The boat was thirty feet of sleek white fiberglass with gray trim. Tall masts, the sails tied. Satori painted on the hull in black script edged with gold.

The sky over the marina was baby blue rubbed with chalk dust. Not much wind at all. The craft and its neighbors barely bobbed and I wondered if Baker had even gotten out of the harbor. Just a moment's walk away, the rear balcony of the Marina Shores Hotel extended over the footpath that ribboned the edge of the dock. Early lunchers sat nursing iced drinks and forking seafood.

A wall of chain-link sectioned the hotel property from the rental slips but it was unlocked and I walked through.

Satori. I knew it had something to do with Zen and had looked it up before leaving.

A state of intuitive illumination.

Maybe Sergeant Wesley Baker could illuminate Nolan's death.

He came out from below before I reached the boat, drying his hands with a white towel. Five nine, stocky, but without visible body fat, he wore a white Lacoste polo shirt, pressed black jeans, and white deck shoes. Looking every year of his age- around fifty, but a well-put-together fifty- he had a durable tan, short dark brown hair silvering at the temples, square, broad shoulders, and well-muscled, hairless arms. His head was slightly small for the blocky torso, the face round, vaguely childlike, despite sun seams and assertive features. Large, gold-framed eyeglasses were turned to ray guns by the midday sun.

A successful businessman on his day off.

He waved, I climbed aboard, and we shook hands.

“Doctor? Wes Baker. Up for lunch? How about the hotel?”

“Sure.”

“Let me lock up and I'll be right up.”

He was gone for a moment, came back carrying a large black calfskin billfold. More like a purse, really, and he carried it in one hand. We got off the boat and headed for the hotel.

He walked very slowly- as if every movement counted. Like a dancer. Or a mime. Swinging his arms, looking from side to side, a faint smile on thin, wide lips.

Behind the glasses, his eyes were brown and curious. If he was planning to hide facts, it wasn't making him tense.

“Glorious day, isn't it?” he said.

“Beautiful.”

“Living up here, you give up space- I make do with four hundred square feet- and the marina's as congested as the city. But at night, when things quiet down and there's a clear view out to the ocean, the illusion of infinity more than makes up for all that.”

“Satori?” I said.

He chuckled. “Satori is an ideal, but you've got to keep trying. Do you sail?”

“Infrequently.”

“I'm comparatively new to it, myself. Did some work on boats when I was a kid but nothing that taught me how to operate a serious craft. I got into it a few years ago. Trial by ordeal. A few knocks on the noggin and you learn to watch out for the boom.”

“Nolan did some work on boats, too.”

He nodded. “Santa Barbara fishing boats. He did some abalone diving, too. Didn't care for any of it.”

“Oh?”

“He didn't have a taste for manual labor.”

We climbed the stairs to the dining patio.

A sign said PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED and the host's lectern was empty. Two dozen tables covered in navy blue linen dotted the brick-floored terrace. Three were occupied. Crystal and silver played with the sun. The east wall was glass that looked into an empty dining room.

“Also, he said killing fish turned him off,” said Baker, looking around. “Killing, period. He was a nonviolent kid, had become a vegetarian the year before entering the academy. Probably the only vegetarian cop I ever met- hey, Max.”

A Chinese maitre d' emerged from inside the hotel. Black suit, black shirt, black tie, and a wide, professional smile full of distress.

“Hello, Mr. Baker. Your table's ready.”

We were shown to a waterside table big enough for four but set for two. I could smell brine and boat fuel and someone's sautÉed lunch.

“Nonviolent,” I said. “Yet he chose police work.”

Baker unfolded a navy napkin and placed it on his lap. “Theoretically there shouldn't have been a conflict. The goal of the police officer is to reduce violence. But of course, that's not reality.”

Removing his glasses, he looked through them, blew off a speck of something, and put them back on. “The reality is that police work entails being constantly submerged in violence. Take a sensitive kid like Nolan and the result can be disillusionment.”

“Did he talk about being disillusioned?”

“Not in so many words, but he wasn't happy. Always kind of down.”

“Depressed?”

“Looking back, maybe, but he showed no clinical signs.” He stopped. “At least that I'd know, being a layman. What I mean is, his appetite seemed fine and he was always on the job, ready to go. He just never laughed or got happy. As if he'd been dipped in some kind of protective coating- emotional lacquer.”

“To avoid getting hurt?”

He shrugged. “I'm out of my element here. I'm as puzzled as everyone by what he did.”

A young waiter brought French bread and asked for our drink order.

“Vodka and tonic,” said Baker. “Doctor?”

“Iced tea.”

“I'm ready to order, too. The calamari salad's great if you go for seafood?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Two, then, and let's go with a nice white.” He looked up at the waiter. The young man's expression said his last audition hadn't gone well. “Do you still have that Bear Cave sauvignon blanc in stock?”

“The eighty-eight? I believe so.”

“If you do, bring us a bottle. If not, what's in the same league?”

“There's a good Blackridge sauvignon blanc.”

“Whatever's reasonable. The doctor here is paying.”

“Yes, sir.” The waiter left and Baker sniffed his finger. “Ah, a fine nose. Pretensions of peach and old leaves and the faintest hint of 7Up.”

He broke off some bread and chewed slowly. “What Nolan did has been bothering the hell out of me on two levels. Most important, of course, the act itself. The waste. But also narcissistically. Why didn't I see it?”

“How long did you work with him?”

“Three months, day after day. He was the fastest learner I've ever seen. An interesting kid. Different from other rookies I'd had but nothing that led me to believe he was high-risk- how much do you know about police suicide?”

“I know it's on the rise.”

“Sure is. The rate's probably doubled in the last twenty years. And those are only the acknowledged ones. Throw in guys taking excessive risks, accidents that really aren't, other “undetermined deaths,' and you probably double the count again.”

“Accidents,” I said. “Suicide by work?”

“Sure,” he said. “Cops like doing it that way because it spares the family the shame. The same thing happens with the people cops deal with: Some profoundly depressed character gets drunk or dusted, stands in the middle of the street waving a gun, and when the patrol car arrives, instead of dropping it he points it at the windshield.”

He pulled an imaginary trigger. “We call that suicide by cop. Only difference is, the character's family hires a lawyer, sues the city for wrongful death, and collects. Depression and litigation make a great combination, Dr. Delaware.”

“Do cops litigate, too?” I said.

He took off his glasses and stared reflectively out at the harbor. “Live ones do, Doctor. Stress pensions, all that good stuff. Lately, the department's been clamping down. Why? Does the sister want to sue?”

Casual tone and he was looking at his bread plate.

“Not that I know,” I said. “She's just looking for answers, not blame.”

“In the end, it's the suicide who's to blame, isn't it? No one else put that gun in Nolan's mouth. No one else pulled the trigger. Were there signs beyond his not being the life of the party? Not that I saw. He took things seriously, took his work seriously. I saw that as positive. He was no slacker.”