"Then I've got a problem," he said.

"It's going to be mine, too. Though Gene might not see it that way. I guess we could be a large embarrassment to the department."

McMichael looked straight into her dark brown eyes, saw exhaustion. "You should have told me about Florida," he said.

Sally shook her head. "It was an ugly thing and it made me ashamed, even though I had to do what I did. You know what it's like to carry around a memory like that? When I think of it, it all comes back. I can feel his body and smell his breath. I wasn't ready to go there. Not in front of you."

"It looks bad, the circumstances being similar."

"They weren't similar at all. That man in Florida came at me fast and hard. Stronger than hell. He was going to do it. He was going to rape me right there in the kitchen. It wasn't part of my job to get raped. Did you come to threaten me with that?"

"No, please. I didn't. I'm not."

"Why did you come?"

"I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine. You're pathetic."

McMichael nodded and went to the door.

"You don't know quality when you see it," said Sally.

He waited while the deputy moved toward the door to let him out.

"Anna's hummingbird," she said. "The one you found at my place? That wasn't from Pete's. Pete's was genuine. The one they planted in my home was fake. It was obvious."

"I'll have it examined."

"You do that."

The deputy let McMichael out. When he looked back through the glass the room was empty.

He sat with Hector in a corner of Libertad, lost in the smoke of a Churchill, a tumbler of tequila on the coffee table in front of him. He watched Raegan making her rounds. She looked waiflike as she moved through the crowded room, red hair bouncing and her eyes set like peridots in her fair, thrifty face. A group of pretty young women had taken Teofilo's Room and McMichael could see them through the glass, noting how absolutely they ignored him. A batch of young San Diego firemen occupied Papa's Place, and the Cuba Room was filled with a raucous birthday celebration featuring much howling and a dancer in a thong and silver heels. Through the big windows McMichael could see Fifth Avenue, busy for a post-stormy Monday, pedestrians hustling through the traffic and diners still waiting for tables at nine.

Raegan broke away and sat down with them, setting her martini glass on the table. McMichael knew it was only water, but Raegan floated a twist in it to set a festive tone for her establishment. She looked a little dark in the eyes.

"You handsome brutes behaving yourselves?"

"I'm trying my best," said Hector. "But it doesn't come naturally."

She glanced into Teofilo's. "Tom, I happen to know that one of those young ladies likes the way you look."

McMichael nodded but said nothing. You don't know quality when you see it.

"She have a friend?" asked Hector.

"Dozens. You guys look wrung out as I feel. Long day?"

McMichael nodded and sipped his drink. "Sorry about Andre. But his name came up and we had to check him out."

He told her about the sighting of the wine-colored SUV, and the list of new owners given to him by Charley Farrell. She squinted just slightly, McMichael able to trace this look of deliberation back as long as he had known her, held her on his lap, rocked with her, held her hand as she put one miniature shoe in front of the other and learned to walk.

"To tell you the truth," she said, "Andre's sell-by date was already up."

"You can do a lot better than him," said Hector. "And be careful of him. These roosters, when you ruffle their little feathers…"

"Thanks, Heck," she said with a weak smile. "Well, back on the chain gang!"

She gulped the water dramatically, messed up Hector's shining black hair, kicked McMichael's leg and edged back into her crowd.

Just after ten the Axelgaard brothers and two other men walked in, all smiles for the ladies in Teofilo's. One of the women held open the door and in walked the four men. The brothers were well muscled and walked with an air of importance. Mason- balding, mustachioed- wore a black leather sport coat and jeans. Golden-haired Martin, the U.S. Customs man, was dressed in a black suit that swayed expensively as he walked. The other two were Mexican and dressed for nightclubbing. Could be anything from DEA to cartel enforcers, thought McMichael; this close to the border, the lines got blurred.

Hector buried his face in a magazine. McMichael headed for the restroom on the other side of the room. He didn't think that Martin remembered him from the border crossing, which suggested arrogance and a low level of attention. McMichael had often found dull people to be the most explosive and, oddly enough, the most successful criminals.

Hector met him in the bathroom. McMichael leaned against the door and Hector hit the hand dryer. "If we stay, they'll make us," he said.

Hector nodded. "Let's wait outside and tail them."

"I'll get Raegan's keys. We're dead in the Ford."

They sat across the street in Raegan's ride, a little BMW sports car with nifty analog gauges and a red leather interior. An hour later, the brothers came out with two pretty women and got into a black Mercedes four-door parked in a red zone. The men took the front seats, women the back. A moment later the car slid away from the curb with a chirp of tires.

"Maybe the other two guys are looking for people like us," said Hector. "Is there a back way out of Raegan's?"

"Yeah, but she won't let customers use it."

"Smart girl. I wonder where the party is."

It was at the Hyatt, site of Jimmy Thigpen's attempted celebration back in December. The Mercedes pulled into self parking so McMichael did, too, finding a space far enough away to watch. The fab four walked across the lot, each brother coupled up with one of the women. The women both wore high-heeled shoes and their long blonde hair shone in the lot lights.

McMichael and Hector climbed out of the little car and followed at a distance, talking loudly about the Super Bowl- it would come down to defense and special teams if you asked Hector, McMichael braying about the underdogs and five points but sticking with the overs and unders for serious money.

They stopped and backed into the shadow of the big building when the brothers and their dates turned for the lobby.

"I don't think we're invited," said Hector.

They stood in the shadow for a while, watching an occasional car head past them for the parking lot. McMichael looked up at the clear sky and the stars sprinkled in the dark, saw a falling star and wished his son would become a good man.

"I wonder what Jimmy did with his cash," said Hector. "All those border runs. Something tells me he made a lot more than three hundred grand."

"Yeah," said McMichael. "If you're running cartel loads across the line with a Mack truck, you're in for some good money."

They had just stepped out of the shadows when a familiar Ford sedan glided down the drive toward the parking lot. Just instinct, then, as McMichael saw the radio antenna on top and pulled Hector back into the darkness.

They waited two minutes to see Jerry Bland come marching toward the lobby, dressed in a gray suit and carrying a leather briefcase. McMichael had to stare at him an extra beat just to believe his own eyes.

Half an hour later Bland strode back across the parking lot and let himself into the sedan as McMichael and Hector watched from the cramped little sports car. Bland swung the briefcase into the back, shut the door quietly and climbed into the driver's seat.