Detective McMichael visited Rainwater at the women's jail on Monday, according to Sheriff's Department sources. "They had a brief discussion," said one deputy, who asked to remain nameless.

McMichael read the story, his gut tightening with each paragraph, his eyes hardly blinking at all. He imagined his fist going through Bland's forehead.

The picture beside it showed him and Sally leaving Ye Olde Plank hand in hand, McMichael's face turned toward her with a sucky, solicitous smile.

Rawlings, Bland and Chief Kerr were waiting in Kerr's seventh-floor office. McMichael sat.

"You're off the case," said Kerr.

"I understand."

"Where'd they get the picture?" asked Bland.

McMichael took a deep breath and stared at him. "I have no idea, sir. The only one who had pictures like that was you."

"That Times shot wasn't on the PSU roll," Bland said. "It came from somewhere else."

McMichael marveled at Bland's breadth of deception, his bovine calm and perfect execution.

"The damage is done," said Kerr. "Don, I want you to field the press and media on this. They're not going to settle for Public Information."

Rawlings nodded, looking down with the same lightless expression he'd had a few hours earlier in his den at home. "Tom, take the Courtney Gonzalez case. Stay away from Braga and the nurse. A couple thousand miles away would do."

"Yes, sir."

"I still think a leave of absence would be the best thing for this department," said Bland.

"Then take one," said McMichael.

"Can it and beat it," said Kerr. "Take the day off and get out of here. Tom, your ice is thin."

"I want to know who took those pictures," said Bland. "One of the nurse's friends? Maybe your buddy Hector?"

McMichael looked out the window, but saw only Bland's misdirections spinning wider and wider and wider.

"We'll get to the bottom of it, Jerry," said Rawlings. "Don't worry about that."

"It's my job to worry," said Bland. "This man gets the day off and I have to scramble around here cleaning up his messes."

Enjoy the last few days you'll live out of prison, McMichael wanted to say, but he held his tongue. He slammed the door behind him and took the elevator down toward the bright sunshine.

He was about to get into his car when his cell phone rang.

"That was stupid, but she's hell for pretty," said Patricia.

"Gee, thanks."

"I'll bet you could use a little distraction."

"A long trip to a faraway planet would be nice."

"I'll pick you up in half an hour."

"Do that."

"Bring a jacket. And you gotta tell me where you live, McMike."

She was driving a red Mercedes convertible, a red scarf around her black hair, big sunglasses and a black leather car coat. Under the coat was a polka-dot outfit that reminded him of Marilyn Monroe.

"No Ford?"

"I could never tell Grandpa I bought this. Get in."

They drove to the Shelter Island yacht basin, parked in a spot at the San Diego Yacht Club.

"Provisions in the tiny trunk," she said.

McMichael carried the bag of wine, cheese and bread. Patricia led the way to a fifty-foot tournament-rigged Tiara with twin Cat diesels, new blue canvas and fresh hull paint. Corrinna Braga.

"One of Grandpa's toys," said Patricia. "I think I'll end up with it, since I'm the only one who knows how to use it."

Ten minutes later they were taxiing through the harbor, the Cats puttering them along at three knots while the breeze slapped cool against McMichael's face. There were stratus clouds high in the north and the sky was a hard, close blue. When Patricia hit the Pacific she gunned the diesels and aimed west. Standing beside her McMichael felt the power rise up under him, felt the bow lift and the stern auger down, watched a gull glide past for inspection then snap away fast in the wind.

Patricia yanked off her scarf and tossed it belowdecks, started talking fast and loud over the engines:

"I love this thing, Tom. I'd have gone with twin Mercs or eight-ninety-twos for more speed but the Cats get me around. Only got sixty hours on them. Pete gave this to my mom and dad the year before they died in the wreck. Named it for my mom. I gave it back to him when Anna died, seemed like the right thing to do. Pete and Gar and me, we'd scream over to Catalina and fish for a couple of days, live right on board, cook up our catch and drink good port. Hours of that. Gar would vomit and sleep until noon. God, I miss him. Pete, not Gar."

"Not Gar."

"Hey, I'm still a speed demon, Tom, remember that old Mustang I had back after high school and how we'd get it going out the Eight toward Yuma, hit a hundred and float past the sand dunes thinking we could hop from mirage to mirage? Man, that was great, remember that Ford V-Eight with the air conditioner that blew cubes and we could get from San Diego to Rosarito on the toll road in nothing flat? Eat lobsters and drink tequila 'til we rolled to a hotel, get up and have more lobsters for breakfast?"

"Yeah, I remember."

"So how could you get mixed up with the nurse?"

"Good question."

"Thing is you can't hit a hundred on water, but fifty feels just like it, maybe better because you get the up and down and the yaw. More dimensions of speed. Was it anything like we used to be, you and that young blonde?"

"Let's talk about something else."

"You and Stephanie like us?"

"Chrissakes, Pat, just drop that shit, will you?"

"You're right, McMike. I said I'd distract you!"

She eased the boat into a loose port turn, then tightened her into a dizzying spin that sent McMichael's brain to one side of his skull as the hull dug into the sea and the spray shot off to starboard and the engines groaned against the load and the backwash almost bucked them over. Patricia laughed and straightened Corrinna Braga, heading east at a less adamant pace.

They came back into the harbor, chugged north past the navy boatyards. McMichael stared at the battleships and destroyers and the floating hospital- majestic gray mountains of steel sitting impossibly high in the water, bristling with ordnance.

Back in the slip at Shelter Island they sat down by the bait tank with their backs to the wind and the wine open between them.

"Who killed him, Tommy?"

"I can't talk about it."

"Are you still on the case?"

"Just the edge of it now."

"Because of the nurse?"

McMichael nodded, drank some wine, said nothing.

"It was the nurse, wasn't it? She suckered you in so you'd lose your bearings."

He shrugged.

"So, I can't talk about your exes and I can't talk about my grandpa. Are we down to odds on the Super Bowl?"

"It was nice of you to rescue me today," he said.

"You're such a square, Tom. You were always such a square. Although, for a few months there, when we were nineteen, I really had you going."

Oh, did you, he thought.

She moved the wine, sat close and put her head on his shoulder. McMichael smelled perfume and salt air. He put his arm around her, felt her shudder. He wondered what it would be like to love her again, after the lifetime that had ended when he and Stephanie broke apart. It wasn't like it was, because Johnny had most of his heart and Steffy maybe some, and even Sally Rainwater had a piece of it. Patricia had her part, too. But there was a big piece that was still his, oddly aloof and calculating and convinced of its own value, though willing to be given.

He felt a slight tapping on his thigh, looked down to see the drops soaking into his jeans.