* * * * * Keys Crescas is the kind of odd-ball you can't find till after dark. Good looking in a romantic, off-beat sort of way. No visible means of support--a typical Psi. Renner made one white-jowled attempt to read me the riot act for failing to plead him guilty when Passarelli had tapped me as Public Defender. I came close to throwing the meat-ball out of my private office. What could I have done? Sure, Crescas has the Stigma--he doesn't try to hide it. It's only TK, though, and I don't suppose much of that. Just enough, the cops will tell you, to make him a good man at picking locks and earn his nickname--Keys. People like Crescas run to a pattern. I left my number in about ten of the spots he might turn up, and around six o'clock one of them hit pay dirt. I pressed the "Accept" key when the phone rang, and Keys Crescas' olive face and curly black hair filled the screen. His black eyes had that lively watchfulness you associate with Psis. He had the gain way down and the aperture wide, so that he wasn't in focus any farther back than his ears. And that scope setting hid from where he was calling as effectively as a veil. Did you ever know a Psi who didn't seem to be harboring a secret? "Hi, Mouthpiece," he grinned, showing even white teeth. "How'd you know where to find me?" "Best place for worms is under a manure pile," I said. "I used parallel logic." That took that smug, Stigma grin off his puss. "What do you want?" he asked, sullen now. "A lead to a Psi who's gone into hiding." You know what he told me to do. "Mary Hall," I added. "She's got Stigma Troubles." "Not even counting you, eh?" Crescas sneered. He made the same suggestion again. I let it ride. "Go on," he dared me. "Make your pitch. I'll laugh later." "That 'Not Guilty' verdict doesn't mean a thing, Crescas," I told him. "That was a National Bank she tried to rob. There's a Federal rap still to be settled. She has big Stigma troubles and needs counsel--and not one of those shysters who hang around the Criminal Courts building sniffing for Psi business." "She's in no trouble till they find her," he said accurately, and I could see his hand come up to cut the image. "For my dough they've given up trying to find her and are using you for a stalking horse," he added with fiendish accuracy. "So don't trust me," I snarled. "You can send her saw blades baked in a cake." I reached up, too. "Hold it." I stopped, trying to keep my glower going. "Passarelli would have to be in on it, too," he decided. "And I can't figure _him_ for a louse. O.K., Maragon. I'll pick you up at your office at about eight o'clock." * * * * *