FRANK LIFTED HIS HEAD and I saw blood on his face. I started to cry out, but he put his hand over my mouth. He was listening for something. We heard the car drive off. He scrambled up off me and pulled out his gun, looking outside quickly before going out the front door. I got up a little more slowly. There was glass all over the place and a gaping hole in the back of my armchair. That really pissed me off. Trying not to step on any glass, I went out to the front porch.

The gunshots had been loud enough to draw a few of my neighbors out for a little rubbernecking. “Frank, get in here, you’re scaring the neighbors.” Not every day they saw a bloodied man with a gun standing out on my lawn. “Nothing to worry about, folks, he’s a cop.”

“You’re a real laugh riot. I guess that means you’re not hurt.”

“Thanks to you, I’m not.”

He managed a quick smile and said, “All in the line of duty.”

He was looking out at the street in front of the house next door. Suddenly, I saw what he was staring at. A red Corvette.

“That your neighbor’s?” he asked.

“No,” I said in disbelief, “but it looks just like Kenny O’Connor’s.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” He walked over to it, took a quick look through the windshield that apparently didn’t reveal anything special, and came back to my house. “Let’s go back inside,” he said.

He made a phone call to headquarters while I went to get something to clean up his face.

“Yeah, dark blue, late model Lincoln, no front plate. Probably headed up Ocean Boulevard. Also, check out the registration of an ’87 Corvette, license 3RVE070. Yeah. No, we’re all right. Okay, thanks.” He hung up.

I sat him down at the kitchen table and then pulled a chair up facing him, and started to sponge the blood off his face with a warm washcloth. He winced a little, and I realized that he hadn’t been cut by glass or shot-he had a lovely deep set of Cody’s claw marks on the right side of his face.

“Cody got you good, didn’t he?”

“Not his fault, I scared him. Where is he?”

“Ran off-if my closet door is open, he’s up on the top shelf. Otherwise, ten to one he’s hiding under my bed.”

I had some antibiotic ointment and tried to be tender as I put it on the scratches. He was watching me with those beautiful gray-green eyes. He reached up and touched my hair.

“You’ve got little pieces of glass in your hair,” he said, and gently pulled a bead of it from near my ear.

“So do you,” I said, and reached into his soft brown hair to retrieve one of them. We took care of each other like a couple of parrots for a few minutes. We were interrupted by a knock at the door by something bigger than a cat and parted, both looking a little sheepish.

“Detective Harriman?”

“Yeah, be right with you,” Frank answered.

He stood up, shook his head, and squared his shoulders, trying to get into his Detective Harriman mode again.

The young, pink-faced, uniformed officer who came in the door looked as if the heat was about to do him in.

“Bob Williams, sir. We picked up a call to come over on a drive-by. They said to contact you.”

He noticed the scratches on Frank’s face and gave me a look.

A fleeting grin crossed Frank’s face. “Officer Williams, this is Miss Irene Kelly. You’re in her home.” Williams nodded toward me and then looked around. He got wide-eyed when he saw the chair, and I noticed for the first time that Frank’s coat, once so neatly folded, had been blown to shreds.

“I hope you weren’t sitting there, sir.”

“Not when it mattered. Anything on the Lincoln?”

“No, sir, not a sign. We can ask around the neighborhood if you’d like. Forensics will be here anytime now. Also, the Corvette is registered to a Kenneth O’Connor, 803 Randall Avenue.”

Frank and I exchanged looks.

“Is that helpful, sir?” Williams asked.

“Yes,” Frank said, “I think it is. Please try to discover where Mr. O’Connor is now.” He pulled out the notebook and flipped to one of its pages. “When I spoke with him this morning, he told me he planned on staying at the Vista del Mar Hotel down on Shoreline Drive. Find out if he’s been there yet today and if he’s visiting anyone here in the neighborhood. If not, ask if anybody saw him leave the car.”

Williams noted all of this with care. He looked up and eyed the scratches on Frank’s face again. “Do you need anyone else here with you?”

“No, we’re fine. Let me know if anyone noticed anything unusual going on. Besides windows being blown out.”

The young man headed out the door.

“Officer Williams?” I called to him.

“Yes, Miss Kelly?”

“The scratches? From a cat.”

“Yes, of course, ma’am.” He blushed and left without looking at either one of us.

Frank and I cracked up as soon as the kid was out of earshot.

“We shouldn’t laugh,” I said. “I remember when you were just a rookie yourself.”

“And I remember a fairly-wet-behind-the-ears reporter.”

“Yeah. Green as they come.”

We stood there in silence for a while, remembering. I thought of that spark of attraction between us all those years ago. We were much younger then, not so much in years-Frank and I are about the same age, nearing the final approach to forty, landing gear down-as in experience.

I thought back to Bakersfield, to the nights when we’d go for coffee and long four-in-the-morning talks at the end of our respective shifts. God, we were both so full of confidence in our ability to change the world.

Of course, we saw that world from different perspectives. My job was to get the story, Frank’s was to enforce the law. On some level, we were wary of each other then, as we were both trained to be by our employers. Sooner or later, every cop is burned by some reporter who misquotes or coaxes out too much information. And sooner or later every reporter is given a bum steer by some cop.

And yet, over time, I suppose we both learned it isn’t always that way; plenty of people manage to maintain a certain professional distance and still be friends with one another. Somehow Frank and I stayed friends. I guess we both had that ideal of doing the public some good.

I tried to figure out how long ago all that had been. It was about twelve years ago that the Express had offered me the job in Las Piernas, and I had moved back to my hometown from Bakersfield, Frank’s hometown. Seven of those twelve years passed before he got transferred down here; by then we were both seeing other people. He got in touch with me once when he first moved to Las Piernas, but other than hearing word of each other from other cops or reporters every now and again, our lives had stayed separate. The last I had heard of him had been a year or so ago, when Mark Baker told me that Frank had asked him about me, and about why I had left the paper. I wondered if Frank was still seeing the same woman he had been with five years ago. Or any other woman.

There was another knock on the screen and Frank let the forensics team in. While they talked to him, I walked back to the bedroom to look for Cody. A quick search of the closet revealed nothing, but when I got down on the floor and looked under the bed, I saw a pair of almond-shaped eyes reflecting back from the farthest corner near the wall, out of arm’s reach and harm’s way. I tried coaxing him, but no luck. I got a flashlight and tried to see if he was hurt, and couldn’t see any damage-just irritation and fright. I left him there, thinking that it was better to let him come out on his own time, when he felt safe again.

I walked back out and watched as the very reserved and professional Detective Harriman started winding things up with the lab guys. It hadn’t taken them long.

As they left, I realized that I was seething with anger at the folks in the blue car. I walked back to the kitchen and got a broom and started sweeping up the glass to try and work some of it off.