T. Parker: Cold Pursuit

Grothke stared at him. "I suspect that to be the case. He was her attorney and wanted to see to her best interests. He had the hots for her, too, if you know what I mean."

"He got Pete killed."

Grothke nodded. He looked long and hard at the tape recorder but said nothing.

"When you found them in your son's safe, you took them back."

"I put them in the bag and put the bag in the ice cream and forgot. I found my favorite trout flies in the freezer once. Years ago. I'd set each one in its own compartment of the ice cube tray, then filled them with water. They were beautiful cubes."

McMichael read the other letter, then sat back and looked out the window to the weakening afternoon light. "You would have made a good detective, Mr. Grothke. You're a tad slow these days, but you get the job done."

"I'm ninety-two."

"You just cracked your first case."

"Do you offer a reserve or volunteer program?"

"Yes, we do," said McMichael. He had a brief vision of Old Grothke riding along on patrol, red blanket folded over his ancient lap. "I'll get you the information."

But first, McMichael thought, I'm going to talk with your son.

Young Grothke denied ever reading the letters. Saw them, yes; read them, no. He said he looked everywhere he could think of, trying to help his confused father out of a professional embarrassment, then reasoned that the old man had misplaced them or even destroyed them in a fit of senile dementia. He told Patricia what had happened, because she was part of the family and he thought she might know why they were important. She said that they probably related to Pete Braga's attempted naming of a church after himself or his wife, because Pete had talked several times about this. Pete was in a huff about the diocese, as he was with most things. Just why Patricia had pretended not to know what the letters said was a matter of her deception, not his.

Grothke sweated profusely during the interview. He would not allow a tape recording. He finally stopped answering questions by citing Fifth Amendment protections and asked McMichael to get out of his house so he could watch what was left of the game.

"You and Patricia have a little thing going?" McMichael asked.

"An attorney-client relationship is all we ever had," said Grothke.

But his face told another story altogether.

"You tell me the whole truth here, Mr. Grothke, and there's a chance I can help you."

"I'm innocent, Detective."

"Then I'd like to clear up some details. How about ten o'clock tomorrow morning? Downtown, unless you'd rather do it here. You have a right to an attorney, if you think you need one. You'll probably spend some time in the jail before you post bond, if one is granted."

Grothke's face went from red to white as McMichael heaved upward and got the crutches in place.

"You don't understand. I was only trying to help her," he said. His voice trembled.

"Mind if I sit back down, Mr. Grothke?"

"No. Please."

"I'll need to record this."

"I have absolutely nothing to hide."

"I'm sure that's true. We'll just get comfortable and talk. Turn on the game if you'd like, but keep the volume off."

By the time he got home it was dark and cold and his head ached and his leg was throbbing. He took a pain pill and poured a short tequila. For a while he watched the moon rise beyond the palm tree outside his window. The drugs made him feel still and uncomplicated.

He wrote Johnny a letter, something he often did when he couldn't be with his son and a phone call just wasn't enough. He kept it informative, trying to describe in matter-of-fact terms how it felt to fall into the black ocean from a bridge two hundred feet high. He tried to give his crutches and stitches a humorous slant. He said to give Brownie a hug for him. When he finally wrote "I love you and miss you" at the end, it felt like the only thing he'd really wanted to say in the first place.

He ate Raegan's stew for dinner. He was leaning against the sink counter when he heard the knock at the door. He got onto the crutches, swung into action.

Sally Rainwater stood in the porch light, wrapped in a long black coat. Hair down, jeans and boots.

"You okay?" she asked.

"I feel great."

"I meant it."

"So did I, Sally. You're the best thing my eyes could have seen."

The expression on her face was not quite a smile. "I've been thinking."

"There's room for that in here."

He pushed open the door with a crutch and tried to stand back but she put her arms around him. He couldn't move and couldn't speak and didn't want to.

I sincerely thank Dave Bridgman, San Diego PD Firearms Instructor (retired), for his generous introductions to San Diego law enforcement and to International Practical Shooting Confederation competition. Also, Captain Ron Newman (retired) for his overview of the Robbery/Homicide/Special Investigations Unit of San Diego's fine police force.

Thanks to Lieutenant George Foote, Lieutenant Lisa Miller and Deputy Sean Zdunich of the San Diego Sheriff's Department for getting me into jail and back out.

Many thanks to Chuck Bencik of the San Diego Historical Society, who provided me with much information on the once majestic but now departed tuna fleet. In particular, August Felando's outstanding series of articles published by the Maritime Museum Association of San Diego, which reminded me that history happens quietly, one second at a time.

Researcher Sherry Merryman unearthed some arcane and disturbing facts for me, as she has done before and I hope she will do again.

Thanks to Sal Proetto and Matt Parker for fishing stories.

Thanks also to Meg Eastman for her help on the subjects of creation and evolution.

And thanks to Larry Ragle, retired head of the Orange County Sheriff-Coroner Department crime lab, for still more good advice.

As always, the truth is theirs and the mistakes are mine.

T. Jefferson Parker

Fallbrook, California

Jefferson Parker is the New York Times bestselling author of six novels, including The Triggerman's Dance and Where Serpents Lie.