Spiral

tuning pegs at the top of his guitar. A second guitarist and a drummer rounded out the group.
    The small square bar inside the entrance was full, but I saw two empty stools on the left side of a larger oval bar in the middle of the room. As I got there and took the closest seat, a barkeep cleared the empty glasses of the recently departed and swabbed the drink rings with a towel.
    ”What’ll you have?”
    I didn’t see any draught pulls. ”No taps?”
    He pointed to a shelf of sample bottles above him. ”All of those, and Harp as well.”
    ”A Harp, please.”
    As he said, ”You got it,” I missed the name of the next piece, which the saxophonist also announced could be found on ”our latest CD.” There was a swelling of applause before the first chord, and the song turned out to have a salsalike beat, the sax establishing as pretty a melody as I’d heard in years.
    The bartender set the bottle of Harp on a coaster in front of me. ”Glass?”
    ”No, thanks.”
    As he turned away, I felt a hand rest lightly on my left shoulder and whiffed a little perfume mixed with that distinctive tang of female perspiration.
    Sergeant Lourdes Pintana leaned into my ear to say, ”How much have I missed?”
    I watched her fold onto the stool next to mine and arrange a tote-sized handbag between her feet, the strap around one ankle. She wore a lime-green blazer and pale-yellow skirt, the hem riding eight inches above her knees.
    I leaned toward Pintana, but not as closely as she had to me. ”Just got here myself.”
    The bartender automatically brought over a clear, carbonated drink with a straw. She nodded to him, then glanced at the guitarist before leaning into my ear again. ”His name is Mark Vee. Enjoy.”
    We sat in silence as Vee contributed three minutes or so of virtuouso lead before yielding back to the sax. Pintana and I joined in the applause, the guitarist grinning shyly.
    Pintana leaned into me again, this time her lips actually brushing the hair over my ear. ”He’s from Chile.” She reached for some purple bookmarks on the bar to her left, putting one in front of me and pointing to a photo and caption under it. ”The sax man’s Joe Sha-shaty, Lebanese heritage. And this is a list of the other places they’ll be playing this month.”
    I watched her lips close on the straw sticking up from her glass.
    When the piece ended, there was an ovation of applause, whistling, and cheering. Then Sha-shaty announced they’d be taking a short break and reminded us to be good to the bartenders and waitresses.
    As the crowd quieted, some getting up to leave, Pintana leaned into me again. ”They’re as good as you’ll hear live.” I looked at her.
    ”What’s the matter?” she said, leaning back now.
    ”When you asked me here this morning, I told you about what happened to me.”
    A neutral expression. ”The women in your life.”
    ”Who were in my life. I’m not claiming sexual harassment, but you don’t have to blare into my ear for me to understand your words.”
    A mask came down over Pintana’s features. ”Remember I told you about Kyle taking a bullet for me?”
    ”Yes.”
    ”Before I put the shooter down, he capped off another round about two feet from the right side of my head.”
    ”Got you.” I closed my eyes. ”Sorry.”
    ”Thirty percent hearing loss in this ear. So I sometimes overcompensate, especially with background noise like—” Opening my eyes, I turned toward her. ”I said I was sorry.”
    Pintana hardened the mask, then let it slide off like a gossamer veil. ”You would be a hard man to love, and an impossible one to leave.”
    I picked up my Harp. ”Now’s who’s getting ahead of themselves?”
    She dipped toward her drink instead of raising it, the lips once again on the straw before she straightened again. ”You called me.”
    ”About Malinda Dujong.”
    ”I’m waiting.” v
    I told Pintana about Dujong’s message on my voice mail at the hotel and what I learned from visiting the tennis club, including not listening to Dujong’s own tape machine.
    ”Department policy says forty-eight hours before we classify it a missing person.”
    ”Hasn’t been that long yet.”
    ”And might never be. All I’ve heard so far is she makes one call to you, blows off a tennis game, and forgets to water some plants.”
    It was a way to see it. ”When I spoke with Dujong yesterday afternoon at Spi Held’s house, she told me something she said didn’t come up when