“Savannah’s a life coach,” I explained.

“Gotcha.” It was clear by Walker’s confounded expression that he had not a clue what a life coach was or did. I wasn’t sure I knew, either.

“By the way,” I said, “the faucet out in the guesthouse is leaking. Not sure if you knew that already.”

Walker sighed, pouring us coffee in two ceramic mugs. “I replaced that whole sink not two years ago. Guess I’ll have to get out there again with my toolbox.”

“You shouldn’t be getting out there on your hands and knees doing plumbing, Hub,” Crissy said. “Hire somebody.”

“I ain’t paying somebody to fix something I can fix myself. We’ve been over this I don’t know how many times.”

“Well, maybe if you’d hired somebody to do it right the first time, you wouldn’t have to be going out there to fix it.”

The sudden tension between them was discomforting.

“So, I hear you have a very pretty granddaughter,” Savannah said, playing referee.

Walker smiled. “Ryder. She’s at zoo camp. Goes every morning. You’ll meet her tonight.”

“She absolutely adores animals,” Crissy said. “We can’t have any, unfortunately. She’s highly allergic to all forms of pet dander.”

“Crissy’s a television producer,” I said to Savannah.

“Aspiring producer,” Crissy said. “I haven’t actually gotten any projects on air yet, though I do have one that looks promising. Animal Planet seems very interested. Fingers crossed.”

I told Savannah about The Cat Communicator. Savannah laughed and clapped her hands.

“What a great idea for a show,” she said. “I’d definitely watch.”

“With that kind of enthusiasm, you can come with me to my next pitch meeting.”

“Maybe I just will.”

Hub asked me if I’d had any more news on Janet Bollinger. I said I didn’t.

“I couldn’t sleep a wink, thinking about her,” Walker said. “Finally had to take something to knock me out.”

“We prayed all night,” Crissy said.

Savannah over looked at me.

“Janet?”

“I’ll explain later.”

I told Walker that I was meeting Greg Castle for brunch.

“Excellent. You’ll like Greg. Outstanding young man. Can’t say the same for Ray Sheen, his No. 2, though. Smart fella. Something about that guy I don’t trust.” Hub shot Crissy a quick glance. She seemed not to notice as she poured milk into a batter bowl.

“Too bad you can’t stay for breakfast,” Crissy said. “I’m making Belgian waffles. With real whipped cream.”

“I love waffles,” Savannah said. “I just wish they didn’t go straight to my hips.”

Hub smiled. “Gotta die of something, darlin’.”

I said I’d be back in a couple of hours. Savannah urged me to have fun, then kissed me goodbye. It was an awkward kiss, like new lovers, unfamiliar with each other. After so many years apart, I suppose you could say we were.

Walker stepped outside with me to his driveway.

“Some looker, that ex-wife of yours. What’s she doin’ with the likes of you?”

“You have no idea how often I ask myself that same question.”

The azure of Walker’s ocean view melted into the cloudless heavens above, a cobalt that seemed to stretch all the way to Asia. The wind was out of the east. A desert wind. The promise of a warm day.

“I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night,” Walker said. “I don’t know what came over me. I just got a little tossed off my horse when you told me about what happened to Janet. I got no problems, you talking to the police about anything. I just want you to understand that.”

Across the street, a squat, barrel-chested man in his mid-sixties wearing khaki walking shorts and a cinnamon-colored hairpiece you could spot from the International Space Station was watering pots of red and purple impatiens on his front porch and glaring.

“Cut down those trees, Walker!”

Hub waved like a good neighbor, then turned his back.

“My neighbor, Major Kilgore. Says my palms ruined his view. Keeps threatening to take me to court. Problem is, his house never had a view to begin with.”

“Cut ’em down, Walker, or I swear to God, you’re gonna regret it!”

“He’s been harping at me like that ever since he moved in last year. Never took a shine to me ’cuz I was Air Force and he’s Marine Corps. He’s basically harmless, though.”

Major Kilgore looked anything but harmless. He was scowling vengefully, fists clenched, shaking with rage.

Walker ignored him and squinted up at the sun. “High pressure’s building in. I might drive out to Montgomery and do a touch-and-go or two. Crissy said something about wanting to take Savannah shopping.”

I climbed into the Escalade. “You mind me asking you a question, Hub?”

He smiled. “It’s not about the medal, is it? I thought we covered that ground yesterday.”

“It’s about Janet Bollinger.”

Walker’s smile faded. “What about her?”

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything you’re not telling me, would you?”

He ran a hand over his face, struggling to control his anger.

“All I know is what you told me.”

I watched him stride up the driveway and back into his house, the door slamming behind him. I’ve spent a lifetime lobbing blunt-spoken questions, offending innumerable friends, relatives, bedmates, DMV workers, airline reservationists, one ex-wife, and, from what I was later told, the entire faculty of my high school. Hub Walker to my recollection was the first Medal of Honor recipient I’d ever pissed off.

Forty-something Gary Castle was everything Walker said he was. Clean cut. Athletic. Articulate. The All-American straight shooter. In his cuffed khakis and yellow golf shirt, with a hint of gray at the perfectly coiffed temples, he could’ve just as easily passed for a Republican seeking the White House.

“This is why I work so hard,” Castle said, proudly handing me a framed photo of his exceedingly blonde wife and four towheaded boys, one of more than a dozen family pictures crowding his desktop.

“Good-looking brood,” I said.

Less handsome was the view from Castle’s second-floor office, located in a large, highly secure, two-story building with mirrored windows that overlooked a heavy equipment storage yard just off Pioneer Way. The “El Cajon Zone,” as the locals call it, may be a mere half-hour drive inland from San Diego’s La Jolla, but it is decidedly more industrial, a haven of machine shops, warehouses, fast-food outlets and guys driving jacked-up pickup trucks with oversized tires.

“Unfortunately, I realized after we spoke this morning that I have a meeting at noon,” Castle said, “so I took the liberty of ordering in. I hope you don’t mind.”

A nearby credenza bore heaping platters of fresh pastries and bagels. There was a crystal pitcher of orange juice on ice and a silver coffee decanter. I picked out a chocolate doughnut with chocolate frosting, garnished with crumbled peanuts.

“These things,” I said with my mouth full-to-overflowing, “should be outlawed.”

“I’m sure you have many questions,” Castle said. “I thought it might be helpful if you first got a brief overview of what it is we do here at Castle Robotics.”

As if on signal, a slim man about Castle’s age, with a slicked-back, receding hairline, sockless Weejuns, stylishly faded jeans, and an untucked black dress shirt rapped on Castle’s open door.

“Come on in, Ray. I’ve asked my chief operating officer, Ray Sheen, to join us. Nothing gets done around here without him. Ray, this is Cordell Logan, the gentleman I mentioned. Hub Walker seems to think he might be able to help us out of this pickle.”

Sheen had long, flared sideburns, like some nineteenth-century riverboat gambler, and a pronounced scar on his left cheekbone that reminded me of the Nike swoosh. In his hand was a Louisville Slugger, which he gripped as if it were a walking stick. An affectation if there ever was one.