“How much of his lifetime do you suppose he ought to spend thinking only about you?”

“He doesn’t think about me at all.”

He waited.

“Not since Meghan.”

“Meghan was before you, kiddo.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, frowning.

He hesitated, then said, “Do you think Kit is lonely?”

“No. He’s got me. We’re a family.”

“He needs you, there’s no doubt about that.”

“That’s what you think.”

“Yes, it is what I think. I also believe that he might need other people to be part of his life, in some other way.”

“What other way?”

“Well, you keep thinking about that. And think about Kit, and not just about what Spooky likes and Spooky wants. Except for this-want me to take you out for an evil breakfast?”

She brightened for a moment, then said, “You’re tired.”

He raised his brows. “I’ll be damned, you sounded like a grown-up just then.”

She smiled at him.

“I’ll take you out to breakfast, and then I’ll come home and sleep-but only if you keep your promise to Kit about the fires.”

“That was yesterday.”

“Was there an expiration date on it?”

“No,” she sighed. “Okay. I’ll put some shoes on.”

He drove her to a little place near Decker Road that he was fond of, and they had a leisurely breakfast that seemed to revive her spirits. He was paying the bill when she told him she needed to use the restroom. He asked her to wait a minute, but she said she couldn’t, so he watched her walk back to the door leading to it. He went back to their table to leave a tip, then gave in to a chill along the nape of his neck that he trusted as completely as he hated it, and ran toward the door that led to the hallway. He shoved it open, then called through the one to the women’s room.

“Spooky?”

“In use!” came a woman’s voice.

He threw his shoulder against the door, and it easily gave way. An indignant woman sat on the single toilet seat with her pantyhose down. She shouted, “What on earth! A little privacy, if you don’t mind!”

“You see a girl-or a boy in here?”

“Which?” she asked, then quickly said, “Neither! Now for God’s sake-”

But he had turned to the other side of the hallway, and was shoving the men’s room door open. No one.

He ran out the back door and into the alley behind the restaurant. He saw a white van turning on to the small street that led to Pacific Coast Highway.

He was in the pickup truck and out of the parking lot in less than thirty seconds. He could see the van ahead weaving in and out of traffic. Keeping his eyes on it, he used his hands-free cell phone to call the house as he closed the distance.

He ordered his security team to send two men for backup. Years of training and experience didn’t fail him-his voice was calm as he said, “White van. License plate-hang on-4GHR302. Wait-just went up some little dirt road. Yes, I’m following. Call Kit. Tell him-no, just call him right now. Yes…I’m staying on…” But as he turned up the road, the cell phone signal was lost. “Damn!”

He heard the sound of a motorcycle pulling out of a dirt driveway and saw the weapon raised. He turned the wheel just in time to keep the bullet from finding its intended mark. It only grazed his forehead, which still hurt like hell’s own fire. His forehead began to bleed. The maneuver had nearly managed to knock the cyclist over, but the biker regained his balance. Moriarty’s truck fishtailed, but he recovered control. They twisted and turned higher into the canyon, the dust cloud from the van obscuring the winding road. He glanced in the side-view mirror and saw the biker raising the weapon again, just as the van went around a sharp bend ahead of him. His stomach dropped-he didn’t think the van would hold the road. He slowed for the turn, but was still going so fast he wasn’t sure he’d make it himself. He did, only to discover the van had come to a sudden stop.

If he hit it going this fast with a truck this big, he might knock the van down the embankment and kill Spooky. So he swerved, just as another shot blew a hole in the rear window. As the truck went through a guardrail, the airbag deployed, briefly blocking all sight and nearly making him scream as it hit his raw forehead. He held on to consciousness as long as he could before one of thousands of bone-jarring jolts took it from him, a few long seconds before the truck finally came to a halt at the bottom of a deep ravine.

41

LASD Homicide Bureau

Commerce, California

Thursday, May 22, 9:00 A.M.

“Alex!” Hogan called to him as soon as he came through the front door. “Just getting ready to page you. Captain wants to meet with us-now.”

Alex had just spent more than a hundred dollars on Chase’s free dog and dropped off a dog bed, leash, collar, food, dishes, brush, biscuits, and more at home before heading out for work. He had taken his climbing equipment and put it in the trunk of the car-out of canine reach. Although no one would have expected him in too early after his long night, he still hoped Hogan didn’t want to know what he had been doing this morning. “What’s up?” he asked.

“All kinds of craziness. You know where Ciara is?”

“Home, I assume. Or on her way in. You call her?”

“I called her home, her cell, and her pager-didn’t get an answer.”

“I’ll try her pager again,” he said, and used his cell phone to dial it as he walked with Hogan toward Nelson’s office.

“By the way,” Hogan said, “we located the Whitfields. They’re in Italy now, as it turns out. They didn’t seem too broken up. Asked us to have their son’s lawyer call them about his estate. Can you believe it?”

Just as they reached Captain Nelson’s door, Alex’s phone rang and he saw Ciara’s name on the caller ID display. “Meet you inside,” he said to Hogan, who didn’t seem pleased but moved on.

“Alex? God…a morning…having.” There was a static hum between words. He could hear traffic in the background.

“We’ve got a bad connection, Ciara.”

“Sorry…know…Hogan wants?”

“A meeting with Nelson.”

“Shit.”

“Well, that came through nice and clear. Must have reached a new cell. What’s going on?”

There was a long silence, and for a moment, he thought he might have lost the connection. But then, in a strained voice, she said, “Laney had some kind of seizure last night.”

He thought she might be crying. Fearing the answer, he asked, “Is she okay?”

She seemed to regain her composure. “I think so, but I want to be sure. She hasn’t had one in over two years, so I’m worried. I’m taking her to the doctor now-he promised to see her right away. Can you cover for me there?”

“I’ll do what I can. Mind if I tell them you’ve had a family emergency?”

She hesitated, then said, “No, I guess not. I probably should have told them about my situation a long time ago, but…” Again, she seemed to struggle for control. After a moment, she said, “I just didn’t want to seem like a whiner, you know what I mean?”

“They aren’t as heartless a bunch of SOBs as they pretend to be around here, Ciara. Call me and let me know how she’s doing, okay?”

“Thanks, Alex.”

When he walked into Nelson’s office, though, there was a pale, thin stranger seated in the chair next to Lieutenant Hogan. He was a man of medium height with sandy hair and a long head that made his face a nearly perfect oval. Within that oval his features were plain, with the exception of a pair of eyebrows that sat bristling and white above blue eyes. He was dressed in a cheap suit that didn’t hang well on his bony shoulders. He was sitting with his arms folded over his chest, and his untamed brows were drawn together as he studied Alex with apparent disfavor.

“Alex,” Captain Nelson said, “this is Agent Hayden Moore of the FBI. He’s replacing David Hamilton on the task force.” Listening to Nelson’s tone, watching his expression, Alex heard the unspoken message: Don’t ask.