I went up the hill, passing Sea Shore Park, turning right then into a tangle of streets across the boulevard. The proximity to the Pacific meant too much chill fog and corrosive salt air, but there was an elementary school close by. For Jonah, who had had a family to support on a cop's salary, the neighborhood was affordable, but by no means grand.

I found the street number I was looking for and pulled into the driveway. The porch light was on and the yard looked well kept. The house was a ranch-style stucco painted slate blue with dark blue trim. I guessed there would be three bedrooms with maybe a patio in back. I rang the doorbell and Jonah came to the door. He wore jeans and an L. L. Bean Oxford-cloth dress shirt with a pink pinstripe. He carried a beer bottle loosely by the neck, motioning me in with a glance at his watch.

"God, you're prompt," he said.

"Well, you're not far away. I just live at the bottom of the hill."

"I know. You want me to take that?"

He was holding his hand up for the jacket, which I shed and handed to him, along with my handbag. He tossed both unceremoniously into a chair.

For a minute neither of us could think of anything to say. He took a sip of beer. I put my hands in my back pockets. Why did this feel so awkward? It reminded me of those awful junior-high-school dates where you got driven to the movies by somebody's mother and you never knew what to talk about.

I glanced around. "Nice house," I remarked.

"Come on. I'll show you around."

I followed while he talked back over his shoulder at me.

"It was a shit heap when we first moved in. The guy'd been renting it out to these weirdos who kept a ferret in the closet and never flushed the toilet because it was against their religious beliefs. You've probably seen 'em around town. Barefoot with these red and yellow rags around their heads and outfits like something out of the Old Testament. He said they hardly ever paid their rent, but every time he came to hassle them about it, they'd start humming and hold his hand, making significant eye contact. You want some wine? I bought you some high-class stuff – no twist-off cap."

I smiled. "I'm flattered."

We detoured into the kitchen and he opened a bottle of white wine for me, pouring it into a wineglass that still had the price tag on the bottom. He grinned sheepishly when he saw it.

"All I had was plastic glasses the kids used to use in the backyard," he said. "This is the kitchen."

"I kind of figured that."