"Should I be sorry or happy?"

She smiled, teeth white and lips red in her smooth, olive Portuguese face. "I'm happy. You can feel whatever you want. I love this apartment. I'm not really moved in yet, but the basics are here. Come on, I'll show you."

There was a small dining alcove right up by the window, views of the city and the harbor. Her dining table was a big rectangle of beveled-edge glass balanced on four clear acrylic cylinders. Set for two.

The master bedroom was big and somewhat disheveled in a manner that McMichael remembered: clothes tossed on a chair, the Union-Tribune spread over an unmade bed, a tennis racquet, tennis shoes, a can of balls and a warm-up jacket piled in one corner, bathroom counter cluttered with bottles and tubes and brushes.

"I guess I'm a lousy housekeeper," she said thoughtfully. "But at least this time I'm doing it all myself. No cleaning lady. No cook. It's my ship and I'll run it how I want."

"You sound like Pete."

"I know." She giggled softly.

The guest room was small and almost empty, just a twin bed and a chest of drawers with a mirror above it, one painting and one potted king palm.

"Let's eat while I tell you about New Year's Eve."

She served a bouillabaisse with sourdough rolls and a Caesar salad with plenty of sardines and dressing. McMichael remembered that Patricia was a good cook and a world-class eater who failed to gain weight.

"There were fifteen guests at Grandpa's house for New Year's," she said. "Seventeen total, counting Pete and the nurse. Me, Garland, Malcolm Case and his porn-star wife, a casino guy named Alex Dejano and his girlfriend, Charley Farrell from the dealership and his wife, the Silvas, the Bezes and Victor. Some terrifically boring cop and his miniature wife came by for a few minutes early on- Blank or Blanda or something like that."

"Jerry Bland. We call him Bland Jerry."

"Bland is right."

McMichael wasn't surprised, but he was. Bland wasn't the only cop in Pete's little black book, but he was the only cop at the party.

"Was Zeke inside the whole time, or did he go in and out?"

"The dog? In and out, I guess. Grandpa told me he died that night."

McMichael told her about the autopsy and the strychnine.

Patricia's face lost its radiance as she listened. She spooned some broth, the black zigzag of hair aimed down at the bowl. "Why, so they could come back and kill him without the dog barking?"

"That's a good assumption."

"You're talking about one cold-blooded piece of work, McMichael."

"Exactly."

"What a rotten job you have."

"It's an honest buck."

"So much for my cheery little lunch."

They ate without talking, spoons clinking in the bowls, rain driving against the windows. McMichael saw a web of white lightning break out over the ocean, then heard a moan of distant thunder.

"The nurse told me she saw Dejano feeding the dog," said McMichael.

"I didn't. But we left early."

"Why?"

"Grandpa was a boring drunk. I didn't like being around him when he was like that. And you get Charley Farrell and Pete together, it's just Fords, Fords, Fords. I get a new demo from the dealership every six months, but I don't want to talk about the damned things."

" Garland and Pete get along?"

" Garland thought Pete was a savage and Pete thought Garland was a poofter. That was one uptight dud of a New Year's Eve party- for us, anyway. But you go out of loyalty, you know? And they used to be fun. Used to be a hundred people or more. But Pete, he just seemed to be turning on everyone. Hardly had any family, hardly any friends. Malcolm Case a friend? Or that nurse? Pete was bottom feeding."

McMichael thought about Sally Rainwater trying to resuscitate Pete, her hands on his bloody pulp of a head, her mouth on his, all the panic and terror she went through.

"What are you going to do with the dealership?" he asked.

"Sell it and divide by five." She looked at him, a hint of apology in her dark eyes. "It's easy and clean. Detroit said we can keep it, but I never wanted to sell cars."

"Charley told me you had some ideas for the dealership."

"Boy, did I. Radical concepts like more Web exposure and more local TV. Grandpa didn't care for them."

"What does the rest of the family want?"

"Just the money. My brother James made noises about keeping the franchise, but he's in Dallas and wants to stay in Dallas. That's not going to work."

"Did you help Pete out with the business?"

"Some. It kind of runs itself. He had me look at the books, make sure everything was on the up-and-up. Grandpa wasn't the most trusting of men."

"What did you find?"

"Nothing. He was concerned that his old bookkeeper was losing her mind, but she wasn't. She wasn't exactly computer literate, but her numbers added up. Imagine keeping the books on a multimillion-dollar business with paper and pencil. Detroit told me that any new owners would have to switch to a computer system."

Patricia took their bowls into the kitchen and came back with seconds. She put a hand on McMichael's shoulder as she set the bowl in front of him.

"What's your opinion of Grothke Junior?" he asked.

She said nothing until she was seated again. "One of those oddball bachelors you wonder about."

"How about his legal skills?"

"Adequate. Why?"

"He lost those letters that Pete sent him. About getting a church named for himself or Anna or Victor."

"Just lost them? How do you lose letters?"

McMichael didn't answer. Maybe Junior was just absentminded, he thought. No way to open an investigation of him just because his office lost some correspondence. They could press him, but Junior seemed pretty fed up with answering questions.

McMichael finished his seconds and sipped his drink.

"Thank you," he said.

"Always so polite, McMike."

"That was Mom's answer to chaos. Now it's mine."

"It's a nice quality. Thanks for paying your long-distance respects at the service. I couldn't invite you."

"I know."

"Nice to see the chief there. Grandpa liked people who were in charge."

They ate and watched the rain fall past the window.

"How's Gabriel?"

"He's the same." McMichael drank the rest of his gimlet and watched another bolt of lightning crack through the black sky.

"And how are you, Tommy? I mean really. I'd like to know."

He looked at her, marveling that the years could leave Patricia untouched.

"I'm good," he said. "I like the job. I love Johnny. The divorce was rotten but you heal up."

"Sounds like there's something missing. Or maybe you're holding out on me." She smiled and drank.

"I've got a little something going."

"Who?"

"You don't know her."

"Then tell me who she is. Someone at work?"

He nodded.

"Cops always end up with cops. At least on TV."

"We eat doughnuts and drink coffee together. Talk in Penal Code."

Patricia laughed. Her arms were dark and smooth, pale underneath when she raised them to fiddle with her hair.

"I wrote you a letter when I heard about you and your wife," she said. "Never mailed it. Wrote you another one a few weeks later, but didn't mail that one either."

"Went through some stamps."

She smiled, set the zigzag back and it fell down again. "I never stopped thinking about you. I never stopped dreaming about you. We had something good, Thomas."

"We did."

"Still think about me?" she asked.

"I stopped."

"Do you dream?"

"Couldn't stop those."

"I couldn't either," she said. "I enjoyed them."

"Don't go back, Patricia."

"Too painful for little McMikey?"

"Just unnecessary."

"What if I want to go forward? What I tried to say in the letters was I wished we could spend some time together. It's probably insane. I can't explain why I wrecked us, Tom. But I had to. I felt like history was making me do it. That the McMichaels and the Bragas were making me do it. Pete and Victor and Gabriel and Franklin. You know what I wish? I wish I could take a fire hose and blast it all away. Just cream it off the face of the earth. And see what's left standing. See if it's us."