One of the basketball players made a wild throw. The rebound landed in Reeve’s lap. He stared at the paper ball.

“Does the word Agrippa mean anything to you?” he asked.

McCluskey shook his head. “Should it?”

“It was written on a scrap of paper in my brother’s pocket.”

“I missed that,” McCluskey said, shifting more papers. “You really would make a good detective, Gordon.” He was trying to smile.

Reeve just nodded.

“What was he doing anyway?” McCluskey asked.

“Who?”

“Cantona, Mr. DUI. He telephoned you after his arrest; I thought maybe he had something to tell you.”

“Maybe he just wanted me to put up the bail.”

McCluskey stared at him. Reeve had become Cantona’s accuser, leaving him the defender.

“You think that was all?”

“What else?”

“Well, Gordon, I thought maybe he thought he was working for you.”

“Have you spoken with him?”

“No, but I was just on the telephone doing you a favor by talking to cops who have.” McCluskey cocked his head again. “You sound a little strange.”

“Do I?” Reeve made no attempt to soften his voice. It was more suspicious if you suddenly changed the way you were speaking to comply with the way you thought the listener wanted you to sound. “Maybe that’s because I’m cremating my brother tomorrow morning. Can I see Mr. Cantona?”

McCluskey rounded his lips into a thoughtful O.

“A final favor,” Reeve added. “I’m off tomorrow straight after the cremation.”

McCluskey took a little more time, apparently considering it. “Sure,” he said at last. “I’ll see if I can fix it.”

They brought Eddie Cantona out of the cells and up to one of the interview rooms. Reeve was already waiting. He’d paced the room, seeming anxious but really checking for possible bugs, spy holes, two-way mirrors. But there were just plain walls and a door. A table and two chairs in the middle of the floor. He sat on one chair, took a pen out of his pocket, and dropped it. Retrieving it from the floor, he checked beneath both chairs and the table. Maybe McCluskey hadn’t had enough time to organize a surveillance. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe Reeve was reading too much into everything.

Maybe Eddie Cantona was just a drunk.

They brought him into the room and left him there. He walked straight over and sat down opposite Reeve.

“We’ll be right out here, sir,” one of the policemen said.

Reeve watched the uniformed officers leave the room and close the door behind them.

“Got a cigarette?” Cantona said. “No, you don’t smoke, do you?” He patted his pockets with trembling hands. “Haven’t got one on me.” He held his hands out in front of him. They jittered like they had electricity going through them. “Look at that,” he said. “Think that’s the D.T.”s? No, I’ll tell you what that is, that is what’s called being afraid.“

“Tell me what happened.”

Cantona stared wild-eyed, then tried to calm himself. He got up and walked around the room, flailing his arms as he talked. “They must’ve started following me at some point. They weren’t at the rental place-I’d swear to that on a Padres season ticket. But I was too busy watching Mr. Mex. First I knew, there was the blue light behind me and they pulled me over. I’ve never been pulled over; I told you that. I’ve been too careful and maybe too lucky.” He came back to the table and exhaled into Reeve’s face. It wasn’t very pleasant, but proved Cantona’s point.

“Not a drop I’d had,” he said. “Not a damned drop. They did the usual drunk tests, then said they were arresting me. Up till that point, I thought it was just bad luck. But when they put me in the back of the car, I knew it was serious. They were stopping me tailing the Mexican.” He stared deep into Reeve’s unblinking eyes. “They want me out of the way, Gordon, and cops have a way of getting what they want.”

“Has McCluskey talked to you?”

“That asshole I talked to about Jim’s murder?” Cantona shook his head. “Why?”

“I think he’s got something to do with it, whatever it is. Where was the Mexican headed?”

“What am I, clairvoyant?”

“I mean, which direction was he headed?”

“Straight downtown, it looked like.”

“Did he seem like the downtown-San Diego type to you?”

Cantona managed a grin. “Not exactly. I don’t know, maybe he was on business. Maybe…” He paused. “Maybe we’re overreacting.”

“Eddie, did Jim ever mention someone or something called Agrippa?”

“Agrippa?” Cantona screwed his eyes shut, trying his hardest. Then he sighed and shook his head. “Does it mean something?”

“I don’t know.”

Reeve stood up and gripped Cantona’s hands. “Eddie, I know you’re scared, and you’ve got cause to be, and it won’t bother me in the least if you lie through your teeth to get yourself out of here. Tell them anything you think they want to hear. Tell them the moon’s made of cheese and there are pink elephants under your bed. Tell them you just want a fresh start and to forget about the past few weeks. You’ve helped me a lot, and I thank you, but now you’ve got to think of number one. Jim’s dead; you’re still here. He’d want you to avoid joining him.”

Cantona was grinning again. “Are we engaged, Gordon?”

Reeve saw that he was still holding Cantona’s hands. He let them go, smiling. “I’m serious, Eddie. I think the best thing I can do for you right now is walk away and keep away.”

“You still flying home tomorrow?”

Reeve nodded. “I think so.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“Best you don’t know, Eddie.”

Cantona grudgingly agreed.

“There’s one last thing I’d like from you.”

“What’s that?”

“An address…” Reeve brought the map out of his pocket and spread it on the table. “And some directions.”

He didn’t see McCluskey again as he left the police station; didn’t particularly want to see him. He drove around for a while, taking any road he felt like, no pattern at all to his route. He stopped frequently, getting out his map and acting the lost tourist. He was sure he hadn’t been followed from the actual police station, but he wondered if that might change.

He’d had to learn car pursuit and evasion so he could teach it to trainee bodyguards who’d be expected to chauffeur their employers. He was no expert, but he knew the ground rules. He’d taken a weekend course at a track near Silverstone, an abandoned airfield used for controlled skids and high-speed chase scenarios.

The last thing he’d expected to need this trip were his professional skills.

He looked in the rearview and saw the patrol car draw up behind him. The uniform in the driver’s seat spoke into his radio before getting out, checking his holster, adjusting his sunglasses.

Reeve let his window slide down.

“Got a problem?” the policeman said.

“Not really.” Reeve was smiling, showing teeth. He tapped the map. “Just checking where I am.”

“You on vacation?”

“How could you tell?”

“You mean apart from the map and you being stopped where you’re not supposed to make a stop and your license plate being a rental?”

Now Reeve laughed. “You know, maybe I am a bit lost.” He looked at the map and pointed to a road. “Is this where we are?”

“You’re a few blocks off.” The officer showed him where he really was, then asked where he was headed.

“Nowhere really, just driving.”

“Well, driving’s fine-it’s the stopping that can be a problem. Make sure parking is authorized next time before you settle down.” The cop straightened up.

“Thank you, officer,” said Reeve, putting the car into gear.

And after that, they were tailing him. It looked to Reeve like a two-car unmarked tail with a few patrol cars as backup and lookouts. He drove around by the airport and then took North Harbor Drive back into town, cruising the waterfront and crossing the Coronado Bay Bridge before doubling back downtown and up First Avenue. The downtown traffic wasn’t too sluggish, and he sped up as he left the high towers behind, eventually following signs to Old Town State Park. He parked in a lot adjacent to some weird old houses which seemed to be a center of attraction, and crossed the street into the park itself. He reckoned one car was still with him, which meant two men: one of them would probably keep watch on the Blazer, the other following on foot.