“It’s a dumb idea, Marvis. A dumb, dangerous idea.”

“The hell you talking, dangerous? I seen the way you handled that shotgun, man. You got dangerous in your damn blood.”

I told Woodley there was not one scintilla of evidence suggesting even the remote possibility that Echevarria’s murderer had been a homeless squatter. What’s more, I said, murderers typically do not move in down the street from the scenes of their crimes where they could easily draw attention from nosy neighbors of the Marvis Woodley variety.

“You can look it up,” I said. “It’s all in Miss Manners’ Crazy Mad Dog Killer Handbook: Socially Acceptable Ways to Murder People and Get Away with It for Fun and Profit.”

There was a pause. Then Woodley said, not sure whether to believe me, “There’s a fucking book?”

Savannah appeared in the doorway. She’d changed out of her swimsuit and into jeans and a madras blouse.

“I’m trying to make a point here, Marvis. Whoever you saw down the street, whoever you think you saw, it’s not the guy who killed Arlo.”

“Who’re you talking to?” Savannah demanded.

I tuned her out.

“You said you and Arlo was buddies, ain’t that what you told me?” Woodley said. “Arlo was military. I was military. You was military — I could see it on you, OK? Military don’t leave a buddy behind. Ever. You know that, man.”

“I know a detective. I’m happy to pass along your number to him.”

“I just told you! I ain’t talking to no fuckin’ LAPD — and I won’t tell him where the guy’s at, neither. Now, the way I see it, you got two ways to go. You can get your ass over here and back me up, or you can leave a buddy behind and live with that. There it is. What’ll it be, troop?”

Marvis Woodley’s logic was as ill-formed as his ambitions to collar Echevarria’s murderer independent of the police. This was no battlefield. We weren’t at war. Whatever bonds Echevarria and I once forged in combat were broken long ago. And yet, on some level that defied logic, Woodley’s sermon resonated. Much as I tried to deny it, part of me did feel like I was abandoning a former fellow go-to guy, however loathsome he may have turned out to be. I felt guilty for reasons I couldn’t explain. If you’re Buddhist, you know that there’s no place for guilt. There’s no place for even feeling guilty about feeling guilty. But that’s how I felt. Guilty as sin.

“I’ll get back to you,” I told Woodley and hung up.

“Who was that?” Savannah asked again.

“Arlo’s next door neighbor. Thinks whoever killed him moved in down the street.”

“Are you serious?”

I shrugged. “He won’t talk to the cops. Wants me to back him up so he can make the arrest himself.”

“Why would he want you to back him up?”

“Because he’s a fruitcake, Savannah.”

“I want to go over there.”

“No, you don’t.”

“What if it’s the guy, Logan?”

“It’s not the guy, Savannah.”

“But what if it is?”

There was no use arguing with her. There never was.

“Even if it’s not him, I want to see where Arlo died. I’ve never been there.”

“You can see where Arlo died after you drop me off at the bus station.”

I started gathering up my stuff. She looked at me disbelievingly.

“You’re going home?”

“I did what you wanted me to do, Savannah. I did what your father wanted. More than I probably should have. I’m done with this.”

“Fine. Do whatever you want.” She curled up on the bed, her back to me, sulking.

Part of me wanted to lay down beside her, to press myself into her and hold her like I once did. Another part wanted to scream at her for messing with my head. Love and hate. Yin and yang. I closed my eyes and practiced calming breaths, striving in vain for the tranquility and humility of the Zen master I aspired to be. Accompanying Savannah to see where Echevarria died and convincing Marvis Woodley to call the cops would take an hour at most, I told myself. No biggie. Then I’d be gone, back to Rancho Bonita to resolve my issues with the FAA and back in the air, back to my life. Maybe someday that life would have a place in it for Savannah Echevarria. Agreeing to do what she wanted me to do in this one instance, I realized, couldn’t hurt my chances of that happening. Brownie points, I believe the Buddha called them.

“If I agree to go over there with you, will you take me to the bus station?”

“I’ll take you all the way to Rancho Bonita if you want.”

“The bus’ll be fine.”

I called Marvis Woodley back and told him I was on my way over.

“Hooah. I knew you’d come around, motherfucker!”

“Hooah,” I said tepidly and hung up.

“Thank you for doing this,” Savannah said.

I wanted to put my fist through something but didn’t.

Savannah stood on the sidewalk and quietly cried outside the place where Echevarria spent his last days. Why are people always drawn to places of violent death like murder scenes? Is it the quest for ultimate intimacy, the desire to share in that final awful moment when life ends, to perhaps glimpse whatever there may be waiting beyond? I don’t know what Savannah was hoping to find or what she saw as she gazed at the dumpy little tract house where Echevarria’s life came to an abrupt end. Whatever it was, she wasn’t saying.

I asked if she wanted to have a look inside. She shook her head no.

Marvis Woodley spotted us and came over from next door. I made introductions. He told Savannah he was sorry for her loss.

“Best neighbor I ever had,” he said.

“Logan says you have information on the man who shot him.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Marvis lowered his voice and said he’d mapped out a plan to capture the suspect. Did we want to go inside to discuss it?

“That would not be my first choice,” I said.

Savannah shot me the stink eye and walked with Woodley to his house. I sighed and followed them.

The interior of Marvis Woodley’s home was as orderly as a barracks. Everything in its place. Everything at right angles. There were plastic covers on the lampshades, plastic runners on the mauvecolored carpet, macramé coasters on the dustless coffee table. Savannah and I sat on the plastic slipcovered couch while Woodley paced the living room like Patton, hands clasped behind his back. He used terms like dynamic entry and superior firepower as he laid out his plan for capturing the transient that he was convinced had murdered Arlo Echevarria, while his little white yapper dog ricocheted off the walls and jumped up on the couch, trying to kiss me on the lips. Woodley would yell, “Rambo, get down!” and the mutt would do so, but only for a second or two, before jumping back up on the couch to get at my lips — when he wasn’t trying to hump Savannah’s leg.

“What kind of dog is he?” Savannah said, fending him off.

A dog I wanted to punt.

“Coton de Tuléar,” Marvis said. “Bred for the kings of Madagascar, only this one thinks he is king. Thinks he don’t have to take orders from nobody.”

When Rambo tried to hump my leg, I scooped him up and locked him in the bathroom.

Woodley was too wrapped up in his pre-assault briefing to pay much attention. He’d already conducted two “surveillances” of the house that morning during walks with Rambo, he said, and confirmed the killer was inside. The man we were after drove a beat-to-shit El Camino, which he parked on the street. Woodley’s plan called for me to knock on the killer’s door and say that I’d accidentally sideswiped the El Camino. He would then emerge unsuspectingly from his redoubt to inspect the damage, at which point Woodley would jump him. Together we would subdue him with duct tape. Then Woodley would call the police to come cart the son of a bitch off to Folsom. Savannah would capture the citizen’s arrest on Woodley’s cell phone camera, then he would sell the footage to the major TV networks. He was hoping for his own reality series, or maybe a movie deal. We’d split millions.