It was a couple of days later. I had boated across the harbor in the Boston Whaler, which was the tender to the Panache, Haley’s seventy-five-foot Fleming motor yacht. Or my seventy-five-foot Fleming, I supposed, although the idea still hadn’t quite settled in, and the situation was only temporary. I had tied up at a finger pier beside the marina seawall without asking anyone’s permission, and I was sitting in the large corner booth by the kitchen door at the Galley Cafe, with a glass of water on the table in front of me.

The tiny diner was tucked away in a residential neighborhood about a quarter mile from the businesses along the Pacific Coast Highway. There were no other restaurants or shops nearby. Except for the office for the marina which the restaurant overlooked, and the Basin Marine Shipyard next door, every other building for blocks around was a multimillion-dollar home.

The Galley Cafe was the only restaurant I knew of where they still mixed your Coca-Cola syrup with soda water, right in the glass, and they still knew how to make a proper malted milk. They were big on nostalgia at the Galley. They said it used to be a favorite of John Wayne, who had lived close by, and they had faded photos on the wall to prove it.

I had begun to think about going ahead and ordering a cheeseburger and fries when Sergeant Tom Harper came through the door, nearly thirty minutes late. With him was another guy I vaguely recognized.

“Sorry,” said Harper, sliding into the booth. “Traffic.”

“Could’ve used the siren and the lights.”

“Sure. A lunch emergency. Why didn’t I think of that?”

The other guy slid into the booth beside Harper. “This is Sal Russo,” said Harper. “He’s on the job with the LAPD, handling your case. Sal, meet Malcolm.”

“Sure,” said Russo. “We met already.”

I stuck out my hand. “How you doing?”

He ignored my outstretched hand and said, “All right.”

He didn’t look me in the eye. He didn’t smile. I remembered he would have thoroughly investigated my background, so he knew all about Laui Kalay. At least he knew the official verdict. That probably explained his attitude. But the press hadn’t made the connection between Haley Lane’s bodyguard and the marine behind the camera at Laui Kalay. So he might not like me much, but that made two secrets the man had kept.

I withdrew my hand and said, “Thanks for coming.”

“I wouldn’t of, except I was down here anyway on another matter,” said Russo, looking around. “Let’s get a waitress over here.”

Detective Russo had an unhealthy, muddy complexion, and his hair needed a shampoo. Maybe five foot eight and about twenty-five pounds overweight, he carried a lot of that around his neck and jowls, which were thick enough to make his head look narrow. I doubted if he could still pass an LAPD fitness test and wondered how often detectives had to requalify, if ever.

On the other hand, Sergeant Tom Harper of the Orange County Sheriff’s Department looked like a rough, tough jarhead through and through. His sandy-colored hair was cut so short on the back and sides his scalp showed, and it stood about half an inch straight up on top. He had a barely contained energy about him, as if he were made out of steel springs. His teeth were pearly, his skin was tanned, and the whites of his eyes were perfectly clear.

Harper and I had met each other in the Corps. I had been temporarily attached to his office of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service at Camp Pendleton. I never knew for certain why the Corps chose my deployments, but I assumed it had something to do with the covert work I had already done on several missions, including Guatemala. The NCIS had trained me thoroughly in police work, and Harper had been a big part of that. So when he had a difficult time with some corruption allegations that I believed were false, I worked hard to clear him. Harper had shown up before my court-marital, offering to return the favor, but by that time the press had made the situation utterly toxic to anyone who touched it. I had turned down his help. So I was pretty sure he felt he owed me. After Teru and Simon filled me in on Detective Russo knowing about Haley and me, I had called Tom to set up the meet.

Looking at Russo, I said, “Didn’t we meet before, at the hospital?”

Russo said, “Yeah, that was me. You were kinda out of it, but we had a few good talks.”

“Sorry, I don’t remember much.”

He waved a pudgy hand between us. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Would you mind telling me what’s happening with the case?”

“It’s cold,” said Russo.

“Cold? What does that mean?”

“Means we worked every lead, and it got us nowhere.”

“There must be something you missed.”

“Oh, you think so?”

“I’m just saying there must be something. Some kind of lead.”

“The only eyewitness we know about is you. You ready to tell me what happened?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said before.”

“I have drug-induced amnesia.”

“Uh-huh. What your doctors said.”

“You talked to my doctors?”

“We interviewed a shrink name of Resnick, and another couple named Lamott and Trendle. Couple of nurses, too. McAllen and Odom. You recognize those names?”

I had spent a lot of time with all of them at Resnick. It was UCLA’s adult intensive-care psychiatry unit. One of the executive producers of the film Haley was shooting when she died was a major donor. He had arranged for me to be admitted after the overdose, probably to cover the studio in case I wanted to sue for nearly getting murdered on their set.

I said, “Of course I recognize them, but I don’t understand what they have to do with Haley’s murder.”

“No need to act so nervous, Cutter,” said Russo. “Anything you told them is privileged.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged. “Whatever you want it to mean.”

I heard my voice begin to rise and couldn’t seem to stop it. “You think I have something to hide? I’ll waive the right to privilege. Lamott and Trendle can tell you everything I said while I was there. I just want to know what kind of leads you have.”

Russo shrugged. “We got nothing. Unless you want to come clean.”

“Come clean? You think I’m holding something back? You think I wouldn’t help you if I could?”

“Hey, Malcolm,” said Harper, interrupting. “Let’s tone it down a little, what do you say?”

I looked down at my own hands and saw they were clenched into fists. I looked up and realized several people at the nearby tables had stopped talking and were watching me. Harper was also watching with a worried expression. I didn’t understand my own behavior. Russo had been honorable. He had kept the secret of my marriage and my identity as one of the butchers of Laui Kalay, when a discreet word to a reporter probably could have netted him ten grand, or maybe more.

“Sorry,” I said.

Harper reached over and gave my shoulder a pat. “Sure. After what you’ve been through, anybody would be touchy. I’m amazed you’re up and around, tell you the truth.”

I took a sip of water and told myself to think of what is true. I said, “If you’re talking to my doctors, it means I’m a suspect, right?”

Russo stared at me without replying.

Harper said, “Don’t worry about it, Malcolm. Sal and his guys are just doing their jobs. He has to run down every lead, even if he likes somebody better for the murder. You get a victim like Haley Lane, you want to make real sure you got all the bases covered, you know? Doesn’t mean you’re really on their radar. It’s routine, right, Sal?”

“Sure,” said Russo.

I said, “Do you guys have somebody you like better for the murder?”

Russo looked at me a moment. “What would you do about it if I said yes?”

“I’d do the right thing,” I said. “Wouldn’t you?”

“All right, that’s enough,” said Harper. “What’s the deal with you two? Sal, try to remember Malcolm’s a victim in this situation, will ya? And Malcolm, I’m sitting here vouching for Sal. He’s a good cop, okay? So both of you guys back off.” He looked back and forth between us. “All right?”