I wondered what Captain William Dowd Junior had known as he’d ambled abroad on grand tours.

Both of them perishing in a car crash. Big Cadillac veering off the road and over a cliff on Route 1, on the way to the Pebble Beach auto show.

No suspicion it hadn’t been an accident.

But Brad had been in town the week they’d set out and Brad knew cars. Milo had raised that with the D.A. The prosecutors agreed it was interesting theoretically but the evidence was long gone, Brad was dead, time to concentrate on building a case against a living defendant.

Time for me to...?

Robin’s truck was parked in front of the house. I expected to find her in a back room, drawing or reading or napping. She was waiting for me in the living room, sitting on the big couch with her legs tucked under her. A sleeveless, sky-colored dress set off her hair. Her eyes were clear and her feet were bare.

“Learn anything?” she said.

“That maybe I should’ve taken up accounting.”

She got up, took me by the hand, led me toward the kitchen.

“Sorry, not hungry,” I said.

“I wouldn’t expect you to be.” We continued into the service porch.

A plastic pet crate sat in front of the washer-dryer. Not Spike’s crate, she’d junked that. Not in the spot Spike’s crate had occupied. Off slightly to the left.

Robin kneeled, unlatched the grate, drew out a wrinkly fawn-colored thing.

Flat face, rabbit ears, moist black nose. Huge brown eyes met Robin’s, then aimed at me.

“You can name her,” she said.

“Her?”

“I figure you deserved that. No more macho competition. She’s from a championship line with great disposition.”

She rubbed the puppy’s belly, handed her over.

Warm as toast, almost small enough to fit in one hand. I tickled a fuzzy, blunt chin. A pink tongue shot out and the puppy craned the way bulldogs do. One of the rabbit ears flopped over.

“It’ll take a couple of weeks before they stay up,” said Robin.

Spike had been a lead-boned package of muscle and grit. This one was buttery-soft.

“How old?” I said.

“Ten weeks.”

“Runt of the litter?”

“The breeder promises she’ll fill in.”

The puppy began licking my fingers. I brought her closer to my face and she tongue-bathed my chin. She smelled of dog shampoo and that innate perfume that helps puppies get nurtured.

I scratched her chin again. She jutted her mandible in response. Licked my fingers some more, made a throaty sound closer to feline than canine.

“Love at first sight,” said Robin. She petted the puppy but the puppy pressed closer to me.

Robin laughed. “I’m really in for it.”

“That so?” I asked the puppy. “Or is it just infatuation?”

The puppy stared at me, followed every syllable with those huge brown eyes.