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  The man turned and walked away.

  Dorothy stopped her subterfuge.

  "I don't actually have a camera. But God almighty I love being a reporter.

  Okay, you win. We're on background. What happened in there?" I told her.

  She was disappointed, as I assumed she would be.

  "That's it?"

  "That's it. Except I did hear one FBI agent whispering to another FBI agent that they thought they found the white van that drove away in the King Soopers lot up the street."

  "The what?"

  "The white van that drove away behind me? They think they found it in a grocery-store parking lot not far from here" She was scribbling, "King what?"

  "King Soopers-two o's-it's a supermarket chain."

  "Guy must have switched cars in the lot. Smart. I gotta go." She stuffed her pencil back into her bag.

  "I'm staying at the Giorgio. You know where that is?"

  "No."

  She shrugged and laughed.

  "Me neither. I hope there's somebody around here who can give me directions."

  Near sunset, Lauren sat down beside me on the deck outside our bedroom. There are two decks that face the mountains on our house. One is outside the living room dining room; the other is off our new master bedroom. She had already made me dinner and cleaned up the kitchen. Now she handed me a cognac on ice. I was being pampered. We waited until the sun finished its lazy decline behind the Continental Divide, enjoying the show. She said, "Pretty sunset." For a hundred miles to the north and to the south the clouds were lighting up like coral.

  "Gorgeous," I agreed.

  "Hon?"

  "Yes" "You should have asked for an attorney. Right away." The tone she employed was less scolding than her words.

  "If you were questioning me, you wouldn't have wanted me asking for an attorney."

  "My point exactly."

  "I didn't do anything."

  "I wish that mattered more often than it does." She started rubbing my neck with her left hand.

  "I'm just glad you're okay. Were you scared?"

  "Terrified. More for that reporter from the Post than for myself, though. She was right in the line of fire." I sneezed suddenly, which startled both of us.

  She blessed me.

  I said, "Right after? You know what was going through my mind? I was thinking about the baby. As soon as that van drove away, my first thought was of the baby. I don't want anything bad to happen to any of us. You know? You have those feelings sometimes?"

  She touched my arm.

  "I know. Yes, I do. Frequently."

  I was startled again as one of the French doors that led to the deck outside the living room opened. We weren't expecting any guests. Reflexively I jumped up and shielded Lauren's abdomen with my body.

  "You guys out here? Hey, there you are." Sam Purdy stepped out on the deck.

  "Didn't hear Emily barking, was afraid you weren't home. You really should lock your doors." "Hi Sam," I said.

  "You scared me."

  "I knocked. I said 'yoo-hoo." Hi Lauren. How's the baby? You're feeling just fine, I hope."

  "Good, Sam. Thanks. How're Simon and Sherry?"

  "Simon's Simon. Kid just breezes through life. Sherry's working too hard.

  People die, people want flowers. People get married, people want flowers.

  Economy's good, people want flowers. And it's Boulder, so she can't get good help. Hey, where's the dog?"

  "Over visiting Jonas across the way. They're becoming pretty tight with each other."

  Sam eyed the four-foot expanse that separated the two decks.

  "Tell Jonas he has to learn to share. I'm not giving up any claims to Emily."

  He pointed at the deck we were on.

  "So how do I get from here to there?"

  Lauren was afraid Sam was going to climb, or worse, try to jump.

  "How about we join you over there. That deck's larger. Get you a brandy, Sam?"

  "You got beer? Last time I was here you gave me one with a trout on the label.

  I liked that."

  "Of course."

  Sam Purdy was a detective with the Boulder Police Department. Years ago we met over a case, as adversaries. It had taken a while, but he'd become one of my best friends. We saw eye to eye on almost nothing in life, but it didn't seem to matter. He liked guns, rodeos, fishing, porterhouse steaks, the Milwaukee Brewers, and hockey. I could live with hockey. But I was an advocate of gun control and American Humane, didn't understand piercing fish cheeks with metal spikes for recreation, was trying not to eat much beef, and could never remember what sport the Brewers played.

  Still, I'd trust Sam Purdy to help deliver my baby.

  Lauren walked to the kitchen to get Sam his Odell's porter. After I had woven through the house to the living room, I found my friend still standing at the rail on the deck. He said, "Heard through the grapevine that you were out dodging bullets today." Hearing it said out loud, I shivered.

  "You heard right. As a recreational activity, all I can say for it is that it ranks well ahead of needing to dodge bullets and not quite pulling it off. I've been thinking about what Winston Churchill said-"Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result."

  "I like that-there's definitely some truth in that. Case you're wondering, I made a call for you. The two victims are going to be fine. Both just lacerations from the ricochets. Ones already been released from the hospital.

  The other one got a fragment in the eye. Nothing serious."

  "That's good. Neither of them was Welle, right? Nobody at the scene would tell me."

  "No, Welle wasn't even in the vicinity. He was still inside the building. So what were you doing there? At Welle's fund-raiser? You turning over a new political leaf? Something I might actually endorse?"

  Politics was another one of those areas where Sam and I didn't exactly see eye to eye.

  "Hardly. I needed to talk with Raymond Welle about an old case of his. I had an appointment to meet with him before the reception that he was at when everything went crazy."

  "What? You were talking to him about a psychology thing?" I vacillated for a fraction of a second before I said, "Yeah," and knew that my brief hesitation wouldn't escape Sam's scrutiny.

  "But not just a psychology thing?" he asked.

  I said, "Remember A. J. Simes?" I knew he did. Sam had been intimately involved in helping Lauren and me sort out the mess with A. J. and her partner the previous year.

  "Sure."

  "She called recently and asked for my help investigating an old case she's working on. My role involves talking to Welle."

  He lowered his elbows to the deck railing, leaned over, and cupped his chin in his palms.

  "Is it Locard business?"

  I exhaled audibly and shook my head a little before turning to face him.

  "How the hell do you know about Locard?"

  He laughed, and I felt the day's tension begin to tumble from my musculature.

  "I checked her out for you last fall, if you recall. A. J.? You wanted some background research."

  "Oh yeah."

  "When I turn over rocks, I'm thorough. So is it Locard business that you're helping her with?" I nodded. He asked, "What's the case?"

  "Two teenage girls were murdered up near Steamboat Springs in 1988. Place called the Elk River Valley Their bodies stayed hidden all winter. Were found during the spring thaw."

  It obviously rang a bell.

  "I think I remember that. The snowmobile thing? That one?"

  "Yes"

  "I do remember it. Weren't they mutilated or something? What's the connection to Raymond Welle?"

  Again, Sam noticed my hesitation. He said, "A. J. asked you not to talk to me about all this, didn't she?"

  "Not in so many words, Sam." I decided right then that I wasn't going to keep him in the dark.

  "Welle used to be a psychologist in Steamboat. You knew that?"

  He nodded.


  "When Welle was still in practice he treated one of the two murder victims in psychotherapy. This was back when he was just a clinician, before his radio fame and political fortune."

  I guessed that Sam was still working on trying to figure out two things. One, why A. J. didn't want him to know about me being involved in Locard. Two, why the hell A. J. thought I could be of any help.

  Sam asked, "So, did you have your meeting? With Welle?"

  "Yes. We talked before all the fireworks."

  He examined his fingernails and half-jokingly he said, "You wouldn't want to tell me what he said."

  "Sorry," I said.

  "Why were you still hanging around? You said your meeting with Welle was before this campaign thing."

  "A reporter kind of hijacked me. Thought I might know something about illegal fund-raising practices she's investigating."

  "Regarding Welle?"

  "Yes."

  His eyebrows elevated a smidgen.

  "Do you?"

  "Nope."

  Sam cracked the knuckles on the little finger of his left hand. Then he did the right.

  His silence made me nervous. I said, "Lauren's helping out, too. With Locard.

  She's the local legal connection."

  The French door opened behind us and Emily barked once until she recognized our guest. The dog loved Sam Purdy and almost knocked him over while displaying her affection. Lauren told her to get off of him and said, "Here's your beer, Sam," and handed him a bottle with a cutthroat trout on the label.

  He gazed at the bottle with some curiosity. He shook his head and mused, "Never thought I'd prefer one of your froufrou beers to a Bud. Wonder what's happening to me." I said, "I was just telling Sam about Locard."

  We were still standing at the rail of the deck. The pastels had totally dissolved from the clouds and the western parts of the valley were starting to be soaked in dusty black. Behind us, Lauren lowered herself to the end of a weathered teak chaise. She said, "Ah."

  Lauren had made an angel food cake before dinner. She excused herself and went inside to whip up a fresh strawberry sauce for it. I asked, "When you made your calls today, Sam, did you hear anything about threats? Against Raymond Welle?

  There seemed to be a lot of security around when I was there."

  He shook his head.

  "Nobody said anything to me about any threats. But a lot of security doesn't mean much. Controversial politicians travel with plenty of muscle these days.

  They need to. And Welle's a controversial politician. You know something specific about that? About threats?"

  "No."

  He sipped some beer.

  "Do you wonder about a connection? Between what you're doing for Locard and the shooting?"

  I was surprised at the question.

  "No. Of course not. Not at all."

  "Why not?"

  "Just don't see any relevance."

  He swallowed a yawn.

  "You have to admit it was a pitiful assassination attempt.

  I mean-a major amateur act. A nine-millimeter handgun at over a hundred feet?

  The target not even in clear sight?"

  "That's not totally accurate, Sam. There was a guy at the door who looked kind of like Welle. And who's to say it wasn't an amateur? As you just pointed out, Welle is plenty controversial. I'm sure he stirs up some resentment among that segment of the citizenry that is fond of guns and struggles with impulse-control problems."

  He tapped his fingernail on the edge of his chair.

  "And my guess is that reopening old murder investigations tends to stir up resentment among those people who are not only fond of guns but also have old homicide problems. You know what they say about sleeping dogs."

  He was being obtuse, making me guess at things. It was his way of telling me what a pain in the ass I was being.

  "You think somebody was trying to keep Welle from talking to me because of some old murders?"

  Sam shrugged. His eyes were locked on the prairie grasses below the deck. It was apparent to me that my arguments were weighing on him with all the gravity of a slight fluctuation in atmospheric pressure. He said, "You're sure this out-of-town reporter you were talking to doesn't know anything about the Locard investigation?"

  "Not unless she's lying to me."

  He found that denial particularly amusing.

  "God, that would be a first. A reporter misleading a source. Wow."

  I smiled.

  "She doesn't seem to know anything."

  "And Welle wasn't evasive with you?"

  I thought back on the interview.

  "Sure he was, a little. But he's a politician.

  He's evasive by nature."

  Sam's smile was cunning.

  "That's the facile explanation. It's also possible that he knows something he'd rather you not know he knows. Being linked to an old murder of teenage girls, even tangentially, is not exactly the stuff of a politician's dreams while he's running for the Senate."

  I thought about it before responding.

  "Raymond Welle rode the crest of his wife's murder pretty well, Sam, if you remember. Rode it all the way to national prominence on the radio, then to a seat in Congress. I don't think this investigation would swamp him, even if news about it got out. He'd probably use it to try to prove his point about our degenerate society."

  "You done with him? Welle?"

  I thought of the case notes I'd requested.

  "No, probably not. If I had to guess I'd say I'll probably talk with him again."

  "Some advice? Keep an eye out when you do. Things may not be what they seem."

  "And sometimes," I said, "a cigar is just a cigar."

  He shook his head a little to let me know I wasn't really getting it.

  "These cold cases… they aren't really ever very cold, especially not to the people who might get burned by them. The more you stir up the embers, the more dangerous everything becomes. Sleeping dogs," is how he concluded.

  "Sleeping dogs."

  "Are you suggesting you don't like what Locard is doing?"

  "No, no. Not at all.

  What I'm suggesting-no, what I'm guaranteeing-is that whoever murdered those two girls isn't going to like what Locard is doing. Don't forget it."

  Lauren arrived with the news that dessert was ready. Sam finished his beer in one long pull and stood to go inside.

  After Sam left to go home, I called A. J. Simes. It was almost eleven on the East Coast. A. J. sounded exhausted. I asked if she was feeling okay.

  "Good enough," was her reply.

  She'd heard about the shooting at the tennis house, of course; it was one of the lead stories on the national news. She didn't know I'd been a witness at the event. Her curiosity about the ambush was cursory, however. She implied that the FBI members of Locard would funnel any necessary information into the pipeline, information more reliable than my impressions. The questions that were foremost on A. J."s mind had to do with my interviews with Taro Hamamoto and Raymond Welle and my impressions of the psychotherapy Welle had done with Mariko Hamamoto.

  I shared my conclusions, told A. J. that it looked like Welle had done a decent enough job with Mariko and that his story about her presenting problems and the therapy outcome was consistent with Taro Hamamoto's account.

  "Hamamoto didn't tell me anything about his daughter that we didn't already know. He's still trying to come to terms with it, A. J. With the murder."

  "Wouldn't you be?" she replied.

  "I'm sure I would." I informed A. J. that I was about to fax her a detailed report about my trip to Vancouver to see Mariko's father. I asked, "Does Locard have any information about a drug arrest in Steamboat Springs involving Mariko and Tami maybe six, eight months prior to their disappearance?"

  "No. Absolutely not. What kind of arrest?"

  "Possession. According to Taro Hamamoto, the girls were picked up smoking dope with some tourists."

  "And?"

  "He says the ch
arges were eventually dropped. Why doesn't Locard know about this?"

  "I don't know. But I'll look into it."

  I then told A. J. about the contacts I'd received from Dorothy Levin. A. J. peppered me for details about Levin's calls and questions, and asked twice for reassurance that Ms. Levin wasn't on to the Locard investigation.

  Twice I gave her the reassurance. I also relayed my suspicion that Dorothy had a source inside Welle's Washington, D. C." office. A. J. seemed to concur with that impression.

  We discussed strategies for what I should do next. She wanted me to write up what I had so far, then sit tight while some other avenues were being developed.

  "What other avenues?" I asked.

  "Soon," she said.

  "And under no circumstances should you contact Welle again without clearing it with me first."

  "How about talking with some people who knew the girls? Would that be okay?"

  "No one in Welle's camp?"

  "No"

  "Fine. And Alan? You're doing a great job."

  "Oh, A. J.? One last thing."

  "Yes."

  "I'd like to talk with Hamamotos other daughter"

  "I assumed that would be your next request. You're convinced it will add something?"

  "She was old enough when her sister was murdered to be a reliable informant about her sister's lifestyle. And there are no records of interviews with her in the material you sent me."

  "None? You're sure."

  "I've checked twice."

  "Go ahead and plan it. I'll talk to the committee and let you know if there's a problem."

  The moment I hung up with Simes the phone rang again.

  "It's me. Dorothy. You survive all the excitement?"

  "Yes. You find your hotel okay?"

  "I did, I did. If you're ever looking for it, it's a black glass box behind a bank. What I'm calling about is… I just want to know your impression of what you saw today. Now that things have settled a little bit. No more bullets whizzing past our heads. Was Welle really the target? What do you think?"

  I was silent while I thought about how I wanted to answer. Just when I was about to speak, she said, "Don't worry. We're still on background." I heard her take a bite of something.