The music and drinkers at Dick's were already loud by the time McMichael walked up Fourth. Some kind of rock bluegrass, heavy on the electric fiddle. Up and down the Gaslamp streets, the restaurant hostesses were setting up their sidewalk easels and the busboys were arranging flatware on the tables outside while the dapper managers ignored them, crossed their arms and surveyed the evening.

He could see Raegan's neon sign from a block away: a cobalt blue cigar wafting tracers of pink smoke, and the pulsing orange word Libertad. He found Raegan arranging big-ring robustos in a wooden box as one of the cigar makers set them in his finishing bin. She was dressed for Friday night in a black double-breasted suit with a lacy white blouse under it. Her thick red hair was loose and, as always, her skin so pale and smooth it looked like she'd never spent an hour in the sun. She was thirty-three.

"Check this, Detective," she said, sliding one of the big cigars past his nose.

"Mmm. Smells illegal."

The cigar roller looked at him matter-of-factly.

"You can't buy a better cigar at anywhere near a hundred a box," said Raegan. "Thanks to this guy."

Enrique shrugged and went on to his next robusto. Behind him were three more rolling stations, already shut down for the day. The sound system was playing Cuban music and the lounge smelled of cured tobacco and cedar. There were already some smokers at the bar and the book nook and the magazine table, mostly downtown professionals winding down from the week. The televisions were turned to business and sports. McMichael looked at the big humidors and the glass doors of the private lounges- the Cuba Room, Teofilo's, Papa's Place.

"Can we talk?"

"Well, nice to see you too, flesh and blood."

"I saw Dad last night. He looks good."

She locked her knowing green eyes on him, then led the way to the Cuba Room. "I can tell when you've got something on your mind, Tom, because you make worthless conversation."

"It's the Pete thing," he said, holding open the heavy glass door for her.

"I heard it was the nurse," she said. "Then it wasn't."

"I ought to just let you and Dad handle this case."

"I couldn't watch the autopsies."

He took a seat on one of the low modern sofas, purple and chrome. Raegan took a swivel recliner and propped her feet up on the ottoman, which gave her a view through the glass doors and into the lounge. McMichael could see the rolling stations and the big common area and the smoke rising into the slow blades of the fans.

"What do you need?" she asked.

"The Tunaboat Foundation still having its Friday-night board meetings here?"

"A few of them get drunk and BS, if you call that a meeting. They've got this room booked from seven to nine, every Friday. Something about Pete?" she asked.

McMichael nodded. "I'd like to listen in. But I wanted to clear it with you."

"Stay cool. Anybody finds out, that would be bad for business."

"Nobody'll know."

McMichael smiled at his pretty little sister. She was a gregarious and street-smart woman who had taken to the nightlife at a young age, liberated by Gabriel's spotty attendance at home and their mother's trust. She'd taken some business classes at state, did an internship at one of the stock-brokerage offices, sold new Porsches, ran the advertising department of a radio station. Just when cigars got popular, she'd hatched the Libertad. She'd lucked into a good lease on a prime Gaslamp location, and called on a Cuban ex-boyfriend to gather up some cigar makers in Florida. She'd traveled the Caribbean and Central America in search of her filler and binder tobaccos, and relied upon the time-honored Connecticut shade leaves for wrappers. McMichael had always figured that she got some of Grandfather Franklin's jovial publican's genes. But, hopefully, not his business sense.

She had dangerous taste in men- in McMichael's judgment- fake hard guys who always tried to run the show, then got mad when they saw that she was smarter and less dependent than they were. He'd offered to introduce her to a decent young Fraud detective a couple of years ago, but she'd laughed at the idea of dating a cop. She said she saw enough of those at the Libertad, and forbade McMichael to bring any prospective suitors into her store. The Metro/Vice guys had liked Raegan's lounge, back when McMichael was working the unit. Even the chief and some of his people occasionally booked Papa's Place for some smoke, scotch and gossip. McMichael had realized the eavesdropping potential of the attic when he installed the ceiling fans.

"Pete liked your number-seven pyramids," he said. "I saw two boxes of them in his humidor at home."

Raegan's brow furrowed and her plump little lips went tight. "He must have come in on my day off, because I wouldn't have sold to him. I'd have kicked him out."

"Maybe he didn't come in at all," said McMichael. "Maybe they were a present. I was thinking I could look at your customer list."

"What's that going to tell you?"

"Friends, enemies."

"What, buy him a box of pyramids one day, bash him the next?"

"It's connections I'm looking for. That's all. Pete had his fingers in lots of things."

She gave him a doubtful Irish squint, shaking her head. "Why do I have to have a brother who's a cop? Why do I have to love him and sometimes even think he's pretty cool for a nosy gun-slinging detective?"

"I don't sling. I carry. And I owe you."

"You've owed me for a long time."

"Just name it, Rae."

"Don't go sincere on me. Look, I've got all the customers on disc- I use it for my mailings. You can go alphabetical or by date of purchase or name. I've even got cigar preferences and price points. Start with the pyramids- they're not my most popular shape. But remember, if they paid cash, there's no record except of the sale and the product."

"Maybe I could just tinker upstairs in the office while you get ready for your big Friday night."

"So, is the nurse pretty or what?"

"She's pretty."

"Tommy, your face!"

"She's pretty. So what?"

"Oh, my God."

"I haven't done anything completely foolish yet."

"But close to?" Raegan asked eagerly.

"Actually, yes."

"Oh, brother. I'm so happy for you. I was wondering when you'd finally get a life."

McMichael waited for the warmth to leave his face. "Do you have one?"

Her smile outlasted her shrug. "I met a nice guy last week. Local restaurateur. Very French. Very handsome, very mysterious."

"Sounds bad."

"He looks to be a little on the bad side," said Raegan. "But in a good way."

"Dad always told me I didn't have the brains I was born with," said McMichael.

"And I don't, either?"

"You don't, either."

"Come on. We'll see. He's a nice guy."

By seven o'clock McMichael was sitting on an overturned bucket in the dark attic over the Cuba Room. He had his head up close to the AC vent and it was not comfortable. But he'd pulled the duct loose from its ceiling fixture so the acoustics were surprisingly good as the voices came up through the grille at him. The San Diego Tunaboat Foundation guys wandered into the Cuba Room one and two at a time.

Deep Bass: So I just told the mayor, look, you owe me at least four Super Bowl seats- good ones- or I'm going to get you voted out next time around. He laughs and says what if I get you a booth, and I say you'll be mayor of America 's Finest City for as long as I live!

Nasal Wiseguy: So he gets another few months.

Deep Bass: Hey, my scan's clean, my PSA's way down and I'm good for another ten.