She looked down into the mug and watched the light from the fluorescent fixture overhead shimmer along the black liquid. There were so many things to say and no way to say them. So she sipped her coffee instead, and said nothing.

The liquid seeped through her and she pretended that it was helping to fortify her.

Raymond watched her expression, his own almost sadly hopeful. "

" Good? "

She set the mug down, but didn't release it. "Good."

He nodded toward the creamer and sugar bowl she had ignored. When he'd made that first cup of coffee for her all those years ago, it had been three quarters milk. " " You take it black now. "

She ran a fingertip over the mug's handle and realized that it had been glued together. There was a tiny crack where it had broken. Some things, even when fixed, were never like new again. "I don't like having my caffeine diluted."

q4 Christmas Every Day

She took another long sip and felt his eyes on her. It was as if he was trying to absorb her, as if by doing so, he could somehow make up for all those years he had let slip by.

Too late. You can't do that, Dad, she thought.

"I like mine the texture of motor oil in the morning."

His laugh bore only a faint resemblance to the loud, booming sound she recalled, the sound that used to make her feel so warm and secure.

"Then you're not disappointed." He didn't wait for her to say anything, as if afraid that if she did, it would negate the tenuous strands he was trying to work with, the ones he was desperately attempting to weave into a bridge that would span the chasm between them. "I always made the coffee at the precinct when I got in.

Santangelo's sludge they called it." He smiled, remembering. "Among other things. But the pot was always empty by the time we went out on patrol."

He'd been a police officer when they lived in Tahoe. She remembered the time he had taken her for a ride in a squad car. She'd been so proud of him, so proud to be his daughter Being a policeman was all he had ever known. Was he still a policeman? She realized that she didn't know. There was a whole segment of his life that was missing, that she had no idea about.

She looked at him through the warm mist hovering over her mug. "Are you retired now?"

"No." He leaned forward, eager to be engaged in any sort of a conversation with his daughter. "I'm on disability. But they're going to put me behind a desk when I finally get back."

He frowned. Behind a desk. It meant he was growing old, and he hated that. Part of his life had finally fallen into place, even after his second divorce, and then this had happened He had tried to shrug off the weakness, the strange, nondescript numbness in his left shoulder.

But he had made the mistake of mentioning it to one of the detectives.

The next day he'd been forced to take a physical. The blockage in his left artery had been discovered then.

A desk job. Sara nodded, remembering how much her mother used to worry about her father returning home safely, even though Tahoe was a relatively peaceful place.

"It's safer that way."

Sara saw something flicker in her father's eyes. An impotent anger.

Pa.s.sion filled his voice. Sara set down her mug and listened, compa.s.sion nudging at her though she tried to q deny it.

"I didn't become a policeman to be safe, Sara, or to sit home and collect a pension after twenty years. I did it to make a difference.

Punching keys isn't going to make a difference"

Instincts had her attempting to soothe him before she could stop herself. "Lots of ways to fight crime, Dad. Not everyone is Clint Eastwood: She realized what she was doing and emotionally backed away.

" Even Eastwood's slowed down some. "

The stillness returned and discomfort stirred again, like flies buzzing over fruit on a sticky July night. She searched for something more to say. "What precinct are you with?"

" Newport Beach. "

His answer struck a chord. Jennifer had mentioned something about her husband being a.s.signed to the Newport

Beach precinct when she'd introduced him yesterday.

"Do you know Detective Kane Madigan?"

Raymond looked at her in surprise. Madigan had been the detective who had recommended that he go in for his physical But there was no reason to bring that up, especially if he was a friend of Sara's. "

He looked longingly at the coffeepot, then forced himself to look away.

Coffee wasn't what he needed now. A little luck was in order. Or maybe a lot of it.

"Yeah, I know him. Sharp guy." Raymond thought back to his impression of Kane when the detective first transferred to the precinct. "He was a real loner until about a couple of years ago."

Sara moved forward in her chair, interested. "What hap

"He got married." There was a framed photograph of the man's wife and daughter sitting on his desk these days. Madigan, who had never shown any emotions before. It had stirred a lot of comments. "I guess marriage changes some people."

Sara remembered what her mother had told her about her marriage. How life had gone from happiness to sorrow. Sara's eyes met her father's.

"Yes, it does."

The mood was back, closing the temporary opening between them as if it hadn't, for a glimmer of a moment, been there at all.

Sara took a breath, then set aside her mug. It was empty. She pushed herself away from the table. She wanted to get this over with. More than that, she wanted to be somewhere else, away from here.

"Well, if you're ready, maybe we better get going." She started to rise, but something in her father's eyes stopped her. A wariness she wasn't prepared for. Whatever else her father had become, he had always been an unshakable rock. The man before her was far too mortal for her liking. "What?"

A strange, nervous smile played across his thin lips. He shrugged without being conscious of doing so.

"I don't know. Maybe I'm scared." He raised his eyes to hers. "Kind of funny, huh? I've been in some pretty hairy situations, been a.s.signed to some precincts where every minute on patrol could have been my last and I never really turned a hair. I loved it." His tongue caressed the very words as he thought of his professional life, of living on the edge where he had to depend on his own instincts to help him survive. "The excitement, the uncertainty. The thrill of beating the odds and making it through another day. I loved it all: '

On the streets he felt as if his fate was in his own hands. Now it was in the hands of some strange surgeon he'd met twice. He looked down at his hands, not really seeing them.

"And now I'm scared." He whispered the words.

For a fleeting moment the urge to comfort him was almost overwhelming.

Sara wanted to put her arms around him and say it was going to be all right.

But she couldn't.

It was as if she was paralyzed, as if her emotions were immobilizing her, turning her to stone as surely as if hot lead had been poured all over her.

"Think of it as another challenge." Her voice sounded so brittle it made her cringe inside. And yet she couldn't help herself. "From what you've told me, the odds are in your favor this time. You'll make it through this, too."

It was the best she could do, but she couldn't shake the guilt, even though she told herself he didn't deserve more.