"He ambitious?"

"He's an eager beaver," Healy said. "Probably want to be CID commander someday."

"Think he'll make it?"

"Not soon," Healy said.

"How is he as an investigator?"

"Far as I know he's pretty good. I don't like him. But he clears his cases and mostly they result in convictions that stand. He doesn't cut a lot of corners."

"How is he on race?" Healy shrugged.

"No worse than most," he said. "Your guy black?"

"Yeah."

"You think he got railroaded because of that?"

"I don't know," I said. "Everywhere I go I keep hearing nigger nigger. And everywhere I go people stonewall me."

Healy nodded slowly. He was in shirt sleeves, sitting back in his chair, with one foot propped on the edge of his desk.

"Well, it could be," Healy said. "I'm a white Irish guy, been a cop thirty-five years. Heard a lot of nigger nigger. Sometimes it's because you're dealing with a bunch of ignorant racist assholes, and sometimes it's because the black guy has done something bad and everyone's mad at him. But they're not mad at him because he's black, you unnerstand? They're mad at him because he did the bad thing, and `nigger's' a convenient thing to call him. I don't know about Miller. But what I do know is that race matters less to most cops than the media likes to make out. You know? You arrest some black guy with a rap sheet three and a half yards long, and the media questions you. Is it because he's black? No, it's because he's got a rap sheet three and a half yards long. For a similar crime. It's like the Stuart thing awhile back. The cops' information is that a black guy shot a white guy and his wife at the fringe of the black ghetto. They're supposed to start shaking people down at Brae Burn Country Club?"

"I would have suspected at once," I said, "that he murdered his wife and wounded himself badly to cover it up."

"Yeah," Healy said, "happens all the time."

"Would Miller frame a guy?"

"Hey," Healy said, "the guy works for me."

"Would he?"

"Lotta cops would. Most of them wouldn't frame an innocent guy," Healy said. "But a lot of them might help the evidence a little if they figured they had Mr. Right."

"If Mr. Right were black…?"

Healy shook his head.

"I don't know," he said. "It wouldn't make it less likely."

I thought about that while I got up and had a drink of spring water from the jug on top of Healy's file cabinet.

"I'm going to have to talk with Miller," I said.

"He's off today," Healy said. "I'll ask him to stop by your office tomorrow."

"Thank you."

"Don't let him scare you."

"I'll keep reminding him I know you," I said.

"I'd rather you didn't shame me in front of my men," Healy said.

"Self-defense," I said.

Chapter 10

I MET SUSAN at the bar at Rialto, after her last appointment. The thank-God-it's-evening crowd was still thin and we got a couple of stools at one end of the bar. Susan had a glass of Merlot. I ordered beer. Outside the big picture window behind us, the courtyard at Charles Square was gussied up for a band concert, and fall tourists were sitting around. the outdoor cafe guzzling large pink drinks, waiting for it to start.

"How is it going?" Susan said. "The Pemberton murder case?"

She drank a micro sip of wine.

"Everyone I talk to tells me that they won't help me."

"It's probably a pretty nasty wound for the people involved," Susan said.

"Even Ellis is not helpful," I said. "Hawk said it's because a lifer can't allow himself to hope."

"I wonder if Hawk has another life as a shrink," Susan said.

"I'm not sure about Hawk's tolerance for bullshit," I said.

"We don't call it that," Susan said.

"What do you call it?" I said.

"Avoidance."

"I don't think Hawk has too much tolerance for that either."

"Maybe not."

In the courtyard three musicians came and began to set up on the other side. People began to drift into the courtyard and stand around. It was still warm even though it was fall and most people were still coatless and shortsleeved.

"Have you thought about the baby?" Susan said.

"By which I assume you don't mean Pearl," I said.

"That's right," Susan said. "I don't."

I took in a lot of air and let it out slowly. "I think it would be a mistake," I said.

"Um hmm," Susan said.

"I think we have reached maturity without children and that a baby at this point would very seriously compromise us."

"Why do you think so?" Susan said.

"A kid's a lot of work," I said.

"You're not afraid of work," Susan said. "Neither am I."

"Oh hell, Suze, I know that. I just don't want a kid, and I'm trying to think of good reasons why I don't."

"Do you mind sharing me?"

"Yes."

"Is it more than that?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what it is?"

"No."

"Maybe you will," she said.

The way I loved her never varied. But how I liked her could go up and down, and it went down most when she was being professional. I drank a little more beer.

"How come you want a kid?" I said.

She smiled.

"The old switch-the-conversation trick," she said.

I nodded.

"I guess I want to have the experience," she said. "I guess I miss participating in what so many women have done."

"Don't blame you."

"I know in some ways that sounds selfish, that it's about me, and how I'll feel, not about the still-anonymous baby and how he or she will feel."

"That would be true for anyone having a baby," I said. "Even the old-fashioned way. Until you have it, it's always about you."

"I suppose so."

We were quiet. The musicians were playing in the courtyard, but we couldn't really hear them through the insulating glass of the windows and above the chatter of the bar, now full of people glad to be out of work. Some friends of Susan's came by. Susan introduced us.

"Bill and Debbie Elovitz."

They said hello. I said hello. They talked to Susan. I drank some beer. After they had moved on, Susan said, "They have children."

"How nice," I said.

"I feel a little scared about this," Susan said, "as if maybe this could hurt us."

I shook my head.

"We'll figure it out," I said.

"But how can we?" Susan said. "You can't partially adopt a baby. We either do or we don't. One of us loses. Either way."

"We've dealt with worse," I said. "We'll deal with this."

"How?"

"I don't know. But I know that we love one another and will love one another if we do adopt a baby and will love one another if we don't."

Susan looked past me for a while at the crowd in the courtyard, listening so reasonably to the music. Then she shifted her glance back on me and put her hand on my hand where it rested on the bar.

"We will," she said. "Won't we?"

"Yes," I said. "We will."