One of the checkers, a good-looking fiftyish man named Ricardo, was certain beyond reasonable doubt. "She bought two bundles of firewood and paid cash," he told McMichael. "She did not want any help out."

"Had you noticed her in here before last night?"

"Many times, over the last few months. A very easy face to remember."

He drove out Silver Strand Boulevard toward Imperial Beach. The strand was in fact silver tonight beneath the storm-scrubbed sky, stars close and the moon round and shiny as a hubcap.

McMichael looked out at the liquid mirror of ocean and thought of what he was about to do. A very easy face to remember. He listened inward for the soft footsteps of disaster but heard none.

Then he thought of Johnny and Stephanie cozy in their big house in La Jolla, enjoying the nonviolent prosperity of Dr. Clay Blass, oral surgeon. McMichael wondered if they were better off without him. What would he be doing right now, if they'd stayed together? Well, pretty much exactly this, he thought. Steffy would be home feeling alone and worried and be mostly through the first bottle of wine. Johnny would be done with his homework and dinner, maybe watching TV.

And McMichael would get home at nine or so- early, really, because when a case was hot you could work it for a couple of days straight and not come home at all. He'd share a bottle of wine with Steffy and they'd talk and he would try to put the work out of his mind.

But no matter what they talked about, their words would pool over a bedrock of resentment that had begun forming in Stephanie not long after they'd married. It got worse when he made Homicide. At home McMichael would see how genuinely disappointed Stephanie was to realize that his job sometimes took precedence over their marriage, how angry she was becoming, and he'd wonder if he'd somehow misrepresented himself and the work he did. The really surprising thing was that he was doing just fine. It became awkward, then irrelevant to tell her that he was happy here, in the hunt, with her and their son and the little house overlooking Interstate 5 and the harbor. He would sleep poorly if his team was up on the rotation, or sleep like the dead if it wasn't, until early morning when he'd get up and make breakfast and take Johnny to school, then go on to Fourteenth and Broadway and do it again. He liked the hectic velocity of it all, and the feeling of doing something that mattered. Liked making the city just a little better for his wife and son. Didn't mind being on call 24/7- weekends, holidays- every single day of the year except when they were on vacation. Liked putting the pieces together, making sense of hidden things, finally nailing someone to the wall. And the overtime pay really added up. McMichael knew all along he was living a cop's story. He'd known it going in, wanted it. But he'd thought he could rewrite it with a good middle and maybe even a happy ending. Seven years of it and Stephanie had fallen in love with the guy who pulled Johnny's tooth.

He drove past the Imperial Beach Pier and then down Seacoast Drive to the last homes before Mexico. He felt his heart working faster and the damp cold at his temples as he walked to her door. Got the same feeling he had when the pieces of an investigation started to mesh, when he was sure of something he couldn't quite see yet. Felt like he was pursuing the hunch of a lifetime.

Sally Rainwater opened it as far as the chain would go but said nothing.

"I just wanted to thank you for your help," he said. "I'm sorry you had to go through that with Pete, then with us. Your alibi checked at the market and your letters from Pete were legit. You know that already. I apologize for the heavy treatment."

He looked down. He'd thought about what he'd say, hadn't realized it was so little, would be over so quickly.

"I thought you handled yourself with guts and class," he said. "It took a lot to try to save Pete like you did."

"I wouldn't describe the hallway scene as classy."

"It shouldn't have happened."

He couldn't make out much of her face, just eyes and hair and a hand up at her throat holding a cowl or collar tight. "You'll keep looking at me as a possible accomplice, won't you?"

"If you'd like."

"Cute."

"We'll keep looking at you," said McMichael. He now felt as stiff and mirthless as a tax collector. "I'll have some questions and I'll want your help."

"So what are you really doing here? Looking at me? Heading off a use-of-force lawsuit? Putting me off guard so you can investigate a murder?"

"I wanted to tell you those things, face-to-face, not over the phone."

"Why?"

McMichael now clearly heard the footsteps of disaster, though they sounded far away and avoidable. The next two seconds became an hour. "I thought you deserved it."

All he could see of her eyes was a glimmer. "Is this a personal call, Detective McMichael?"

"No. Yes."

She didn't move. McMichael prepared his retreat, heard himself trying to explain his side of the Rainwater citizen's complaint to the captain. In the way of most catastrophes, this one had come quietly, then deafeningly. Not until right now did he understand that this was the most asinine and unprofessional thing he'd ever done.

The door closed then swung open and Sally Rainwater stepped aside to let him in.

She was dressed like she was the night before at Pete's, but without the blood and the boots. Pink fluffy slippers again. Even in the slippers she was tall. There was an open textbook and a legal pad and yellow pencil on the kitchen table. A steaming mug by the book.

She shut the door, crossed her arms and looked at him with steady brown eyes. The room shrunk around him.

"I've never done anything like this before," he said. There was a chip of something yellow stuck to her lower lip. McMichael was grateful for it and stared.

"I haven't, either."

"I wondered who you are. You were in my dream."

"I thought about you, too."

Her eyes held a fierce curiosity and McMichael felt pinned. He studied the yellow chip. "I don't know what to say."

"You can sit down."

He sat on the couch under the painting. She made orange tea and brought it to him in a mug with the bag still in it. When she sat in the director's chair she was far away and up higher than him, which only aggravated McMichael's growing sense of incompetence and stupidity.

"Nice place," he said.

"Cheap and on the beach."

"Not many of those left!"

She looked at him and McMichael checked his tea bag.

"I really can't do this," she said.

"Me neither."

She took his mug into the kitchen. Then she came out and pulled him up from the couch and kissed him. Both her hands on his face. It was short but generous and McMichael's heart bounced off the moon. No hiding the physics of things but he turned his waist a little to try.

"Go home now," she said. "Treat me like a regular woman and call me. I'm not a walk-in clinic."

"Roger that."

"Nights are best until I get another job."

"I'm really-"

"If you apologize I'm going to kill you."

"Pleased."

"We might do some good, Detective. Then again, this may be the dumbest thing either of us has ever managed. You got some of my pencil stuck to your lip."