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taken samples of pool water and collected Arthur’s discarded towel and clothing, the pool’s leaf skimmer, and the tumbler that had been on the patio table.
    It seemed awfully thorough for an accident investigation, so Deirdre wasn’t surprised by the arrival of a man in a suit who climbed over the crime scene tape and talked with a few of the officers, including the one who’d questioned Deirdre and Henry. The newcomer crouched and looked under the tent that covered Arthur’s body. After a pair of attendants zipped Arthur into a dark blue L.A. County Coroner’s body bag, the man stood and approached the house.
    He beckoned to Deirdre through the glass, and she slid the door open. “Miss Unger? I’m Detective Sergeant Robert Martinez.” He showed her his badge and gazed at her from under dark eyebrows. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
    Henry came up behind her. “Detective?”
    “Detective Sergeant Robert Martinez, sir.” The detective’s gaze shifted from Deirdre to Henry. His skin was dark, with the leathery texture of an aging surfer.
    “Do they always send a detective out?” Henry said. “This was an accident.”
    “Unaccompanied death. It’s not unusual. Mind if I come in the house? I have a few—”
    “We’ll come out,” Henry said, nudging Deirdre out in front of him. He followed and slid the door firmly shut.
    “Mr. Unger was a strong swimmer?” Martinez asked when they were settled at the table on the patio.
    “He swam every day,” Henry said. “Like clockwork. Thirty laps.”
    “He often swim late at night?”
    “Sometimes.”
    Martinez shot Deirdre a questioning look.
    “Sometimes,” she said. “Henry would know better than me. I don’t live here.”
    “When did you last see your father?”
    “In person?” Deirdre tried to remember the last time she’d been there.
    “You came up for his birthday, remember?” Henry said. “January.”
    “Right,” Deirdre said. That had been months ago.
    “And the last time you talked to him?” Detective Martinez asked.
    “Last week. He asked me to come up and help him.”
    “Help him what?”
    “Get the house ready to go on the market.”
    Martinez’s eyebrows rose a notch. Deirdre followed his gaze up to the sagging awning over the patio, across the paving stones with their cracked cement riven with weeds, and over to the peeling paint on the frame around the sliding doors. “Was anyone with you last night?” he asked her.
    “No,” Deirdre said.
    “Anyone see you leave your house this morning?”
    “No, I don’t think so. I—”
    “Oh, Christ,” Henry said. “You can’t think—”
    “What about you, sir?”
    Henry’s mouth hung open for a moment. “Last night? I was here. This morning? Asleep until a few hours ago. And no, no one was with me. Just my dogs.”
    “And when did you see your father last?”
    “Last night.” Henry blinked. “No. Yesterday morning. Before I left for work. I didn’t get back until late. After midnight. I went straight to bed. I just assumed . . . Oh my God. You don’t think he’s been out there all night?”
    Martinez gazed impassively back at Henry. “We’ll know more when the coroner has finished examining him. Yesterday morning, when you last saw your father, how did he seem?”
    “He seemed fine,” Henry said. “Normal. He was griping, you know. He liked to complain. And he was hungover.”
    “Your father was a drinker?”
    “He liked a few drinks at night. And he could get maudlin.”
    “Maudlin?”
    “Not wallowing in self-pity or anything. Just kvetching. Short stick. Half-empty glass. But it wasn’t like he was about to kill himself.”
    Suicide? Deirdre hadn’t even considered it. After the way her father had already screwed up her life, she couldn’t believe he’d arrange for her to be the one to find him. But if it wasn’t suicide, and it wasn’t an accident . . . “What are you suggesting?” Deirdre asked.
    “What we know for sure is that your father