The motion detector cost twenty bucks and change. Brandon set it up along the gunwale at the stern, on the port side. Anybody coming aboard at the stern would set off the alarm in the cabin.

“What if they climb on the front?” Kat said.

Brandon, kneeling to connect the wires to the electrical panel under the helm, said, “The bow.”

“Whatever.”

“I’d hear them. It’s pretty high to climb up there, and it’s right over my head.”

“You didn’t hear them last night.”

“No.”

“Go down in the bedroom,” Kat said, and she turned and left the salon. Brandon snapped the last wire in place, got up and went below. He heard Kat shuffle along the side deck, her legs moving past the porthole. He closed his eyes, heard her move to the center of the foredeck. When she knelt, he heard her knees thump against the plywood.

She came back down, sat on the berth across from him. She was in shorts and a bicycle jersey, muscles defined.

“Well?”

“I could hear everything.”

“Last night?”

“I was really out,” Brandon said.

“Were you drunk? Upset about Mia or something?”

“Nah. Half a drink. I was just really tired.”

“And emotionally spent?”

“Maybe. Had something to eat and just crashed.”

“That can happen when you’ve been all keyed up and—” The motion detector alarm went off. It was O’Farrell and Perry, the big sergeant in uniform. They were on the stern deck, staring at the black patch.

“Who’d want to burn you up?” the sergeant said.

“Let’s make a list,” O’Farrell said.

Brandon looked at him, saw he wasn’t joking.

Kat said, “I’ll start.”

She rattled them off, the ones already mentioned.

O’Farrell took it up: whoever killed Fatima, thinking Brandon was a threat. Cawley’s biker buddy, for the sex charge.

“Seems extreme,” O’Farrell said. “Hasn’t even gone to trial.”

Brandon said, “So what do I—”

“You take a few days off, Blake,” Perry said. “Clean up your boat. Try to stay out of trouble. Go stay with friends or family.”

He and O’Farrell turned toward the stern, then turned back. “Listen, Brandon,” O’Farrell said, his voice low. “You’re not a detective.”

“You’re not even a full patrolman,” Perry said.

“And when you’re not working, Brandon, you’re not working,” O’Farrell said.

“There’s a reason you aren’t in a patrol car alone,” Perry said. “You’re like a pitcher, just up from the minors. You start in the bullpen. Work your way up to the rotation. If you’re lucky.”

“We have a whole bunch of cops working on all of this,” O’Farrell said, “and they’re very experienced, and their investigation will get to the bottom of it. We don’t need—”

“May be a bad day to say this, but Blake, you gotta take it a little slower,” Perry said. “You’re stirring shit up everywhere you go.”

“You don’t have to save the world,” O’Farrell said.

“Go easy,” Kat said.

“I didn’t take this job to go easy,” Brandon said. “Did you?”

He sanded the burnt wood off, taking it down an eighth of an inch. While he worked, the other boat owners came by, watched and asked questions: Who would do this? Was it because he was a cop? Or was there some nutcase arsonist running around marinas? Was he going to fix the gate so it closed right? Wasn’t he lucky? What if Mrs. Murphy hadn’t been awake? What were the chances? Is that a motion detector? Should we all have them?

Brandon answered their questions, the ones he could. Yes, to the gate. He did know there was an arsonist. He didn’t know if he was running around. Or she.

It was 4 p.m. before he finished, the burnt area repainted gray. There was a blemish and the paint didn’t quite match, the old gray faded by the sun. Looks like hell, he thought. The good news? He wasn’t dead.

Going below, he took a shower, his loaded gun on the tiny counter outside the stall. In the cabin, he dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, dark blue running shoes, a black baseball cap, too. He came above deck, stepped out onto the dock. Turned to walk out to the Hinckley and thank his savior.

And the boat was gone.

He turned around, headed for the gate. He felt a little regret, more relief. As Mia had said, he didn’t like to owe anyone.

The gate had sagged and he bent it back into place with a steel bar. He swung it open and shut, punching in the code each time, the gate swinging. Then he returned to Bay Witch, set the alarm, and went inside. He took a beer and a block of cheddar cheese from the refrigerator in the galley, a box of stoned wheat crackers from the cupboard. Parking himself in the salon, he sat with his back to the harbor, facing the yard. On the table beside him was a knife, for the cheese, and his loaded Glock 26, for all sorts of reasons.

The morning air was still and humid on Granite Street, the pavement heating up under a hazy sun. Brandon sat in the truck a half block from 317, hunched back in the seat, watching the house. Perry had said to take a couple of days off, and Brandon was. He was off, sitting. Watching. The police radio was on the seat, turned down low.

Three Somali kids wheeled up and down on bikes. A guy with a gray ponytail and a red bandanna headband was walking a three-legged dog, a black-and-white shepherd mutt. By 317 the dog paused to sniff, pee, and maybe poop in the gutter. A car, an older Chevy sedan, pulled up, turned into the driveway, and stopped. Annie Young got out, said something to the guy with the dog. He said something back. The driver’s door still open, she walked toward him, pointing her finger.

“What did you say?” Annie Young shouted.

The guy turned, raised a fist. The dog turned, too, barked at Annie Young, who was shouting, “Go ahead. Go ahead.” The kids on bikes had passed but they were circling back. Brandon got out of the truck, hurried across the street, came up behind the guy.

“Calm it down,” he said, flashing his badge. “Portland PD. Just cool it.”

The guy turned. “This woman threatened me. I want to press charges.”

“No charges. Hey, it’s a nice day. You and your dog, go enjoy it.”

“There’s a dog ordinance in this city,” Annie Young said. “And you, Officer Blake, have a responsibility to enforce it.”

“Miss Young.”

“You guys know each other?” the guy said. “What is this? A sting?”

“One more minute and you’re going in for failure to disperse,” Brandon said.

“I ain’t done nothin’. My dog ain’t done nothin’. This lady’s whacked. I have a right to walk down the street.”

“Not if your filthy mutt defecates all over my property.”

“He ain’t defecated yet. He’s still sniffing. He’s got a right to sniff.”

“He’s smelling other dogs’ shit,” one of the kids said, sitting on his bike. “Dogs is always smelling shit.”

“I’m gonna count to ten,” Brandon said. “One, two, three—”

“Okay,” the guy said. “I’m leaving. You can have your property, lady, you crazy bitch.”

“Don’t you ever—” Annie Young said.

Brandon held up his hand.

“Enough,” he said.

The guy turned, yanked the leash. The dog hopped after him. The kids on the bikes followed, one of them saying, “Hey, Dog Man. Where’s his other leg?”

“Filth,” Annie Young said. She turned and walked back to the car.

Brandon followed. He saw grocery bags in the backseat, said, “You need any help?”

“No,” Annie Young said. She turned back to him, said, “Why are you out of uniform?”

“It’s a long story,” Brandon said.

“Hmmph,” she said.

“You sure I can’t help you bring those in?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.”

Annie Young stood by the back door of the car, facing him. Brandon stood, too.

“I’d like to talk to you more about Fatima,” he said.

“Poor girl. But that’s what happens with these Africans. Mama’s right; the women are treated like livestock.”

“And you think that had something to do with her death?”

She stood in place, arms folded under her bust. “That girl was between a rock and a hard place. Try to be totally American and they’d beat her. Stay African, they treat her like a servant. You know they don’t let the girls go to school?”

“Fatima went to school.”

“For now,” Annie Young said. “They don’t last.”

“You seem to know a lot about Sudanese culture.” Brandon moved closer.

She stepped toward him, took him by the shoulder, turned him away. Whispered, “I was going to call you.”

“Yeah?”

“Early this morning, around two. The African hoodlums from upstairs—”

“Edgard and Samir?”

“Whatever their names are. They came outside, and three or four of their gang, or whatever they call it, they stood out here and talked, and then they started off down the block.”

“So?”

“I heard them say something. They said, ‘Messy, going to mess him up.’ And then they said some things about what they were going to do. Things I won’t repeat.”

“Lil Messy. He’s an art student, lives down the street. Mess him up?”

“That’s what they said.”

“Was it Samir or Edgard saying that?”

“I don’t know. They all sound the same to me.”

Brandon started back toward his truck. Annie Young stood by the car, like she was waiting for someone to come out. Brandon got back in the truck, picked up the radio, put it back down.

He looked at the house, Annie Young standing there. He looked to the front apartment, seeing if her mother was in the window. She wasn’t. He looked upstairs, saw the curtain move in the front room of the Ottos’ apartment on the second floor. The third floor was still. He glanced up at the roof, the rusty ham radio antenna, Mr. Young talking to people around the world to keep from having to talk to the two of them.

He started off. Annie Young, still by the car, watched him pass.

Could have been just talk, Brandon thought. He was at the front door of Messy’s building, pressed the broken button for apartment 4, waited a minute, then pressed the buttons for 1, 2, and 3. He rapped on the door with his flashlight, heard rattling inside. The door fell open and a guy peered out: fiftyish, unshaven, a stain on the swollen belly of his white T-shirt. TV noise could be heard in the background. Someone shouting, “Police! Put down your weapon!” Then shots.

Brandon showed his badge.

“The kid upstairs. Seen him lately?”

The guy shook his head. “Nah.”

“Heard anything up there?”

“Nope.”

“Seen anybody coming or going?”

“Mind my own business. Got enough problems.”

“Sure,” Brandon said, and he pushed the door open wider, the guy pushed backward with it.

“Hey,” the guy said.

“Sorry,” Brandon said.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

“Blake.”

“Young for a detective, ain’tcha?”

“Very,” Brandon said, and he squeezed by, bounded up the stairs.

Second floor: auto parts laid out on greasy rags, a baby stroller at the door. Third floor: boxes of clothes, CDs scattered on the floor, stuff left behind when a tenant skipped. Fourth floor: the door closed but the jamb splintered. Brandon pushed with the flashlight and the door opened. He slipped his gun out, stepped in.

Paint everywhere, smeared, spattered, tubes flattened on the floor. Paintings ripped, smashed, stomped. Graffiti on the walls, gang signs. TSW. True Sudanese Warriors. Brandon called, “Police. Anyone here?”

Nothing.

He crossed the room, feet sticking on the paint. The bathroom door was closed. Brandon listened, looked down. Blood had seeped from underneath, the edges of the puddle dried dark.

He pushed the door open with the flashlight, gun low and ready. Saw a bare foot, the ankle purple and swollen. The rest of Lil Messy, curled up on the floor between the tub and the toilet.