Keegan forced another smile. “Haven’t been sleeping,” he said. “You know. This weather.”

Moore nodded genially. “You, me and everybody else in this town,” he said, though there was nothing about his manner or posture or clear-eyed gaze that hinted he’d missed a minute of shut-eye. He smiled and tilted his head, as if something funny had occurred to him. “Hell, look at us, Jimmy,” he said. “That sorry day has arrived. We’re two old farts standing around complaining about the weather.”

Keegan, in the moment, could think of no glib comeback, so he just nodded.

The lieutenant rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets. He looked the cottage over amiably, and then looked beyond it at the view of the city. He walked over to the edge of the hill. “So, what are you doing in these parts, Jimmy?” he said. “I’d never expect to find you in a neighborhood this well-to-do.”

Moore’s jibe stung a little, intentional or not, though Keegan couldn’t have said why it bothered him. “I could say the same thing about you,” he told the lieutenant. “These hills are white as bird shit.”

Moore shot him a sharp look he couldn’t interpret—it had not been in his arsenal back when they saw a lot of each other—but then the lieutenant broke into another of his big, easy smiles and jingled the coins in his pocket. “Times are changing,” Moore said. “Nat King Cole lives in Hancock Park, these days.” The words were neat and precise. This man would not be easily ruffled.

Keegan nodded. “‘On the Sunny Side of the Street’, no doubt,” he said. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, and then, not knowing what to do with them, dug them back in again. He wondered if he looked nervous, and then he scolded himself for wondering.

The lieutenant looked the cottage over and then turned back to Keegan. “This your place?” he said. “Thought you lived down Mid-Wilshire.”

“I do,” he said. “This was my saintly mother’s place. She died last week. I’m cleaning it out. Trying to figure out what to do with it.”

Moore nodded slowly. “Sorry to hear that,” he said, though there was no actual trace of regret in his voice. “Sudden?”

“Yes and no,” Keegan said. This isn’t what he wanted to be talking about. He’d prefer to give his alibi and be done with it. He shaded his eyes and looked down at Ormsby’s place. “So, what’re your people up to down there? Looks like a whole presidential motorcade.” He thought of Kennedy. He thought of Marilyn.

“Old man got shot,” Moore said. “Some TV actor.”

“Murder? Suicide?”

“We’re still working the scene,” Moore said cagily, but then he seemed to relax a bit. This was Keegan he was talking to. His old friend. “But, yeah,” he said. “Looks like it’s probably a murder.”

“Thought you got out of homicide when you made L.T.”

Moore nodded. “I did,” he said. “They pulled me back in for this one.”