"That's true," Brandon said. "And it's always fun to be surprised." He put the paper down on the stack of similar ones. "Like I said, Keith's not here. You know about Ysabel, right?"

"Is there something new?"

Brandon turned the red pencil in his hands. "She's taken a turn for the worse. Keith's at home with her. He's still hoping she'll pull out, but…" He shrugged.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Ysabel Hyatt had been fighting lung cancer, and the last Ray heard, she had been doing well. He felt sorry for Keith and Ysabel, and the knowledge that his new responsibilities at the crime lab had kept him out of the loop where old friends were concerned gave him a searing ache high up in his chest.

"Is there anything I can help you with. Ray?"

Ray considered the question, but the things he needed enlightenment on were really in Keith's area of expertise, not Brandon 's. "No, that's all right.'

"I'm sure Keith and Ysabel would love to see you. They're up and about. I've already talked to Keith twice today."

"Maybe I'll drop by," Ray said.

"You should. It'd do her a world of good."

"Thanks, Brandon. I hope you don't have to flunk too many students today."

Brandon picked up the paper again, his gaze already landing where he had left off. "Someone's got to. Someone should have done it a long time ago."

Keith and Ysabel Hyatt lived in a comfortable house in a long-established neighborhood, with tall palms offering some shade against the desert sun, actual grass lawns around some of the houses – although the city was working to phase those out – and neighbors who knew one another. The house had two stories, real wood siding painted a soothing periwinkle, a pitched slate roof, and contrasting dark red shutters. It reminded Ray of an East Coast beach house. He had always liked coming there, and the Hyatts had loved entertaining, holding regular barbecues, faculty mixers, and dinner parties featuring fascinating conversation and great food.

Ray parked on the brick-paved driveway, and by the time he reached the door, Keith was there opening it for him. He greeted Ray with a broad smile and a firm hug. "Come on in, man," Keith said when he finally released Ray. "Ysabel will be so happy to see you."

"How is she, Keith?"

"She's good." Keith glanced away, and Ray thought he saw moisture glint in his old friend's eyes. "You know, not good. But considering. She's in fine spirits."

"She's a strong lady," Ray said. "Always has been."

"Stronger than me, that's for sure." Keith dabbed at his eyes. "I would have given up years ago."

"I don't know about that."

Keith opened the front door and led Ray inside. "Ysabel, we've got company!" he called. Ray understood that he was giving his wife fair warning. The life of a cancer patient was not easy, and if Brandon Romero's report had been correct, she might need a couple of minutes to steel herself for guests.

"We turned the den into a bedroom for her," Keith said. He was a silver-haired man, lean and professorial. Even here in his own home, he was wearing a blue Oxford shirt and a vest, a natty navy blue with gold and red alternating pinstripes, over khaki pants. On his feet were deck shoes, worn without socks, giving extra credence to the idea that he'd have been happier on the coast at Nantucket or Martha's Vineyard. "Easier than having to climb the stairs. Not that she can't – still does, probably a couple times a day. I guess I'm just overprotective."

"There's nothing wrong with that, my friend. She's worth protecting."

Keith took him through the dining room, where Ray had met more interesting people than he could count. A door led from there into a short hallway, then to the kitchen and then the den. As they neared it. Ray caught what he thought of as hospital smells, disinfectant and medicine. He tried to brace himself. It had been months since he had seen Ysabel.

She was sitting up in bed, weaving one of the traditional baskets for which she had become locally famous. Spread out on the bed was her traditional toolkit, with a couple of cactus-spine awls that were rolled up into a yucca carrier and tied with cord. For years, she had exhibited at Indian fairs and powwows across the West, and now her baskets were in museums in Santa Fe, Phoenix, Denver, and Las Vegas. Her once thick, lustrous hair was short and thinned out, and her complexion was sallow, but she looked delighted to see Ray. The troubling thing was that her smile did not bring to her eyes the crystal brightness it once had, and that lack shot a bolt of ineffable sadness through Ray's heart. "Come here and give me a kiss, stranger!" she demanded. "I'd hug you, but I got this basket all over my lap."

"Not a problem," he said. He went to her bedside, clasped her offered hand, and kissed her cheek. Her skin had always been the softest of anyone he had ever known, and that remained true. She wore a cotton nightgown containing all the colors of a desert sunset. "I'm sorry it's been so long, Ysabel."

"You've been busy fighting crime," Keith said. "We try to keep up with the news."

"How is that going?" Ysabel asked. Her voice rose at the end of the question, more than most peoples' would; it always made her sound as if she was singing.

"It's good," Ray admitted. "It's hard work, but I feel it's worthwhile."

"I'm sure it is," she said. "You're making the world a better place. Of course, you always did that."

Not as much as you, Ray thought. Her presence in the world was like a beacon of life, a message of joy. People who bought her baskets without meeting her acquired things of beauty, but those who had the chance to get to know her acquired a knowledge that true goodness really existed. Or so he had always believed.

"I would think your years dealing with college students would be good preparation for handling hardened criminals," Keith put in, smiling as he said it.

"Generally, the people I deal with are already deceased," Ray replied. "But I remember a few students that might have been true of as well, at least judging by their participation in the class."

He chatted with them both for a few minutes, until Keith suggested that Ysabel was getting tired. She denied it, but Ray allowed Keith to lead him out of her room and back through the entryway to the couple's living room. The furniture there was worn and comfortable, arranged for easy conversation. A bookcase held well-thumbed volumes, and posters advertising powwows and old rock concerts decorated the walls. They weren't prints, Ray knew, but originals. He had always been especially impressed by a Mouse and Kelly poster featuring a blue and red Day-Glo Native American holding a pipe, its colors almost as crisp and vibrant as the day it was printed. The Hyatts had hung it in a position of honor above the fireplace. The concert was an appearance by the Youngbloods, the Sparrows, and the Sons of Champlin at San Francisco's Avalon Ballroom in 1966.

"She's a great lady, Keith," Ray said, admiring the poster.

"She sure is. She has the energy of a racehorse. Honestly, I'm sure she would have wanted to visit with you for hours, but it would wear me out."

"You've been under a lot of stress, Keith."

"And not sleeping as well as I should, I'm afraid."

"That's hardly surprising."

"Tell her. She thinks I should be taking all this in stride. It's just another part of life, she says." Keith sat down in the chair that had been his as long as Ray could remember, dark brown leather, worn on the arms. Ray took a seat on a sofa opposite him.

"She's right, in a way. Not that it's easy, or should be. But it's as natural a part of life as anything else."

"So they tell me." Keith studied Ray for a long moment. "You didn't just come here to visit."