“Yes, ma’am,” I replied as we walked a short distance to a row of parked cars where I saw a sign on the walkway announcing: Detectives.

“But maybe on the way back we can turn on the blue lights.”

She looked at me over the top of the car as she opened the door. “Get in, Tanner.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I responded as I heard the door lock on my side click open.

I got in and fastened my seat belt. As we headed over toward River Street we chatted about odds and ends, both of us avoiding the contents of the report I had stuffed inside my jacket. The car tires clattered roughly down the cobble-stoned ramp that leads off of Bay Street, past Factors Walk, and down to River Street. I thought we’d have to search around, but as if by magic, Patricia found a parking spot right in front of the café.

In the river, to our front, a huge container ship from China was slowly beating its way upstream, a pair of tug-boats tethered to her stern as insurance against accident. She would soon cross beneath the Talmadge Bridge on her way to the ports just upriver. This was the second bridge, I recollected, the old one having been hit by a ship a decade or so ago. I had to admit: The new bridge was a vast improvement, aesthetically and otherwise, over the previous one.

I stared up at the center of the arch and tried to imagine what it would look like from up there, gazing down, so very high above the surface of the river. From here, the cars on the bridge looked like toys—a person would appear as no more than a tiny stick figure. I vowed to myself that I would go up there. I would walk the bridge and stand at the spot where Tonya Causey had pitched to her death. Why, I don’t know. I guess it was another one of those emotional decisions Bob had spoken about.

“Hey, you coming in, or you gonna just stand there in the street, gaping like a tourist?” Patricia called from the sidewalk, snapping me out of my reverie.

“Yeah. Sure,” I said as I hustled around the car and opened the door to the restaurant.

The interior of the building was warm and welcoming. The large window fronting River Street let in the gray light of day, and the old-fashioned lamps threw splashes of yellow illumination that gave the place a relaxing feel.

I helped Patricia out of her jacket just as a pretty, young waitress with short-cropped blond hair came over to greet us.

“Hello, Detective.” She smiled as she picked up two menus.

“Hi, Rhonda. Is my favorite table available?” Patricia inquired.

The girl was already turning away. “You bet,” she said over her shoulder. “Right this way.”