Y THE TIME I WOKE UP I WAS RUNNING LATE. THE storm had cleared the air but not my mind or the inside of my apartment. All my joints were tender and the water pressure in the shower was actually painful. I figured I was coming down with a monster flu. I just hoped it wasn’t something more serious. Pico panicked when she heard the splashing. When I got on the scales I noticed that I’d lost 10 pounds since the last time I’d weighed myself, although I couldn’t remember when that was.

Of course I couldn’t find anything to wear. Polly had always joked me about my Thanksgiving suit, but this wasn’t funny. Racing stripe underwear and piles of old shirts that looked like second hand Don Ho. The newer stuff either looked faggy or really didn’t fit. I must’ve shed the flab when I gave up the booze. I’d have to schedule in some shopping. Chris the Cub Scout always looked so neat and fashionable.

I do have OK eyes though, milky blue like my father’s but shaped like my mother’s. My face seemed to have less of that clenched fist look and my beard was light enough not to need a shave. Even the old pockmarks seemed smoother. I’d have a good healthy dinner that night and hop in the tub and listen to Chet Baker, and maybe I could stave off whatever bug I’d picked up—or whatever I may have been dosed with that first night at Eyrie Street.

I zipped around closing up the windows and putting out some dry food for Pico, then I was off like a bride’s nightgown. We had to sort out the Whitney investigation and I had to make a decision on the Stoakes case. And I had to be sharp, especially if I was going to be out at Jimmie’s service in the afternoon. It struck me again that he was gone. Before it had been too painful to deal with—especially after the “experiment.” Now it was like missing a limb.

That made me grin—and then I was bawling my eyes out behind the wheel. It was partly about Jimmie—and it was partly because I suddenly missed Polly—she’d have made sure I didn’t look like a stewbum when I went out the door. I wanted to call her, but I knew I couldn’t. That would be total defeat. I was just so tired and lonely. I kept hearing the one thing Genevieve had said that gave me hope. “This is your first chance to make love to me.” I made it to the station house without thinking of anything else.

Chris was already in, looking like a cross between Johnny Depp and Brad Pitt. It annoyed me how handsome he was, how sure of himself. After his usual español pleasantries, he hit me between the eyes the minute I got back from telling the Captain about Jimmie and the service I had to go to in the afternoon. (I also took the liberty of giving the Boss a heads-up on us going limp on any murder charge with Whitney. It was suicide. We’d had it right the first time. I had to get some breathing room to have more to do with Genevieve—whatever way that turned out. Tanking the case was the way to do it. And who knows—maybe the truth.)

“I want you to come to lunch with us on Sunday, Rit. We’re going to that new seafood place in BayFair. The Lobster Trap.”

“Who’s us?” I wanted to know. He’d said it kind of awkwardly and Chris didn’t do much that was awkward. I caught a hint of pity.

“Me and the girl. And her folks,” he grinned, Colgate-white.

He always called his wife “the girl.” She could’ve been on the partnership track at any firm in town, not messing around with slimeballs and jail fodder. As D.A, her father was officially her boss adversary, so she obviously had some little girl issues. And her liposucked mother chaired the Ballet Company board. I thought shucking some oysters with that team might be an education—or a punishment.

“Why me?” I wondered. It worried me that he was worried about me.

“I want them to meet my partner,” he answered—and almost convinced me. You’d have to have shaken down a lot of people—and animals too—to have seen it. But I did.

“Worried about me?” I queried, and what I meant was, embarrassed.

“Yeah,” he replied. “A little. But I really thought it would be fun.”

“I don’t know if I have anything to wear to a fancy place like that,” I said.

He stalled. “Maybe you should think about how you spend your paycheck and get yourself some clothes that fit.”

That cut. First Lance and now Chris. And come to think of it, the Indian guy at the 7-11 had made some crack too. I’d filtered it out because I was focused on the cat.

“That sounds good,” I tried to recover. Maybe I was in a deeper nosedive than I’d thought.

“Great. We’re on for one o’clock.”

“Llegaré a tiempo,” I replied and his eyes lit up like a silent burglar alarm.

“Bueno, por lo menos te podemos prometer que sin ti no vamos a empezar el partido.”

I clapped at that, and he rose and bowed like a bullfighter.

“And the best news of all …” he smiled, sitting back down. “Ole Humph is footin’ the bill. I just don’t want to be the only one at the table not to recognize things on the menu. I made a slip the other night—and the mother-in-law gave me a look like a cattle prod.”

“I understand,” I mumbled … instantly back in that chair on Eyrie Street with the sound of the wheel turning and the water flowing … Sophia’s warm wet mouth …

If he hadn’t lobbed a file on my desk, I would’ve phased out right there.

It was from the Two-Four, the close-out paperwork on Stoakes. Just as I’d predicted, they were definitely pushing to have the case sealed up as suicide, and with no extenuating circumstances as in the Whitney matter—at least not that they knew about. In the state I was in, I couldn’t see any reason to cough up any more info and stir the pot. Better to sign off. Maybe a man who takes his own life so violently deserves to rest in peace. Besides, going against the grain meant taking Lance’s opinion head-on, and with the possible exception of Chris, he was my ace boon coon now that Jimmie was gone. Plus, no one else had the dimmest idea of any connection between Stoakes’ and Whitney’s business affairs—and I wasn’t sure there really was one. I’d dug up a few things, but that was a long way from evidence and a very long way from proof—of anything. Whitney was in real estate. Stoakes dished out or denied permits—that was the only association, and nobody would take any notice. The connecting rod was Genevieve. But I had only hunches and suppositions and none of it I felt good sharing with anyone, certainly not Chris. I may have been a bit jealous of the guy but I had no intention of doing anything to damage his career—or put him in the way of something so far out of his comfort zone.

If I was going to go after her, I’d need something a lot more probative than I had, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to hunt that hard. No—that was the one thing I was sure about. I wanted to know much more about her, but not for the sake of the badge and any investigation. For me. She could’ve also been that Denita Kent woman whose name had poked up in Whitney’s affairs. She might’ve had a chain of aliases and Interpol warnings running around the globe. Something in her brought to mind duct tape and bandage scissors—and a lynx stole in Gstaad. What kind of con was she running? And what the hell did it have to do with me? That’s what I wanted to know. Didn’t I?

Maybe that was my big problem—I always wanted to know stuff I didn’t want to know about.

The way I was coming around to seeing it, or to justify it in my mind—two men who may or may not have had any personal feelings about each other, or even any knowledge, had killed themselves in especially forceful ways. If Genevieve was implicated in their deaths, it wasn’t in the kind of way that was going to be easy to investigate, let alone prosecute. It wasn’t easy to even talk about, and I sure wasn’t going to open my mouth and try to fill everyone in. Not after my lesson in mammalian sexuality. She was rich and beautiful—and she had some special power. That’s what made her formidable—and more desirable than any woman I’d ever met. She said she was going to open a window for me. From what I could tell so far, the view was something I had to see. Because I had a sense that the window wouldn’t be just for looking out. It was a way of getting out. Where I’d be when I jumped, I didn’t have a clue.

In any case, I thought confirming Stoakes’ suicide was a good play. It went a long way to shutting down the Whitney incident on the same grounds. Our job was investigating crimes, not psychological phenomena. All I had to do was keep my trap shut about the real amount of money I thought Whitney had stashed—and bear in mind it was only a surmise not substantiated by expert evaluation—and probably wouldn’t come as that big a surprise anyway. I figured there was a good chance the Mercedes fumes could blow away too. His kids could fight the will in court if they wanted to, and if some of the other investment trails started to unravel, so be it. In one view it gave even more motive for suicide. People’s minds start to come apart the more they try to hide things.

The only real problem I saw flittering in the background was McInnes. I had no doubt he’d been to Eyrie Street. One way or another he’d seen what the scarf revealed and he may have undergone his own “experiment.” Why he’d suckered me into Genevieve’s web was still unknown. The worst I felt I faced in protecting her was a question of competence—and after what she’d put me through I thought I could weather that. At the very outside, if a whole lot more information came to light in unwanted ways, it would be an obstruction charge. But then Chris would get some on his sleeve too, and given his father-in-law, that didn’t seem likely. I suddenly felt like I was in a very strong position to bail out on any further investigation, and I signed off on Stoakes.

“Hey Rit, whatta ya think?” a voice needled.

I realized someone had been talking around me and then at me and I hadn’t been paying attention. Padgett was still there, but we’d been joined by Montague and Haslett, two other defectives in our house.

Monty’s tagline was “Ice cream has no bones.” Said it all the time no matter what the situation. He was a whisker shy of my age. We called him Head and Shoulders on account of his dandruff, which he seemed to shrug off easier than he could brush off. He was a P-whipped Presbyterian father of two Campfire Girls and a Pop Warner benchwarmer rightly known as the Burrito. Why anyone would let their kid get so fat I have no idea. I’d only seen Monty blazed once, belting out a U2 track at a karaoke night. But he was OK.

Haslett was in his late 30’s and a chronic sufferer of Personality Deficit Disorder. He was what my mother would’ve called “un cuchichero.” Although he shared my “better let them bleed out than plead out” philosophy, I wouldn’t have trusted him with my back in a buffet line let alone a CIP. Someone once told me he kept a nose hair trimmer in his locker. Either way, he had an unpleasantly thin head and a compressed body that reminded me of a flounder. There was a deadbolt on his private life, but he always made out he was a player.

He was speculating again about Quisp and Quake, two patrol cops who used to work out of our Precinct. Quisp was small and smart, Quake was big and not so smart. But they’d gotten along. In fact they’d gotten friendly enough for a rumor to have started. I was pretty sure Haslett had started that rumor—the same way I made him for the one behind the bilgewater about me “misappropriating” some confiscated bud. I scribbled a note on my legal pad to Chris … One day his fingerprints are going to end up in the wrong place at the right time.

“Si yo fuera tú, haría eso.”

I nodded. White Boy was getting some game.

“So, whatta ya think?” Haslett badgered. “That why they got split up?”

“Gee, Ron, I don’t know,” I said. “We’ve been kinda busy.”

“Yeah, you don’t look like yourself,” he replied, turning his flounder head. “Too much work. Or maybe you picked up some tasty new virus.”

“Thanks very much.” The fact that he knew I could’ve bitch slapped his flounder head in always made me feel better.

“Listen to this one,” he smirked. “This ‘pinkie’ goes to the doctor, right? Finds out he’s got AIDS. So the doc writes out a script for him. Two cans of pork and beans, three cans of refried beans, a pound of bran, two pounds of mixed nuts, three pounds of prunes and five boxes of Ex Lax. The pillow biter says ‘Doctor, is all this really going to make me well?’ and the doc says ‘Probably not, but it’ll sure as hell teach you what your asshole’s for!’”

“I think you’ve missed your calling, Ron,” I replied. “You should be working one of the ferries—as a clown.”

Two months ago, I’d seen Kovak, the little cop they called Quisp, front three bikers in full break-action frenzy and not back down. He just talked to them. It was artful street policing at its most courageous and disciplined best. I’m certain he wasn’t even thinking of his Glock. He knew he didn’t need it—and those hogmen knew it too. So what if Kovak traveled on the other bus, he was on my team in the alleys.

Haslett, thick as he was, got the scent of disapproval and slunk off to gossip about me at the other end of the floor. “Un chico antipático,” Chris confirmed—to which I added, “You damn skippy.”

But I didn’t care about Mr. Flounder. One day the higher-ups would notice that he spent too much time lurking around the water cooler. What I cared about was softening up the Cub for a finish on Whitney. He was like a dachshund ready to race down any rabbit hole. I had to start boarding up those holes. I’d gone cold on the chase for both personal and legit reasons, and now I wanted him to wave goodbye with me—like a good partner should. I told him about Jimmie’s service and started rehashing the reasons why the Whitney deal wasn’t worth any more of our time. I felt like I was on pretty solid ground, at least on that score. But as chance would have it, another case came in to give us something else to really think about.

The Laotian owner of an all-night store in Wetworld had been found shot in the back of the head. The wife who’d called it in said they’d fallen behind in their protection payments to the Ghost Tigers. Padgett had apprenticed on the Asian Squad and was hot to trot. We took his car over to the scene and the time alone together helped me set him straight on Whitney. I told him I’d changed my mind about my intuition of foul play. It was a heavy way to 86 yourself, but the evidence wasn’t pointing to anyone but Whitney. Maybe he’d been given a bad medical diagnosis no one knew about. Maybe he just lost the plot. I kept softening the suspicions, repeating the points that were sure. All I wanted was to change homicide to suicide in Chris’ mind—just as it had been before I got a bee in my bonnet about the new will.

I think I laid it down pretty simple, but in the middle of my spiel I had to take an awkward call on the cell. Every time it rang, I thought it might be her. No dice. This patrol cop called Brandenberg was in a pickle. He’d screwed the pooch on the first case Chris and I’d worked together and Chris knew it. But Brandy couldn’t afford a rap on the knuckles from Infernal Affairs and he was reaching out to me. Thing was, I owed him. He’d done an after school favor. About six months back there’d been this old showgirl in trouble. Felicity DuMarr. That was her real name, I swear to God. I’d never done the dance with her, but I liked her. She’d run afoul of a blade-happy Shylock who was chummy with the Brucatos and needed some no questions asked protection. Me, I hit you and no matter how big you are, you notice it. Brandy could tap a downtown building on the nameplate and the elevators would stop running. He was the man for the job and had stepped up to the plate when I couldn’t. Now at full count he wanted a walk. I pretended to blow him off, and then texted him straight ILU. I figured he’d pick up the sticks. I could put in a good word on the QT, or at least not point the finger. As long as Chris stayed clean on it, I thought things would be cool.

By the time we got to Wetworld, we’d agreed that while I was at Jimmie’s service, he’d speak to the Assistant D.A. and put the nail in the coffin. All going well, we’d have the Whitney affair off our desks forever in 24 hours.

Jensen, the attending uniform, didn’t give me a nod—which I took as a snub. I’d worked a case with him four blocks over at the Shark Fin Inn not that long ago. We did a cursory canvass of the neighborhood, but based on the wife’s statement, Chris had already formed the view that the Ghost Tigers were responsible and was straining at the leash. He’d forgotten all about the call from Brandy and Whitney’s self-imposed exit was a done deal. Sometimes his attention span reminded me of a house fly. But that worked for me. Just dandy.

In our town, the bikers had the amphetamine and Ecstasy markets stitched up. The late Freddy Valdez’s Latino network vied with a couple of black gangs to take the remains of the heroin and crack business away from the old-timers who were in disarray after the Zagame and Brucato war (in which the heads of both families had been snuffed). Herb, Ice and the new synthetic known as Liquid Crystal were hotly contested markets. That left the Asians with holes to slip through, but they needed working capital and that meant extortion, nunchaku massages and every so often a plain old bullet. One from a .38 revolver it looked like in this case.

The only problem with this theory was my instincts again. The liver temp indicated the body had been dead a few hours—so the wife had sat on her hands before picking up the phone. What was even more suggestive to me was that although I’d been out of touch with the night-to-night pulse of Wetworld, now having checked out the actual address of the store, it struck me that if I owned the place I’d have been paying off the Latino Brothers. This was their real estate, Freddy or no. They had a vested interest in keeping the Ghost Tigers blocked up in Chinatown. That may have only been a few streets away, but that was like another world in this part of town. So many other worlds in a city.

I could see it was possible that the Tigers had gotten ambitious and had targeted the Laotians because they were Asian. But gang killings outside ranks are always about sending signals and I couldn’t see the Tigers trying to send that kind of signal when they had their own network to shore up and more prosperous people to shake down without triggering a turf war. If they felt strong enough to cross Frontera Street and wanted to throw down a gauntlet, drugs and real money would’ve been at stake, not some Beef Jerky store owner, who even our sloppy canvass revealed was respected for the long hours he put in. As to the Latinos, they never shot people in the back of the head. If the cause had been delinquent payment of suck money, there would have been a warning and any lethal retribution would’ve been signature.

The real gangs, as in organized crime, actually are organized. Even the old crimesters like the Zagames and Brucatos had always taken pride in the order they maintained. If the recent Dons had gotten greedy and strangled the shipping and driven the transport industry off the road, newer players like Valdez had become a little smarter. Freddy would’ve cut your heart out himself if you’d insulted him, but like every sensible businessman he valued stability—and if you treated him and his con safos, he’d have gone a lot further than most bank managers to keep people like the Laotians paying their way. Whether it was Domino Luis or Jorge Pacheco who was calling the shots now, I was willing to bet that a look into the crime stats for that block would’ve shown that no retailer had had any trouble in recent times except for a random robbery by some tecato with the meter running out or a slobbering tweaker, in which case the culprit would’ve been found and probably disemboweled or blowtorched before the police took any action. The Latinos were ruthless but they had a business plan and 90% of the mayhem they got up to was with their own people. No, I was sure there was something fishy about the wife’s story, but I wasn’t about to pipe up with all the other things I had on my mind. Not least that I might be losing my mind.

Chris and I scarfed won ton soup at the Golden Orchid and I agreed that he could handle the investigation however he wanted to, then I shoved off for the Long Room early on foot. I had in mind to do some shopping for a few new threads if I was going to be dining at Humphrey Dumpty’s table over the weekend.

I didn’t have any luck. The new styles made me look like a nancy boy. I got depressed. I really needed to find a few cool things—and not just for work and the sake of Padgett’s clan. I wanted to impress Lady Genevieve. I knew that would be damn hard to do, but I’d definitely trimmed down of late. I just needed to find the right fashion. Instead I found myself cruising past the boutiques on Republic, thinking of getting something for her. Lance Harrigan rang on the cell. I told him I’d call back.

I’d never been good at buying stuff for either of my wives. Sweet Polly Purebred was built for comfort, Joan for speed. Pol was a size 16, made a nice meatloaf and started giggling after a glass of Zinfandel. Joan was a carrot-top spitfire, who sprayed on her clothes and mixed a mean Tom Collins. But neither one was into lingerie. Now I felt an urge to pick out something really sexy. But if I went lace, I knew Genevieve would be latex. If I chose lace, she’d be barbed wire. She was such a mix of carnations and case-hardened steel it made my head spin.

And it wasn’t just that I was horny for her … I wanted her … to respect me. Yeah, that was it. I don’t know—maybe something else. That was hard enough to swallow by itself. I was just so curious—and she knew it.

I tried to think what it was I was truly hoping for, and I guess it came down to a woman I could actually trust. Not that I would. That really would be insane. But it would’ve been nice to have the damn chance. The fact that she seemed so much like the last person anyone could or should trust somehow gave me a sick kind of optimism. If you knew all the things I’d seen, maybe you’d understand.

A sign in some financial adviser’s window said UNDERSTAND YOUR OPTIONS. That’s what we all want to think we’re rich in I realized. Doors to choose, windows to look out of. Things to look forward to. Someone to believe in—and who believes in us.

Another cell call. Not her. A ratbag lawyer named Satir. Said he had some mud on a judge that could be swayed. Wondered if I was interested. I told him I wasn’t. Just hearing his voice made me want to wash my hands. But you have to listen to the streets. That’s the job. I bagged and tagged the info and stuck it away in my mind where nobody else would find it. That’s what Cracker Jack would’ve done.

Before the blue line, when he was a pup, he’d worked as a runner for Vig Abrams, a big time old school bookie who it was said never wrote anything down. Jack had obviously listened to His Master’s Voice because he never kept a single name or number in his phone. Everything was in his head.

I was feeling more of the queasy twinges when I looked up and saw that I was in front of Nutwell’s Toys. There was a man in the window—with veins and arteries showing—and his guts. His heart. It startled me. It was just one of those Visible Man educational toys—but it was life-size for God sakes—and holding up a little sign: Win Me For Your School!

My skeleton and internal organs are housed in a transparent body wall sculpted to show my muscular details and major blood vessels. A removable breast plate gives you easy access to my internal organs.

Christ almighty. Whatever happened to normal shelf-size models of Captain Action and Johnny Unitas? Getting high on plastic cement and “the enamel with the sprayed on look.” Internal organs deserve some privacy.

Speaking of which, the won ton soup had run straight through me. I had to take an urgent leak so I cut through the Cannery Building, a big undercover market where Greeks and Italians yell at you to buy appetizing stuff like tripe. I came in through the Delicatessen end, full of booths of swarthy faces peeking out behind huge netted salamis. The restrooms were in the Fish section and I got to confirm, that yes, Ron Haslett’s head, indeed his whole body really did bear a strong resemblance to a flounder. This cheered me up—but when I bumbled into the restroom, I found a man with stunted arms standing at the urinal. He was like “Sealo,” the circus freak whose hands grew directly from his shoulders. My Aunt Di had given me a book about Sealo for a birthday once. He was actually amazingly dexterous, able to shave and sign his name. He could even zip up his pants by using a stick with a hook on the end. I was puzzled about how the guy at the urinal managed to unzip himself, but I couldn’t handle standing next to him. I went in one of the stalls. There’s nothing wrong with a little privacy.

The disabled toilet next to me was occupied. I could hear the guy making sounds. I started to wonder in what way was he disabled? With those noises he was making—he sounded like something that belonged in the water. Then he said in this guttural voice, “Got any paper?”

I imagined for a second he meant newspaper. Maybe he was going to soak it to keep himself moist. Then a hand appeared. He had a fused finger—so the hand looked more like some kind of swimmeret. Believe me, that’s not the kind of thing you want to see sneaking up under a stall. I stuffed a couple of two-ply squares underneath the partition and got the hell out. As my hobo clown friends told me, you never know who you’ll meet.

I made a call to the Boss about Brandy and spread as much goodwill as I thought the market would bear. Then I hit the nickel hard and got to the Long Room right on the button for the service. Wardell had gone formal, ditching his Fat Albert sweatshirt and stuffing himself into a suit that made him look like a home plate umpire. Even more surprising, he’d splashed out with cold cuts, a brand new bag of Wonder Bread, plus a mop bucket brimming with ice and bottled Bud. Nothing but the best for the Long Room’s own.

He’d been busy on the phone too. Milwaukee Mike and Grabowski from the Avenue Bar were playing rotation, Stojanovich, the night clerk at the Stanton—and of course Stutter, Pig Dog and Gershwin the Orangutan, the redheaded bouncer from the Boardwalk. Jimmie’s ashes had just arrived and were sitting proudly in one of the old spittoons under the leadlight on the tournament table. Wardell had cleaned and wire-brushed the spittoon, apparently deciding the crematorium’s standard urn was not up to standard (those more expensive, beyond the budget).

I was miffed when Grabowski had to ask Stutter who I was (which took him a good thirty seconds to explain). The photographs lifted the mood. Wardell’s sister LeRine had gone into Jimmie’s rooms at the Stanton and selected a bunch of photos of him and his wife Camille and arranged them along with some fistfuls of flowers on a couple of the tables. Jimmie and his honey were smiling and smooching in the snapshots, swilling martinis, playing cards and trying to dance. For a guy with only one leg, Jimmie had been surprisingly agile. LeRine was a waitress at the coffee shop in the lobby of the Stanton, but she had a smoky voice, and sang along to some Sinatra. “You Make Me Feel So Young” and “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”

Soon after, the corned beef came out and the mustard started squirting, and I knew I’d want to drink the whole bucket of beer so I took the Dell aside and told him I was heading off. Poor guy, whatever was left of Jimmie, that’s what he wanted to keep. But as fat as he was, he’d have paddled across the harbor himself, with the ashes over his head if that’s what it would’ve taken to fulfill Jimmie’s last request. I was glad to save him the trip. He loved corn beef. I hefted the spittoon, which could’ve held five one-legged men, when he pulled out an envelope.

“Jimmie … wanted you to have this.”

“T-hanks,” I stammered, a little disappointed because I was hoping for some Cubans. Jimmie must’ve run out. I stowed the envelope in my pocket, thinking it was more photos.

“You look affer him,” Wardell admonished. “An’ yo own damnself. You look like we be spreadin’ you soon.”

I tried to smile at this parting shot. Pig Dog and Gershwin were talking about the actor Wally Cox’s ashes that had been left in the keeping of Marlon Brando—how it was rumored that Brando’s ashes had been mixed in with Cox’s when he died.

“They were both faggots,” Pig Dog insisted. “Brando was still in love with him.”

“An odd couple, that’s for sure,” Gershwin nodded.

“That’s what that show was about too,” Pig Dog said, opening a Bud. “Tony Randall and Jack Klugman. Two queens, man.”

No one had paid me much mind, which sort of ticked me off—and now the beer was starting to flow. I caught a cab to the ferry terminal thinking that Jimmie would’ve been pleased by the gathering. He’d at least gone out with some dignity. Dignity was a little harder for me to come by. First the cabbie made some yuck-yuck about the spittoon and then I had to sit on the ferry holding it between my legs. Fortunately there weren’t that many people on board—and the hobo clowns weren’t in sight. On the shoreline, where Jimmie had maybe gone fishing once, or lost his virginity for all I knew—a titan crane thrust out from the pier and vapor from the refinery hung in the air. The view back toward the city was nice though. I said, “So long you old guinea. Hope you find your missing leg,” and spread the ashes as evenly as I could.

I’d worked a case around the Point years back—two different arms floated in wrapped in kelp. One was from a boy, the other a woman. Both cases never closed. Looking now at the cuttlefish shells and pieces of broken Styrofoam, I wondered again about the people connected to those limbs, and let the last of Jimmie blow away onto the water. That’s what we become in the end. Ashtray sand and driftwood. Pieces of boats and booze bottles. Unsolved summer nights.

Made me think of Stoakes and Whitney again—how all suicides are unsolved murders in a sense. I suddenly had a devastating desire to see her … be with her. Genevieve. Holding hands. It was psycho. Or pathetic.

But at least it was honest. Frighteningly honest.