"Can I go?"

"Of course. You're my good luck charm."

He sipped the warmth from her eyes and felt his insides glow.

They took dinner in the dining room across the hall. Like the bar, the room was dim and furnished in dark wood and red leather with large gold-framed paintings on the walls. The waiters were dressed in tuxedoes. She ordered two appetizers, oysters Rockefeller and grilled tomatoes. He had a steak with fries and salad. Throughout the meal Lila was animated, looking happier than he had ever seen her.

As he sat across from her, he couldn't help but think how beautiful she really was. As Harry Dobbs had once said, she had perfect facial architecture, a face with no bad angles-as if God had made her with His own hands. She was dressed in a beige pantsuit and a white blouse. Her hair was like sunglow.

"What's it like to be you?" he asked.

"Now there's a question I've not heard before."

"I mean, what does it feel like to be so beautiful, to have people look at you like you're a famous painting?"

"Wow. That's very sweet of you, but I'm not sure how to answer that. But looks aren't everything."

"Still, it must be something else to be you."

Ever since she was a child her face had unlocked doors. It was all there in her photo album-even in the early ads for facial soaps, hot chocolate, and peanut butter. Then winning a teenage beauty contest in Macon, which led to a national TV commercial for face cream. For years she had become known as "the Creamella Girl." That was followed by her first movie role, an uncredited slave girl to Lex Barker in Tarzan and the Slave Girl, which got her a television appearance on Lassie back in the 1950s. Over the years she continued doing small parts, but nothing, she said, with the promise of Taxi Driver, which would give her three speaking scenes. Maybe this was the first of a thousand ships.

They retired from the dining room around eight thirty and made their way to their room. He used the bathroom first then slipped on his pajamas and got into the big king-size bed. Lila followed him, and when she was finished she emerged in a pink nightgown. The backlight framed her face in a glorious auburn halo. Instead of getting into bed she removed a spare blanket from the closet. "I'm going to sleep on the couch."

"What? How come?"

She leaned down and gave him a kiss on his forehead, and when she did he felt the cold metal crucifix drop on his neck. "Because it's not proper."

"What do you mean? We're just going to sleep."

"That's right, so good night." She gave him another peck on the forehead and left for the couch in the other room, closing the door behind her.

For a long while he lay in the dark feeling crosscurrents of hurt and anger. She had again rejected him. She had led him beyond a forbidden divide then pushed him back over when she decided it was wrong, then pulled him back when she weakened, then pushed him away again once her conscience got the best of her. All he wanted was to have her wrap herself around him.

But she had once again abandoned him to the dark where he lay silently, hating her. Hating himself. Hating Jesus.

Yes, Jesus. Because that's what this turn was all about. She wouldn't share the bed because she didn't want to risk getting Jesus mad at her. Not now. Not with her ship on the horizon.

57.

Steve didn't know what to make of the resemblance of the Novak woman to Terry Farina. In reality, the shot was small and the likeness more generic than actual. Furthermore, the file photo close-up of her taken a year before her death looked even less like Farina. He decided any resemblance had more to do with the hair than anything else. That and the fact that he could no longer fully trust his perceptions Maybe it was a nostalgic impulse, a little stroll down memory lane. Or maybe it was a necessary diversion to flush the sludge from his mind. But instead of heading back to Boston, Steve took Exit 2 off 93 and drove to Hampton Beach.

It was a bright sunny day with cumulus clouds rolling against the azure blue like huge puffs of cotton being blown out to sea. Even though it was a weekday, several people were on Ocean Boulevard, moving in and out of fast-food places and shops where you could get T-shirts, nose rings, fried dough, saltwater taffy, your fortune told, and a henna tattoo. Electronic arcades kept up an endless pulse of whoops and whistles from video shoot-'em-ups, poker, and Skee ball. And lacing the ocean air were the scents of fried clams, cotton candy, popcorn, and oh-wow incense. The place was a quintessential American honky-tonk that still tripped a wire in his soul.

In faded vignettes, Steve remembered coming here with his mother on a few excursions when she wasn't in one of her emotional black holes. She'd drive them in her car and they'd cruise the strip with the radio playing like a couple of teenagers. They'd stop for fried clams and orange slush then head for the water. With her cheering him on, he'd charge down the sand like a colt, impervious to the cold that would stop adults dead at the knees. And when he emerged, red and goosefleshed, she'd wrap a towel around him and hug him while he warmed up. Those were the good innocent times because for whatever reason her demons were asleep and she was free and happy to play mother and not suffering paralysis from self-doubt and a bad marriage.

Steve walked down the boardwalk, his shouldered briefcase slapping his side with the heft of the Novak files, reminding him that he should find a bench and continue reviewing them. But that seemed out of place, a corruption of the sunny salt-air memories. So he dismissed that idea and cut across the beach toward the water.

The tide was out, exposing the hard intertidal sand where people threw Frisbees and footballs and kids skimmed the shallows on Boogie boards. On a hot weekend, thousands would swarm the flats.

In the distance a father played whiffle ball with his small son, whose plastic bat was nearly as big as he was. Thirty years ago, that was Steve and his father, who had brought him here to play catch with a rubber baseball. He could still feel the glove on his left hand, could still smell the leather. He had a good throwing arm that could have taken him through high school teams and beyond but for the migraines that benched him in Little League.

He could still hear his father's words: Throw overhead, not side arm. Right arm over right shoulder and down to your left pant pocket. It was right here on the low tide flats, Great Boars' Head in the distance-one of the few fond memories Steve had of his father-a sweet hour of a handful that rose out of the muck of contention, shouting matches, fits of rage, the sound of pounding and smashing that clouded the kinescope of his childhood.

To this day, he never knew what kept his parents together. It couldn't have been him since neither proved fully equipped for parenthood. She was overwhelmed and emotionally unstable. And his father was too caught up in his work to play daddy. On his off days he felt pressured into doing things with young Stephen and his impatience was obvious. When they were out at a movie or baseball game, he'd check his watch, reminding Steve that he had to get home early because he had work or an old friend was in town. Or he'd shuffle him off to a neighbor's house. At the time, Steve thought that was normal. Only when he was older did he realize how little his father partook in his life and how much he depended on his mother.

He removed his shoes and socks and slipped them into his briefcase. He walked to the water's edge and rolled up his pant bottoms. The sun had heated the sand flats, but wavelets still carried the numbing chill that sent a shock to his brain.

So little time, he thought as he watched the father and son play.

He moved toward them. He could hear the man tell his son to keep his eye on the ball because he kept missing and getting discouraged, hitting the ground with the bat in frustration. The father encouraged the boy to take his time, to watch the ball, to swing at the right moment-that it was all timing.

Timing.

After a dozen pitches and just one connect, the boy whined that he was stupid and couldn't hit.

Steve looked at the boy and his father and stopped in his tracks. That could be me. I could be that man and that boy could be our son. I could do that.

In a moment of clarity that seemed to strip the air of haze and sound, Steve saw himself tossing that ball to the boy, telling him to correct his stance, to keep his eye on the ball. In a suspended instant that had all the rightness of a religious epiphany he told himself, I want that.

For so long he had convinced himself that fatherhood was not for him, that he could not get beyond a wall of scar tissue to assume the role, the responsibility. But as he stood on that open sand flat under an endless blue, it became so clear that he had essentially resigned himself to a self-fulfilling prophecy of failure, based solely on the belief that he'd end up like his father-a too busy, angry, self-absorbed drunk.

But that was not him. And at this moment those doubts seemed no more than flimsy imaginings born of obsession and irrational fears.

I can do that.

As he stood there taking in the scene of the father and his boy, Steve felt something inside loosen and break.

I can.

With a grunt, the boy took a mighty cut but caught the whiffle ball on the wrist of the bat, sending it toward Steve. With one hand he picked it out of the air and brought it to the father.

He turned his back so the boy wouldn't overhear. Steve handed the ball to the man. "Have him choke up and keep his elbow parallel to the ground."

Before the man could respond, Steve moved on.

A few moments later, Steve looked back. The father was crouched down, talking to his son and setting his stance with the bat choked up and his arm parallel to the ground. A moment later the kid cracked the ball in the sweet spot, sending it high into the air. He let out a hoot and his father cheered and flashed Steve a thumbs-up.

Yes! Steve said to himself. I can.

His hand went to his cell phone clip on his belt in the impulse to tell Dana, to say he could do it, that he had made up his mind that he could commit.

But how to word it without sounding foolish or desperate?

Hi, it's me. I decided I want to have kids, I could come by tonight if you're free.

Hi, I had this vision and I'm ready to commit. What do you say we start all over again?

He pressed her number. On the fifth ring her voice message came on. He clicked off and continued down the flats through shafts of light from the setting sun.

58.

Sometime later Steve headed back up the beach to leave. The sun had nearly set. The father and son were gone and the crowd had thinned out. As he moved up the boardwalk his PDA phone jingled. It was not Dana's number. It was not a number or exchange he recognized.

Steve turned to face the ocean, his eyes fixed on the horizon where a sailboat cut across the darkening seam of sky and sea.

"Lieutenant Detective Markarian?"

"Yes?"

"This is David Greggs, manager of Pine Lake Resort in Muskoka, Canada. You called the other day asking about a Terry Farina."

"Yes."

"Well, the last time we talked I had told you we had no record of a guest named Terry Farina staying with us last month or at any time. Well, I had circulated the photograph you had e-mailed among staff members, and one of our waiters said he recognized the woman. She had stayed here the same six days that Ms. Farina had allegedly been a guest. Because she paid in cash, we have no record of her real name. She'd registered as Jennifer Hopkins."

"Jennifer Hopkins." Steve jotted down the name. "Is it possible to speak to this waiter?"

"Yes, he's right here. His name is Peter Good."

Steve heard another voice say hello. "Peter, Mr. Greggs said that you recognized the photo of Terry Farina, who apparently registered as Jennifer Hopkins."

"Yes, but it took me a while to recognize her," Good said. "In fact, nobody recognized her. She had a hat on kind of low plus she had large sunglasses on all the time."

"Do you recall if she was alone?"

"All the times I saw her she was."

"Which was how often?"

"Well, she took all her meals in her room, and when she went outside she sat alone in lounge chairs in back where it's pretty woodsy and private. I don't think I ever saw her by the pool or in the main lodge. Same with the other staffers."

"So you're saying she didn't mingle with any of the other guests."

"Not that I saw, and that's the same with the others. Nobody saw her mingle."

"Can you ask Mr. Greggs if she used the phone in her room?"

"We already checked that. No calls in, no calls out."

"Okay."

"The thing is, I think she was kind of hiding, if you ask me."

"Hiding?"

"Yeah, kind of embarrassed maybe."

"Embarrassed?"

"Well, her face. It was kind of messed up."

"Messed up?"

"Well, my first thought was that she'd been in a bad car accident, you know, bruised and cut up. Which is why nobody recognized her at first. But I was her waiter, because her cabin is one of my assignments, so I saw her more than the others. It's the same woman."

"You're positive."

"Yeah." There was a pause. "But, you know, I mean given the circumstances, I'm starting to think that maybe it wasn't an accident but that somebody beat her up."

59.

"This is turning into a goddamn public relations nightmare," Captain Reardon growled as he eyed the group around the conference table.

It was ten the next morning, and Reardon's jacket hung on the back of his chair, his tie was loosened, and his sleeves were rolled up. His face was an aspic of frustration. Copies of The Boston Globe and The Boston Herald sat next to him.

"The papers are accusing us of trumped-up charges against Pendergast, of coercive interrogation, unlawful seizure of property, false arrest, and wrongful death. That's the good news. The fucking lawyers are threatening to bring suit against the city and the Department of Corrections and its officers for insufficient monitoring during his incarceration. They're also citing cases going back ten goddamn years of the ill-treatment of suspects and excessive force by our officers. Not to mention op-ed columnists yowling about the city murder rate like it's fucking Baghdad. Before Amnesty International jumps up our ass, I want some answers."

Steve had rarely seen Charlie Reardon so ballistic. Usually he was the phlegmatic image of the Boston Police whose starched press conference image gave solace to the home audience and assurance to city administrators. Sitting with him at the table with Steve were Dacey, Hogan, and Vaughn.

Reardon picked up The Boston Globe. "And the first thing I want to know is why the hell wasn't he put on suicide watch? He was on medication for depression and anxiety. He was a high-risk candidate for suicide."

Reardon was right. Most suicides were educated people arrested on their first offense and took place within the first seventy-two hours-the window when they're most distraught by shame brought on themselves and their families.

"Maybe the psychiatrist didn't think he was a danger to himself," Dacey said.

"I checked," Reardon said. "It's because the arresting officer failed to alert the correction authorities he was being treated for anxiety and depression. Seems rather convenient if you ask me."

No one said anything as they were all thinking the same thing. Then Steve said, "The D.A.'s office is saying his suicide suggests a consciousness of guilt."

"Yeah, and that's nice to think so, but I'm not buying that just yet."