I recognized them both. I used to date them.

Microphone in hand, Jana Torres stepped from the van. She hit the ground running, her luscious brown curls cascading over the padded shoulders of a tan suit coat. Like the cameraman before her, the instant she emerged from the van her attention was on the burning vehicle. She didn't see me.

I watched with swelling pride as she took control of the broadcast, pointing and directing her team. She approached a fireman who directed her to the chief in a white helmet. When the chief saw Jana coming, his eyes lit with recognition. He smiled and met her halfway.

With a pair of news helicopters circling overhead and the constant roar of pumper trucks, I couldn't hear what Jana said to the chief, but in short order she motioned to the cameraman and the head fireman squared his shoulders for an interview. The stalled lines of traffic formed a backdrop.

Jana donned an earpiece, looked into the camera's eye, and composed herself. She stood motionless for a few moments, presumably waiting for a signal from the studio. The delay was long enough for me to be conquered once again by her stunning good looks.

Gone was the girlish cheerleader I remembered from high school. This Jana was comfortable with her womanhood. Her brown eyes flashed intelligence and personality and confidence.

She came to life and the interview began. The fire chief was stiff next to her. The only thing animated about him was a bottle-brush gray mustache that did a little dance when he talked.

A horrifying thought struck me. Jana didn't know the burning car belonged to Myles Shepherd! She didn't know the corpse a short distance from where she was standing might be that of a high school cla.s.smate and college boyfriend. How horrible it would be for her if she found out while on camera.

My first thought was the license plate. That's how the administration staff learned it was Shepherd's car. It was curled and completely blacked out now. Unreadable.

But what about the chief? What if he said something in the interview? He wouldn't do that, would he? Weren't they always withholding that information pending notification of relatives?

I watched the interview with increasing nervousness. I readied myself to . . . to what? Swoop in and rescue her?

Mercifully the interview concluded with Jana showing no sign of shock or surprise. I breathed easier.

After thanking the chief on camera, she proceeded to do her wrap-up. The chief didn't wander far. He took a single step back and watched her. He clearly had eyes for her.

That didn't sit well with me. Old feelings stirred, poked alive like embers that were buried in ashes.

For some reason Jana chose that moment to glance in my direction. Though she was still on camera, our gazes met and held, long enough to distract her. She stumbled in her delivery.

I wish I was secure enough to tell you that I was sorry to have messed up her broadcast. But I'm not, and I wasn't. It gave me pleasure. The chief noticed the stumble too. He scowled at me for causing it. That made me feel even better.

Jana recovered, regaining her focus even though she was no longer talking. It took me a moment to realize the station must be asking her a follow-up question. She gave a brief answer and then it was over. The cameraman lowered the camera. Jana pulled the earpiece free, handing it and her microphone to the cameraman.

She gave the chief's hand a single pump of thanks. He tried to engage her in further conversation. She excused herself.

With a flip of her hair, Jana strode confidently toward me, her eyes and smile sparkling in glorious harmony. She had such an overpowering sense of femininity about her. It stunned me.

The whoop of a police siren startled me to my senses. They were opening a single lane of traffic.

Jana greeted me with a hug.

She smelled . . . she smelled great. Her breath was warm against my neck as she said, "Oh Grant . . . the Pulitzer! I'm so proud of you!"

Sense of duty wrung my heart like a dishrag. I hated that what I had to say next would spoil our reunion.

"Jana . . . I'm afraid I have some bad news."

She took it hard. She turned to look at the car. By now the blaze was extinguished. Three streams of water hit it from three different angles. All that was left was the frame.

I told Jana how the high school staff had recognized the license plates. The next thing I knew, she was pressed against my chest sobbing.

We held each other in the number three lane of eastbound Interstate 8 while a long line of rubbernecking commuters stared first at the burned car, then at us. I didn't care. I was content to hold Jana for as long as she needed me. It felt right. I began to wonder why we had ever split up in the first place. Then I remembered. We split up because of Myles.

I rested my chin against her head. It was hot with emotion. Neither of us spoke.

Firemen mopped up. The three would-be heroes climbed into trucks and drove away. The camera crew loaded the van. A man in a stylish pin-striped suit stood beside the fire truck, his arms folded. Ignoring all the other activity, he watched Jana and me.

It was Myles Shepherd.

I must have started, or gasped, or flinched, or all three because Jana looked at me with alarm.

"What's wrong?"

"Myles . . ." I muttered.

I glanced down at her, and when I looked up again, Myles Shepherd was gone.

"I know," she said, comforting me. "I can't bring myself to believe he's dead either."

"No, you don't understand . . ."

My cell phone rang. It was Christina. I'd programmed the tone so that I'd know whenever she was calling. Instinctively, I reached to answer it, then stopped myself.

Looking up at me with wet eyes, Jana said, "Do you need to get that?"

I couldn't bring myself to answer the phone. You just don't take phone calls when you're holding a crying woman. But this wasn't an ordinary phone call.

The tone persisted.

I imagined Christina on the other end of the line getting angrier by the ring, wondering why I wasn't picking up after I had dogged her all morning with messages about the urgency of reaching her.

Jana tried to pull away. "Answer your phone," she said.

I couldn't. It felt wrong to let her go.

"They can leave a message," I said, trying to sound gallant. I held her tight.

The tone played repeatedly.

Jana chuckled. " 'Hail to the Chief'?"

I forced a laugh. "A private joke."

After six cycles of "Hail to the Chief" the phone fell silent.

Jana nestled against my chest.

My mind alternated between how I was going to explain this to Christina and scanning the area for signs of the elusive and mysterious Myles Shepherd.

The arrival of a tow truck and an ambulance forced us to relocate. We decided to go somewhere where we could talk. Jana told her news crew to return without her.

I couldn't help taking one last look at the scene, one last look around for Myles, and one last look at the car. The burned remains sat in the center of a charred starburst.

CHAPTER 4.

It was Myles's body in the car. I'm certain of it." Jana spoke with conviction. "He would sooner share his toothbrush with a stranger than let anyone drive his Lexus."

I hadn't asked her if there was any chance Myles may not have been the driver. She offered the observation, her way of dealing with the unexpected loss.

Jana removed her sungla.s.ses and placed them between us on the table. I hadn't told her I'd seen Myles standing beside the fire truck. I didn't know if I would.

It was Jana who suggested we go to Bruno's-a questionable little coffee shop we used to frequent on Friday nights after football games. The place was showing its age. The orange vinyl booths were patched. The tabletops worn. The clientele was mostly elderly men nursing cups of coffee and reading the newspaper.

While we waited for a waitress, Jana played absentmindedly with her sungla.s.ses. The other patrons began to recognize her. They whispered and pointed.

Pulling a tissue from her purse, Jana dabbed red, swollen eyes.

The other patrons took note. From their expressions they seemed to conclude I was the cause of her tears.

"Grant, isn't that the same shirt and suit you were wearing yesterday?" Jana said.

Before I could answer, our waitress appeared holding a pot of coffee. She was a full-figured brunette with the face and body of a woman in her late forties wearing the clothing of a twenty-year-old-tight, black jeans with a clingy, white blouse-with mixed success. It did not flatter her bulging midriff. "What can I get you folks?" She set down the coffeepot and pulled out a pad. She looked to Jana first. "Hey! Aren't you that reporter? Yeah! The one on Channel 2. Umm . . . Torres!"

"Jana," Jana said with her on-camera smile. She offered her hand. "And you are?"

"Alida," the waitress said, flattered to be asked. "It's not often we get a real celebrity in this dump."

"And this . . ." Jana said, motioning to me, "is a world-famous author."

The waitress's brow furrowed as she looked at me, trying her best to recognize someone famous.

"Grant Austin just won the Pulitzer Prize for his biography of the president."

"The president? I didn't vote for him," the waitress said. "Is the prize a big deal?"

"The biggest," Jana said.

Waitress Alida offered me a half-smile and limp handshake. "Well then, congratulations." Turning back to Jana, she said, "Tell me, is your weatherman as loony tunes as he looks on television? I mean, what's with that 'Woooooeeeeeeeeeee!' he always does?"

The waitress noticed the tissue in Jana's hand and her swollen eyes. The woman turned motherly. "Are you all right, dear?" she asked.

Like the others, the waitress acted as though I was the source of Jana's tears. Her att.i.tude toward me went from indifferent to hostile. Jana a.s.sured her she was fine.

"What can I get you, dear?" she asked Jana.

"A cup of hot tea," Jana replied. "With lemon."

"Coming right up." Reaching down, she patted Jana's hand, then s.n.a.t.c.hed up the coffeepot and turned to leave.

"Um . . . Miss . . ." I called after her. "If I could have some coffee, please."

The waitress swung around with tight lips forming the thinnest line I've ever seen on a face. I turned over a mug that was already on the table, making it impossible for her to ignore my request. She held a pot of coffee. I had the mug. We were in a restaurant. How could she say no?

She thought about it. Then, with a grunt, she returned to the table. I met her halfway by extending the mug.

The streaming coffee cascaded down one side, picked up momentum at the bottom, and slid easy as you please up the other side cresting like an ocean wave onto my hand. The waitress continued pouring. Luckily gravity came to my aid, turning the black wave around and into the mug. Swallowing the pain, I held it steady until it was full. The waitress stomped away without apologizing.

Jana didn't see the a.s.sault. She was staring absently out the window.

I looked for napkins. There were none. So I dried my hand with my handkerchief.

"Did you get to see Myles yesterday?" Jana asked.

The understatement of the century. "Jana, about yesterday," I said. "I'm glad you brought it up. You see, I didn't know you were back in San Diego. Besides, the White House press corps handles all access to media events, and you know how they can be. Believe me, had I known . . ."

Jana dismissed my apology with a flip of her hand. "No worries, Grant . . . it's all part of the job. You can make it up to me by giving me an exclusive interview before you head back for Washington."

"That would be something, wouldn't it? I look forward to it."

"Did you get to see Myles?"

"I went to his cla.s.sroom following the a.s.sembly."

Jana leaned across the table and took my hands. "How was he?"

There was a spark in her eyes that went beyond concern. My jaw tensed. She still had feelings for him. "He was . . . he was Myles," I hedged. "Only more so."

Still holding my hands, Jana looked away, lost for a moment in memories.

"This morning I went to see him again. That's when I learned of the accident."

"So the two of you remained friends over the years? That's nice."

Before I could correct her, the waitress arrived with Jana's tea. For self-protection I put my hands under the table.

Jana performed a tea ritual that had not changed since high school. Two packets of sugar in an empty cup. A long squeeze of lemon. Stir. Add the tea bag. Pour the water. Let it steep to the count of seven. Stir again. She'd told me once the origin of the ritual, but over the years I've forgotten it. I think it had something to do with her grandmother.

"How about you?" I asked. "When was the last time you saw Myles?"

She stirred her tea for a long moment before answering. Not part of the ritual. "Oh, I don't know . . . it's been so long . . . years, really . . . I guess, not since college."