone.

“Archie—I’m sorry. Special Agent Crane—”

“Archie is fine.”