"My gut says it did," said McMichael.

"Mine says it didn't," said Hector.

"Mine says take me to lunch," said Barbara. "Come on, let's get this stuff put away."

Erik walked past with the body bag on his way to the CSI van, whistling "How Much Is that Doggie in the Window?"

McMichael passed on lunch. Instead, he wandered the Braga household, trying to figure why someone had killed Pete but not bothered to take the cash from his wallet or the watch off his nightstand or the jewelry from the box in Anna's dresser.

They killed him because he'd done something.

They killed him because he hadn't.

They killed him to keep him from doing something.

They killed him for the fun of it.

In the sun-splashed kitchen he played the messages on the answering machine again. Health insurance for seniors, offered by a recorded voice. Victor, announcing himself and waiting for the answer, then finally hanging up.

He walked the crime scene twice, trying to reconstruct the events based on Sally Rainwater's account and the physical evidence. He noted that the sliding glass door had not one but two locks on it, as well as a partial broom handle down in the track. This made it difficult to get out the door. Unless, of course, you knew about them in advance.

He sat in the chair next to the one that Pete had died in. He imagined being Sally Rainwater and having Pete next to him and what they would talk about. Cars? Peptones? The storm, maybe. Sally, can you go get us some firewood? Had Pete heard the footsteps coming up behind him a few minutes later? With the wind outside, maybe not. And the guy comes in and takes the murder weapon off the wall. Knows it's there? Sure. You don't show up for a murder without having a weapon. The guy's been inside before. Knows the place, knows Pete? McMichael wondered if it was someone Pete knew well. Well enough for an argument to escalate. That could explain why the club was used, instead of something easier and more efficient, and it could explain why Pete was sitting instead of fighting. McMichael pictured the old man, back turned to his assailant while he chewed him out or pretended to ignore what was being said.

He looked out the window at the dazzling day, then into the black maw of the big fireplace. He looked again at the cutesy plastic sconce that housed the surveillance camera. Too bad on that, he thought: he and Barbara had looked at hours of the surveillance video she had discovered in the library, and found nothing substantial. Pete with dealership employees, Pete with one of the city council members, Pete with the Padres' hitting coach, Pete with Malcolm Case- his ally on the Port Commission. Present with Case was a very large man whom Barbara had identified as Alex Dejano- a casino manager who'd done time for manslaughter. On the tape, Pete, Case and Dejano had talked fishing and football.

McMichael walked through the bedroom and bath again, then out to the deck where he'd made love to Patricia twenty years ago. He toed the platform where the mattress had rested in summer and fall. It impressed him that two decades could rush by so fast. You'd figure a decade would be big and lumbering and slow. A lot had happened, sure, but twenty years? He was glad now that she had broken his wild little heart back then. If not, he would never have known Stephanie and there wouldn't have been a Johnny. He'd never stopped wishing Patricia well, or thinking about her. Never really wanted back that piece of him that she'd taken and not returned. Like that silly poem. He shook his head and went back inside.

Standing in one of the first-floor bedrooms, he realized it was Victor's. The bedspread had pictures of sporting equipment on it- balls and bats and baseball gloves and tennis racquets. The wallpaper had sailing boats. In one corner sat an old wooden crate filled with deflated balls, vintage kites and ancient skateboards as well as a new pair of in-line skates and a folding scooter and a lunchbox with Luke Skywalker on it. There were tattered posters of Superman and Mickey Mouse and Roadrunner, and newer ones of Batman and the Power Rangers and Digimon. Caught forever in a ten-year-old's mind, thought McMichael, decade after decade, for an entire life. Up in the closet he found a plastic bag of porno magazines that confirmed the age of Victor's body.

McMichael pulled out a scrap of yellow paper from the bottom of the sack. A phone number. The handwriting was childlike and the number was familiar.

He stepped into the hallway and dialed.

"Hi, this is Jimmy Thigpen with the San Diego Police Department. Please leave a message."

"McMichael calling."

He heard the line click alive.

"Hello, Sergeant. This is Sergeant Robb, Internal Affairs."

"I found this number with Victor Braga's collection of naughty magazines."

"Interesting," she said.

"I thought so."

"Maybe you can explain it, McMichael."

"I can talk to Thigpen."

"Good luck," said Robb. "He's not cooperating."

"You weren't Metro/Vice."

Thigpen was housed in the protective custody unit of the San Diego County Jail. McMichael walked in from the cool sunshine of Front Street, signed in at the Professional Visits Window and got a gun locker key. Escorted by a deputy to the fourth-floor sally port, he locked his gun away, glancing at the video monitors- one for each cell in case of attempted suicide or suspicious activity.

Thigpen's unit mates were child molesters and aggressive homosexuals, transvestites, a former DA prosecutor on trial for grand theft, a rapist who'd tried to kill himself. The sheriff's lieutenant eyed McMichael with a hard interest, which is what he figured most PD people got when they came to see their wayward little friend.

McMichael and his deputy escort walked past the cells until they came to Jimmy Thigpen. The deputy signaled to the command booth, then the door to Jimmy's cell slid open about a foot and a half.

"We'll be watching on the camera," said the deputy.

"Enjoy the show," said McMichael.

He shook hands with Jimmy. Thigpen was already pale from lack of sunlight and heavier from the confinement and the food. Blue pants and top shirt, white T-shirt, brown rubber shower sandals. To McMichael he still looked about eighteen- hardly any beard, pimples on his chin and cheeks, thick pink lips- though twenty-three was more like it.

"You look kind of lousy," said McMichael.

"Thirty-five nights. Three squares and a bed. Hell is boredom, and this is pure hell."

"Yeah, I'll bet. Hector says hello. Steffy, too."

"How is she?"

"House on the beach. An extra-pretty smile."

"I always liked her."

"Me too. Still do."

"And Johnny?"

"Plain old perfect."

Thigpen smiled. It was a clean and open smile and had always made McMichael think of a yearbook picture. Thigpen was unmarried and had never talked of a regular woman. He was always interested in Johnny. "What's up, Mick?" he asked.

"Pete Braga."

Thigpen nodded, looking up at the camera high in one corner of his cell. "It's got audio, too. How are your writing skills?"

"I got B's in English."

McMichael took out his notebook and pen. His knuckles barked when he squeezed the pen and wrote:

Your number in Victor Braga's dirty mag bag. What gives?

Thigpen took pad and pen, wrote something that took a while, then handed it back to McMichael: Popped him for soliciting three times in three months- same girl, same place. After you were gone. Cut him loose first two, felt sorry for him. Booked him for number three. He called me sometimes, thought I was his friend for going easy.