Guilt

'Evasive action,' Dooher said.

Still looking down, she nodded. 'A little, I suppose.'

'I'm sorry. I don't mean to push you.'

She took in a breath, raised her head. Her eyes had a shine in them. 'Penance, too, mostly. Figuring things out.'

Dooher waited. 'This isn't turning into the most modern of conversations, is it? Faith and penance. Sounds like the Middle Ages, or me and Wes on one of our retreats.'

She seemed grateful for the reprieve. 'Wes?'

'Wes Farrell, my best friend.'

'Best friends, another not-so-modern concept.'

Dooher studied her face – something was troubling her, hurting her. He kept up the patter to give her a chance to let the moment pass if that's what she wanted. 'Well, that's me and Wes, a couple of throwbacks. We go on retreats, we call 'em, replenish the soul, talk about the big picture, get reco

'You're lucky, a friend like that.' A pause, adding, 'Still believing in co

He took a beat, making sure. She didn't want to avoid it after all, didn't want to be protected, insulated from whatever it was. Not today, not now. She had decided to get it out, and this was an invitation to him, to ask.

'It's really so trite.'

She liked the way the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. 'Trite happens,' he said.

She leaned forward over the table. 'You know last night when I let you believe I'd been in the workplace after college for a couple of years? That wasn't the truth.'

She watched him for a sign, she wasn't sure of what – displeasure, boredom? Ready to retreat at any provocation. He only nodded, patient and tolerant. Taking a breath, she went on: 'He was a professor at Santa Clara, my adviser. Married, a great guy. You probably know everything I'm going to say, don't you?'

'Do you ever talk about this?'

'No. It's too…' She shook her head.

'I'm here,' he said. 'I'm interested and it won't go any further. If it would help…'

Through the expanse of window, a volley of rain raked the parking area, beat briefly against their portion of the glass, passed over. 'He was going to leave his wife,' she began. 'I guess that's what I had the most trouble with when it was first starting to happen, that I was going to wreck his happy home. Except that he told me that Margie and he didn't love each other anymore, that he was leaving her anyway, it had nothing to do with me… and I guess I wanted to believe that.'

'You're not the first person that's happened to.'

She had turned in her seat, one leg extended on the bench, her elbow on the table, leaning over toward him. The waitress came to clear and they both sat silently, watching her remove dishes, wipe the table down.

'More coffee here?'

After it had been poured, Dooher prompted her. 'It must have been painful. And not so trite after all.'

She was biting her lip again. 'You've only heard the short version – girl falls in love with college professor, who's going to leave his wife for her after she graduates. '

'Christina…'

She held up a hand. 'Listen. It gets worse. Girl has best friend from childhood, let's call her Gi

Christina reached for her cup, took a quick sip, swallowed. She looked over at Dooher, met his eye. 'Girl has abortion,' she said. 'End of story. See? Trite. And PS, professor dumps wife and marries friend Gi

Dooher picked up his mug, holding it with both hands. He blew on it, glanced at the rain outside. That's what the penance is for?'

She nodded. 'I still don't know what to do with it. It's been almost five years…' Sighing. 'It's so fu

Silence.

'So what did you do for the two years before law school?'

'I went home – down to Ojai. I moped around, let my mom and dad take care of me. And then one day my dad and I had a talk about how giving in to grief, too much, is really wrong. Well, that struck a chord, and I decided I had to do something, start living again. So I applied to law school, as if that's living.' She gave him a weak smile. 'Anyway,' she touched her forehead, 'that explains the ashes, the penance.'

'The engagement to Joe Avery?'

That got a rise out of her. 'I didn't say that. Why do you say that?'

Dooher shrugged. 'I don't know. The co

'Well, that doesn't make any sense… I like Joe very much. Love him, I mean. Don't look at me like that!'

Dooher's voice remained measured. 'I'm not looking at you any way. I just made an observation, that's all. I like Joe, too. Hell, I hired him. I shouldn't have spoken so frankly. I thought we were baring our souls here. I didn't mean to offend you. I'm sorry.'

She softened. 'I'm sorry, too. I didn't mean…'

'No, it's all right.' He looked at his watch. 'And it's time for me to go to work. Can I drop you back at school?'

Christina sat straight-backed, pressed against her bench. 'Now you're mad at me.'

Dooher leaned across the table. 'Not at all. You're still applying to the firm? Today, tomorrow, the next day?'

'I said I would.'

'But will you? Now?' He broke a smile. 'After our first fight?'

Gradually, the face softened again. She nodded. 'Yes.'

'Then I'm not mad at you.'

Glitsky closed the door, having just gotten the three boys off to school.

He stood a minute in the tiny foyer, closing his eyes briefly against the constant sting of fatigue. He could hear the voices of his sons.

But he didn't stand still for long. He had about a week's worth of work to do today, which was how he'd arranged it. He would just keep doing things – that was the trick.

Today, Flo was alive, and his boys were healthy and doing fine in school. That's what he would concentrate on. He had five homicides he was investigating, and he was also studying for the Lieutenant's Exam, which he hadn't even decided to take. But it was more busy work.

He looked at his watch. He had to go now into the kitchen, pour himself some tea, get his day moving.

'Abe?' Flo, suddenly awake, called from the bedroom.

'Yo.' Hearty as he could manage. He was already across the living room, stopping in the bedroom's doorway. His wife had propped herself up and she was smiling at him.

'Get 'em off?' She meant the kids.

Glitsky saluted. 'Out of here, on time and looking good.'

She patted the bed and moved over so he could sit. 'What time did you get up?'

'Actually, I had a pretty good night. Got up before the alarm, but not much -I think about six-thirty.'

She searched his face, ran a light finger across the top of his cheek. 'Your eyes have bags.'

'That's just the way they look, Flo. I'm working on them as an investigative tool. Keep me from looking too friendly.'

'Oh yes,' she said, 'that's been a real problem.'

'You'd be surprised,' he said, 'witnesses thinking I'm all warm and fuzzy. I decided I ought to look a little tougher.'

'Good idea. You wouldn't want your sweet nature to show through.'

'People just take advantage. You wouldn't believe.'

Glitsky's mother Emma had been black. His father Nat was Jewish. So Glitsky had a dark-ski