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a siren wailed above a chorus of barking dogs.
    “We’ll need more light,” Cantwell told Kapono. “There are flashlights in the garage.”
    Kapono took off at a run.
    “I can’t believe this is happening,” Cantwell said, sounding seriously shaken.
    “Why don’t you sit down?” Templeton suggested.
    “I think I will.”
    Templeton touched my shoulder as I pumped on Farr’s flat belly.
    “Let me know if I can help.”
    I nodded without pausing to look up.
    I worked on Raymond Farr, getting no response, until the paramedics arrived. They took over, went quickly to work, but eventually pronounced him dead.
    Templeton and Kapono stood dutifully by with Cantwell’s big flashlights, beaming them down on the body. Templeton had the intent look of a reporter, her eyes and ears alert. Kapono seemed more in her own world; her mouth had taken on an odd twist, barely noticeable, that suggested a private smile.
    Under the added light, the victim’s skin looked unexpectedly pink, as if he were embarrassed by all the trouble he’d caused. There were no wounds or blood on the body that I could see, no external signs of blunt trauma. I did notice a series of old scars on Farr’s left wrist and hand, pronounced enough to indicate deep cuts at some point in his distant past. The fingers on his right hand were slightly curled and rigid, while those on his left hand were open, looking more relaxed.
    Next, I surveyed the patiolike enclosure. Beneath a shade umbrella, a half-empty bottle of imported Grolsch beer sat upright on a table, distinctive with its emerald-green glass and hinged, reclosable cap. Near it was Templeton’s handbag, notebook, pen, and bottle of Evian water. Cantwell’s outfielder’s mitt lay forlornly on a chair, a telling counterpoint to the somber turn the evening had taken. Cantwell himself sat in the adjacent chair, looking pale and upset.
    I lifted my nose. The air had grown calm and the smell of beer was strong, along with an odd, fainter scent I couldn’t quite identify. The terrace itself had recently been swept clean, and was free of litter or noticeable debris, with one exception—the remains of a torpedo-shaped cigar near the entry, chewed wet on one end, cold ash at the other. A half-smoked Montecristo Number 2.
    By the time I spotted it, a small crowd of the curious or concerned had come down from the house to look on, pushing forward to form a ragged group just inside the passageway.
    Roberta Brickman, Leonardo Petrocelli, and Lawrence Teal were among them. Of the three, Teal appeared the most troubled, though I caught Brickman exchanging a look with Christine Kapono that was as steadfast as it was impossible to read.
    Teal’s agitated eyes were pointed where mine had been only moments before, at the half-smoked cigar that lay a foot or two from where he stood.
    The paramedics asked the onlookers to move back and a shuffling of feet followed. When it settled, I looked again for the cigar, but didn’t see it. Teal was slipping a hand into a pocket of his white shorts. When my eyes went looking for his, they took off faster than a long-legged rabbit in hunting season.
    Moments later, uniformed police arrived and, minutes after that, a homicide detective.
    His name was Claude DeWinter. He was a huge, jowly black man in a dark suit who stood two or three inches above six feet, with a lieutenant’s badge on his belt and a big man’s bellicose manner that instantly put me at odds with him.
    The first thing he did was to pop a stick of sugarless gum into his mouth. The second was to order everyone off the patio who did not personally know the victim or have something pertinent to offer that might explain his death. Everyone else was to leave a name and phone number, and go home.
    Brickman, Petrocelli, Teal, and Cantwell stayed, along with several others I would later learn were former Cantwell students who had met Farr once or twice. Templeton and I also remained.
    Of all the civilians, I was