Wellton glared at me. He wore a light blue oxford open at the neck tucked into gray dress slacks. The sunglasses on his face were just slightly darker than his skin. And even in the thick-heeled loafers, he didn’t break five-four.

“Funny, asshole.” He turned back to the apartments. “What did you see?”

I watched a team of officers mill around the spot where she’d been shot. “Came out of the office. She was already standing there. Then she collapsed.”

He nodded and removed the sunglasses. “See the shooter?”

“Nope. I heard the shot, but that was it.” I pointed at Sam’s office. “I was in there.”

He nodded again. We watched Dana come out of the apartment with two officers. She was sobbing and each officer had an arm under an elbow to keep her steady.

“And your reason for being here?” Wellton asked.

“Is none of your business,” I said.

He snorted. “Well, whatever you were doing, nice work.”

I hadn’t seen him in a while and he was as irritating as I remembered.

“I was looking for the kid that lives in the apartment next to hers,” I said, deciding there was no reason to keep it from him. “Talked to both girls for maybe ten minutes, they didn’t know anything about where he is. Then I came out and talked to the manager.”

I thought about the guns that Peter had seen in Linc’s apartment. I hadn’t seen them yet, so I wasn’t sure they existed. At least, that’s how I rationalized not bringing them up.

“Rolovich is the manager?”

“Yeah. A piece of crap, but I don’t think he knows anything.”

“You two probably had a lot in common, then.”

Maybe Wellton was more irritating than I remembered.

“Santangelo should be here in a minute,” he said, glancing at me.

My stomach tightened at the mention of his partner’s name. I hadn’t seen her in a while and I didn’t have any plans to change that.

“She’s coming down?” I asked.

He looked at his watch. “Anytime now.”

A knot. It was now a definite knot in my stomach.

“You done with me?” I asked.

Wellton turned to me, his eyes steady. “Still on the outs with her, huh?”

“Wouldn’t know. Haven’t spoken to her in a long time.”

“Lucky her,” he said, the corners of his mouth flickering into a grin. “Yeah, I’m done with you. For now.”

“Can I take my Jeep?”

He smiled and shook his head. “That I’m not done with.”

“Why not?”

“It’s inside my crime scene.”

“When can I get it back?”

His smile got bigger. “When I say so.” He paused. “Maybe I’ll take it for a spin.”

“You should. It’s probably more fun than your Big Wheel.”

His smile disappeared. He glared at me for a moment, then turned and moved away.

I walked to the street and stood there, wondering how I was going to get home. I was contemplating the bus when a Yellow Cab came down El Cajon. I waved at him and he came over three lanes to meet me.

“Where to?” he asked out the passenger window, leaning across the passenger seat.

“Mission Beach.”

“You got cash?”

“Yeah.”

“All yours, then.”

As I opened the rear passenger door, I glanced up and saw Liz Santangelo stepping out of her car on the far side of the lot.

She shut the door and stood next to the car. She wore a bright green blouse and slim black pants. Her dark hair was pulled back over her shoulders and I could make out silver earrings on her ears. Her gun bulged on her hip.

I hadn’t seen her in about six months. The last time I’d seen her had been in a hospital hallway. She’d walked out on me, disappointed again in a choice I’d made, our always-sputtering relationship screeching to a halt. I’d done something impulsive against her wishes that had resulted in the deaths of two people and nearly mine as well.

I hadn’t called her and she hadn’t called me. My reason was stubbornness. I wasn’t sure what hers was.

But seeing her now, I realized how much I missed her.

She glanced in my direction, doing a double-take, and then the look on her face telling me that she wished she hadn’t done that. Or that she at least wished I hadn’t seen her do it.

We stood there for a moment, each of us looking at the other, she looking as unsure as I felt.

I finally held my hand up to Liz, a halfhearted, confused wave. Maybe a symbolic white flag of sorts.

She blinked once, turned her head, and walked over to the group of cops in the parking lot without acknowledging me.

“We going anytime soon, pal?” the driver asked from inside the idling cab.

I slid into the backseat, stung more than I wanted to be. “Yeah. We’re going right now.”

The cab dropped me off at the corner of Mission and Jamaica. Mission Beach is a conglomeration of mazelike alleys about ten feet wide and I didn’t want to subject him to the rigors of maneuvering to my house.

I grabbed a beer out of the fridge and heard clapping out near my patio. I walked out of the kitchen and opened the back slider.

Carter, all six-foot-nine of him, was doing a handstand on the three-foot wall that separates my patio from the boardwalk. A group of four Japanese tourists were alternately snapping photos of him and cheering from the boardwalk side of the wall.

“Did you tell them that you can drink beer through your nose, too?” I asked.

He lifted his head in my direction. “I didn’t think they’d find that as charming.”

He brought his legs down and sprang off the wall onto the patio, his yellow board shorts and white tank top falling into place. His fans erupted into more applause.

He bowed to them and held out his hand. They shoved some cash into his massive palm and then shuffled off, chattering excitedly among themselves.

“Do I get a cut of that?” I asked, sitting down in one of the patio chairs.

“No.”

“It’s my property.”

He shoved the bills into his pocket and grinned. “Yeah, but you don’t support my act.”

“That is so true.”

Carter Hamm, my best friend, sat down next to me. His white-blond hair was sticking up like tiny spikes on his head. He propped his huge feet up on the small table in front of us.

“That dude find you this morning?” he asked.

I looked across the boardwalk to where Peter Pluto had waited for me at the edge of the water. “Yeah. Let’s chat about that.”

“Chat? You must really be pissed.”

“Handstands and perceptive. You are one of a kind.”

He leaned back in the chair. “That’s what the ladies tell me.”

I sipped from the beer and shook my head. “Yeah, the dude from this morning found me. When I was out in the water. When I wasn’t looking for a job.”

Carter glanced to me, his dark eyes squinting into the disappearing sun. “So you bailed on him?”

I took another drink and didn’t say anything.

“No, of course not,” he said, nodding his head. “You decided to help him. Plus, you need cash.”

“It’s your fault.”

“Is not.”

“Is too.”

“I just told him where to find you.”

“And you knew I’d say yes.”

“I didn’t even know what he wanted.”

“Not to take my picture doing a handstand, that’s for sure.”

“Well, you suck at handstands.”

Arguing with Carter was like arguing with a three-year-old—a genetic freak of a three-year-old.

I held up my hand. “Fine. My fault.”

He folded his arms across his chest and nodded. “Exactly. So what happened?”

“Went to look for this guy’s brother at his apartment and while I was there, a girl got shot.”

“Shut up.”

“I’d like to, but you keep asking me questions.”

I set my beer down on the table between our chairs. He immediately snatched it, held it up to his mouth, and emptied it.

“Tell me,” he said, setting the empty bottle down.

I told him about Linc’s place, the girls, Rolovich, and the shooting.

“That’s some afternoon,” he said when I was done.