The next thing he knew, the cops were at the bank with a drill for the lock and Liquida’s dreams of an indolent life on the beach went up in smoke.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. With the economy tanked, now every teenager in Tijuana with a rusty razor was undercutting his prices. You could hire a quick death for the cost of a Big Mac. Throw in fries and they’d make it look like an accident.

Each day he watched as the spot price for gold soared like a rocket while his venom toward the lawyer turned more toxic.

Liquida steered away from the drug cartel at the border and instead began nosing around the fringes of the international terror trade. He had heard enough frantic bargaining from the fevered mind of the Arab before he died to know that there was money there. The only things deeper than the primeval grievances that fueled their hatred were the pockets that paid for the revenge. Even at current prices, there was always more oil money.

Liquida ended up taking a job from an Australian who thought he was fooling the stupid Mexican with his lousy American accent. The word was that the man was wired into a major contract being paid for in euros, most likely money from the Middle East.

He took the job, but he figured there was no harm in stirring a little enjoyment in with his business. Liquida knew he’d left at least three fingerprints on the Dumpster where he’d dropped the burned body. As soon as they figured out who Liquida’s grilled guest was, they would connect the roasted remains to the fireworks in Coronado. The FBI would land on the Dumpster as if it were a national treasure. It would take them a while to sort out all the prints, the guys who drove the hoist trucks and the ones who unloaded them, Dumpster divers who fished through the trash for goodies, and drifters who saw the container as a five-star condo and tried to move in. In the end they would come away with a few prints they couldn’t identify and could not clear. These would end up in the FBI’s big mainframe, a computer somewhere in West Virginia.

Liquida then filched one of Madriani’s business cards from the reception counter in his office. He did this during the chaos of the Paparazzi Putsch when he realized that the two lawyers were nowhere to be found. He superimposed a single patent thumbprint on the back of the business card, using a little graphite so they couldn’t miss it. Then he waited for the right opportunity. It came when Liquida killed the young tour guide in Washington. He had no idea why the Aussie wanted the kid dead. What’s more, he didn’t care. He knew the card with his print would set off all the bells and whistles in the FBI database, roping in the lawyer and leaving the feds to wonder what the connection was between the two cases, and whether Madriani had told them everything he knew.

It was just a little after seven when the flash of headlights roused Liquida from behind the wheel. He saw the car pull into the driveway. He lifted a pair of field glasses and peered toward the front of the house half a block away, on the other side of the street. He watched as a tall, skinny blonde got out of the car and climbed the steps to the front door.

A few seconds later someone opened the door. In the light he could see another woman just inside, talking to the blonde, who was still standing on the porch. They were laughing. A few seconds later they both went inside and the door closed.

As he waited he wrote down the license-plate number from the blonde’s sedan, parked in the driveway.

Several minutes went by. Liquida was looking at his watch as the door to the house opened once more. This time both women came out, the blonde followed by a shorter woman with brown hair who was carrying a light jacket. She was smiling as the two of them came down the steps and headed for the car.

From the corner of his eye, Liquida caught movement up on the porch. He shifted the binoculars, refocused them a little, and there he was. Standing in the doorway waving toward the car in the driveway was the lawyer Madriani.

Liquida had seen his picture splashed all over television enough times that he now had visions of him in his sleep. As he glanced back and forth between the lawyer and the two women, he realized that the brown-haired girl belonged to Madriani, probably his daughter.

Liquida watched as the car with the two girls backed out of the driveway onto the street. Its headlights shone down on him as the car approached. Liquida leaned over on the front seat until they passed, then looked up just in time to see the front door at the house close behind Madriani.

There were many forms of pain; physical was only one of them, and perhaps not the best. Liquida started the car, and pulled away from the curb in a slow U-turn. He focused his gaze on the taillights of the Camry, already a block away as they turned left and headed off toward the bridge.

I grab the wireless house phone from the cradle in the kitchen and punch in the number. It rings three times before he answers.

“Hello!”

“Herman, Paul here.”

“Whassup?”

“I need some help. I’m sorry to call this late, but Sarah’s out on the town.”

“Why didn’t you stop her?” he says.

“I tried. She wouldn’t listen. There’s probably no reason to worry. But I’d feel much better if somebody was close at hand.”

“Understood,” says Herman.

“There’s no need to race down there, but you’re closer than I am. She’s out with a girlfriend, a tall blonde named Jenny. They’re going to have dinner at a restaurant in Old Town, Café Coyote.”

“I know the place.”

“They just left, so it’ll take ’em a while to get there. No need to bust your hump. After that they’re headed to a club in the Gaslamp Quarter, but I’ll take care of that.”

“You sure?” says Herman.

“Yeah, I got it. If you can cover the dinner, just stay with them until they’re in the car. Then you can go home and get some sleep.”

“Okay,” he says. “Call me if you need some help.”

“And, Herman, if you can, try not to crowd them.”

“I never do,” he says.

“If Sarah finds out, she’ll be on the warpath for a month.”

“Gotcha,” he says, and hangs up.

Sarah doesn’t know it but Herman has been her guardian angel on and off for the past five weeks, ever since the FBI pulled out and we came home. He follows her to and from work and keeps an eye on her from a distance whenever she has something going on outside work. Tonight she caught me by surprise. I had no idea she was going out.

I head upstairs, grabbing my briefcase and oxfords as I go. Moving at a quick clip I drop everything on the bed in my room and start to change. In less than a minute my suit jacket, pants, shirt, and tie have joined my oxfords in a heap up near the pillows. I throw on some jeans and a thin navy blue sweatshirt with a hood in case I need it to mask myself from my daughter. I slip on a pair of running shoes, check my watch, and walk to the nightstand.

Inside the top drawer is a two-tone stainless and blued.45 automatic. It’s a Springfield Arms ultracompact, with a three-and-a-half-inch barrel. And contrary to what Sarah might think, it’s not new. Though she’s never seen it before now, I’ve had it for years, ever since she was a little girl. And on one or two occasions I’ve felt the need to keep it close, but always in the office.

Herman is an investigator. He’s had a license to carry for years, though he doesn’t often use it. Harry and I are new to this. Though I’ve done my share of target shooting over the years and at one time did some loading with a friend who had the equipment, I’ve never had a desire for a permit to carry a concealed weapon. Now, in light of what’s happened, and the warning from Thorpe, the county sheriff has issued permits to both of us.