I slip Salazar’s card back, then hand him the wallet.

As soon as we emerge into the corridor, Coleman proves the wisdom of my advice. He gets a funny look, seeing I’ve freed his buddy’s hands, then his eyes follow the kid’s progress, crazier with each step. When Rios passes him, he springs for the kid. It takes six men to hold him back.

“Frank!” he shouts. “Frank! Why they lettin’ you go, man? Why? ’Cause you workin’ for ’em, that it?”

Rios keeps walking, shows a little swagger.

“I’m tellin’! You hear me? I’m tellin’, man! Everybody gonna know. You dead! You hear me? Frank! You dead!”

Sonia pops through the side door, a finger over her lips. “You wanna keep it quiet down there? We’re trying to arrest some folks in here.”

“You heard the lady,” I tell Coleman. “Anyway, you’ve got your own problems to worry about.”

The big man deflates as my reminder takes effect. He hangs between the officers, letting his weight drag him down. Finally they release him to the floor, where he curls up, ducking his head between his knees. From the jerk of his shoulders I think he’s starting to cry.

That’s the last thing I want to see. I head back to the door, where Sonia’s waiting, and pause before going inside.

“It’s just getting good in here,” she whispers.

With a glance back at Coleman, I pull at my golf shirt, stripping it over my head while straightening the white tee underneath.

“You know what? I’m done.”

I hand Sonia the shirt.

She hisses my name a few times, but like Rios I just keep walking.

With a swagger in my step. It’s nice to have some for a change.

CHAPTER 3

This is not my beautiful house. And this is not my beautiful wife. But with apologies to David Byrne, it is. And she is. But things aren’t always what they seem.

The house is in the Heights, a creaky old thing from the late Victorian, lovingly restored over the course of the past fifteen years. I’ve forgotten more about dentil molding than I ever wanted to know, and can disassemble and oil a mortise lock blindfolded.

The wife, Charlotte, is in the wholly anachronistic kitchen, perched on a Carrera marble countertop, staring hard at her foggy reflection in the stainless refrigerator door. Like she’s expecting it to wave.

“What’s wrong now?” I ask.

Five minutes through the door and already I’m putting things badly. Adding that “now” like a barbed hook at the end of the question. Implying there’s always something. But this time of year there is. Every September we become strangers again, Charlotte taking refuge in her prescriptions and me in the company of unfamiliar faces, blank canvasses of skin, out after dark, testing myself in a city that sweats all night. This distance is predictable. We anticipate its ebb and flow. But somehow knowing it will come never quite prepares us.

So I’m short with her, but the fact that she doesn’t rise to the challenge – no flush on the ivory cheeks, no fire in her coal black gaze – means there really is something wrong. I go up to her, putting my hand on her denim-clad thigh.

“Charlotte? What’s wrong, baby?”

She wipes her dry eyes with the back of her hand. Her way of letting me know that, while she isn’t crying, she’s considered the possibility.

“You have to talk to him.” Her voice comes out in the quiet, measured flow characteristic of her ultimatums. A reasonable tone, but brittle as a sheet of ice over a running river. “If you don’t do it, then I will.” The surface cracks. “But it ought to be you, Roland, because you’re the man here.”

Charlotte walked down the aisle with an unspoken list of male responsibilities – pumping gas, putting out the garbage, going to the door when someone knocks – which has only expanded over time. The one thing not on the list, because she does it so much better than I do, is bringing home the bacon. She’s so valuable to her law firm, she works the hours she wants, from wherever she wants, redlining contracts phrased in language so obscure that reading over her shoulder gives me headaches.

I flick a lock of chestnut hair behind her ear, letting my finger brush her cheekbone. She recoils ever so slightly.

“It’s Tommy you’re talking about?”

“Who else? This whole thing has gotten way out of hand.”

My big plan for the evening looks hopeless all the sudden. Sharing my good news, dragging her to Bedford, the new restaurant she’s been talking about, where I’ve already managed to secure last-minute reservations. Bringing her home, leading her upstairs and lighting a candle or two. After that, who knows? Ending up in bed these days requires ever-longer campaigns, and this one isn’t off to the best of starts.

“Let’s not talk about him,” I say. “There’s something I want to tell you.”

She raises her eyebrows, incredulous. “You haven’t even heard what happened today. I can’t believe you’re shutting me down like this, Roland. You’ve got to do something.”

I sigh, then slink over to one of the matching barstools, hoisting myself into a listening posture. But Charlotte doesn’t want a grudging audience. My gesture gets nothing out of her but a roll of the eyes.

“So what happened today?”

No response. She gives her rarely used mixer a pointed glance, anything not to make eye contact.

“I’m listening, baby. Tell me what happened.”

Taking a deep breath, she launches in. “So I’m sipping my coffee out on the deck this morning, going over my mental checklist, all the things I had to get done today. And as I’m sitting there I notice a beer bottle on the ground. I start looking, and there’s bottles all over – under the bushes, sitting next to the grill, tucked inside the planters. And cigarette butts, too. Everywhere.”

“Tommy had a party, in other words.”

“It must have been some kind of blowout, too.”

“So you went up and talked to him?”

An imperceptible headshake. “That’s your job. He won’t listen to me. We already know that. But I will not be cleaning up after him.”

I consult my watch. “I have something to – ”

“I’m not finished,” Charlotte says, blocking my words with a lazy swing of the arm. “So I’m about to come back inside, and I hear somebody on the garage stairs. His car wasn’t in the driveway, but I thought maybe one of his friends had taken it. Hearing him coming, I decided to say something. How could I not?”

“Right.”

“But it wasn’t Tommy. It was this… girl. This half-dressed, sobbing, heartbreaking girl. She was clutching her purse to her chest, and the rest of her clothes…”

“Did she look – had she been abused?”

“I don’t know what she’d been. I asked, and she said she couldn’t remember. She just woke up on the couch, all alone. He left her.”

“Is this his girlfriend, date at the party, something like that?”

“She wasn’t in the mood for talking,” she says. “I called him, obviously, and according to him, she’s just some girl who came to the party and crashed afterwards. So I ask him what he’s gonna do about it, and he says why would he do a thing? She can call someone for a ride. He acted like it was no big deal.”

If we were talking about a normal person, I’d have a hard time believing this. But Tommy isn’t normal by a long shot. During our early renovation work, we’d put in the garage apartment so we could redo the bathrooms without disrupting our lives. Then a couple of years ago, when Charlotte left her old firm, we decided to rent it out. Since Tommy was a grad student at Rice with his dad in the oil business, he seemed like a safe bet. That’s not how it turned out, though.

“Tommy’s in a tough spot,” I say.

“You’re defending him?”

“Not at all. I just think… Look, the boy’s trying to find himself. Maybe he isn’t doing a very good job, but deep down he’s a decent kid.”

“You didn’t have to give that girl a ride back to her dorm, Roland. She didn’t have any friends to come get her. Or she was too ashamed. So it was me, I took her home. She wouldn’t even let me drop her at the building. I had to leave her in the parking lot outside.” She grows silent, remembering the scene. “Anyway, I won’t accept that kind of thing happening under our roof. I’m tired of it.”