He shook his head. “Little bastard never had a chance.”

“Neither did Kristal Malley.”

He stared at me. “That rolled off your tongue pretty easily. You that tough?”

“I’m not tough at all. I worked the cancer wards at Western Peds for years and stopped trying to figure things out.”

“You’re a nihilist?”

“I’m an optimist who keeps my goals narrow.”

“I’m usually pretty good at coping with all the crap I see,” he said. “But something about this one . . . maybe it’s time to retire.”

“You did your best.”

“Thanks for saying so. I don’t know why I’m bothering you.”

“It’s no bother.”

Neither of us talked for a while, then he steered the conversation to his two kids in college, looked at his watch, thanked me again, and left.

A few weeks later I read about a retirement party thrown for him at the Biltmore, downtown. “Child Murder Trial Judge” was his new title and I guessed that would stick.

Nice party, from the sound of it. Judges and D.A.s and P.D.s and court workers lauding him for twenty-five years’ good service. He planned to spend the next few years sailing and playing golf.

Troy Turner’s murder stayed with me and I wondered how Rand Duchay was faring. I phoned the C.Y.A. camp in Chino, wrestled with the bureaucracy for a while before reaching a bored-sounding head counselor named DiPodesta.

“So?” he said, when I told him about the killing.

“It might put Duchay at risk.”

“I’ll make a note of that.”

I asked to talk to Rand.

“Personal phone calls are limited to blood relatives and people on the approved list.”

“How do I get on the list?”

“Apply.”

“How do I do that?”

“Fill out forms.”

“Could you please send them to me?”

He took my name and address but the application never arrived. I considered pursuing it, rationalized not doing so: I lacked the time— and the desire— for long-term commitment, so what use could I be to Rand?

For the next few weeks, I scanned the papers for bad news about him. When nothing appeared I convinced myself he was where he should be.

Counseled and tutored and taken care of for the next twelve years.

Now, he was out in eight.

Wanted to talk to me.

I supposed I was ready to listen.

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 11

I left the house and set out for Westwood.

The restaurant was called Newark Pizza. A sign underneath the tricolor boot promised Authentic New Jersey Pasta and Sicilian Delicacies Too!

Lights on behind pink-and-white-checked drapes, the faint outlines of patrons.

No one waiting outside.