“A little light reading,” I said.

“Yeah.”

We were silent a moment. Then I said, “I like the necklace. It suits you, like it did him.” It was oddly true, despite how different Liam Hennessy and his cousin had seemed on the surface.

“Thanks,” Liam said. He paused. “We debated whether it was right to bury him and Aidan next to Dad, but we thought they should be with Mother,” he told me. “Jacob really loved her.”

“I know,” I said. “How is Donal?”

A shadow crossed Liam’s narrow face. “He’s getting help,” he said. “The fire was an accident. Donal knows that, but it’s going to take time for him to come to grips with what happened.”

“I wish more than anything it could have worked out another way,” I said.

It was an inadequate way of phrasing it. The deaths of earlier this year were terrible, but the pain that Jacob and Hugh had felt had quickly been over. It’s the living who hurt, and dealing with the open-ended question What if I’d done things differently? hurts most of all.

“J. D.’s still in town; you knew that, right?” Liam changed the subject. “He’s helping us sell the property. The house is going to be razed, but the land’s still going to bring a decent sum. And we’re selling the cabin in Tait Lake, too.”

“So you shouldn’t have financial worries for a while,” I said.

“No,” Liam said. “J. D. and I are trying to convince Marlinchen to apply to colleges. She’s been saying she has too many responsibilities right now, but we’re telling her she can go someplace local, and we’ll all still be together. I think we’ll wear her down.”

“I hope so,” I said.

“Hey, Liam.” The girl who interrupted us was about Marlinchen’s age, with long blond hair and long legs exposed by a pair of cutoff shorts. She was standing closer to Liam than to me, and her expression indicated that she was politely hoping that our conversation was wrapping itself up. I took the hint.

“It was good seeing you,” I said.

“You, too,” Liam said. And just as I moved off, he said, “Detective Pribek?”

I turned back.

“If I ever want to write a cop story, can I talk to you for research?”

I smiled. “I look forward to it.”

In the end, Aidan Hennessy and Jacob Candeleur, cousins in life and brothers in death, would lie under the same marker, in the shaded, elegant graveyard where I’d met Campion.

For Cicero Ruiz, it was a little different. Minneapolis has no city cemetery for the indigent, but several graveyards reserve space for such burials, and Cicero is buried in one of them, beyond the northern treeline, in a section where handmade wooden crosses and even paper signs mark the graves.

Several days after his burial, Soleil and I cleaned out his apartment. With no inheritors, we sorted everything according to the charity it was going to. The contents of the kitchen shelves went to a local food bank, the furniture to a Goodwill store, the medical texts to the library. Late in the afternoon, a tall, graying woman came to the door. She identified herself as with the Public Housing Authority and gave us the key to Cicero ’s mailbox, asking us to clean it out. We said we would.

Soleil and I worked late into the evening; neither of us wanted to put an extra day into our grim task. The last thing I did was go downstairs to the mailbox.

Not surprisingly, it was packed to capacity, and little of it was personal. I pitched most of the items into a green plastic trash bag Soleil and I had been steadily filling as the day wore on.

Only one slender envelope, address neatly typed, looked out of place. It was from a law firm in Colorado.

The brief letter inside informed Cicero Ruiz that the miners of Painted Lady #5 had won their claim against their former employer in the matter of the mine collapse. As a member of the affected class, Cicero ’s share of the judgment was $820,000.

I laughed until I cried. Soleil just cried.

Kilander, who had sources for everything, gave me the inside information about Gray Diaz and the results of the tests on the Nova. It was true that the crime-lab technicians found blood in the carpet, but it was too degraded from the passage of time and exposure to heat and light for extensive analysis. The tests confirmed that it was blood and it was human, but beyond that, nothing could be concluded. That was the truth behind Diaz’s last effort to get me to confess.

As an investigator, I should have seen it. In our last interview, Diaz had created an atmosphere of intimacy, calling me by my first name. He’d insinuated that he had more evidence than he really did. Then he’d stressed our commonalities as law-enforcement professionals and said that he wanted to help me. He’d been holding useless cards all along, but it was a damn good try.

I admired Diaz. Like he’d said, under other circumstances, we might have been friends.

I was sorry, too, that his last words to me had been so bitter. The implication had been clear: Diaz believed that he had lost, and I had won. There’d been no way to tell him that we’d both lost. For, not long afterward, at the shooting range, Jason Stone had pointed me out to a rookie with a knowing lift of his chin. I knew what bit of department gossip Stone was about to relate to his friend.

Labor Day came with its promise of fall, and the summer ended more or less the way it had begun, with me taking on extra shifts, getting overtime, staying occupied. One early-September afternoon, Prewitt stopped by my desk and told me that the young mother I’d saved in the liquor-store shootout, Ghislaine Morris, had made a full recovery, and he was putting a commendation in my file because of the action I had taken to save her. Thank you, sir, I said, and when he was gone I put my head down and went back to what I was doing.

Several hours later, at home, when the unwieldy screen door refused to open wide enough to let me in, I ripped it off its hinges. Until that moment, I would have told you I was over the death of Cicero Ruiz.

The true locus of my anger surprised me. I wasn’t angry at Ghislaine, or at myself, though I had reasons to be. The truth was that I was angry at Cicero. It was he who had put me in an unwinnable situation: either turn him in to my lieutenant, or let him pursue the course that led to his violent, untimely death.

I’d said compassion was Cicero ’s fatal flaw, but it was pride. I would have seen it earlier, had I not needed so badly a figure in my life whose wisdom and incorruptibility I believed in implicitly. So badly had I wanted to believe Cicero simply as a good man destroyed by circumstance that I hadn’t seen that his life, since the loss of his license, had been one of self-sacrifice in the most literal sense. Surely, even after his professional disgrace, there had been better options open to Cicero than the mines, but he hadn’t taken them. The underside of pride is shame, and after his ethical lapse, Cicero had punished himself more thoroughly than the system ever could have. It was that, and also his need to carry on with his life’s work even from a housing project, that had set his death in motion.

Of course, it couldn’t have happened if I’d arrested him, as my job had required, or if Ghislaine hadn’t been desperate to hold on to a venal, brutal young man she inexplicably wanted… Who can ever say with certainty why one person meets an early death and another is spared? If Cicero had been down the hall with his friends when Marc came to his door, would Marc simply have returned another day? Or would he have gone, frustrated, to another job, and been shotgunned by the liquor store owner, leaving Cicero forever unaware of how close he’d come to the county morgue? The single factors were as unpredictable as currents in open water, and my own guilt was like a small amount of blood poured into that water. The individual atoms of that blood would never be gone, but they would be diffused, like my responsibility was diminished by the realization of how many small circumstances go into any one death.