“Please, Mace? There are some things I wanna tell ya, face ta face.’’ The harder Sal pleaded, the more his boyhood in the Bronx seeped into his speech.

I finally agreed to meet him at the golf course, which is out in the middle of nowhere, ten miles past the last trailer park in the Himmarshee city limits. He told me he’d wait at the snack bar, next to the pro shop.

When I got there, it was dark. Two floodlights illuminated the ornate pillars marking the entrance to the community. Himmarshee Haven, they said in cursive script. Luxurious Country Living. Talk about your oxymorons. Most of the country lives I know have very little luxury.

The Jeep bounced over a series of speed bumps as I made my way past Victorian-style homes with gingerbread trim and two-car garages. Most driveways featured golf carts parked behind white picket fences. Not a single double-wide trailer or swamp buggy in sight.

I parked in the golf course’s nearly deserted lot. There was no sign of Big Sal’s big car, but I decided to go inside anyway. I killed some time looking over the merchandise in the pro shop. Not that I play golf. But Marty does. I bought her a three-pack of those little ankle socks with the pom-pom that sticks out above the back of her golf shoes. The pom-poms were pink, mint green, and baby blue. Marty loves pastels.

As I handed over my credit card, I asked the college-aged kid at the register whether he’d seen a gargantuan golfer with a heavy New York accent.

“Sure, Big Sal.’’ The kid sucked on a breath mint. I could smell cinnamon clear across the counter. “He was in here about thirty, forty minutes ago. Then he got a call on his cell phone and high-tailed it outside. I heard the tires on his Cadillac squealing as he pulled out of the lot. Guess he was in a hurry to get somewhere.’’

He pushed my receipt toward me across the glass display case, which held dimpled golf balls and leather gloves. “Sign that, would you? And I’ll need to see some ID.’’

I gave him my driver’s license. He held it up and inspected it like he was a customs agent at the airport and I was smuggling heroin. “Hmmm, you’re thirty-one? I would have pegged you as younger. It’s not a very flattering picture.’’ He flipped a sun-bleached lock off his forehead and smiled at me, showing off even, white teeth. “You’re much prettier in person, especially your hair. I like the way it shines.’’

As he handed back my license, his fingers lingered against mine for a couple of beats too long. I couldn’t believe it. The kid was coming on to me. Must be the new ’do.

“Thanks.’’ I yanked away my fingers and slipped my ID back into my wallet. He put the socks in a little bag, and handed it to me as I headed for the door.

I was still smiling to myself as I climbed into my Jeep and started on the long drive home. Now, there was date potential, I thought: a pro-shop smoothie young enough to be my nephew. Maybe we’d drive to Orlando and I could take him on the teacup ride at Disney.

My “post-flirtus” buzz didn’t last long. Soon, I started wondering what the hell had happened to Sal. Why had he stood me up? That led to me worrying about how Mama was doing. It must be just about dinner time at the jail, which couldn’t be a good thing for someone who loves food. Before long, I was trying to fit together all the bits and pieces I’d discovered that day. I needed to prove to Martinez that Mama had nothing to do with Jim Albert’s murder.

I tried to picture me sharing some information that might replace his customary scowl with a smile. And then my brain took a quick, unexpected detour: how would those lips actually feel against mine I wondered. I traced a finger across my mouth and felt a warm twinge. Where the hell had that thought come from?

I quickly reined in my brain, and returned to worrying about Mama.

The road wasn’t crowded. I was deep in thought, puzzling out the pieces of her case. Occasionally, an unwanted image would intrude of Martinez’s face, of his strong hands; of his thick hair. Then, my mind would conjure Mama in her cell, and I’d feel guilty.

I didn’t notice the other car on my tail until I saw headlights flash in my rearview mirror. Maybe I’d let my speed taper off. I glanced at the speedometer. Nope, holding steady at sixty-six mph. That’s fast enough that no one should be riding my tail, lights flashing crazily. Peering into the mirror, I saw nothing but a white glow with a dark blob behind it. I couldn’t even say if the blob was car or truck.

Slowing, I waved my arm out the Jeep’s window. There wasn’t another oncoming car until next Tuesday. Go around, fool. He had plenty of room to pass, yet he stayed plastered to my bumper.

I eased over as far as I could to the right shoulder, giving a wide berth. It was probably a carload of teenagers, tanked up on testosterone and cheap beer. No way was I going to get into a pissing match with that mess. I slowed down some more, doing about forty now.

That’s when I felt a jolt from behind. I heard a hard, solid bump, high up on the back of my Jeep. It jerked me off the road, onto the rough shoulder. I wrestled with the steering wheel, fighting to keep control. The Jeep bucked like a rodeo bronc coming out the chute. My tires spit weeds and gravel. I tried to steer left, back to smooth pavement. But the other driver blocked my path.

Like freeze frames in my headlights, a mailbox, four garbage cans, and a barbed wire fence whizzed past. Then my lights swept across the white-gray expanse of a concrete culvert. It looked enormous, looming dead center in my sights.

And then I saw nothing but black

I saw that white light that everybody always talks about, gleaming in front of my eyes. A man’s voice called my name, softly, as if from a great distance.

“Are you there, Daddy?’’ I murmured. “Have you come to take me over to the other side?’’

I heard knocking.

“I’m not ready to go yet, Daddy. I haven’t been able to find out who really killed that man in Mama’s trunk. She’s still sitting in the Himmarshee Jail.’’

Rap. Rap. Rap. The knocking continued.

“Mace!’’ the voice repeated; louder and more insistent. “Are you okay?’’

Masculine features blurred, and then formed into a face, peering at me from above. Worried look. Firm jaw. Full mustache.

“Did you grow that mustache in heaven, Daddy?’’

“Mace! C’mon back to Earth, girl.’’

I could almost feel my synapses struggling to fire all the fog out of my brain. “Where am I, Donnie?’’ I finally asked.

Donnie Bailey, from the jail, stood in water to his waist. He was tapping his flashlight loud against the hood of my Jeep. Cracks branched out across the windshield’s glass like the bare limbs of a dead pine tree.