The Narrows

through the parking lot to my car I heard a shriek and turned around to see a woman bouncing and swaying upside down from the end of a bungee cord extending down from a jumping platform at the stern of the Queen Mary. She had her arms clamped to the sides of her torso and I realized that the reason she had screamed was not because of the fear and adrenaline rush of the free fall, but because her T-shirt had apparently threatened to fall down over her shoulders and head, exposing her to the crowd that lined the railing of the cruise ship.
    I turned away and headed on to my car. I drive a Mercedes-Benz sport utility vehicle, the kind some people think helps keep terrorists in business. I don't get involved in such debates but I do know that the people who go on talk shows to argue such things usually pull up in stretch limos. As soon as I got into the car and cranked it, I plugged my phone into the charger and waited for it to come back to life. When it did I saw I had gotten two messages in the forty-five minutes the phone had been out of commission.
    The first was from my old partner Kizmin Rider, who now handled administrative and planning duties in the chief of police's office. She left no message other than a request for me to call her. This was curious because we hadn't talked in nearly a year and that conversation had not been the most pleasant. Her usual Christmas card to me had carried her signature only and not the usual cordial note and promise to get together soon. I wrote her direct number down-at least I still rated that-and saved the message.
    The next message was from Cindy Hinton, the Sun reporter. She was simply returning my call. I started the Benz and headed toward the freeway so I could loop over to San Pedro and the Cabrillo Marina, where Terry McCaleb's Jeep was waiting for me. I called Hinton back on the way and she answered immediately.
    "Yes, I was calling about Terry McCaleb," I said. "I'm sort of re-creating his movements in the last couple months of his life. I assume you had heard he passed away. I remember that the Sun carried an obituary."
    "Yes, I knew. You said on your message last night that you are an investigator. An investigator for what agency?"
    "Actually, I'm a state-licensed private detective. But I was a cop for almost thirty years."
    "Is this related to the missing persons case?"
    "In what way?"
    "I don't know. You called me. I don't understand what it is you want"
    "Well, let me ask you a question. First of all, I know from Detective Ritz over at Metro that Terry had taken an interest in the missing persons case. He studied the facts that were available to him and called on Detective Ritz, offering his time and expertise to work on the case or provide investigative theories. You with me so far?"
    "Yes. I know all of this."
    "Okay, good. Terry's offer to Ritz and Vegas Metro was rejected. What my question is is what happened next? Did he call you? Did you call him? Did you write a story that said he was investigating this case?"
    "And why is it that you want to know these things?"
    "Sorry, hold on a second."
    I had realized I should not have made the call while driving. I should have expected Hinton to be cagey with me and should have known the call would need my undivided attention. I glanced at the mirrors and cut across two lanes to go down an exit. I didn't even see the sign and didn't know where I was going. I found myself in an industrial area where trucking depots and warehouses lined the street. I pulled to a stop behind a tractor-trailer parked in front of the open garage doors of a warehouse.
    "Okay, sorry, I'm back. You asked why I wanted to know the answers to these questions. Well, Terry McCaleb was my friend. And I'm picking up some of the things he was working on. I want to finish his work."
    "There sounds like there is something else, something you're not telling me."
    I thought for a moment of how to handle this. Giving a reporter information, especially a reporter you didn't know, was risky business. It could snap back on you in bad ways. I had to figure out a way to give her what she needed in order to help me, but then I needed to take it all back.
    "Hello? Are you still there?"
    "Uh, yeah. Tell you what, can we go off the record here?" "Off the record? We're not even talking about anything here."
    "I know. I am going to tell you something if I can tell it to you off the record. Meaning, you can't use it."
    "Sure, fine, whatever, we're off the record.