The Night Crew

was,’’ she said. ‘‘I could have been, I think. But we never had a chance.’’
    ‘‘Aw, he’ll straighten out.’’ He took a pull at his Corona, but his eyes never left Anna’s.
    She shook her head: ‘‘You know what, Creek? He’s not coming back. He’s just not.’’
    ‘‘I’m sorry, Anna.’’
    ‘‘Man, there’s only been two guys in my whole life that I ever felt quite like that about,’’ she said. She tried a smile. ‘‘At least I know I can still feel like that about a guy.’’
    ‘‘Mmm.’’ Creek looked away, out the window, at the marina, and the forest of masts, waiting for the sea. Later that night, with Glass asleep in his bed, Creek sat in his cluttered living room reading Sherlock Holmes and the Red Demon. He turned the last page, sighed, put the book down and his feet up. Thought about a beer, rejected the thought. Finally got a sweatshirt, let himself out, quietly, not to disturb Glass.
    He took his Ford pickup out of the Marina, caught the San Diego for a couple of stops, exited on Wilshire, loafed down past UCLA.
    The apartment complex was just past Westwood, one of the glittering glass towers on the south side of the street. The night crew knew most of the bigger complexes—rich people died in them on a regular basis. But even if he hadn’t known where it was through the night crew, he would have gone directly to it anyway: he’d cruised the place a dozen times in the past week, unable to make himself stop.
    This time he did stop, walked across the parking structure in the crisp night air.
    Apartment 976. The place had double doors, and just inside, a row of brass mailboxes. He found 976. Looked at it for a long ten seconds, shook his head, pressed the buzzer.
    Five seconds later, a man’s voice, baritone, not unlike Judge’s voice.
    ‘‘Who is it?’’
    ‘‘My name’s Creek,’’ he said. ‘‘Is this Clark?’’
    ‘‘Yes?’’
    ‘‘I’ve come to see you about a woman,’’ Creek said.
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