When he hung up, he was drenched in sweat, but he no longer felt so weak, probably because there was nothing left to fear or dread now. He had touched bottom. He had lost all there was to lose.

Mr. Bowman, waiting outside his office, walked with him to the reception room, where they found Sergeant Rider leafing through a magazine. As they came in, he tossed it onto a table and, sighing, grunting, heaved himself to his feet. It had been a long day, his expression said—but a day like any other. Not waiting for him, Hook plunged on outside, into the growing darkness, and somehow made it to the car. Sagging into the front seat, he sat there waiting for the sergeant, finally alone with the knowledge, the certitude that he would never again see Chris alive. Not ever. He would grow old, and he would die. The sun would become a dead star and the earth a cinder circling it. And still he would not see his son alive again. Never. At the thought, he heard some dumb animal sound torn out of his body.

The door opened and Rider struggled in behind the wheel. “Get everything taken care of?” he asked.

For a time, Hook could not speak. “We have a lot to talk about,” he said finally.

“That’s what I’m here for. Wouldn’t you rather wait, though? Get some rest? Nothing’s gonna change. It’ll all be here in the morning.”

“I’d like to talk now, Sergeant.”

Rider started the car, backed around, and headed out of the parking lot. “Okay. But not here. Let’s get comfortable. I got a thirst—you mind?”

“No.”

“I figured not. You’ve had a few today yourself, I’d imagine.”

Hook decided not to wait on the sergeant’s comfort. “The police chief in Banner Hill, he said you called it a suicide.”

“That’s right.”

“I know this is what you’d expect a father to say. Any father. But in this case, it’s true, Sergeant. My boy didn’t kill himself. I don’t care what your facts are. I don’t care if you were there and saw it happen. You are wrong. My son did not kill himself.”

Rider kept his eyes on the road. “You’re right, Mr. Hook. That’s what I’d expect a father to say.”

Turning, Hook searched the man’s beefy countenance for a trace of irony or ridicule. There was none. Past him, out the car window, Hook saw the courthouse again, only this time its facade, for they were moving south on the next street over. The building was floodlit in the darkness, a blazing white temple of tourism as much as justice.

At the next street, Rider turned off and parked, and they got out. Hook followed the sergeant along the walk, lined with hibiscus trees, to a pedestrian causeway—a paseo, to the natives, as Hook remembered. On each side were typical picturesque Santa Barbara shops selling antiques, gifts, Persian rugs, securities. They were all closed. At the end, where the paseo turned left, was a sidewalk café with empty umbrella tables surrounding a raised fishpond. Rider led him back into the restaurant itself, which looked as if it had once been the lobby of some small hotel for rich widows, and indeed there were a number of them, or at least their kind, sitting at the tables now, chattering and picking at their food. The sergeant went into a small alcove off the bar and took a corner booth, heaving his bulk into it with a luxurious grunt. Hook sat down across from him. The waitress, like the bartender, gave Rider a big smile and some kidding; he was evidently a favorite there. He ordered a manhattan, a double. Hook ordered coffee.