“I read once that all the stars in the night sky are really openings in Heaven, so that all the people you’ve ever loved and have gone before you can shine down, to let you know they’re happy.”

“Wish I could believe that.” We walked in silence for awhile. Then Hub said, “You got any children?”

“My ex didn’t think I was ready. She said it wasn’t a good idea, having kids when you’re still one yourself.”

“They do make you grow up right quick, I’ll give your ex that much. I thought Ruthie was gonna be a boy. But you find out that don’t matter much, which flavor they come out. You love ’em all just the same.”

I told him Savannah and I were exploring a possible reconciliation, and that she was planning to come with me to San Diego.

“Well, I sure hope that works out for you, I really do,” Hub said. “Lucky in love. Best luck of all.”

I couldn’t discern an ounce of disingenuousness about the man. The ancient philosophers knew all too well that legends have feet of clay. They warned as much in the sage words they left for humanities majors like me to absorb centuries later. But I saw no such flaws in Lt. Col. Hubert Bedford Walker, USAF retired, one of fewer than one hundred living recipients of America’s highest military decoration. I was honored to be in his company and pleased to be in his employ.

The bank teller scrutinized Walker’s check with thinly veiled skepticism. She had false eyelashes and looked about twelve, which more or less matched the number of minutes I’d been waiting in line for my turn at her window.

“I may not look it,” I said, leaning closer and speaking in a low, conspiratorial tone, “but I’m posing online as a Nigerian prince. The sucker who cut me that check? I’ve got him convinced it’s seed money for an investment that’ll return ten million large.”

“This check is drawn on a bank in San Diego,” she said, like San Diego was Nigeria.

“OK, the truth,” I said, unable to stop myself, “I’m not really a Nigerian prince. I just found that check in the parking lot.”

“Excuse me a minute.” She locked her cash drawer with a key dangling from her neck and moved off twenty feet to consult her manager.

They spoke in hushed tones, shooting me questioning glances every few seconds. I assumed they would scrutinize the balance of my bank account, which was starting to resemble the federal deficit, and put a hold on the check for a couple of days until it cleared. No biggie. The manager came over. The hold, she said, would be a full week.

“That’s pretty standard banking practice for non-local checks in Nigeria,” she said.

She smiled, but not in the nice kind of way.

No one ever said being a smartass was without its drawbacks.

Kiddiot was still gone when I got home. At least he was consistent: a cat who never failed to disappoint. I stuffed some clean clothes into a duffel bag for the trip to San Diego, along with my toothbrush, then telephoned the five people on Hub Walker’s list.

My calls to prosecutor Stephen Tassio, Greg Castle of Castle Robotics, and Ruth Walker’s former co-worker, Janet Bollinger, went straight to voice mail. I left detailed messages for each.

Eric LaDucrie, the ex-Big Leaguer-turned-death-sentence pitchman, answered after about ten rings. He sounded like he was in a cocktail lounge. I could hear the tinkle of a piano somewhere behind him and people laughing, talking loud. I told him that Hub Walker had hired me to dig up dirt on Dorian Munz, and that I wanted to talk to him.

“I might be able to help you out,” the Junkman said, “only I’m in Washington. I’m back the day after tomorrow. Can it hold ’til then?”

I said it could and gave him my number.

My last call was to Munz’s defense lawyer, Charles Dowd. He sounded inner-city African-American and harried.

“My client has passed,” Dowd said. “The case was adjudicated. There’s nothing more to be said beyond that.”

“All I need is a half-hour of your time, Mr. Dowd. Just to clarify a few points.”

“You say you’re who again?”

“Cordell Logan. Hub Walker, the father of the young woman your client was convicted of killing, hired me to look into the case.”

“What exactly is it you’re looking for, Mr. Logan?”

“Your client, Mr. Munz, made certain allegations against Ruth Walker’s boss, Greg Castle, shortly before Munz was executed.”

“I’m well aware of those allegations. I believe I was there. You still haven’t answered my question.”

I explained how Hub Walker and Greg Castle were friends — something I was certain the attorney already knew — and that Walker hoped to help repair the damage done to Castle’s reputation by Munz’s spurious allegations.

“Mr. Walker would like me to gather a few statements from knowledgeable people who can affirm your client’s guilt in Ruth Walker’s murder. Mr. Walker would like to then pass those statements on to the news media in defense of Mr. Castle.”

“The jury,” Dowd said, “found the evidence against my client overwhelming. All of that evidence was introduced during proceedings in open court. All of those proceedings are available for your inspection in the office of the clerk of the court. Beyond that, again, there’s nothing more I can say. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Logan, I have a preliminary hearing to prepare for.”

“I’m told Mr. Munz’s execution was televised.”

“All federal executions air on a closed video loop and are taped. No doubt so that the Justice Department can look back in perpetuity and enjoy their splendid handiwork.” The contempt in Dowd’s words was prima facie.

I asked him if he had retained a copy of the tape in his files. He said he did. I asked if I could see it.

“Why do you want to see it?”

“To determine the specific allegations Munz made against Mr. Castle before he was put to death.”

“Go talk to the prosecution,” Dowd said. “I’m sure they’d be more than happy to help you.”

“I have a call in to Stephen Tassio.”

“Steve Tassio’s a world-class prick. He won’t call you back. You can petition the court for a copy of the tape if you want.”

“Mr. Dowd, you and I both know that could take months. I’m trying to salvage an innocent man’s reputation. Your cooperation would mean the world to the victim’s father and to the memory of his daughter. Please.”

The lawyer was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed. “I got two girls of my own. Youngest just graduated Howard.”

“You must be very proud.”

“I would be if she wasn’t living back home, driving my wife and me nuts. I’m trying to get her off my payroll and onto someone else’s. No easy task, Mr. Logan.”

I told him I could be at his office that afternoon.

“I’ll give you ten minutes,” Dowd said, and gave me the address. “Be here at two thirty.”

My next call was to Savannah.

“I’ll pick you up at the Santa Monica Airport in an hour, assuming that works for you. We’ll fly down to San Diego from there.”

“I’ve been having second thoughts,” she said.

“About…?”

“Quite frankly, you.”

“Oh, here we go.”

“You seem conflicted about wanting to get back together, Logan. You say you want to give it another shot, but that’s not the vibe I’m getting.”

“Is this about Shamu?”

“Shamu?”

“You want to go to SeaWorld. I didn’t start doing cart-wheels over the idea, and now you’re punishing me.”

“If you’re suggesting that I’m exhibiting passive-aggressive behavior, or that I’m somehow being obstructionist as a means of retaliation, you’re mistaken. If anything, Logan, I’m employing a classic anticipatory coping mechanism to blunt what I perceive is your apparent reticence.”

“I have no idea what you just said, but I do have a suggestion.”

“I’m listening.”

“I think we should just sleep together. See how those coping mechanisms work.”