NORA’S FRENZY AT seeing him come through the door only heightened Keegan’s sense of guilt for leaving her alone all night. But, for her part, all seemed forgiven the moment he bent down and patted her on the head. She jumped up on him and tugged at his trouser cuffs and bolted around the coffee table, as if he might be willing to chase her—a writhing bundle of joy and energy barely contained by fur. At least some aspects of life could be uncomplicated. He let her out into the yard and fed her and refreshed the water in her kitchen bowl. Then he showered and put on clean clothes.

The dog now lay, flopped on her side and panting, under the kitchen table at his feet. Keegan sat bent over a mug of bad instant coffee, wondering if there were any point in going into the office today. It wasn’t like he would get any work done. And if the ballistics report was complete, he’d be arrested. He imagined the LAPD parading him, handcuffed, past Mrs. Dodd’s desk, and out along the hallway to the elevators. He thought of all the strangers in the lobby turning to gape at him as they marched him through, arms pinioned behind him. And then there would be all the foot traffic on Sixth Street, passers-by stopping to watch him get shoved into the back of a police cruiser.

No, if it was going to happen today, it would be best if he holed up in the cottage, where only Nora—simple, forgiving Nora—would witness his humiliation.

As if on cue, the sound of a car in low gear, climbing the hill, made Keegan push himself up from the kitchen table. It sounded nearby, and if it had passed the turnoff to Ormsby’s front gate, it was coming his way.

He dragged himself to the sink, his clean clothes already beginning to stick to his limbs. From the kitchen window, he saw a black sedan round the last bend. It would be Lieutenant Moore. Keegan felt something close to gratitude. At least he’d come alone in an unmarked car. Despite Moore’s little speech at the Chinatown wishing well, the man was giving Keegan a break, like the old friend he was. No sirens. No handcuffs. No news crew in tow. Their history still counted for something.

He ran the cold tap into the kitchen sink. He tested it with his fingers. It was warm at first but then ran tepid. He cupped his hands and splashed water in his face. He did it once more and then wiped his face with a paper towel. He went into the living room and looked around. The car was pulling up outside now. He put on his wristwatch. He slipped his wallet into the back pocket of his trousers; they’d want his driver’s license at booking.