“One time,” he said, letting out a small chuckle, “Lawrence and I, back when we were in uniform, we got partnered up one time, years before we’d end up together as detectives, and we get a call, a jumper, a hotel like the Ramada, must have been thirty floors or so. And there’s a guy hanging off the other side of the balcony, the railing behind him, you know, leaning forward, holding on from behind?”

“I think I see it,” I said.

“So Lawrence and I—never Larry, right?—go into the room where the balcony is, and the guy says to stand back, or he’ll let go if we come out there. So I stand back in the room and Lawrence gets into the room next door and goes out onto that balcony so he can talk to the guy without getting too close. And Lawrence looks down, and he tells the guy that his balcony, the one Lawrence is standing on, is way better to jump from than the one the guy is on.”

“Why?”

“Lawrence is looking down, and he says to the guy, ‘If you jump from your balcony, you might catch the edge of the pool, maybe hit the water, and you’ll probably just bust your spine or something, and you’ll be in a wheelchair the rest of your life sucking your meals through a straw. But if you come around to the next room, and jump off this balcony, you’ll catch the parking lot, and you’ll be dead in a second.’

“So the guy starts thinking about it, thinks maybe Lawrence is onto something, so he comes in off the balcony, and he’s walking through the room and he says to me, ‘Your partner says I have to jump off the other balcony,’ and I say okay, and escort him next door, and then together, Lawrence and I subdue this guy till the psycho ward arrives.” Trimble smiled to himself. “Saved that dumbass’s life. We pissed ourselves laughing all night over that.”

“That’s kind of amazing. Smart, too.”

“Oh, he was good, Lawrence was. He always had a good feel for people, good judge of character.”

Neither of us said anything for a few seconds.

“Maybe he made a mistake in my case,” Trimble said.

“You can still make this right,” I said. “Maybe you can’t undo all the mistakes you’ve made, but maybe you can keep any more big ones from happening.”

Trimble shook his head, bemused. He looked over at me. “Sometimes you just have to play the hand you’re dealt.”

I didn’t know what he meant by that.

We were heading down Wyndham, Bullock’s house half a block away. “What about it, Trimble?” I asked. “How’s this going to play out? I’d kind of like to have some idea before we go in there.”