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thirty miles south, to Dauphin Island. It’s an expensive community, but when my mother passed away, I inherited enough to buy a house outright. It was actually my second home on the island, the first turned to kindling by Hurricane Katrina. I never complain about paying insurance premiums anymore.
    I pulled onto my short street and saw a silver Audi in my drive, Danielle Danbury’s car, the bumper festooned with bird-watching and wildlife stickers. I parked beneath my house, climbed the stairs, and stepped inside.
    Dani yelled, “I’m heading out to the deck. Join me.” The deck doors slid closed with a thump. I stood in the living room, hearing only the soft hiss of the air conditioner. Normally Dani would have met me at the door.
    What was up?
    I paused to yank off my tie, toss it over a chair, follow it with my jacket. The shoulder holster and weapon went to my bedside table.
    I heard the deck door slide open. “Where you at, Carson?”
    â€œChanging.”
    â€œGet it in gear, pogobo.”
    Pogobo —and its diminutive, pogie —came from po lice go -lden bo -y, coined by Dani after Harry and I were made Officers of the Year by the mayor. Most of the time we were homicide detectives, but once in a great while we were the Psychopathological and Sociopathological Investigative Team. PSIT, or Piss-it, as everyone called it, started as a public relations gimmick a few years back, never intended to be activated. But somehow it was, somehow it worked, and somehow it bought us Officers of the Year commendations. The honor turned out to be, as Harry had promised, worth less than mud.
    I slipped into cutoffs, T-shirt, and running shoes a half mile short of disintegrating. At the kitchen sink I slapped cool water over my face and glanced out the window. Dani paced beside the deck table; on it something was hidden beneath my kitchen towel. I dried my face on an oven mitt and went to the deck.
    The waning day remained beautiful and springlike, enhanced by a salt tang breezing up from the strand. Gulls followed a school of baitfish in the small breakers, keening and diving. Several pleasure boats bounced across the Gulf, including a big white Bertram I’d seen a lot lately. High above, a single-engine plane banked at the far edge of the sky, so small it looked like a lost kite.
    Dani stood beside the towel-shrouded tabletop in white shorts and red tank top. Sunlight shimmered from her ash-blond hair, her big gray eyes made blue by the bright sky. I raised my eyebrows at the table.
    â€œA magic show? You’re going to make a rabbit appear?”
    She snapped off the towel. Centering the table was a bottle of pricey champagne iced down in a plastic salad bowl, flanked by my two champagne flutes, $1.49 apiece at Big Lots.
    Dani thumbed the cork from the bottle and froth raced out behind it. She filled the glasses, handed one to me.
    â€œWe’re drinking to my elevation from reporter to”—she lifted her glass in toast—“a full-fledged anchor.”
    I stared like she was speaking in tongues. “What?”
    â€œThey’re making me an anchor, Carson. I start this week.”
    â€œThis is out of the blue.”
    I saw the edge of a frown. “Not really. I’ve felt it coming for a few weeks, caught hints. Heard a few feelers.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell me?”
    â€œIt’s June, Carson. When was the last time we had a real conversation? Early April?”
    â€œI was working.” I heard myself get defensive.
    â€œI tried to tell you a couple weeks back. But one time you shushed me and went on writing in your notepad, and the other time I looked over and you were asleep.”
    â€œWhy not a third attempt?”
    She didn’t appear to hear the question.
    â€œI’ll start by subbing for anchors when they’re out. Do weekends. Get viewers used to me.”
    â€œThey’re already used to you.”
    â€œPeople only