“That’s not true! She came at me! It was self-defense!”

Walker buckled and slumped to the kitchen floor. I moved to help him.

Blam!

Crissy squeezed off a shot that went high, shattering the glass cabinet over my left shoulder.

“Don’t you understand?” she said, sobbing. “I didn’t want to lose everything we had, everything we worked so hard to build. This life. Our home. Can’t you begin to understand that?”

“You mean everything you had, Crissy. Being married to a war hero has its perks, doesn’t it? Sure beats being a washed-up centerfold from the sticks.”

Her crocodile tears evaporated like an airbrushed illusion. In their place was a face I’d seen in many less-than-pleasant corners of the globe. The hard set of the jaw, the eyes gone flat and reptilian, drained of compassion. Crissy Walker’s exquisite countenance had morphed into that of a remorseless killer.

I knew by the angle of the weapon in her hand that her next shot would likely be in the direction of my head — most people unfamiliar with firearms tend to aim high — and that I had a second or two, at most, before she pulled the trigger.

I dove for her legs.

Blam! Blam! Blam!

She got off three quick shots that went high before I made contact, driving her back into the trash compactor. I had thought that my textbook tackle would separate her from the pistol, but it didn’t. She rolled on the floor and swung the Luger’s barrel toward me.

Time slowed to what seemed like a standstill.

There are two things I can truthfully say that I’d never done in my life until that moment. The first was that I’d never decked a woman before. The second was that I’d never decked a woman with my arm encased in a rock-hard plaster cast. I did both to Crissy Walker, clubbing her in the head. The blow rendered her instantly unconscious while the Lugar went skittering across the floor.

Walker leaned over, picked up the pistol, and aimed it at me.

“Nobody hits my wife, you son of a bitch.”

“I had no choice, Hub. You know it as well as I do.”

“Secure your weapon, Walker! Do it now!”

I looked behind me, expecting to see the SWAT team. What I saw instead was Major Kilgore from across the street. He was kneeling behind the corner of the breakfast bar, hairpiece askew like he’d slapped the rug on in a hurry, leveling his M-14 rifle at Walker.

“Do me a favor,” I said “Don’t ask him to cut down his trees. Now would not be a good time.”

Walker slowly lowered the pistol.

I reached over and took it from him.

“You OK, Colonel?”

He nodded almost imperceptibly, then covered his eyes with both hands and sobbed.

Crissy was unconscious, but her pulse rate and respiration were normal. I saw no outward indication of injury.

“I heard shots,” Kilgore said, standing and slinging his rifle. “Somebody want to tell me what the hell’s going on over here?”

I stuffed the Luger in my waistband and walked past him without answering.

Outside, on Hillside Drive, the morning sun shone down warm on my face, like manna from the Buddha himself. Sea gulls circled lazily overhead. They looked suspiciously like members of the crew that had made off with my turkey burger and chili fries.

I decided to forgive them.

SWAT charged in with their assault carbines and submachine guns locked and loaded like they were storming downtown Fallujah. I’d called Detective Rosario to tell her that the situation inside the Walkers’ home was secure, but you know what they say about boys and their toys.

I waited behind a sheriff’s cruiser parked outside, along with Rosario, her partner, Lawless, and Marine Kilgore, who’d grudgingly surrendered his rifle to the detectives, while members of the tactical team made entry. They reemerged five minutes later without having fired a shot, with both Hub and Crissy in handcuffs, and Ryder, wearing a Cinderella nightgown, under the protective arm of one of the deputies.

The Walkers were led to separate patrol cars. Crissy appeared woozy but was apparently functioning just fine under her own power. Hub hung his head. Dozens of neighbors had come out to watch.

“Check it out, dude,” said one young man standing near us in board shorts and an “I Scored High on My Drug Test” T-shirt. “That chick? She was Playmate of the Year, like, before the Civil War.”

“I’d still totally do her,” his friend responded.

Kilgore went to chase both of them off his lawn.

Hub and I locked eyes as he was driven away. He nodded. I nodded back. I’d like to think it was a gesture of appreciation on his part, and respect on mine.

“He had no clue who his wife really was,” I said.

“What man ever does?” Lawless said, ambling toward his unmarked Crown Vic parked up the street.

Rosario turned to face me. “You did good, Logan — for a flight instructor. Maybe you should think about becoming a cop.”

“I’m a little old for that, but I do love doughnuts.”

She smiled.

“My department owes you big time.”

“How ’bout buying me a new airplane?”

“Hey, I’d cut you the check, but we’re hacking back right now on everything, what with the economy. They won’t even pay us overtime.”

I dug my hands into the front pockets of my jeans and nodded. After years of lurching along on life support, the economy remained a joke. I would’ve laughed, but I couldn’t afford to.

“Anyway,” Rosario said, “if you come up with any good ideas on how we could help you out, within reason, you’ve still got my number, right?”

“That I do.”

“Can I give you a lift to your car?”

“It’s only a couple of blocks. I could use the exercise.”

“You and me both.” She hesitated, searching my eyes. “You stay safe, Logan.”

“You, too, Detective.”

“It’s Alicia.”

I smiled.

She walked toward the Crown Vic as her partner cranked the ignition.

“Hey, Alicia?”

She turned to look back at me.

“If things don’t work out for me on the ex-wife front, you owe me a burrito.”

“Consider it done.”

I watched her drive away just as the first TV news van pulled in. A reporter with big hair and too much makeup jumped out with her cameraman and began trying to interview anything that moved. She looked less like a journalist than she did a day spa receptionist. Hungry for their fifteen minutes, Hub Walker’s neighbors were only too happy to fill her in on every salacious detail of what they’d just witnessed.

Not me.

I called Savannah and told her I was Los Angeles-bound. Would she mind picking me up downtown at Union Station? I hoped to be there in time for supper.

“Lucky you,” Savannah said. “I’m in a rare cooking mood. What do you feel like eating?”

“Surprise me.”

“You hate surprises, Logan.”

“And you love them. The yin and the yang, the balance of life. The Buddha’s all about balance, Savannah — as long as it doesn’t involve borscht. You weren’t thinking of making borscht, were you? Because I hate borscht. More than I hate surprises.”

“Did I ever make borscht when we were married?”

“Not that I recall.”

“I’ve never made borscht in my life, Logan. I’m not about to start now.”

“Good. Just so we got that straight.”

“Call me when your train’s a half-hour out. I’ll come get you. Come hungry.”

“You can count on it. See you tonight, babe.”

She sighed like I’d made her day.

San Diego may well be America’s Finest City. I couldn’t wait to leave it, though, not with a home-cooked meal and Savannah waiting for me in LA. I dropped off the Escalade at Enterprise’s downtown office and hopped a taxi to the train station, but not before stopping off at a vintage record store on 6th Avenue where I snagged CDs of the The Three Tenors in Concert and Pavarotti’s Greatest Hits for my spook buddy, Buzz.