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pundits who chimed in, uninvited, with an opinion about Pope’s life (not to mention the lurid sensationalism of the tabloid press), some of his so-called friends had actually blamed him for the events that had started it all.
    And, who knows, maybe they were right.
    But he suspected that for those who really knew him, there was no ill will behind this gradual abandonment. After a while, trying to console the inconsolable simply becomes too much of a burden. And in the aftermath of that terrible ordeal, Pope had not exactly been the easiest guy to get along with.
    He was scarred. Tainted. A man addicted to distrust and personal failure.
    And as much as he’d like to blame it all on Susan, on what she’d done, he knew that a better man would have faced up to this particular challenge rather than to try to bury it with dope and cards and women.
    He was as much a prisoner as Susan was. A prisoner by choice, who had turned this room, this hotel, into his own private cell.
    He hadn’t been outside its doors in over a year.
     
    T HE PHONE KEPT ringing, reminding Pope that he had a call to answer.
    He clicked it on, said, “This must be serious; you’re calling me at three in the morning. Is Ronnie okay?”
    “She’s fine. How are you, Danny?”
    “You know how many times I’ve been asked that question in the last two years? The answer never changes.”
    “You staying sober?”
    “I don’t drink.”
    “You know what I mean,” Jake said.
    The two of them had spent half their childhood in Ludlow County, California, smoking dope and experimenting with various recreational drugs. There’s not much else to do in the desert. But both had eventually lost interest in the stuff as life became more complicated. Careers and family will do that to you.
    When Pope lost both, however, the first woman whose company he sought was the blessed White Widow.
    “Are you asking me as an officer of the law, or a concerned relative? Although I’m not sure it really matters at this point.”
    “Come on, Daniel, knock it off. It’s me.”
    He and Jake had once been closer than brothers, but time and distance—whether it’s physical or emotional—has a way of eroding even the tightest relationships.
    Jake, however, was one of the few people who hadn’t given up on him.
    Pope sank to the bed, hearing the springs groan, letting himself relax a little. “Sorry, man. Being an asshole is a tough habit to break.”
    “Doesn’t have to be.”
    Pope shrugged. “Use it or lose it, I always say. What can I do for you?”
    “I wasn’t just asking before. I need to know if you’re straight.”
    “Why?”
    “You won’t like this, but I’ve got a case here I need some help with.”
    Pope sighed. He should have known. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard such a request, and he hated it whenever Jake tried to drag him back into his old life. That had been its own kind of prison.
    After the murder, he’d tried to fit in, to resume his work at the clinic and with the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, but had felt like a man who had gained too much weight and was still trying to wear his old clothes.
    “I’m not interested,” he said.
    “Come on, Danny. It’s important. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t.”
    “Sure you would. You’ve been trying to save me from myself since I was twelve years old.”
    “Obviously I’ve failed.”
    Pope smiled. “Now look who’s the asshole.”
    “You need to snap out of this, my friend. Start circulating again. Use that big brain of yours.”
    “I do, twice a night, starting at nine p.m. Not that you’d know.”
    “Actually, I would,” Jake said.
    “Oh? How so?”
    “One of our deputies, a kid named Chavez, drove out to see your show a while back, brought us a DVD of the night’s festivities. You had him up onstage, howling like a goddamn coyote.”
    “That one always goes over big with the tourists.”
    Now it was Jake’s turn to sigh. “What the hell are you doing with