McMichael sat still in the cold, dark attic, chin in his hands, listening and looking down at his tape recorder. He figured his chances of getting anything useful were pretty poor, but the murder would be big news here. And the Tunaboat Foundation was now two million richer so it wouldn't hurt to know what they were saying about Pete. It was also Friday night so he didn't have anything better to do. He wondered if this was the life that Raegan had congratulated him on. It was easy to think about Sally Rainwater now, with the mindless chatter going on beneath him, and he was thankful again that last night hadn't blown up in his face. We might do some good. Then again, this may be the dumbest thing either of us has ever managed.

Below him, laughter erupted as one of the men likened his wife to a twelve-year-old with a credit card.

Nasal Wiseguy: Well, just cut her off, Mike.

Deep Bass: That's what she'll do to him.

Young Man: She did that as soon as he married her.

McMichael wondered if the cops who met here sounded as jocular and retarded as the Tunaboat Foundation, figured they probably did. Something about a roomful of men seemed to drop the collective IQ by about half. Then again, he'd listened in on Steffy and her friends enough to know that women did the same thing, just in a different way. Four women in a room meant four conversations. He thought of the bullet hole in Sally Rainwater's elegant neck and wondered what it would feel like under his finger. He tried to ID the brain thorn that he'd gotten aboard the Cabrillo Star with Patricia. Something about the garage, the twenty large, the rats…

He became aware of the silence in the Cuba Room, wondered if the men were passing something around to look at, or maybe just staring at the table, smoking, out of topics for conversation.

Dom, with the big voice, was the one who broke the silence.

Deep Bass (confidentially): I feel terrible about what happened to Pete. It made me think about who I am and how much time I've got left. You never know- eighty-four years of kicking butt then something like that. We didn't agree on hardly anything, but Pete was Pete.

Young Man: They'll catch whoever did it. Give him the injection, like he deserves.

Nasal Wiseguy: Fuckin' bash his brains out is what he deserves. I'd do it. I'd volunteer for that one.

Young Man: Me, too. I keep thinking about the way I fought the old guy on just about everything. You know? It makes you realize how short your life is, like Dom said. Spend all this time fighting over shit you think matters but really doesn't. I don't know.

Deep Bass: So he leaves us two million in property and we're going to vote for something he'd have fought us on.

Young Man: You gotta do what you think is right. It's time to sell the acres. Let the city have its new hotels for the ballpark, get some payback for financing the Padres. Two million? We could use two million. Pete would have agreed, sooner or later.

Deep Bass: But part of me still sides with him, you know? That's the last of our ground, last of what we used to be. That was ours since, what was it-'thirty-two or 'three? We can lobby the Congress and make trade deals all over the world, but it still isn't going to bring our fleet back home or make jobs around here. We still have thirty-one big beautiful super-seiners off of American Samoa. Fifteen-thousand-ton boats, most of 'em built right here. What a waste. So why give up the last of it? I can see Pete's thinking, I really can.

Young Man: Well, you know, Dom, we're a dying breed.

Deep Bass: But there's different kinds of dying, Teddy. You looked at Pete the last few months it was like he was eighteen again, falling in love. Damned nurse of all things. I'm thinking maybe Pete was younger than all of us, not older.

Young Man: Cryin' shame. Really. Raegan's brother got the case.

Deep Bass: Dance on old Pete's grave, probably.

Victor Braga tapped his foot and looked at McMichael blankly as the detective walked up to him at the Waterfront bar. He was alone at an outside table, wearing a pea coat against the January chill. Tall like his father had been, with thinning gray hair and a remarkably unlined complexion. His eyes were light brown and gentle. Earphone wires trailed down to a disc player that sat on the table beside a glass of what could have been anything from apple juice to scotch.

"I'm Detective Tom McMichael."

"I can't hear you."

McMichael pointed to his own ears. Victor lifted one of the speaker pads and said, "It's too loud."

"Then turn the music down."

"Okay."

Victor slipped off the headset and put it on the table, then concentrated on the player and punched a button.

"I'm Detective McMichael. I'm investigating the murder of your father."

Victor's eyes widened and his lips hung apart. "McMichael?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Holy crap."

"Can I sit down?"

"You're the one that beat me up?"

"My father, allegedly. But that was never proven, Victor. He says he didn't."

"Oh," said Victor good-naturedly, as if considering this possibility with hopefulness. "You can sit down if you want."

"What are you listening to?" McMichael asked, settling into a chair. He saw the bartender looking at him through the crowd, talking on the phone.

"Bing Crosby."

"I like the Raspberries."

"Me too, with chocolate."

McMichael smiled and nodded. "I'd like to ask you about your father."

"You're a policeman?"

"In charge of the case, yes."

Victor's eyes lowered and his brows sagged into heavy crescents and his chin trembled. "I hope they get the electric chair."

"So do I. You going to be okay, Victor? You have plenty of people to do the things you need?"

Victor wiped a tear with his fist, looked at the knuckle. He sighed. "Well, at the hotel they do all the laundry and make sure I'm okay. They get me on the bus to work and have somebody pick me up off the bus later. After work I've got free time. But I have to be in by midnight or they call Papa or Pat. They feed me and the food's really good. Pat and Gar come over and take me places like the movies or sometimes the zoo."

"Where do you work?"

"Papa owns a car place. A dealership for Fords. I wash the cars for him. You know, some of them. I make enough for the hotel and all the stuff I need. It's the Horton Grand. The best."

"How long have you been at the Grand, Victor?"

"I don't know. A long time."

McMichael wondered at the living arrangements. It was hard to imagine someone with the capacity of a ten-year-old- just three years older than Johnny- living on his own in a hotel.

The waitress brought Victor another scotch rocks and McMichael a shot of Anejo.

"Was your dad worried about anything?"

Victor stared at him. His gentle brown eyes gave away nothing now, and his chin was still. "I don't think so. He was happy."

"Got along with everyone?"

"No, he hated lots of people, too. Hated McMichaels. Hated Irish people. Hated people who didn't know anything about fishing. He hated the cops because they wouldn't let him drive his own car. I think he hated doctors and the government, but I'm not sure."

"Anyone in particular?"

Victor eyed him with undisguised suspicion. "Now, the one who beat me up was your papa, right?"

"Pete believed that."

"Then him. Papa hated him for sure. Gabriel. It happened right behind this building."

McMichael waited for Victor to fully comprehend that he was talking to the enemy, but no emotion registered in his light brown eyes.

"Maybe your papa killed him," Victor said optimistically.