“And if a casino owner is approving something, he’s got a piece of the action,” I said. “It would mean that a guy like Keene, one way or another, is working for the casino.”

Liz and Asanti nodded in agreement, then Asanti glanced at his watch.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting. I need to go.” “Thank you for your help,” Liz said.

“I’m sure you’ll extend me the same courtesy someday,” he said. He turned to me. “Good luck.”

He walked back into the station, and we headed toward Liz’s car. “What do you think?” she asked.

One thing in particular had parked itself front and center in my thoughts, and I wasn’t happy about it. It was like buying a new game and emptying all the pieces onto the table. Everything was there—I just needed someone to show me how to play.

THIRTY-THREE

Liz and I made the long drive back to San Diego, the silence punctured only occasionally by small talk that went nowhere. I knew I had to go back to San Quentin—Simington threw out Keene’s name like a challenge, and I’d met it—and I couldn’t think about anything else.

We crossed the bridge into Coronado, and Liz pulled her car behind my Jeep when we reached her place. I got out and the burst of salt air wafting in from the bay gave me a temporary sense of comfort.

Liz came around to me. “When are you going to go?” she asked, reading my mind.

“Tomorrow, I think,” I said. “I have to arrange the visit, and I’m not sure how that works. I’ll have to ask Miranda and I need to make sure she’s settled at my place. But the sooner I get up there, the sooner I can talk to Simington.”

“This is gonna sound like a dumb question,” Liz said, brushing her hair away from her face. “But why are you doing this? I mean, Darcy’s the one who hired you, and she’s dead. You’ve already recognized that you can’t get Simington off the row, and I don’t even think that’s what you want. Talking to Simington and staying in the middle of this might help solve Darcy’s death, but …” She paused, thinking about her words. “I don’t think that’s your responsibility.”

Liz was right. With Darcy dead, there was no reason to keep looking. Hell, Simington had been clear on not wanting any help. There was no one pushing me to keep going forward. But I couldn’t get past the fact that Simington had thrown out Keene’s name. There had to be a reason for that.

“I think it’s just that it’s him,” I said, leaning against the car and watching the water. “I know he killed Vasquez and Tenayo. He deserves to die. That’s not going to change.” The bay sparkled under the late morning sun. “But he’s my father. Before he goes, I want to be clear on what he did. And I want to know why. Not for him. For me.”

Liz snaked her arm around mine and pressed up against me. “I’m not telling you not to do it. I’m not. But knowing why he did it may hurt more than not knowing at all.”

“I know,” I said, shifting my weight against the car.

She was right. The reasons, if Simington did talk, wouldn’t make sense to me. There was nothing he could say to me that would justify what he did. But now that I had connected with him—no matter the bizarre fashion—I felt an urge I couldn’t push away. I needed to learn as much about him as I could.

“Maybe he can tell me something that will help with Darcy,” I said. “He acted like he didn’t want her help, but I don’t think he disliked her. Maybe he can do one good thing before he dies.”

Liz’s hand slid down my arm, and she folded her fingers into mine. “Do you really think he’ll do that?”

A bank of gray clouds drifted in front of the sun, turning the bright glare on the water into a black shadow.

“Probably not,” I said, squeezing her hand, glad to have something to hold onto. “But what else do I have?”

WEEK TWO

THIRTY-FOUR

I spent the night with Liz and got up early the next morning. I told her I’d call to let her know what I was doing, then headed back to Mission Beach to talk to Miranda and make my plans to go back to San Francisco. I parked a couple blocks from my place and walked up the boardwalk, watching the clouds get darker and grayer over the ocean. Liz had mentioned rain was in the forecast, and it looked to be only a couple hours away.

Carter was on my patio, staring through the slider into my place like he couldn’t see what was inside.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked as I stepped over the wall.

“Dude,” he said, jabbing his finger toward the door. “You’ve got a wiccan in there.”

“A wiccan?”

“She’s dressed in black, has the personality of a pissed-off cobra, and is about as charming as cancer.” “Oh. That’s Miranda,” I said.

“I went in to get something to eat,” he said, still staring at the door. “She came out of nowhere. Like a puff of smoke or something. Told me to get out. I was afraid she’d sic her flying monkeys on me if I didn’t.”

I looked in through the door. Miranda was sitting on the sofa watching television, paying us no attention. “She’s harmless,” I said.

He glanced at me, skeptical. “Wiccans aren’t to be messed with, dude. Spells, curses, shit like that.”

“Come on,” I said, opening the slider. “I’ve got some garlic in the fridge.”

“Garlic is vampires, man,” he whispered. “Witches are a whole different thing.”

“How would you know?” I asked.

He moved in right behind me as if we were two kids walking into a haunted house. “I watch the Discovery Channel. Trust me.”

Miranda looked up as we stepped into the living room. “Well, well. Nice of you to finally show up.” She looked past me to Carter. “And you brought a pet.”

Carter walked slowly around the dining room table and into the corner of the room, so that he was as far away from her as possible.

“Miranda, this is Carter,” I said. “Carter, Miranda.”

Carter stared at her like she was a giant spider. Miranda smiled back like she was about to sink her fangs into him.

“Gorilla-boy startled me this morning,” she said. “Thanks for the tip on the towels and the food. I slept in your bed. When I came out this morning, he was lurking.”

“I was not lurking,” he said.

“You’re lurking right now,” she said, raising a blackened eyebrow. “I’m fairly certain you’ve been lurking your whole life. It seems to be in your nature.”

Carter started to say something, then stopped and shot me a look wanting my help. It was rare that anyone could get him off balance, and I was enjoying it.

“She doesn’t bite,” I said to him.

“You don’t know that,” Miranda said, her licorice-colored lips curling into a you-have-no-idea-what-I’m-capable-of sneer. Carter took a step back and bumped into the wall. “Anyway,” I said, “I need to go back to San Francisco.” The sneer faded from her face. “Why?” “I’m gonna go talk to Simington again.” “What about Darcy?” she asked.

“The police here are on it. There’s not much I can do. And I might actually be able to get some information from Simington that could help them.”

She tucked her knees beneath her and leaned against the back of the sofa. “What kind of info?”

“I’m not sure yet. But remember when I asked you about a guy named Landon Keene? I know who he is now.” I turned to Carter, who was still wedged into the corner. “Remember that guy in the casino?”

He reluctantly pulled his eyes off Miranda and moved them to me. “That asshole in the shitty shirt?” “Yep. Him.”

“Who is he?” Miranda asked.

I gave them a brief version of what Liz and I had learned in El Centro.

“So Simington worked for Keene?” Miranda asked.

“It sounds like they worked together in some capacity,” I said. “I’m just not sure how. That’s what I want to know.”

Miranda slid off the sofa and stood. She was wearing a black T-shirt, cut above her waist, that had “GOOD GIRL” written in white letters across the chest. Stainless steel gleamed in several painful looking piercings around her exposed navel.