“Sorry. I forgot I’m sitting next to a hero.” Woodhouse raised his hand toward the bartender, a young woman in a black blouse and trousers, wearing narrow-framed glasses. “Sydney, please bring Junior a coffee—black and strong enough to dispel the forces of evil.”

Mahler looked around the room. The rest of the bar was empty. Only one table was occupied. “Not exactly a cop’s bar.”

“This place has everything a great bar should have,” Woodhouse said. “The absence of TVs. The faint scent of the roasted meat on the menu tonight. The couple at the table behind us, who haven’t stopped looking into each other’s eyes for the last thirty minutes. And most of all, Sydney here.” The bartender put a mug of coffee in front of Mahler. “Sydney knows how to make the perfect gimlet: half gin, half Rose’s lime juice—the way Terry Lennox drinks them in The Long Goodbye, the greatest American novel. Her only fault, other than extreme youth, is a delusion that Pabst Blue Ribbon qualifies as beer.”

Sydney smiled. “Long as you believe that’s my only fault, Tommy.”

As the bartender moved away, Mahler said, “I didn’t take you away from your cooking shows, did I?”

“No, I was sitting alone in a dark room, waiting for Eddie Mahler to call. How’s the headache?”

Mahler blew across the top of the coffee. “Coming and going.” As if on cue, bright flashes of light streaked across his line of vision.

“Yeah?” Woodhouse looked at Mahler. “These days, I’ll bet mostly coming.”

“We’re a little busy down at the shop.”

“And I heard you and the new chief are like brothers. That didn’t take long, did it? You ever get along with anybody your whole life?”

“Let me get back to you on that. This afternoon he gave us twenty-four hours to make an arrest.”

“Are you that close to making one?”

“No idea. You know how it is.”

“Also heard about Steve Frames. Pretty rough.”

“How’d you hear that?” Mahler sipped the coffee.

“I have friends in the department.”

“Better friends than me?”

“They’re all better friends than you, Junior. Speaking of which, how’s young Detective Somers?”

For an instant, Mahler remembered Eden falling into his arms an hour earlier. “Fine. Why’d you ask?”

“Because she strikes me as a good investigator. Have you told her how good she is? No, you wouldn’t. You’re probably just making her life hell.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you didn’t get what you needed when you were three years old?” Woodhouse shrugged. “How would I know?”

“The worst part is, after she talked to you, she decided to investigate a homicide in Fresno.”

“Fresno? I didn’t say anything about Fresno.”

“No, but she’s found a case there with similar evidence.”