“It is. I'm trying to tell them Mommy loves them, cares about them, but what they know is she isn't there. It's been really tough. I just got them into therapy; hopefully it'll help.”

Most cops ran from anything psychiatric unless they were filing for disability. Banks's easy admission interested her.

She watched him eat another pickle. Narrow hands; the free one continued to drum. The fingers long but sturdy. Impeccable nails.

He chewed slowly. Everything about him seemed slow and deliberate. Except the hands. All his tension filtered down to his fingertips. “She was always after me to grow a mustache. My ex. Said it was muy macho.” He laughed. “So after she's gone, I do it. Guess a therapist would have something to say about that. Anyway, she's still trying to find herself. Hopefully, she will soon.”

“How long's it been?”

“Final decree was just over a year ago. I'm able to feel sorry for her now, see her as someone with serious problems, but- Oh, by the way, I talked to the Carpinteria sheriff and he said Lisa Ramsey never filed any DV complaint on Ramsey there, either. They've got no calls to the house, period.”

Whiplash change of subject. He knew it and blushed, and Petra groped for a way to rescue him.

The waitress solved that problem, setting down his coffee hard enough to slosh the saucer and barking, “Your food's coming up.”

She hurried off, and Petra said, “Thanks for checking, Ron.”

“Least I could do.”

The two of them worked on their drinks. The restaurant was almost full, the usual mixture of soup-sipping old folk and Gen-X depressives showing they didn't care about dietary fat. Behind the stocked case, countermen sliced and wrapped and cracked jokes, the briny aromas of herring and cured meat and stuffed derma yielding to sweetness as fresh rye loaves came out of the kitchen on steel trays.

Suddenly, Petra felt hungry, a little more relaxed.

“How about you?” said Banks. “Been married?”

“Divorced two and a half years ago, no kids.” Getting that out of the way before he could ask. “So you've got them full-time. Must be challenging.”

“My mom helps out- picks them up from school and baby-sits when I have to work late. They're great girls, sweet, smart, into sports- Alicia does soccer, gives the boys a run. Bee's not sure if she likes soccer or T-ball, but she's pretty coordinated.”

Sports dad. Her father had gone that route with all five kids. Football for the boys, softball for Petra. Every Sunday, into a hideous uniform. She hated the entire experience, faked enthusiasm to please him, stuck with it for three summers. Years later he told her she'd done him a big favor quitting; he'd yearned for some free time on weekends.

Single father- was that why she'd gotten together with Banks?

He seemed so unguarded. What was he doing as a cop? She asked him how he got into law enforcement.

“My dad was a fireman- it was either that or police work,” he said. “Always wanted one of the two.”

“I don't want to sound chauvinistic, but why the sheriff's and not LAPD?”

He grinned. “Wanted to do real police work- seriously, back then Lulu- my ex- was talking about opening up her own equestrian school one day, we figured we'd be living somewhere unincorporated, so I applied to the sheriff. How about you?”

She gave him a very spare version of the artist-to-detective transition.

He said, “You paint? Beatrix is kind of artistic. Or at least she seems that way to me. Her mom tried to do pottery. I've still got the wheel at home- just sitting there, as a matter of fact. Want it?”

“No thanks, Ron.”

“You're sure? It seems a waste.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I just paint.”

“Oh, okay. What kinds of things do you paint?”

“Anything.”

“And you actually did it professionally.”

“I wasn't exactly Rembrandt.”

“Still, you must be good.”

She gave him a rundown of her ad agency days, her mouth running while her brain thought: How cute, each of us shifting the focus to the other. In her case, defensiveness, but Banks seemed really interested in her. Polar opposite of Nick. All the other men she'd dated since Nick- artists, then cops. Even when they talked about you, it was really just a ploy to get it back to me me me.

This one seemed different. Or was she just flattering herself?

She ended her recitation: “Like I said, no big deal.”

“Still,” he said, “it's tough making any kind of living creatively. I had an uncle did some sculpture, could never make a dime- ah, here comes the food, whoa, look at those portions!”

He ate slowly, and that prevented Petra from wolfing. Good influence, Detective Banks.

In between bites, they chatted about work. Dry stuff: benefits, insurance, the usual gripes, comparing blue and tan bureaucracies, good-natured kidding about intramural sports competitions. Finding more common ground than differences. She noticed he wasn't wearing his gun.

When their sandwiches were gone, they each ordered apple pie à la mode. Petra finished hers first, tried idly to pick up crumbs with the tines of her fork.

“You like to eat,” said Banks. “Thank God.”

The fork paused midair. She put it down.

He blushed again. “I- no offense- what I mean is, I think that's great. Seriously. It sure doesn't show- at least as far as I can-” He shook his head. “Oh, Lord, I am not good at this.”

She found herself laughing. “It's okay, Ron. Yes, I do have a healthy appetite when I remember to sit down for a meal.”

He continued to shake his head, wiped his mouth with his napkin, folded it neatly, and placed it next to his plate. “Whatever I just gargled out, please take it as a compliment.”

“So taken,” said Petra. “You're saying love of food's a healthy thing.”

“Exactly. Too many girls these days get crazy about food. I think about that because I have daughters. My ex always bugged them, obsessed with being skinny-” He stopped himself again. “Not too cool, bringing her up every minute.”

“Hey, she was a big part of your life. It's normal.” Implying that she'd done the same with Nick. But she hadn't. She'd never talked about him to anyone.

“Was,” he said. “Past tense.” He raised one hand and sliced air vertically. “So… how's the case coming?”

“Not too brilliantly.” She talked about it without giving him details. Liking him but not forgetting that he was non-LAPD.

He said, “Situations like that, publicity, no way you can do your job properly.”

“Ever have one like that?”

“Once in a while.” Touching his napkin, he looked away. Wary, too?

“Once in a while?” she echoed.

“You know us country bumpkin lawmen, runnin' down rustlers, protectin' the pony express.”

“Ah,” said Petra. “Anything I'd have heard about?”

“Well,” he said, “Hector and I did do some work on the County Gen slasher.”

Mega-case, three years ago. Wacko killer cutting up nurses on the grounds of the county hospital, four victims in three months. The bad guy turned out to be an orderly who'd served time for rape and assault. He'd faked his way through personnel screening- worked the surgical floors, of all things. Before he was caught, the nurses had threatened to strike.

“That was yours?”

“Hector's and mine.”

“Now I'm impressed.”

“Believe me, it was no big sherlock,” he said. “Everything pointed to an insider. It was just a matter of flipping paper, checking time cards, eliminating negatives till we found the positive.”

Petra remembered the feminist frustration, media noise- hadn't there been an initial task force? “Were you on it from the beginning?”

He blushed again. “No, they called us in after a few months.”

“So you two are rescuers.”

“Sometimes,” he said. “And sometimes we get rescued. You know how it is.”

What she knew was that the County Gen slasher was a major case and that he was a rescuer, top dog. And that's who the sheriff had sent for the notification call to Ramsey?