He finished a row of the tapestry, and pressed the new work up tight against the old with his hands. One thin lock of his carrot-colored hair swung braided in front of his right ear. He was wearing cut-offs and a pair of leather work gloves, and seeing the film of sweat on his white skin and the bunching and rolling of his shoulder muscles, I realized the weight of the rope he was working with, and how much effort it was to push and pull it through the weave.

“Looks good,” I said, inadequately.

“Uh? Oh, thanks.”

“What’s it about?”

“This? It’s ‘The Death of Young Andrew.’ “

“I don’t know that one.”

“No?” He squinted at me thoughtfully. “D’you like movies?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it’s kinda the Brian De Palma flick of ballads. Great betrayal and vengeance stuff. And generation versus generation, too, ‘cause this girl’s father lets her die ‘cause his pride is wounded, but her brothers avenge her. Anyway, they leave this guy Andrew with his arms and legs broken and Dad’s gold in his lap and tell him he can count the money ‘til the wolves come for him. It’s great.”

“Yum,” I agreed. “How much longer ‘til it’s finished?”

“Couple days. The weaving goes pretty fast, but I haveta find some stuff for the edging. Like, I want to get a skull. Human or elf, doesn’t matter.”

“In this town, it’s either easy or impossible. Good luck.” I settled my sunglasses on my nose and went out into the sullen heat of midday.

When I got to my building, the Spitfire was in front of it. I could see the top of Rico’s head past the driver’s side seatback, and both her feet, crossed at the ankles, propped on the passenger’s side door. When I came closer, I saw that she was lying with her arms crossed, and that she’d substituted very dark shades for the Night Peepers. I couldn’t tell if her eyes were closed, which I suppose was part of the point. She looked pretty comfortable for someone trying to nap sitting sideways in two bucket seats.

She was wearing a gray tank top, and I still couldn’t see any tan lines. There were freckles on her collar bone. It suddenly occurred to me that cops tan by the same method the rest of us use—by lying in the sun with little or no clothing on—and it was as if all of reality shifted an eighth of an inch to one side and snapped back. I swallowed the lump in my throat before I spoke. “I’m surprised you didn’t just wait in my apartment.”

Her mouth twitched. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I was housebreaking without a warrant. I’ll never do it again. Any more baggage?”

“Baggage?”

“It’s too hot to snipe at each other.”