"Ten months today." He was silent for a moment. "I'll tell you what's been hard. She bugged me for years to go on a cruise. I hated the whole idea. Tahiti. Alaska. She'd bring me color brochures full of these pictures of happy couples, all of' em thirty years old, standing on the deck, holding champagne flutes. Sunset. Romance. Inside'd be a picture of this mountain of food you could stuff yourself with twenty-four hours a day. Just the sight of it's enough to make your ulcers perforate. I hate being cooped up, and I was worried I'd be stranded with a bunch of fools. Does that sound unreasonable?"

"You think it was a cruise she wanted or just a trip someplace?" Dolan turned and gave me a look. "I never thought to ask."

I got back to my place at 2:45 A.M. and then slept restlessly until 10:00. The Santa Teresa County Jail is housed in a 25,000 square-foot building, two-stories, 120 beds, designed to be staffed by only two corrections officers, one of whom monitors the state-of-the-art security panel with its bank of television screens.

Still feeling half-dead from lack of sleep, I pulled the VW into one of the slots out front and went through the main entrance doors, where I picked up a copy of the visitation request form. I filled in my name and gave it to the clerk at the counter, then hung out in the lobby area while the word went down to Pudgie that he had a visitor. I could picture his puzzlement, as I was reasonably certain he'd never heard of me. Curiosity (or boredom) must have gotten the better of him because the clerk returned and said he'd agreed to see me. She gave me the booth number where I could meet him.

Ten of us entered the elevator: two lone women and three mothers with assorted small kids. I pressed DOWN, wondering if I looked like the sort of person who'd have a boyfriend in jail. The elevator descended by inches while we all secretly worried about getting stuck. Once the doors opened on the floor below, we spilled into a room that was probably twenty feet by twenty. Molded beige and gray plastic armchairs, chunky and square, were arranged in a double row down the middle of the room, with additional seats around the perimeter. The floor was a glossy beige vinyl tile. The walls were cinder block, painted a matte two-tone beige. A posted sign read KEEP FEET OFF WALL, though there was nothing to suggest how one might accomplish violating such a... well, feat. In the visitors room, eight stationary stools, with a handset at each place, were lined up on either side of a large glass-enclosed aisle. I sat down and placed my shoulder bag at my feet. I rested my elbows on the counter, feeling as if I were seated at the lunch counter of an old five-and-dime.