Louis rose abruptly and went to the bar. He returned with another shot and a beer. He didn’t look at Wainwright as he sat down.

“Look, Louis,” Wainwright said. “Cade probably did you a favor. He’s a loser, so is his son. So’s the case.”

Louis took a breath. He didn’t want to be angry at Wainwright. He wanted him to understand. “Dan, it’s important to know who killed her,” he said slowly.

“To who, Louis? The girl’s dead twenty years and I hear her old man is just a walking zombie. Who cares?”

Louis reached for the shotglass, hesitated, then brought it to his lips. It went down easier than the last.

“A piece of advice, Louis,” Wainwright said. “Let it go.”

“Can’t,” Louis said, his eyes on the scarred wood tabletop. He knew Wainwright was looking at him. He heard him let out a sigh.

“I gotta take a piss. Be right back.”

Louis watched Wainwright trudge off to the rear of the bar. He leaned back, shutting his eyes. Shit, maybe he was going nuts. He was seeing things in his head, that much was clear. He was seeing the lonely confusion in Willard Jagger’s eyes. He was seeing the shadow of sadness in Joyce Novick’s eyes. He was seeing the question in Eric Cade’s angry eyes as he watched his father and grandfather: Which one of you killed her?

And he was seeing her. She was in his head, day and night now, walking around like a ghost, pink checks and peppermint lipstick, whispering to him.

“Louis?”

He looked up. Wainwright’s face was green in the neon light.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He sat up, pulling the beer bottle toward him.

Wainwright slid back in across from him. A new song drifted above the murmur of the bar, Van Morrison singing about his Tupelo honey. Louis watched two young guys and their dates playing the ring-toss game over in the corner. The two guys were drunk and weren’t coming even close to swinging the ring up to catch the hook. The girls were doubled over with laughter.

“They don’t know how fast it all can change,” Louis murmured.

“What?”

Louis glanced at Wainwright. “Nothing.”

They sat in uneasy silence for a long time. Finally, Wainwright cleared his throat. “So, you talked to Farentino at all?”

Emily Farentino had been the Miami FBI agent who had worked the Paint It Black case with them. Louis had promised to keep in touch, but he hadn’t.

“No,” Louis said. “Have you?”

“Yeah, I called her awhile back. She’s doing okay. She asked how you were.”

The conversation stalled again. Louis ran a hand over his eyes. What the hell was the matter with him? Why was he always pushing people away? Farentino, Wainwright, even the Dodies. Why was he afraid to let anyone get close?

He glanced at Wainwright, who was gazing out over the bar. Shit, he knew why he hadn’t called Wainwright in the last six months. It was because he had never worked up the guts to tell him the truth about what had happened up in Michigan. He had been too damn afraid of another cop’s censure. Especially a cop he liked and respected.

“Dan,” Louis said.

Wainwright looked back at him.

“There’s something I need to tell you.” Louis drew in a deep breath, shaking his head. “Man, this is hard,” he said softly.

Wainwright just waited.

“I never told you what I did when I was working up in Michigan,” Louis said.

“I already know, Louis,” Wainwright said. “We all do.”

Louis sat back in the booth. “You don’t condemn me?”

“Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. Even cops.”

Louis saw something pass over Wainwright’s eyes. He remembered the case that had caused Wainwright to crack when he was with the FBI-the Raisin River serial child killer, Harlan Skeen. Wainwright had cornered Skeen in a bathroom and shot him to death.

“You talking about Skeen?” Louis asked.

“Yeah. I took things into my own hands that day. It was the only way there was going to be any justice.” He took a drink of beer. “I don’t regret it.”

Louis was quiet. He couldn’t tell Wainwright what he was thinking. Wainwright had done more than take justice into his own hands; he had broken the law. It wasn’t the same as what he himself had done in Michigan; he had killed another cop to save a kid nobody cared about. But he hadn’t broken the law.

Louis studied Wainwright’s creased face. Even through the brandy haze, he could see that something had changed since he had last seen Wainwright. The Paint It Black case had stirred up a lot of hard memories for Wainwright. But he looked better now, almost peaceful.

“How things going for you lately, Dan?” he asked.

Wainwright looked at him surprised. “What do you mean?”

“I haven’t seen you in a while, that’s all. Just wanted to know how things have been.”

Wainwright shrugged. “Same old shit. Job’s good. Things are real quiet.” He took a drink of his beer and set the bottle down. He was tapping his fingers lightly on the table.

“I went back to Michigan and saw my son over Thanksgiving,” Wainwright added suddenly.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I called him, and he seemed open to a visit. So I went up there.”

Louis nodded. He remembered that Wainwright had not seen his grown son in years, not since the death of Wainwright’s wife. He could only imagine how hard it had been for an emotionally constipated guy like Wainwright to make an overture toward an estranged son.

“So, it went okay?” Louis asked.

“Yeah,” Wainwright said. “It was. . good.”

Louis picked at the label on the Heineken bottle. “What made you do it?” he asked.

Wainwright just looked at him.

“Sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“What made me call my son?”

“Yeah.”

Wainwright put his arm across the back of the booth, making a poor attempt to look cool.

Louis raised his beer bottle. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

“No, I want to answer you, I’m just trying to figure out how.”

Wainwright drew his arm off the booth. “I don’t know why the fuck I finally did it,” he said. “I think it was because deep down I knew I had been a lousy father, that I hadn’t been there for my kid.”

Louis blinked slowly, trying to clear his mind. It was weird hearing personal stuff come out of Wainwright’s mouth.

“I mean, I knew I couldn’t change the past,” Wainwright went on, “but I wanted to try to do something about the future. My son has his own son now. I didn’t want him not knowing me, not knowing who he came from.”

A man should know what kind of blood flows through his veins.

The beer and the brandy were making his stomach churn. Louis leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes to steady things. For a moment, he just sat as still as possible, trying to let the room catch up. When he finally opened his eyes, Wainwright was gone. Louis saw him at the bar getting two more shots. He sat down, setting one shot in front of Louis.

“I was a foster child,” Louis said suddenly.

Wainwright seemed to go stiff and his eyes wavered. Then he dropped his gaze to the table, his fingers drawing the cocktail napkin into his fist.

Louis could feel his heart pounding. He wanted the words back. It was like admitting he was a fucking leper or something. Shit, talk about emotionally constipated.

“Did you know your father?” Wainwright asked.

“No.”

Louis started to reach for the shot, but drew his hand back, wiping his mouth. He didn’t need any more. His belly burned and he wanted to move, get up, go home, but he wasn’t sure he could stand.

“What’s his name?” Wainwright asked.

“Jordan Kincaid.”

“You ever try to find him?”

Louis shook his head slowly. The jukebox sounds seemed dull and distorted. The neon lights above the bar began to quiver and the palm fronds were flapping against the window.

“You want me to try?” Wainwright asked.

Louis didn’t trust himself to look at Wainwright. He just shook his head and stared at the palm fronds beating against the dark glass.