The squad car’s door opened, and the young policeman stepped out, glossy black boots first. He stood, pulled on his blue peaked cap over his buzz cut and adjusted it. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, lean and lanky, with dark oval stains under the arms of his short-sleeved uniform shirt. He pulled himself up to his full height—six one, at least. He was so skinny, so pole-like, his bulky utility belt looked like it might drop to his ankles at any moment.

The kid was trying to look solid, but his right hand kept patting the grip of his service revolver, as if reassuring himself that it was still there, should he need it. He couldn’t be long out of the academy, Keegan guessed, a rookie in the locker room, still the butt of everyone’s jokes—a kid with everything to prove.

The young officer hiked up his utility belt with a clatter and then planted his hands on his hips, affecting a pose he might have picked up from TV. Maybe Eve should have been here to do the talking after all; a pretty girl would have this kid cowed and tongue-tied in seconds. He’d flee down the hill, lights and siren going, before she could bat her eyelashes.

“If you got a call about gunshots,” Keegan shouted over the lawnmower’s racket, “it was just some practice shooting. An old tree stump over the hill.” He gestured around with his empty hand at both sides of the road. “This is all my land,” he said. The words, though technically true, still tasted like a lie.

The cop eyed the canvas pouch in Keegan’s hand. “That gun registered to you?”

“Sure is,” Keegan said. He was close enough now to speak without shouting. “I’ve had it since I was your age.” It was a white lie designed to give himself the upper hand. He had, in fact, bought the gun in a San Pedro pawnshop when he was first cut from The Times and had to move into a neighborhood that worried him.

The cop held out one hand, index finger raised, indicating that Keegan shouldn’t come any closer.

Keegan humored him and stopped where he was. He held out the pouch with the revolver in it.

The cop stepped up and took it from him and then stepped back again. He unzipped the pouch, pulled out the gun by its wooden grips and swung the empty cylinder open. With his eyes still on Keegan, he held the gun to his nose. It had clearly been fired. Even Keegan, a good two yards away, could taste the cordite in the air. Smells like the Fourth of July.

Nora came out from behind Keegan’s legs and edged closer to the cop. She sniffed at the round toes of his black leather shoes.