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Tires squealed as Kyle Rieker slid the rented Ford Focus to a stop behind the row of cars parked at the curb. It was still rocking when he lunged free of it and strode toward the chapel from which mourners were leaving. While aware of curious glances tossed his way, his focus was on the entrance.

He paused briefly to let a couple step outside. Then, as he eased inside and across the back, his glance locked on the gleaming maple casket at the front of the chapel. It was adorned with large multi-looped bows of broad white ribbon. Bouquets of white roses and lilies, interspersed with lacy green ferns, spilled over the sides of standing baskets at either end of it. She had loved white in all things.

He slipped off his aviator sunglasses and tucked them away as he turned down the aisle on the right. Only a few mourners remained inside. The pallbearers were moving into position.

"Wait one," he demanded in a quiet bass that carried well.

The men paused and watched as he closed. He nodded to one of them, Randy LaCross.

An attendant politely stepped into his path, turning to face him. Kyle stopped only inches from him. His broad shoulders were squared in a military manner.

"People are waiting outside," the attendant said with practiced courtesy and politeness.

"I’ve covered seven thousand miles in three days to get here," Kyle said as if commenting on the weather. "I want to be with her one last time."

"But sir, we must . . ."

His large, lustrous brown eyes, so dark as to seem black, overflowed with intense determination. "She’s my sister," he said. "Want me to do it?"

Moments later the lid was open. Randy and the other pallbearers moved back as he stepped up to the casket. He let his glance sweep over what he could see. An excellent job had been done in preparing her for this affair, he decided. Death does not always bring such finery. But she didn’t look as he remembered her. He shook his head slowly as he realized he did not want to recall this view.

Her long, graceful fingers seemed to have shrunk. Her breasts thrust upward unnaturally. He was grateful, though. He’d been spared the sight of the ugly wounds left by the bullets that had ripped through her heart to steal her life away. He found it difficult to breath as he gazed at her still features.

He heard light footsteps approaching down the carpeted center aisle behind him. The quickness of pace suggested a woman. Moments later he caught the scent of lavender. But he only filed this information away; his attention was directed at what remained of a delightful, exciting woman, beautiful in all ways.

He reached out and lightly stroked her cheek, then bent and kissed it. She had always tilted her head to make it easier for him. For an instant he was disappointed she had not done so this time. Then he was nearly overwhelmed with sadness, yet irritated that he had forgotten, even briefly, that she could not. That she could never again do so. Never again flash that brilliant, cheery smile that had so often changed the course of his day.

He stepped to the bouquet on his right and selected three white buds, cut as they were about to open. He curled her limp hands and fingers about the stems, spreading them across her chest. He wished she could smell them, for she had loved the fragrance. But they helped, he decided. They added a sense of vitality to the waxen figure.

Tomorrow would be the first day of autumn, a day she always looked forward to, one she would miss this year. And in the years ahead.

It wasn’t right. She had been such a vibrant person, one filled with a wondrous zest for life. And like men he’d fought beside, she’d been much too young to die.

Finally, he nodded to the attendant, then watched the lid close once more, forever locking her away from this world.

"Want to take my place?" Randy asked.

Kyle hesitated, then said, "Thanks, but I’ll pass." That his tan suit was much too small, didn’t bother him. That it wasn’t appropriate for the occasion, bothered him even less. He just wasn’t up to it.

Randy nodded. Then, as if they had been waiting on the reply, the pallbearers stepped forward, lifted the casket, and started toward the exit. The attendant walked in front as if to guide the way.

Only vaguely aware of the woman sitting in the front row, Kyle watched intently. He was completely still, without any restless shifting about or even a hint of impatience. In the light through the tall window behind him, his pale brown hair, trimmed short, seemed almost blonde, the color of his sparse two-day beard.

When the chapel door closed, he saw the woman stand. He turned toward her as she approached. Her charcoal-gray jacket and matching skirt were formal in the extreme. He guessed all had been tailored by someone who knew what they were about. Her golden blonde hair had been done up in a bun. The severe set to her beautiful features was appropriate to the occasion, but he sensed it was an expression not often used. The scent of lavender was stronger now.

"I’m Bridget Bennington," she said in a precise, melodic soprano. "A friend of Marsha." She extended a business card, pointing to the phone number written on the back of it.

When he nodded and took the card, she said, "I know this is a terrible time for you, but can you call me later? Perhaps tomorrow?"

"I will," he said, nodding again.

She thanked him with her bright blue eyes, turned and walked back up the aisle. As he watched, he realized that even in her severe attire and solemn motion she was sexually appealing in the extreme. When she disappeared through the entrance, he shook his head, seeking to loosen distracting thoughts. Then he turned and walked to the tall window to gaze out at the sprawl of that part of Los Angeles called the Valley.

It all blurred out in an odd way he couldn’t define. Later he realized his shirt was getting wet. And later still he decided he ought to determine why. When it became clear moisture was dripping from his chin, it was relatively easy to identify its source.

He knuckled away the tears collected in his eyes as best he could, turned, and strode toward the exit.

At the cemetery, Kyle parked some distance behind the other cars and strode up the gentle slope until he was well above the group gathered around her grave site. He squatted on his heels and watched. And waited. Unmoving.

As the small crowd began to break up, Randy started up the hillside toward him. Kyle stood, tucked his glasses away, and extended his hand. As Randy gripped it, Kyle said, "I owe you."

"Glad to help," he said. "There was lots of crap until they found out I had a wallet with bucks in it." He shook his head, remembering. "The part you missed by being late didn’t amount to much."

Kyle nodded. "When you caught up with me, I was in Thailand. I almost didn’t make it in time." Together, they watched the cars pull away from the curb, one by one, and move off.

"I called every number in her address book," Randy said, as they watched the last car drive off. "But I couldn’t put names to any of the faces that showed."

"Neither could I," Kyle said. "I’ve been away longer than I realized."

Randy stepped closer. "Mind if I get personal?" he asked, blinking rapidly, discomforted by the contact lens he needed, but hated.

"Go," Kyle said, a puzzled look in his dark eyes.

"You’ve gotta dump that suit, buddy," he said with a faint grin. "The tie’s good. And you know how to knot one. But that suit? No way. And you’re smelling pretty ripe, you know. Want to stop by my place and clean up?"

"Thanks," Kyle said, managing a faint smile. "I’ll get into the apartment later. I’ve things there."

"The cops have it sealed. There’s a good padlock on the door."

"Uhmm," Kyle murmured.

"Well, I better get back to the paper," Randy said, turning away.

"We’ve seen guys hit," Kyle said softly, speaking to the grass. When Randy turned back, he looked up and continued. "Sometimes we knew they were gone, or soon would be, from the way they collapsed. But we were able to tuck it away. Not to be forgotten, but so we could get on." He shook his head. "It isn’t working for me now."

Randy sighed, then turned to gaze at the abandoned grave. "This is different, you know. You may never be able to tuck this away." When he looked back at Kyle, he asked, "Got a plan?"

Kyle shrugged. "I’ll get her affairs wrapped up. Then get on."

"Going to reenlist? I hear the bonuses are great." His tight smile announced he didn’t believe it.

Kyle gazed up at the bright blue sky. "No," he said finally. "I’ve done my share."

Randy nodded. "Maybe more, you know. So what next?"

"I’m no closer to answering that than I was at fifteen."

"You’ll figure it," Randy asserted.

"Maybe I should do what Steinbeck did; put a dog in the front seat of my truck and check this country out. I might even find something that grabs me. Did you read his book, Travels with Charlie?"

Randy shook his head. "It might be more fun with a woman than with a dog."

Kyle smiled. "A dog offers something most women can’t."

"Yeah?"

"Unconditional love."

Randy chuckled, started to turn away again, then stopped as if certain he shouldn’t. "Now’s not the time," he said with unexpected intensity, "but call tomorrow. Let’s get together."

"Right. We’ll get the bucks straight."

"I didn’t use all you sent. So there’s change," he said, again blinking rapidly. "But there may be something we need to tend to." There was a grim set to his jaw as he turned again and strode down to his car.

Kyle had seen that look before. It had always meant bad news for somebody. He wondered about it until Randy drove off. Then he could no longer hang to the thought.

Later, as the sun crept closer to the horizon, workman put the final touches on the site. When they left, Kyle walked down and stood beside the marker set in the freshly sod grass.

They’d never again hug or cling to one another as tightly as they could. They’d never again be closer together than they were right now. It wasn’t enough.

When he felt his eyes begin to fill with tears, he turned away.

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Since Kyle shared the rent for the apartment with Marsha, one of the bedrooms was his. Still, he had spent a restless night on a bed not often used. As usual, it was still dark when he awoke. His drifting, fragmented thoughts suddenly focused. What had Randy meant? What might they have to tend to?

He lifted the brown terry cloth robe from the hook in the closet and slipped into it. Outside the bedroom, moonlight through the windows illuminated the way to the kitchen.

Last night, he’d removed the insides from the Farberware pot Marsha used to perk her coffee, filled it with water and plugged it in. He emptied a spoonful of instant Folgers into a mug and added hot water. He sipped as he moved to the small wrought iron table by the picture window and sat down. He gazed out at the lights of the city to the south, a magnificent view he didn’t really see.

He’d been with her when she’d selected the table. And he’d paid half the bill. The thick white acrylic finish was hard, silky-smooth to his touch. The circular glass top was beveled at the edge, making it comfortable to lean on. But it was less than three feet across. People seated had to duck knees. Puzzled, he’d asked why she wanted such a small table. "It’s intimate," she had said with a mischievous grin.

He took another sip of the coffee he had forgotten about; it was cold. He rose and padded barefooted around the triangular island to the pot.

With fresh coffee, he walked back into the living area, open to the kitchen. All was as he remembered it, except for the new off-white Naugahyde couch and chair. She had written about them in glowing detail. But he hadn’t heard anything from her recently. Suddenly he realized he wanted to know what she had been up to lately. Every detail.

He set his mug on the counter, walked to the entry way to the bedrooms and opened her door. Unmoving, he examined the room in moonlight streaming in through the windows to the east. White dominated all: the satiny, silky bedspread, the blankets, even the carpet. Woods had been finished in blonde shades.

He couldn’t bring himself to step inside. He felt as if he was prying into her private affairs, into her innermost thoughts, her hopes and dreams.

The room was as she’d left it, never to return. The covers had been tossed back, the bed unmade. She had always struggled with mornings. Tuesdays were worse, for she had an early appointment.

When he saw the computer under the window, he squared his shoulders and determinedly stepped inside. He paused to gaze down at the bronze statue on the dresser, a replica of Rodin’s "The Kiss." The cost had ruined her budget for a considerable time.

He remembered what he’d thought when she first showed it to him, that every woman wants to be kissed like this, and that every man wants to do so. It occurred to him now that for most, it doesn’t happen.

He moved to the computer and sat down in front of it. He wasn’t excited about his prospects; he was computer illiterate and determined to stay that way. With distinct reluctance, he pressed the switch on the power bar.

He recognized the first screen that appeared. Internet Explorer. He took a deep breath, leaned back, and began tentatively clicking about with the mouse.

When the history file dropped down, he leaned forward and examined it. It appeared to be a set of links to information about China. He clicked the first one and found himself reading a page about the consequences of Taiwan declaring independence from China. After reading a few paragraphs, he realized he knew more about this sensitive situation than the author did.

He clicked the next link. He read only a few lines, then clicked another. Then another.

Why would she be interested in efforts to increase the agricultural water supply? Or in information about the SilkWorm missile?

Never comfortable facing a computer screen, he again clicked the first link. Then he clicked to print the page. Before the printer started, he clicked the next link, then again to print it.

The variety of topics puzzled him. She was doing well financially, sharing her insights into the profit potential of companies in The Courtney Report. She never made recommendations, only reported what she had discovered. Many applauded her work. Some waited anxiously for the next issue. At least that’s how she had described matters to him.

But there didn’t seem to be anything here to which she could apply her analytical skills. "Sex and the Roaring Night Life in Shanghai?" "Pandas in Peril?" These, and most pages, didn’t fit any pattern he could identify.

There was no way of knowing to what extent she had explored the site from the page she first visited. He hoped he wouldn’t have to get into that. But the URLs were printed on the output if he needed them. When the printer beeped in complaint, he loaded another half a ream of paper, and it again began tossing copy into the hopper.

She had visited over two hundred sites related to China. What had she been looking for? Had she found it?

He had left the printer running as he cleaned out the refrigerator. Marsha had been avoiding processed foods because of a nasty allergy she couldn’t pin down. She counted on fresh foods. All had grown stale: the meat was suspect, the vegetables were soggy, and the potatoes were done for. He stuffed everything into plastic bags, knotted them and carted them to the front door.

When he realized the printer had quit, he checked. It was out of paper again. He loaded the tray, then sat down to add the remaining pages to the print queue.

In his room, he paused in front of the bookcase. As he ran his fingers across the spines, he could read the familiar titles in the early morning light. He had ordered most of them, but Marsha had sent him several. Works he wanted to keep, he had sent here; she had tucked them into the bookcase.

Remembering where he was and what needed to be done, he resisted the inclination to linger by turning away. He recovered the business card Bridget Bennington have given him, then bundled the too-tight suit he’d worn for the last four days into the coat by knotting the arms.

In the living room, he tossed the bundle toward the plastic bags by the door. Then he sat down on the couch, reached for the phone, glanced at the card, and dialed.

"Yes?"

He recognized the voice from only the one word, noting again its lush vibrancy. "Kyle Rieker here," he said. "You asked me to call."

"How delightful," she responded brightly. "I wasn’t sure you would."

"I never refuse invitations from beautiful women."

"Oh, how precious."

"You said you knew Marsha. Can we chat about what she’s been doing lately? I haven’t heard from her recently."

"Have lunch with me and I will reveal all."

He chuckled. "Clothes could be a problem. I don’t have your budget."

"Silly man," she said with a ripple of gay laughter. "Meet me at Finnery’s Eatery on Laurel, just off Ventura Boulevard. We’ll dine under the awning. Say one o’clock?"

"About clothes?"

"At their prices, they have no dress code." She laughed again and hung up. He shook his head slowly, wondering what he was letting himself in for. She was gorgeous, though. It was easy to remember how the heels had stressed her slender calves as she’d walked out of the chapel.

In the shower, Kyle scrubbed hard to erase lingering traces of the grime of his three day trip. And the odd clamminess that had clutched at his skin at the funeral home. And again at the cemetery.

He put on his preferred civilian outfit: dress chinos and a dark brown flannel shirt which was largely hidden by the tan nylon windbreaker. He slipped on a relatively new pair of Nike running shoes, then stepped into Marsha’s room to check the printer.

It had finished. Both the computer and printer seemed ready to do it all again. He wasn’t. As he shut the equipment down and added the latest output to the earlier stack, he noted he had used more than two reams of paper. Thinking of reading through it brought a deep sigh. He carried it all into the living room and set it on the coffee table, shaking his head as he estimated the height.

He made two trips with trash bags to the dumpster in the alley. As he picked up the last load, he noticed the bolt-cutters.

Alerted by Randy’s comment that the apartment was sealed and padlocked, he’d bought them on the way here. The hasp had been easy to cut; he’d simply walked through the yellow police tape.

He could cart them out now, but he’d always been hesitant to toss a good tool. He decided they looked fine propped against the wall by the door.

He adjusted his dark sunglasses, picked up the remaining bags, opened the door, then stopped.

China? Even if she was interested in a Chinese company, she wouldn’t need that much information for a report. Or that kind of information. So why? He set the bags down, moved to her small desk in the kitchen, grabbed a piece of her note paper and printed, "China? Why?"

As he thoughtfully tucked the note into his jacket pocket, he noticed the small package. Odd, he thought. Marsha had addressed it to him, but it had been opened.

Inside was a paperback, Beautiful Imperialist by David Shambaugh. On the inside of the front cover, she’d written in her typical bold script, "This guy feels China is turning politically and economically toward Europe and away from us. This trend matters economically. Do you think it might increase the risk of conflict between China and the U.S.?" She had signed the note as, "Sis." Below it, she’d added a postscript: "I miss you!"

Kyle read the note three times. Finally he sighed; she no longer needed his answer. He stood, tucked the book into his hip pocket, and picked up the trash again. As he closed the door behind him, he asked softly out loud, "China?"

The upper half of the open door was glass. On it, Lt. Jefferson Walster, Homicide, was spelled out with gold foil. As Kyle stepped inside, he studied the man slumped comfortably in the chair behind the small desk.

That he was a sharp dresser was his first impression. But the lavender tie streaked with splashes of green clashed with the shades of brown in the suit, the tan dress shirt, and particularly his olive black complexion. The cuff links sparkled brightly, the stones much too large to be diamonds. He was filling out a form with a ballpoint pen and didn’t seem to be enjoying the task.

Kyle sat down in the chair in front of the desk without being invited. When Walster looked up, his mocking smile showed lots of white teeth; his eyes were filled with laughter. He gestured with his hand and said in a resonant baritone, "Have a seat, why don’t you?"

"Thanks," he said, setting the bag beside the chair.

"And you’d be?"

"Kyle Rieker. Marsha’s brother."

He nodded, watching Kyle with cop skepticism. "What you gots in the bag?"

"Her personal things. I picked them up on the way in."

"How’d you manage that?"

He reached inside his jacket for the form that made him officially the executor of Marsha’s estate. He’d picked it up this morning from Lester Thornton, the attorney who had drawn her will.

Walster scanned the page, then tossed it back. "That needs a judge’s signature."

"My attorney probably has one by now."

Walster was still studying Kyle’s face intently, rolling the pen back and forth between his fingers, tapping it lightly on the desk. "Didn’t your mama tell you it isn’t polite to talk to people wearing shades?"

Kyle slipped off the glasses and let them dangle from his fingers. "The flicker of fluorescent lights bothers my eyes."

"I don’t see any flicker."

"My imagination maybe."

"Why are you frightened of me?"

"I’m not," he said. "You may be picking up on caution. I’m careful when dealing with those who have power."

"Me?" Walster exclaimed, laughing. "I’ve got power? That’s heavy." He laughed again.

Kyle shrugged, but said nothing. He wasn’t into debates.

"We tried to locate you," Walster said, still watching Kyle closely. "Where were you a week ago last Tuesday about ten in the morning?"

"Out of the country."

The rap of the pen against the desk was more pronounced. "I asked where."

"I’m not free to say."

"I can lock you up until you tell me everything I want to know."

"You can lock me up."

Walster smiled as he laughed at him with his eyes. "The idea of a cell doesn’t bother you?"

"Call Fort Bragg. They’ll tell you whatever the U.S. Army wants you to know."

"Special Forces?"

He nodded. "How does the case stand?"

"It’s closed."

"Uhmm."

"One time," Walster said, his eyes bright with intensity. "One of our men nailed the shooter. That’s the end of it. We’re sorry about your sister and like that."

He saw no hint of regret in the bright laughing eyes he faced. The neatly trimmed mustache seemed to accent the smile. "Do crazies generally hit so early in the day?"

"This one did."

To Kyle, the pieces didn’t fit. What he knew about fanatics, suggested they didn’t go the suicide route so early in the day. "Did he try to get away?"

"Our people were right on top of it. He never had the chance."

"Have you any idea why my sister was interested in China?"

Walster shook his head. "When a case is closed, there’s always some loose ends."

"That’s it for you?"

"Every officer out there," Walster said, with a wave of his hand that encompassed the squad room, "has enough to keep him busting twenty hours a day. And some do. Why work a closed case?"

"Marsha has . . ." Kyle paused and cleared his throat. "Marsha had an allergy to some processed foods. It acted something like poison oak. Lots of red, itchy skin. And small, watery blisters. When it hit, it put her out of business for two or three days. She went to that clinic on Maple Street every Tuesday morning in hopes of discovering what caused it."

"What clinic?"

"The Stassen Laboratory," he replied. "Was anyone else who was killed a regular on Maple Street Tuesday mornings?"

"Dude, you’re not tuned into the right frequency." Walster leaned out over the desk. "That case is closed."

"You could check this out."

"Why?"

Kyle slipped his glasses back on and picked up the bag beside him as he stood. "If you’re typical of L.A.’s finest," he said quietly, "this whole damned town is fucked."

As he turned toward the door, Walster laughed. "Where are you staying?"

"My sister’s place."

"Hey, dude. It’s sealed. With a padlock and like that."

"It was," he replied as he strode through the door into the squad room toward the exit.

Could this be what Randy meant when he said there might be something to tend to?

"I guess I haven’t been keeping up," Kyle said to Bridget Bennington seated across the table from him. "I thought Marsha was seeing Dr. Quinlin."

"She had been for nearly a year," Bridget said, enunciating with uncommon precision. Each syllable was distinctly articulated. While she spoke softly, she used her diaphragm so that all projected effectively. "Recently she had met other men. She may still have been seeing Dr. Quinlin."

"She told me he proposed to her. If she was seeing other guys, she must have said no."

"Perhaps you don’t know as much about women as you think." She laughed gaily, a trilling, ripple of sound that fell softly upon his ears. She was wearing her golden blonde hair long today; it danced about her lovely face, caressing the upper slopes of her remarkable breasts.

He smiled. "Like a lot of guys, I probably think I know more than I do. Still, I thought she was in love with him."

"She may have been confused about love." The faint smile erased any hint of critical intent. "Many women are."

"You too?"

"Never more than once a week." She laughed again; her bright blue eyes joined in. "But seriously, even if she was, she may have only wanted to explore other options."

Kyle nodded, but he couldn’t come to grips with the notion. It didn’t feel right.

"As my guest at parties," Bridget said, "she met some of the truly significant people in our city. She was awed at first, but quickly got over that."

"How did she fit in?"

"Marvelously," she said, nodding again, as if unaware of her hair caressing the slopes of her breasts. "Since your mother was a Courtney, it came to her naturally, I think."

"I’ve wondered if she wanted to be part of the upper class as mother was. But she laughed when I suggested it."

He looked up at the sailcloth awning, boldly striped in brilliant shades of red and green with ribbons of white between them. It rippled gently in the warm breeze, casting pleasant stripes of faint color over those seated at tables beneath it. In an odd way, it seemed to lend intimacy.

Pedestrian traffic was light on this quiet side street. Still, he found himself examining each person who passed. Nerves, he decided. He’d been jittery since leaving the cemetery.

Bridget had shared all she knew about what Marsha had been doing. But he remained puzzled. That she had been excited about meeting society types didn’t surprise him. But that she’d just walk away from Quinlin didn’t fit.

As the waiter cleared away the remains of a delicious lunch, Bridget turned her charm on the man. He watched her totally captivate him. When she asked Kyle if he’d like another martini, he nodded. With her attention focused on the waiter, he was free to examine her smooth, unmarked features more closely.

She wore little makeup, but all was meticulously applied. She used a lighter shade of lipstick than most; it accented her lovely Nordic complexion.

She was wearing an emerald green silk blouse that fitted loosely, yet still managed to accent her breasts. Over it, she wore a short white bolero jacket. His mind suddenly filled with thoughts of laying his head down upon her lovely cleavage. He shifted his position in the chair and straightened.

When he looked up, he could see she had guessed his thoughts. With hints of her discovery lingering in her eyes and a faint knowing smile, she said, "Marsha mentioned she had a brother, but I got the impression you were committed to a military career. I was surprised to see you at the funeral. Where are you serving?"

"U.S. Army Special Forces."

"That must be an especially unpleasant and dangerous task, even within the military."

Kyle rubbed thoughtfully on the bridge of his nose. "Best not make too much of that," he said. "We’re well trained and have the finest equipment available. And we have strong support from an awesome array of resources." He smiled as he added, "You’d probably be safer with our team than driving on the freeways here."

"Oh, my. You can’t be serious." She laughed in that gay, rippling way he’d already come to love. "I might distract your men from their mission."

"Their mission might change," he said, nodding. "Abruptly."

She laughed politely, but the lift of her chin put an end to that subject. "Do you plan to remain in the Army?"

"No. My tour is up. I’ll get a discharge. Then wrap up Marsha’s affairs. Our attorney doesn’t think it will take long."

"What then?"

"I’ll get on."

"What do you mean? Get on to what?"

The arrival of their martinis gave him a reprieve as she acknowledged the service. She lifted her glass in salute, and he did the same.

"Nicely done," she said. "You remind me of Marsha."

He smiled. "We had good teachers. My father was with the diplomatic corps. Both he and mother made sure we had ‘proper manners.’ "

She nodded, smiling, than glanced at the street watching cars move by. When she turned back, she said, "Marsha was murdered." She shook her head. "I absolutely detest that word, but there is no other."

He only nodded and took another sip of his drink.

"Do you have any plans about that?"

"What do you mean?"

"I’m not certain how best to put this, but do you plan to right this terrible wrong?" She paused, shaking her head. "That didn’t come out right, but what happened to her was wrong, wasn’t it?"

"At least one person disagrees with you, the one who killed her."

"How can you say such a thing?"

He gazed down at his glass, toying with it. "Things happen," he said, seeking to find good words. "Notions about right and wrong don’t always help. It’s a matter of perception. And often it depends upon where one is relative to the rest of the world."

"I’m in trouble," she said with a slight smile. "Philosophical topics are not my forte."

"Let me put it this way. Many in the world are totally committed to the annihilation of the Jews, at least those in Israel. Are they wrong?"

"Of course they are."

"I think so too. But my opinion, or yours, has no weight with them."

She took a sip of her drink. "I’m afraid you’re over my head. Marsha was murdered. You must intend to do something about it."

"No. I don’t," he said. "I saw Lt. Walster this morning, the cop in charge. Since the man who did the shooting was killed, the case is closed. I wasn’t impressed with the guy, but he’s a pro. I’m not."

Her glance locked onto his eyes as if seeking to discover a secret meaning in what he had said. Her forehead was lightly creased in a frown. Finally it faded and her delicate lips broadened into a smile. "You ducked my question," she said. "And very nicely, I must add."

"And that was?"

"What did you mean when you said you would ‘get on?’ To what?"

"I’ve no idea."

"You must have at least a starting point."

He shook his head.

"Listen," she said leaning out over the table. "I know tons of really successful people. With their help, surely we can find something to suit your needs."

"Why would you go to such trouble?"

She leaned back, her smooth pale complexion pink with a faint blush. "My financial elves have been using The Courtney Report for a year now. Bryant—he’s the really bright one—says I gained an extra million from Marsha’s work. Helping you seems the least I can do."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Heavens no. I never read it," she said with a frown. "Numbers give me a headache."

Kyle grinned.

She again leaned upon the table as if prepared to do battle. "Listen," she said. "I’ve shared everything I know about Marsha. And I’ve said entirely too much about myself."

"I enjoyed it."

Her lovely smile thanked him for his comment. "But," she said with a false pout, "I haven’t learned anything about you."

"What’s to know? High school? A year of college? Seven years in the Army? Not exactly high drama."

"You’ve already seen and done more than most men do in a lifetime. Why are you hesitant to share?"

"Can’t say. You’re easy to talk with. And you have the knack."

"And that is?"

"You brightened the waiter’s day."

She sighed. "And I thought I had all of your attention."

"You do. And you know it. But I notice things."

"You do seem fascinated by those who walk by."

"I like to know what’s going on around me." He paused to swallow the rest of his drink. "You’ve also brightened my day, but then you know that. Your total focus is incredible. It makes me feel more important in a special way."

"Right now, you are very important to me."

"But why?" he asked, his dark eyes openly reflecting puzzlement.

She sighed, as if digging deeply for patience. "Marsha was precious to me," she said. "Do you find it surprising I’m attracted to her brother?"

"It’s a point."

"I’ve got to run. Will you excuse me for a moment?"

When he nodded, she slipped her cell phone from her purse. "Shawn," she said into it. A moment later, she asked, "Will you bring the car around, please?" He didn’t hear the reply, only her thank-you.

"I absolutely detest phones," she said, "but they’re so convenient." She wrapped with a gay ripple of laughter as she slipped the phone away. "Has anyone arranged a welcome-home party for you?"

He chuckled. "Not that I know of."

"Let me put something together. Tomorrow night? Say six?"

"Who would you invite?"

"A very select group."

"Clothes, remember?"

"At my place, silly. Wear shorts if you like."

"Would your guests understand?"

"I can invite anyone you like, but I was only thinking of you and me." She reached out and covered his hand with hers. An odd warmth flowed quickly throughout his body. "I’d love to know more about you," she continued. "Will you come?"

When he didn’t reply, she squeezed his hand and said, "When I can, I take what I want. Don’t you?"

"I can relate to that, but maybe ‘take’ isn’t the best word."

"Do you have a right-wrong issue in this?"

He smiled, then shook his head. He reached out and covered her hand on top of his. "You arrived in a Bentley and your chauffeur opened the door for you. Now he’s coming to pick you up and drive you wherever you’d like to go. So what’s happening here? An inversion of the Cinderella story?"

"What in the world are you talking about now?"

"Are you the queen trying to find a foot the shoe fits?"

She laughed. "Absolutely not. Why do you make things so complicated?"

"They seem that way just now."

"Will you come?" she asked insistently.

"Let me ponder. I’ll call in the morning."

She smiled, totally confident of her conquest. As she started to stand, he rose and moved around the table. As she stood, he pulled the chair back from her legs. She smiled at him in delight. The mild scent of lavender intrigued him. She tucked her arm in his and he matched her pace as they walked to the Bentley pulling up to the curb.

"I forgot to ask," he said. "Do you have any idea why Marsha was interested in China?"

She slipped slightly and leaned momentarily more heavily on his arm; it felt grand. "None at all," she said with a shake of her head. "She did a report on a German company several months back that brought rave reviews. She may have found such a company in China."

"That must be it," he said as Shawn opened the rear door. Bridget took full advantage of Kyle’s arm as she slipped gracefully into the car. She gave him a dazzling smile as Shawn closed the door.

The car moved off sedately. He watched until it was out of sight, then strode up the sidewalk toward his car. "I should have said yes," he murmured to the warm breeze. How many great offers does a guy get in a lifetime? He smiled, squared his shoulders, and lengthened his stride.

Pedestrian traffic diminished as he got further from Ventura Boulevard. Still he had that jittery feeling. As if someone was watching him, following him at least with their eyes.

Kyle was seated at the rear of Sammy & Joe’s with his back to the wall. The din of those having a good time as they lingered over a late lunch was oddly comforting. But he could have done without the rock pounding forth from hidden speakers at a volume that threatened to rupture his eardrums. He glanced at his watch; Randy was late. He turned back to reading.

When the mix of sounds coming at him from nearby tables changed subtlety, he looked up. Randy was making his way toward the table. Kyle caught a waiter’s eyes, waggled two fingers, and received a nod in return. He folded down a page in the book and laid it aside.

As Randy sat down he grinned and said, "I see you’re still hooked on covering your back."

"That’s so. If a guy doesn’t see it coming, he hasn’t a chance." When two beers were settled to the table, he nodded his thanks to the waiter. He reached for his glass and took a sip, then said to Randy, "Up until a week ago, I was fighting a guerrilla war. We all knew we could be hit from anywhere, any time. But we were expert; we were ready.

"Since I got back, I’ve been jumpy. I’m not used to so many strangers being so close. I almost miss the barren emptiness of the mountains in Iraq."

Randy chuckled. "It is quiet there, mostly."

Kyle nodded, thinking of those times in which it was not. "I feel as if people are watching me. Even following me. Did you sense anything like this when you first got back?"

Randy laughed. "I hit the first bar I found, determined to drink the town dry. I didn’t sober up for over three weeks you know.

"But when I got the job at the Tribune, that ended. I was working my butt off. And it was great. I still can’t believe somebody is paying me to snap pics."

Kyle smiled. Randy was a wizard with a camera and ecstatic when he had one in his hands. The large shoulder bag he’d set on the table was loaded with high-end gear; he was always ready to grab any shot.

He was wearing a too-large jacket and slacks that were no doubt the cheapest he could find. He wore a white shirt and tie, only because his boss required it. But the top two buttons were undone and the knot in the tie was closer to his navel than his chin. The Dodger baseball cap was cocked at a jaunty angle.

"Sis told me you’re back with Lucy. Is that working out?"

Randy shook his head slowly, his eyes filled with wonder. "Out of sight," he murmured. "When she told me back in high school she never wanted to see me again, the accent was on ‘never’ you know.

"When Marsha told her I was back, and gave her my number, she called. It blew me away. I think I’m the happiest married guy on this planet."

"She also told me you have a son. About a year old?"

"Thirteen months," Randy agreed. "And Lucy is four months along with our second one." He paused to shake his head. "It’s been like a dream you know. I keep thinking I’ll wake up."

Kyle smiled. "Sounds real to me." He took another sip of beer, then leaned out on the table and asked, "Any idea why Marsha was interested in China? She visited over two hundred related websites."

He saw the question had surprised Randy. The man thought about it for several moments, then said, "They’re cleaning our clock financially. Maybe she was checking for something related to that."

Kyle rotated the book so Randy could see the title. "You are the readingist guy ever," Randy said, turning it over to scan the back cover. "I don’t remember seeing you without a book in your hip pocket or tucked behind your shirt."

"If nothing else, it helps pass time."

"Be careful," he said, grinning. "You don’t want to get too smart, you know."

"Uhmm," Kyle murmured. "Check the inside of the front cover."

Randy read for a moment, then looked up. "From what I hear, she’s right about China turning toward Europe. But I don’t know what that means to the military situation."

"Neither do I," he replied. "Taiwan comes to mind."

"If they declare independence," Randy said, "China will move. They’ve a ton of missiles targeted on that ground. It could easy come to a shooting war."

"And the U.S. could lose big time," Kyle said. "If we fail to fulfill our treaty obligations with Taiwan, other agreements with key countries in the area might become worthless.

"But China may feel forced to move. With our treaties and PACOM bases, we’ve got them pretty much hemmed in. Historically they’ve attacked when they felt threatened."

Randy nodded. "When the Chinese Army poured into North Korea, the U.S. was done for; we lost a lot of good men. Even today, the situation is explosive you know. Kim Jong-Il is certifiable."

"There’s a lot more we could add," Kyle said with a sigh. "And much of it’s grim. But I don’t see how any of it could connect to Marsha."

"Me neither," Randy said, blinking rapidly to ease the discomfort of the contacts. "But I’ll bet something does," he said, nodding his head in thought. "Something massive maybe," he added grimly.

"Massive?" Kyle asked sharply. "Maybe related to what you said we might have to tend to?" He leaned closer, his intensity nearly palpable.

"Are you sure you’re up to this? Marsha’s funeral ripped you pretty good you know."

Kyle glanced at those at nearby tables. Most were enjoying themselves. Two guys were deeply engrossed in serious conversation. One couple was immersed in a quiet, deadly quarrel; he quickly looked away. He swirled his glass erasing previous circles while making new ones on the Formica table top. "Go," he murmured, looking up. "I’ve got to get on."

Randy reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a stack of photographs. "I was only blocks away when I heard the call about the shooting on Maple Street. So I got these pics only minutes after the cop nailed that shooter."

Randy laid down the first photo in his deck. It showed six people down. Two were crumpled on a side in the unpredictable ways of death. Three had ended up largely on their back, with legs and arms at odd angles. Only one was face down. Marsha.

"These are close ups," Randy said grimly, laying down a photo of each victim in the order shown in the first shot. "You’re a shooter. What do they tell you?"

Kyle hunched further forward, shoved his glass aside and positioned the photos in a row. He studied each in turn, trying in vain to see Marsha as simply one of the victims. When he leaned back, he said, "We’ve got a forehead, a cheek, a throat and a back." He paused, then said."That was Marsha." He took a deep breath and continued. "Then two in the gut." He looked up and asked, "How far was the shooter from these folks?"

"Max three hundred feet."

"Then he was a piss-poor shot."

Randy nodded as a teacher pleased with the performance of his best student. He collected the photos into a pile, leaving only the one of Marsha in front of Kyle. "She fell face down. What you’re seeing is an exit wound."

He laid down another photo. "I snapped this when the ME turned her over."

Kyle stared at it intently, seeking to focus on the wounds, not the woman who had been the target.

She had been hit with four rounds. One just inside her right breast, the other three about an inch apart on a line that angled slightly up toward her left shoulder. A four-round burst. At least one, maybe two rounds, had ripped into her heart. "We’ve a different shooter here," he murmured. "A pro."

Randy nodded, waiting, expecting more.

Kyle reached out and held up the two photos of Marsha side by side. He tilted the one showing the exit wound to get an idea about the paths of the rounds that had struck her chest. "This guy fired from above street level. A second or third floor window."

"Or from the roof of a two-story building," Randy added.

"So we’ve two shooters," Kyle said, still gazing intently at the photos. "The cops nailed only one. Why is the case closed?"

Randy shook his head in exasperation. "Haven’t a clue," he said. "They have lots of pics too."

When Kyle reached for his glass, he saw it was empty. He waved for another with two fingers raised. "Have you extras of these?"

"Three of each," Randy said, laying another stack of prints on the table. "There’s another thing."

"Go."

"The shooter who got nailed apparently broke into that bookstore through the back from the alley. Either there was no alarm or he bypassed it. He worked the front door open with no problem, then settled back and waited.

"He did his thing, then waited some more. I was tracking the whole bit on the scanner. It was three minutes before that cruiser showed.

"He was wearing a reversible jacket. So he could easy have turned it inside out, tossed the rifle and made it out the back. They found his car parked half a block down on Raymond. He could have been long gone before that cruiser showed.

"Instead, he waited until both cops got out of the cruiser, then fired at each. He put one down, but the other dropped him. It’s weird."

When the waiter set their glasses down, Kyle nodded his thanks and reached for his. He took a sip. It tasted bitter. When he set the glass down, he gathered up the prints and tucked them into an inside coat pocket. "Yes, this is something we may need to tend to."

Randy nodded, a look of concern on his face. "I was half expecting you to go ballistic."

Kyle took another sip. It still tasted bitter. Strange, he thought, for it had tasted great earlier. "I’m okay," he said. "But I feel as if an Abrams tank just rolled over me." He looked sharply at Randy and demanded, "What are we into?"

"Who’s we?" Randy demanded, his jaw elevated at a cocky angle some might call arrogant.

"Just you and me for now."

"I don’t remember enlisting."

"You joined up when you snapped these pics."

Randy sighed, then looked about him at nearby tables. When he turned back, he was blinking rapidly again, but it didn’t hide the grim determination in his dark blue eyes. "Things have changed, buddy."

"Lucy and Bobby?"

"For sure. And the job. If I buck cops, I’ll lose good calls. There’s nothing out there I want more than what I’ve got. I won’t risk it."

"You’d be a damned fool to do so. We’ll find a way around that."

"Don’t count on it," Randy said grimly. He reached into his shoulder bag and extracted a large mailing envelope. When he slid it across the table toward Kyle he said, "It’s receipts and stuff for the funeral. And a check for what I didn’t use."

Kyle nodded. But Marsha’s death, even the funeral, was yesterday’s news. His thoughts were locked onto the photos. "How good is Walster?"

"One of the best. The team at the Tribune rate him high. Some say he’ll soon make captain; he seems to wrap cases others can’t."

Kyle sipped at his beer, not even noticing the taste. When the glass was empty, he continued to toy with it, making new circles on the tabletop that erased earlier ones.

"I’m almost afraid to ask," Randy said, breaking a long silence, "but is there anything else I can do?"

"I could use a good investigative agency. And I need a cell phone."

Randy slipped out a business card and jotted an address on the back of it. "The cell outfit I use has an office close to your apartment." He handed the card to Kyle, then continued. "I suppose you want to be able to trust that agency, right?"

"That’s so."

"Any idea how many guys you’ll need?"

He shook his head. "Sis was the target, buddy. The others died to cover that. So, as you noted, it could be something big. But there’s a sequence to things. Patterns emerge. First we wait to see what develops."

"If nothing does?"

"I’ll try to get that cop to move. If I can’t, a good investigative team might make it happen."

"I know a couple of good PIs who work solo. No big outfit comes to mind. Let me check around. Call me tomorrow after lunch?"

"Will do," he said, then looked up, his dark eyes empty of emotion. "Thanks for stepping in, buddy. I’m not on my game just now, so it matters a lot."

"I had no choice," Randy said quickly. "Not with that look in your eyes."

"I didn’t know it showed," he said. "I’ll have to work on that."

"That may take some doing." Randy stood, settled the strap of his bag on his shoulder, then strode toward the exit.

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