“Marino, go to sleep,” I said. “And you know that’s not how I feel at all. I can’t even think of something happening to you, you big idiot.”

“You really mean that?” He brightened a bit.

“You know damn well I do,” I said, and I was exhausted, too.

He finished his bourbon and softly rattled the ice in the glass, but I didn’t respond, because he’d had enough.

“Know what, Doc?” he thickly said. “I like you a lot, even if you are a pain in the fucking ass.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“It is morning.”

He rattled ice some more.

“Go to sleep,” I said.

I did not turn off my bedside lamp until two A.M., and thank God it was Fielding’s turn to spend Saturday in the morgue. It was almost nine when I got motivated to put my feet on the floor, and birds were raucous in my garden, and the sun was bouncing light off the world like a manic child with a ball. My kitchen was so bright it was almost white, and stainless steel appliances were like mirrors. I made coffee and did what I could to clear my head as I thought of the files downloaded into my computer. I thought of opening sliders and windows to enjoy spring air, and then Carrie’s face was before me again.

I went into the great room to check on Marino. He slept the way he lived, struggling against his physical existence as if it were the enemy, the blanket kicked practically to the middle of the floor, pillows beaten into shape, and sheets twisted around his legs.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Not yet,” he mumbled.

He turned over and punched the pillow to submission under his head. He wore blue boxer shorts and an undershirt that stopped six inches short of covering his swollen belly, and I always marveled that men were not shy about fat the way women were. In my own way I very much cared about staying in shape, and when my clothes starting feeling tight around the waist, both my general disposition and libido turned much less agreeable.

“You can sleep a few more minutes,” I said to him.

I gathered up the blanket and spread it across him. He resumed snoring like a wounded wild boar, and I moved to the kitchen table and called Benton at his New York hotel.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” I said.

“Actually, I was almost out the door. How are you?”

He was warm but distracted.

“I’d be better if you were here and she were back behind bars.”