He walked to the old garage that he had outfitted as a gym. It was one of the original structures on the place, good-sized – intended for working on vehicles, not just housing them – with bare frame walls and roof. Monks had rebuilt the floor with pressure-treated two-by-ten joists and plywood. He had installed a Vitamax weight machine in one corner and hung a heavy bag in the room's center Most days, he spent fifteen minutes doing sit-ups and weights, then another twenty of hammering the bag. It was not a thorough workout, but it kept his body toned, and on a day like this it offered release.

The room was hot, with the faint good smell of the redwood it had been built from, back when that was cheap lumber. He went through a quick routine on the machine – fifty sit-ups with a ten-pound weight behind his head, sets of bench and military presses, butterflies, and pull-downs – then put on his bag gloves. Usually he started by standing still, throwing controlled left jabs at the bag to get his distance, then stepping in with right crosses and follow-up left hooks. Soon, his feet would start moving by themselves, and he would circle the bag, gathering speed and force.

But today, for no reason he was aware of, he unhooked the bag and set it aside. He started doing footwork, very slowly at first – the gliding step of the left moving forward with the jab, then the right catching up and planting itself to give power to the cross. The left foot stayed put but pivoted with the hook, the third punch in the classic combination, hip reversing at the moment of impact to give it extra snap. The importance of footwork could not be overestimated; placement of inches could make the difference. Rocky Marciano had been one of the all-time great punchers, but his trainers had to tie his ankles together with string to keep him from extending his left foot too far and losing power from his right.

Monks kept his hands at his sides, his gaze on the center of his invisible opponent's chest, concentrating just on his feet. A step forward with the left, quick catch-up with the right, left pivoting on the ball, hip swinging with it, then snapping back. Again, a little faster. Then again, and again. He shuffled his way around the room's perimeter as if it were a ring and the walls were the ropes.

But you could not always advance. The other man in the ring was going to punch you back. Retreating, with minimum damage to yourself, was the other half of footwork. Monks reversed his direction – not with the same steps, but more with side-to-side dancing, as if he were jitterbugging or skating backward. Now he raised his hands defensively, fists protecting his face but just low enough to see over, elbows close in to his ribs.

Monks started circling, combining advance and retreat with unplanted pivots, either foot leaving the floor to gain him a quarter or half turn. He concentrated on moving to his left, trying to herd his spectral partner into a right cross. But the partner had other ideas, and Monks swung the other way, spinning to his right, leaping clear of the swift straight blows coming at him. He changed directions again and again, ducking, weaving, his feet dancing across the floor in a dizzying intricate pattern that could only ever make sense during the few moments it existed.

He slowed, like a toy with its battery running down. He stopped, and let his hands fall to his waist. He was panting and streaming with sweat. Outside, a Steller's jay screeched, nervous from the commotion, or maybe mocking him.

He pulled off the gloves and set them on the sill of the garage's single crude window so they would dry. He pulled off his sweatshirt, too, then kicked off shoes and socks and stepped out of his sweatpants and jock. Barefoot, naked, he walked along the hard dirt path back to the house, inside, and down the hall to the shower.

Martine, standing in the kitchen, watched him pass, without saying a word.

They're like deer on two legs, graceful creatures that prance not through the woods but along the sidewalks. They stream in and out of the Haight's little bar-cafes in tight jeans and short skirts, tossing their hair and smiling. Their earrings shimmer and you can see the ridges of cartilage in their throats, delicate as eggshell. Perspiration glistens on their skin. You walk among them, brush against them. They don't pay any attention. You look like one of their kind.

The street you're on is a blue-black tunnel of sky, slashed by car headlights. Music spills through the hot air, red electric and easy violet and the misty rose of an alto sax. It all blends together like voices, lifting the crowd's feet on an invisible cushion and moving them along. The shop windows are filled with bright tinsel. But the open doorways are like caves, with the glow of fires inside and figures eating and drinking and mating.

She's here somewhere, in one of those caves.

Her voice sings in your head, calling you. Sometimes it gets lost in the other noise, but if you close your eyes you can hear it clearly. It leads you into a doorway. There's a live band at the far end of the room, with a crowd dancing. Lots of tattoos and colored hair. Not really your kind of place.

But that could be her at the bar, sitting alone.

You take the empty seat next to her. She moves her purse over a little, to give you more room. The top of the wine list is a Mondavi Reserve cabernet at twenty-four dollars a glass. You order it, and listen hard to the voice inside.

"What kind of music do you call that?" you ask her.

She shrugs. "Mostly hip-hop, I guess," she says uncomfortably, and she turns to watch the dance floor. She's young, twenty-two or -three, and to her, you seem old.

You know by now that she's not the one.

The band quits. Another girl her age, who's been dancing, comes and sits on her other side. They start talking immediately, chattering like birds.

You pocket your change and slip away.

Outside, you find a quiet spot and lean against a wall, close your eyes, and shut everything else out. The voice in your head is a blur of echoes hammering around.

But her song will start again sweet and clear, and lead you to her. It always has.

When Monks came out of the shower, Martine was waiting on the deck with an old-fashioned glass of cold clean Finlandia vodka, touched with fresh lemon. It hurt his teeth and brought a sharp pleasant ache to his throat.

"You're an angel of mercy," he said, and sank into a chair.

She sat beside him. "Tell me what happened."

He went through the story tersely – the ugly death of a pretty young woman, and the waves that had risen in its wake.

"Baird suggested, with his usual tact, that I'm getting old," he finished. He took another long drink. "Maybe he's right."

"That's ridiculous. You know it and so does he. He's just upset."

"He sure doesn't want any dust settling on Welles D'Anton's halo."

"I used to hear that name a lot," she said. "When I was working for those big-shot executives. Their wives were crazy about D'Anton. It was a status thing, like driving a Rolls. They'd pay a fortune for a Botox injection."

Monks recalled Larrabee's question about how a struggling actress like Eden Hale had been able to afford the surgeon to the rich and famous.

"He's got his own style, that's for sure," Monks said. "That clinic had the feel of a French whorehouse."

"Really?" she said archly. "You know that from experience?"

Only once, Monks thought, and it was true, the place hadn't been anything like D'Anton's clinic. He decided not to elaborate.

"Just a figure of speech," he said.

"He's supposed to have a magic touch," Martine said. "Fountain of youth, you know? But from what I could tell, his results were pretty much the same as any other decent plastic surgeon's. I think he's just managed to develop that mystique."