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“Always a comfort.” My partner sighs.

Angelo shrugs. “You want me to lie?”

Okay, stop. Collect your mind. These are your buddies.

My head clears. “Why don’t we arrest Stone now?”

“We don’t have the whole picture. Especially if he’s talking to someone else. We get much more if we wait.”

“It’s hard to read this guy,” Donnato agrees. “Stone’s been running his game so long, he’s lying when he says hello. We’d pull you out if we thought you were in danger. You do know that?”

“It’s not my personal safety. It’s about blowing the operation.”

It is a fear I have been carrying, not of physical danger, but worse—the fear of total humiliation. That you have ruined the operation—you, single-handedly responsible for destroying everything everyone has worked for, like dropping the fly ball on the third out of the last game of the World Series.

Angelo pauses in his pacing, standing against a backdrop of pines. Sunlight pours on his slick wavy hair and tiny gnats pinwheel the shimmering air.

“There are contingencies. If Dick Stone gets too close to you.”

He sits back at the table and we follow.

“Does Stone still have that schmuck Herbert Laumann in his sights?”

“Yes, he does. To get Stone off the kid, I promised I would murder Mr. Laumann. I hope that’s okay.”

Donnato raises an eyebrow. Angelo frowns.

“What is his state of mind?”

“Laumann’s state of mind?” echoes Donnato, as if it were obvious. “Scared to death. Terrified for his family. He’s had enough of being a rock star. He wants out of the spotlight.”

Angelo: “Then let’s take him out.”

I am sitting on top of the picnic table, listening with admiration and relief as Angelo and Donnato plot Laumann’s murder. I scold myself for mistrustful thoughts. These two are pros.

“You’re saying we should take Herbert Laumann out of the picture?”

“If we don’t,” Angelo says, “Stone will have it done.”

“Headquarters will have to authorize the hit. Something this sophisticated would go to the director and the attorney general. It could take weeks.”

Angelo is dismissive. “Someone at headquarters will have to bite the bullet.”

“I know what they’ll say.” For some reason Donnato won’t let it go. “‘What is L.A. trying to pull off now? It’s another argument to stay in longer. What’s the Big One? What the hell does that mean? What are you creating just to keep the operation going?’ Peter Abbott will have to weigh in, and that’s a crapshoot.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn,” Angelo snaps. “What the hell do I care? This will prove her loyalty beyond a doubt. Ana? Are you with us?”

“No screwups,” I say. “No budgetary crap.”

Angelo waves a hand and the sapphire ring glints pink.

“Done it a million times. The Hollywood studios are good at this; they love to help us out. They can do it so it looks like the guy is dead and we fed him to the sharks. You walk up, shoot the victim at close range. He’s got squibs inside his clothing, it’s a big bloody mess, he dies an agonizing death, and we relocate him and his family in the witness protection program. No worries, and Dick Stone thinks you’re the greatest thing since sliced cheese.”

“Believe me,” says Donnato, warming to it, “Laumann will go—happily. But we have to put a fence around the family. They need to be protected twenty-four/seven.”

My mouth has become dry as the pine needles. The hot bleached sky seems to swirl.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Angelo asks, reading me perfectly. “I mean, we all know what you’ve been through.”

The shooting incident.

“I think I have a fairly good handle on reality, Angelo. This is acting. The bullet is a blank.”

But my thinking mind goes vacant as my senses seem to cut off one by one—except for the slight scent of burning brake lining, and a high-pitched chatter, like headphones at full volume pressed against my ears.

Angelo consults his watch. His voice sounds faint. “We can catch the three forty-five to L.A. if we leave right now.”

As they head back toward the car, Donnato says something about scheduling the psychological evaluation.

“You’re going to fake a killing, and I’m the one who