A quarter of a mile of contemplation later he apparently decided that he was going to answer me.

“Four weeks ago last night she was with some girlfriends at a club downtown. One of those places on Walnut, not far from your office. I’m not going to say which one. You can probably guess. Maybe you read about it in theCamera. But she was on my turf. She got drunk-she admits that. She met some guys-she admits that-and she agreed to go to an after-party at some frat house by CU. She admits that. She decided to let them drive her over there in their car. She admits that. Crappy judgment after crappy judgment after crappy judgment, and she admits every bit of it.”

His left hand snaked from the steering wheel to his upper abdomen, his thumb pressing on his sternum.

“On the way over to the Hill for the after-party, she was sexually assaulted in the back of a Chevy van.”

“Raped?”

“Sexually assaulted.”

The distinction was obviously important. I was curious why. Prurient interest? No. Just enduring curiosity about the perverse imagination of assholes on alcohol. But I didn’t ask for any more details. Sam wouldn’t have wanted me to know any intimate details of the waitress’s horror. I liked that about him.

“And?”

“And it turns out that of all the people she’s had to deal with about what happened that night, she trusts me the most. Go figure.”

Sam paused. I think he was giving me the opportunity to make the mistake of saying something snide. I didn’t.

“I’ve been concerned that if I wasn’t around to hold her hand as this thing got closer to trial, she might get shy and drop the charges. The cops and the DA? We try real hard to make it okay, but the truth is that it’s a bitch to be a sexual assault victim in the system we have. So I wanted to tell this girl personally about the heart attack and let her know that I’d be gone for a while but that I’d be back on the job to, you know, help her before this thing went to court.”

I wasn’t surprised at Sam’s generosity, though his sensitivity sometimes snuck up on me.

That moment a sharp gust of wind exploded out of the west, which was behind us. The heavy car seemed to levitate like an amusement park ride about to careen down some ersatz mountainside. The sheer eighty-foot drop five feet from my window served as a reminder that this particular mountainside wasn’t exactly ersatz.

I craned my neck to look behind us and saw that a thick bank of clouds had popped up and begun to shroud the highest peaks on the Divide.

Sam didn’t turn around.

He said, “Told you. We’re going to get blasted. Weather here is goofy.”

We beat the approaching front down the mountain, though not by much. From our vantage on the street in front of Sam’s house where he had parked his Cherokee, the army of clouds marching over the Divide had the determination of the Allies assaulting Normandy.

We were about to get blasted.

“You have rehab today?” I asked.

“Not until Monday. You know what they do there? These young kids in these dorky matching sweatsuits hook me up to all this heart monitor crap, and I do calisthenics with a bunch of old people, then they watch me walk on the treadmill, and then-then-they act like I’m lying when I tell them what I ate the day before. That’s the entire drill. I don’t see how that’s supposed to help my heart, unless terminal aggravation is their frigging goal.”

“You’ll give it a chance, though? The rehab? I’m sure a big part of rehab is attitude.”

“Don’t talk to me about attitude. I’m feeling a little better every day. I think the medicine is helping. The beta-blockers. I’m more mellow, you know? That can’t be all bad, right?”

I recognized that he hadn’t answered my question about giving rehabilitation a chance.

“Of course not,” I said.

He changed the subject once more. “I heard you made an unscheduled appearance at the execution of that search warrant yesterday.” After he spoke, he punctuated his words by finally pounding the shift lever forward into park. I noted that he wasn’t terribly kind to his transmission.

“Is anything a secret in this town? Jeez. I’m surprised my picture’s not in this morning’sCamera.”

Sam laughed, first time all morning. I liked the sound of it, even if the joke was at my expense.

“I got a personal invitation from the search warrantee, Sam. Nobody knows that my friendly neighborhood cop gave me a heads-up. Did they find what they were looking for?”

He gazed at me over the top of his sunglasses. “You really think I’m going to tell you that?”

“Probably not. You wouldn’t happen to know when she’s going to, you know…”

“Accost you? No. But she will.”

“Maybe not. I told her everything I know.”

“No, you didn’t. You told her everything you think it’s okay for her to know. If Reynoso knows what she’s doing, she knows damn well that you have more. And she’s going to want to know what it is.”

“What have you heard about her?”

He didn’t answer that question, but he did answer my earlier one. “The search at the house didn’t go too well. There’s still plenty of stuff to go over-couple of computers and file cabinets full of paper-but they didn’t find anything damning. That can’t have been too much of a surprise after all these years, though, right? You got to look.”

“What about her-the detective? Do you know anything? Is she sharp?”

“I’m on medical leave, remember? Totally out of the loop. Trying to keep my stress level down.”

“Okay, then tell me what you hear from Sherry.”

“Simon’s missing too much school. And I’m missing him way too much. That’s all I know.”

“Come on, pick, Sam. Carmen Reynoso or Sherry. Tell me something about somebody.”

“Okay. Word is that Reynoso has a chip on her shoulder. Some incident in San Jose a few years back forced her to leave that department before she had her fifteen. She’s about as happy chasing tourists around Laguna Beach as I would be chasing tourists around Aspen.”

That wasn’t very happy.

“What kind of incident in San Jose?”

“Won’t tell you.”

“Can’t tell me?”

“Won’t tell you.”

“Do you even know?”

“No. But I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

By the time Detective Carmen Reynoso tracked me down for an interview, her outfit of wools and leathers was perfect for the weather.

The front that was carrying Pacific moisture over the mountains had collided with some supercold air that was blowing down from Saskatchewan, and together the two weather systems became a fast and furious snow machine along Colorado’s Front Range. What had likely been the season’s final Indian summer interlude was history before anyone had a chance to bid it adieu. I’d managed to drive only halfway from Sam’s house to mine before the winds moderated below gale force and snow started falling in fat flakes that left melanoma rings in the dust on my car. I looked at the time.

Twelve-thirty.

I looked at the sky.

Winter.

At nine o’clock that morning, the day had been as splendid as any November day in memory. And now it was snowing like a son of a bitch.

We were getting blasted.

Carmen Reynoso was parked on the shoulder right where the pavement ended and the dirt lane started winding along the hillside toward my house. She was sitting in the front seat of a rented GM coupe reading an Avis road map. I knew the odds were good that the dirt lane that came to a blunt end in front of my home wasn’t marked on the map she was reading.

At first I wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was Reynoso behind the wheel, so I pulled alongside to get a better look. Once convinced, I lowered my passenger-side window.

“Detective Reynoso?”