Hassler flips burgers on a grill in the shadow of the remnants of the Seattle Gas Light Company, a collection of rusted cylinders and ironwork that looms in the distance like the ruins of a steampunk skyline. The expanse of emerald grass runs down to the edge of Lake Union, which sparkles under the late afternoon sun. It’s June. It’s warm. The entire city seems to be out taking advantage of this rare, perfect day.

Sailboat masts add triangles of color to the lake.

Kites sprinkle color in the sky.

Frisbees slice through the air and the bright noise of children’s laughter echoes from the plant’s exhauster-compressor building, which has been renovated into a “play barn.”

It’s the annual company picnic for the Secret Service’s Seattle field office, and Hassler can’t shake how odd it is to see his team sporting all those bare legs and sandaled feet in place of crisp black suits and pantsuits.

His assistant, Mike, walks up carrying two empty plates and a couple of bratwurst requests.

As Hassler spears one of the brats, he spots Theresa Burke moving away from the group she’s been standing with, heading down toward the shoreline at a pace substantially faster than a leisurely stroll.

Hassler sets down the fork and looks at his assistant.

“Did I mention I’m promoting you?” Hassler says.

Mike’s eyes go wide with self-interest. The young man has only been working with Hassler for eight months, but he has, on a number of occasions, demonstrated a complete lack of awareness regarding the fact that his main purpose in life is answering the phones, pouring coffee, and typing up the special agent in charge’s dictation.

Mike says, “Seriously?”

Hassler lifts the white-and-red checkerboard apron over his head and appoints his apprentice.

“Your new duties include asking people if they’d like a hamburger, bratwurst, or both. And also, not burning shit.”

Mike’s shoulders sag. “I was getting a plate for Lacy.”

“That your new girl?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell her to come over so you can fill her in on the big news.” Hassler slaps Mike on the shoulder and abandons the grill, moving down through the buttercup-dotted grass.

Theresa stands by the water.

Hassler walks to the shore and stops twenty feet away, pretending to take in the splendor of the view.

The radio towers at the top of Capitol Hill.

The house-covered hillsides of Queen Anne.

After a moment, he glances over.

Theresa stares hard across the water, her jaw tight, eyes intense.

He asks, “Everything okay?”

She startles, looks over, wipes her eyes, and musters up a pathetic smile.

“Oh, yeah. Just enjoying the day. Wish we got more like this.”

“No kidding. Kind of makes me wish I knew how to sail.”

Theresa glances back toward the park where the rest of the party is mingling.

Hassler looks too.

The breeze carries the pleasant reek of beer in plastic cups.