“Something’s wrong in those files, Devin. I know it.”

He sighed. “Where’s Angie?”

“Asleep.”

“Alone?” He chuckled.

“What?” I said.

“Nothing.”

In the backround I could hear Oscar’s guttural guffaw.

“Spit it out,” I said.

Devin’s amused sigh followed the squawk of the walkie-talkie. “Me and Oscar just made a little side bet.”

“Pertaining to?”

“You and your partner and how long you’ll be able to stay cooped up together before one of two things happens.”

“And those things would be?”

“I say you’ll kill each other, but Oscar says you’ll get buck wild before the weekend.”

“Nice,” I said. “Aren’t you guys late for your political correctness training session?”

“Police department calls it Human Sensitivity Dialogues,” Devin said, “and me and Sergeant Lee decided we’re sensitive enough.”

“Of course.”

“You sound like you don’t believe us,” Oscar chimed in.

“Oh, no. You’re posterboys for the New Sensitive Male.”

“Yeah?” Devin said. “Think it’ll help us pick up chicks?”

After I hung up with Devin, I called Grace.

I’d been stalling most of the night. Grace was mature and understanding, but even so I wasn’t sure how I’d explain moving in with Angie to her. I’m not a particularly possessive person, yet I’m not sure how well I’d take it if Grace called me and said she was shacking up for a few days with a male friend.

As it happened, the issue didn’t come up immediately.

“Hi,” I said.

Silence.

“Grace?”

“I’m not sure I feel like talking to you, Patrick.”

“Why?”

“You damn well know why.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t.”

“If you’re going to play games with me, I’ll hang up.”

“Grace, I have no idea what you’re talking—”

She hung up.

I stared at the phone for a minute, considered banging it into the wall several times. Then I took a few deep breaths and called her back.

“What?” she said.

“Don’t hang up.”

“That depends on how much bullshit you try to sling.”

“Grace, I can’t respond to something if I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“Is my life in danger?” she said.

“What’re you talking about?”

“Answer the question. Is my life in danger?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Then why are you having me followed?”

Canyons opened in the pit of my stomach and ice melted against my spine.

“I’m not having you followed, Grace.”

Evandro? Kevin Hurlihy? The mystery killer? Who?

“Bullshit,” she said. “That psychotic in the trenchcoat didn’t get this idea all on his own and just go—”

“Bubba?” I said.

“You know very fucking well Bubba.”

“Grace, slow down. Tell me exactly what happened.”

She exhaled slowly through the receiver. “I’m in the St. Botolph Restaurant with Annabeth and my daughter—my daughter, Patrick—and there’s a guy sitting at the bar checking me out. And he’s not being really subtle about it, okay, but he wasn’t threatening either. And then—”

“What did this guy look like?”

“What? He looked sort of like Larry Bird before Madison Avenue got a hold of him—tall, very pale, horrible hair, long jaw, and big Adam’s apple.”