“Emilio Corazon is a late-stage alcoholic and heroin addict living in a Salvation Army shelter in Ventura, California. He panhandles to get money for booze and heroin. He’s changed his name half a dozen times. He doesn’t want to be found. He needs a liver transplant to stay alive, but he can’t stay sober long enough to get on the list. He’s getting dementia from the ammonia levels in his blood. The people at the shelter think he’ll be dead in three months. Maybe sooner.”

Gurney felt like he should say something.

But his mind was blank.

He felt empty.

Aching, sad, and empty.

“Mr. Gurney?”

He looked up. Lieutenant Bullard was standing in the doorway.

“Sorry if I’m interrupting something. I just … I just wanted to thank you … and make sure you were all right.”

“Come in.”

“No, no. I just …” She looked at Madeleine. “Are you Mrs. Gurney?”

“Yes, I am. And you …?”

“Georgia Bullard. Your husband is a remarkable man. But of course you know that.” She looked at Gurney. “Maybe, after all this gets sorted out, I was wondering, maybe I could treat you and your wife to lunch? I know a little Italian restaurant in Sasparilla.”

Gurney laughed. “I look forward to it.”

She backed away with a smile and a wave and, as suddenly as she’d appeared, was gone.

Gurney’s mind returned to the fate of Emilio Corazon and the effect the news was likely to have on his daughter. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against his pillow.

When he opened them, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Hardwick was gone. Madeleine had moved her chair from the corner of the room to the side of his bed and was watching him. The scene reminded him of the all-too-similar end of the Perry case, when he had come so close to being killed, when he had suffered the physical damage that in some ways was still with him. And when he had emerged from the coma at the end of that experience, Madeleine was by his bed, waiting, watching.

For a moment, meeting her gaze, he was tempted to repeat that jokey cliché, We have to stop meeting like this. But somehow it didn’t feel right, not really funny, not a joke he had a right to make.

An impish smile appeared on Madeleine’s face. “Were you going to say something?”

He shook his head. Really just rocked it slightly from side to side on the pillow.

“Yes you were,” she said. “Something silly. I could see it in your eyes.” He laughed, then winced at the pain of the skin stretching around his mouth.

She put her hand on his. “Are you upset about Paul Mellani?”

“Yes.”

“Because you’re thinking you should have done something?”

“Maybe.”