The gate arm lifted and we drove through. Frank waved and rolled the window back up.

“You know I’m going to ask,” I said.

He smiled. “Mackie’s a retired cop. You know the guy who owns this place?”

I nodded. “Garth Williams. I like him.”

“Me, too. He’s good to Mackie.”

“So are we going to find a bunch of squad cars parked at the old turnout?”

“How do you know about the turnout?” he asked.

“I grew up here, remember?”

THE TURNOUT WAS EMPTY. We had the best seats in the house.

“Tell me you aren’t a regular,” I said, and he laughed.

“Not a regular. This is the first time I’ve been here to do something other than roust teenagers.”

“Ah. Must have been patrolman days.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

This sounded serious all of a sudden, so I waited.

“Let’s get into the backseat,” he said.

I want it said in my eulogy that I was a good sport.

From the backseat, the view was still spectacular, and we got to sit closer. He had an arm around me, I had my head on his shoulder, and he felt big and warm and almost perfect. But just when I thought he might lean down and kiss me, he said in a dreamy voice, “Remember Bakersfield?”

“Who could forget it?”

He looked at me as if he was trying to figure out if I was being sarcastic. “I meant, when we first met.”

“So did I.”

“We were attracted to each other, right?”

“Yes.” The windows were starting to fog up, and I wanted to undo his buttons. But I didn’t. He’s being serious, I reminded myself.

“Well, tonight-listening to your friends? For the first time, I understood why I could never get to first base with you back then.”

“Forgive me, Frank, but I don’t remember an attempt to step up to the plate. After a while, I figured you thought of me as your sister.”

That got a laugh. “No way. But give me credit for knowing that any move on you then would have been the wrong move. I always figured someone must have mistreated you. Someone had hurt you. You never talked about it, though.”

“After Andre, I felt ashamed of myself.” I shifted closer to him. “I got over it. But you’re right-I was really attracted to you, but I didn’t trust myself then. The last time I had been attracted to someone, it hadn’t worked out so well.”

“So, like I said, no first base. I might have taken you up to a place like this.”

“Really?”

“No,” he said after a moment. “I was too shy around you in those days.”

I took his face in my hands and said, “It’s the top of the first, Frank Harriman. Play ball!”

30

THE HOUSE WAS DARKwhen we got home. Jack was asleep on our couch, surrounded by animals. The dogs wagged their tails, waking him. He smiled sleepily, said he was going home, and walked back next door without another word.

We went straight to bed, tired and happy.

Edison Burrows called way too early in the morning-about five o’clock-but I managed to roust myself out of bed and arranged to meet him in an hour at the beach parking lot where I had last seen his son.

I was putting a piece of bread in the toaster when I noticed the glass bowl covering the note, the pager next to it. Through the bottom of the bowl, I saw these typewritten words:

Mr. Watterson,

This is a copy of a note Jeffrey McCutchen left for me just before he killed himself. I didn’t know what it meant then, but I think I understand it now. It might take me some time to convince others. Why don’t you save me the trouble? There is no point in fighting this; I won’t give up.

You were very generous to me once before. This photo proves I have not forgotten that.

“Frank!”

He came bounding out of the bedroom, half-asleep. “What?”

“Didn’t mean to alarm you.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “What’s wrong?”

“This note-it fell out of Ben’s calendar. I think it’s the one Lucas sent him with the picture!”

“What makes you think so?”

I showed him Lucas’s distinctive typing trademarks.

“It was a 1977 calendar,” he said, yawning. “Maybe it’s an old note.”

“You aren’t awake yet, are you?”

“No,” he answered truthfully.

“Claire said Ben had been getting nostalgic, remember? I think Lucas sent Ben a copy of Jeff McCutchen’s suicide note.”

“Hmm.” His eyes were drifting shut.

“Frank, wouldn’t the detectives investigating Jeff’s suicide make copies of the suicide note?”

“No.”

“No?”

“They’d keep the original.”

“Can you get a copy from McCutchen’s file?”

His eyes came open. “Huh? Oh. Maybe. Probably in storage by now.” He yawned again. “I’m going back to bed.”

I watched him pad back toward the bedroom, and wondered if he’d remember any part of our conversation. I recorded a memo for him on the answering machine before I left, and also included all the other items I had asked him to check on the previous night-asked before he hit a grand slam in the bottom of the ninth.

BEFOREILEFT THE HOUSE, I took three months out of Ben’s calendar for 1977: July, August, and September. They made a thick stack of paper, which Cody eyed covetously. Before he could do more than that, I put them into a big manila envelope, along with my notes on Moffett’s secret meetings. I’d have to write the story on Moffett when I first got in to work-that was a bone that would hold the editorial wolves at bay for a while, give me more leeway to pursue the stories that interested me more avidly: stories of misrepresentation in redevelopment studies, suicidal bankers, and murdered friends.

IT WAS CHILLY AND GRAY OUT, the beginning of spring weather on the southern California coast: cloudy in the early morning clearing to hazy sunshine in the afternoon. Sometimes better, sometimes worse, mostly little changed. It made the drive to Blue’s section of the beach a cold one; I spent most of the trip trying to figure out when I was going to find time to have the window repaired.

Edison Burrows was waiting in the parking lot, leaning against the hood of a white Taurus station wagon. He was staring toward the ocean until he heard my car.

“Haven’t seen any sign of him,” he said, pulling his jacket up against the brisk breeze.

“It’s pretty early.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

There was very little activity around us-a few joggers, a walker or two. It was prime surfing time, but the surfers were all down at the other major section of the beach, nearer the house. Here, though, there were no real waves. My father once told me that before the breakwater had been built, this section of beach was a surfer’s paradise. That was in the pre-Beach Blanket Bingodays, not long after World War II. Annette was still in mouse ears. Surfers weren’t so numerous or organized here then, and they lost this beach to harbors and marinas.

I heard someone coughing, a deep, barking cough, and some loud swearing in response. I looked up and down the beach, but couldn’t tell where the voices came from.

A Parks and Recreation Department tractor started up, and we watched it move out to clean up the sand. I glanced at one of the closed-up lifeguard towers and saw four tousled heads rise above the railings around it, then four faces scowling at the tractor in annoyance. Looked like Blue and a few of his best friends had tried to get out of the wind the night before.

“Is that your son?” I asked Edison, nodding toward the man I had been thinking of as Corky.

He gave a nervous smile. “Yes, that’s Joshua.”

Joshua saw us in the same moment. He lifted a hand in a stiff wave, then slowly made his way down the tower ladder. A fit of coughing stopped him part-way down. Didn’t seem to be doing too well. I figured that in addition to whatever was making him cough, he probably had a hangover.