Edge

pleased to note that, under my care, Maree had learned about getting—and using—an edge.
    She looked down with some pity, it seemed. “Don’t ever call me again.” Then she hiked up her camera bag on her shoulder, turned and, wheeling her suitcase behind her, walked slowly away. I waited to see if Andrew would follow her. He seemed to debate. He grabbed what was left of the shattered frame and flung it to the ground once more. Then he strode off in the opposite direction, his gloved hand pressed against his bleeding nose.
    I dropped back into the driver’s seat and started the car, then turned in the direction Maree had gone. I found her at the next intersection, pausing for the light. She ran her hand through her hair and leaned back, looking up into the deepening sky. She’d be smelling what I was, through the open window of the Volvo, the sweet scent of autumn leaves and the sweeter smell of a fireplace log from a brownstone somewhere nearby.
    The light changed. Maree crossed the street and walked to the tall, glassy Hyatt.
    I eased up to the curb in front of the hotel and stopped, flashed my federal ID to a traffic cop, who nodded and walked on.
    I shut the engine off.
    I watched Maree walk through the revolving door. It paddled slowly to a stop. She looked around and approached the front desk, handing off her suitcase to a bellboy. She greeted the clerk and opened her purse, proffering ID and credit card.
    I studied her for a moment. Then, the last of my principals finally safe, I started the engine and put the car in gear. I eased into traffic, away from the hotel, to return home.

Endgame
    WHEN DRIVING ON the job, I didn’t allow myself the luxury of listening to music: too distracting, as I’d told Bill Carter.
    But on my own time I always had the radio, a CD or a download playing. I liked old-time music but what I meant by that was the period from the 1930s through the ’60s, nothing before and little after.
    Performers like Fats Waller, Sinatra, Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong, Rosemary Clooney, Ella, Sammy Davis, Jr., Dean Martin . . . if the lyrics weren’t stupid. Words were important. That was a concept that the Beatles, say, for all their musicality, just didn’t get. Great music but I always thought they would have created transcendent art if only they’d stopped and thought about what they were writing.
    Now, as I sped away from the District, I was on the Sinatra channel on Sirius satellite radio, which plays a good mix of artists of that era, not just Frank. The voice coming through the speakers was that of Harry Connick, Jr.
    Enjoying the music.
    Enjoying the driving too.
    I’d left the city behind. I’d left Maree and Joanne behind. Ryan and Amanda.
    Henry Loving too.
    They were all, in different ways, permanent farewells.
    Other people too had ceased to exist for me—only temporarily, of course. Freddy was gone, as were Aaron Ellis and Claire duBois, who I hoped was cooking up a storm just now with Cat Man.
    Jason Westerfield had departed earlier from my mental cast and crew as had the woman with the pearls.
    A sign flashed past. Fifteen miles to Annapolis, Maryland.
    Twenty minutes later I pulled up in front of a modest white colonial house not far from the Chesapeake Bay. The wind was tame tonight but I could still hear the waves—one of the things I liked best about the area here.
    I slowed, signaled, though no one was behind me, and turned up a narrow drive, flush with leaves, which bail out earlier here than in the city. I enjoyed raking them—not blowing but raking—and would get to the task tomorrow, the start of my weekend. I braked to a stop, then climbed out, stretched and gathered my computer, gym bag and the shopping bag containing the precious board game.
    Juggling these items, I made my way along the serpentine strip of concrete—crunching leaves underneath—to the front door. I started to set the suitcase down to dig in my pocket for the keys but suddenly it burst open.
    I blinked in surprise.
    Peggy barked a laugh. Small but strong, face dusted with freckles even into her fourth decade, the brunette flung her arms around me and, with thepackages, I nearly went over backward. She steadied us both—strong, I was saying—and, her arm hard around my lower back, we walked into our house.
    “You’re back early.” She frowned. “Should I tell my lover to get out by the bedroom window?”
    “Can he cook?” I said. “Ask him to stay.”
    Peggy gigged me in