"Stupid," she said.

"What is?"

"Me. This. I'm unraveling, ever since Pete. Like he held me together. I obsess. I can't turn it off."

She wiped her face, set her hand on his leg by the teardrops. "I think about Garland and who I am and what I'm going to do. And I think about you all the time like some kind of mantra or something. I go back twenty years and start thinking that was my life, that was the best it was ever going to be and I was too dumb to know it. I think it's just that I'm older, McMike. I hate getting older. This is the first time I can remember not looking forward to something."

"You're thirty-eight. You're a beauty and you've got a whole life out there."

"Where?"

"Wherever you make it."

"Selling Fords in San Diego?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Yeah. Sure, Tom. We have the best climate in the world."

"And the zoo."

"I can still have a child."

"That would be good."

"Gar shot blanks. My boyfriend before Gar got me pregnant but it didn't take. Twice."

"You've got the time."

"I'm leaving for good."

"You mean that?"

"Going to wrap up the estate, fly away. I'll rent out the fancy condo. I'm thinking Santa Cruz or maybe Newport Beach. Gotta stay near the water."

She sniffed and straightened and ran her fingers under her eyes, looked at the melted makeup. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry."

"Thanks for hanging. Nice to have a friend. Come on, I'll take you home."

Outside McMichael's apartment Patricia slid the car into park and reached across him to dig into the glove box. She pulled out some sheets of paper, folded lengthwise, opened them and set them in his lap.

"Henry finally came up with these letters from Grandpa," she said. "You guys hadn't presented a subpoena for them and he figured the best thing was to get them to you this way."

McMichael studied the letterhead, the typed text, the aggressive signature of Peter Braga at the bottom. "Where were these?"

"Old Grothke had them in his suit coat pocket."

"Oh, come on. Junior said they'd looked everywhere for them."

"According to Junior, they'd checked his father's pockets every day since the letters got lost. And his blankets and the Sea World bag on his wheelchair and his briefcase, too. Who knows? Maybe he's got lots of suits."

The letters were addressed to Henry Grothke Sr., at the downtown address.

Dear Henry,

It has come to my attention that I've ponied up almost two million dollars to the San Diego Diocese over my lifetime. In light of that faith and goodwill I proposed that the new church being built in north county be named either St. Peter's, St. Anna's or St. Victor's in tribute to the Braga family. From the Diocese I've received only reasons why this cannot be done. Therefore, I want to remove the Diocese from my will. They will receive nothing upon my death. Please rewrite the will accordingly. I also want you to reverse the charitable remaindered trust we set up to give them the houses in Rancho Santa Fe and Mammoth. Cut them out totally, Henry. I've had enough of their hypocrisy!

Sincerely,

Peter Augustino Braga

The second letter was a shorter, more vehement version of the first, with elaborate scoldings of Grothke, Steiner & Grothke for "losing, throwing away or shredding" the previous directive. There was a threat at the end of it to "swing" Pete's legal business elsewhere if Grothke couldn't "keep track of things" and do as he "was told."

"Take them," said Patricia. "Maybe they'll help."

McMichael thanked her, kissed her cheek and pushed his way out of the convertible.

He shut the door and waved to her but she was staring down at the steering wheel and didn't look up.

Gabriel sat on his usual stool, the usual pint and shot on the bar before him. He saw his son, broke into a dissociated smile.

McMichael sat beside him, ordered up a pint from Hugh.

"You fell for the nurse," said Gabriel.

"It's over and I'm off the case."

"Ah, son, the things life throws at us."

McMichael drank the stout, watched Tim Keller shuffle in from the street, heard the cook slapping the pub grub plates onto the counter under the heat lamps. He caught Hugh in a sideways glance.

"Take a walk with me, Pop."

"But why?"

"Just to walk."

"I do enough of that."

"I don't. Come on."

They headed up Front Street in the fading light, pigeons lifting up to roost in the eaves, the traffic thick on Ash, an ocean breeze tossing Gabriel's thick white hair. McMichael looked behind them to see Tim Keller ambling along, making no attempt to hide his surveillance of Gabe.

"Where were you the night Pete was killed?" asked McMichael. "Don't tell me Spellacy's because I know you weren't."

"The damned publican, telling stories again."

"It wasn't Hugh. Now come on. Cough it. I'm trying to tie up some loose ends."

"But a man's got a right to his privacy, Tom."

McMichael pulled his father by the arm, not hard, but threw his back up against the bank building. His father's lightness surprised him, and so did his poor balance, and the impact.

"Sorry, Pop. Really."

"I'd have beaten you for that just a few years ago."

"This is now. And I need to know where you were that Wednesday."

Gabriel blinked slowly and turned away, shaking his head. "Tim and I, we bus and hoof to St. Agnes's on Wednesdays."

"What for?"

"That's your business, too? Be careful."

"Why? Why go there?"

"It's not your concern."

"Tell me why."

"There's no reason to-"

"Goddamn it, why go to St. Agnes's? What the hell do you and Tim have to do at St. Agnes's?"

Gabriel started off down the sidewalk again, McMichael keeping pace.

"Why, Pop?"

"For the food, son."

The food. Son.

God, thought McMichael. It hit him hard, brought things he'd never wanted to see right into focus. Gabriel McMichael on the dole at St. Agnes's, shoveling down the free food to make it back to the pub for more drinks.

Gabriel looked back with the same expression that he'd worn for all the years McMichael had known him: shameful pride.

"Come on, Pop," McMichael said quietly. "Slow down. I'm sorry."

They made their way back toward Spellacy's. At the corner of Front and B Gabriel stumbled off the curb and McMichael caught him by his coat sleeve, yanked him away from a car that threw a wave of gutter water that half drenched the old man and McMichael, too, sent them staggering backward while someone yelled stupidfuckers from a yellow convertible.

"You all right, Pop?"

"Sonofabitch, Tom."

"You gotta be careful, Pop."

"I saw him, Tommy. Just couldn't get the old bones moving in time."

"You okay?"

"I'm okay, I'm okay. Let go of me."