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brought me here couldn’t tell me a thing.”
    Wouldn’t tell was more likely than couldn’t tell, but I was under no such constraints. I told her what I knew. That we’d been working; that we’d stopped off at the Doghouse for a dinner break; that Pickles had excused himself to make a pit stop. After that, for reasons I didn’t understand, it had all gone to hell, with Pickles caught up in a shootout in the parking lot.
    I had finished telling the story when a doctor emerged from behind closed doors. He sought out Anna, spoke with her in a low, grave voice, and then took her back through the swinging doors with him into the treatment rooms. Anna walked away from me without so much as a backward glance. Considering the seriousness of the situation, I didn’t blame her. I waited around awhile longer. When no one came out to give me an update, I finally gave up. On my way home, I stopped by the department to write up my report. That’s when I learned that even with the help of timely eyewitness information, Pickles’s two assailants had disappeared without a trace.
    It was far later than it should have been when I finally drove into the garage at our place on Lake Tapps. The kids were already in bed, and so was Karen. I poured myself a McNaughton’s—­probably more than one—­and sat there waiting for sleep to come. I worried about whether Pickles would make it, but I have to say, not once that day—­not one single time—­did it ever occur to me that Pickles was the one who shot Lulu McCaffey, but of course, that was just me. I was his partner. What did I know?
    When I got to work the following morning, the world had changed. Captain Tompkins called me into his office, where he gave me the welcome news that Pickles was still alive. He was gravely ill and still in Intensive Care, but he was resting comfortably and his condition was listed as stable.
    In other words, as far as his health was concerned, Pickles was in better shape than could have been expected. As far as his career was concerned, however, he was not. It turned out that the slug the medical examiner had pulled out of Lulu McCaffey’s body had come from Pickles’s gun.
    As of now, Internal Affairs was on the case. In spades.
    The captain sent me straight upstairs to IA, where I spent the next three hours being interviewed by the IA investigator assigned to the case. Lieutenant Gary Tatum was a guy with attitude who was used to throwing his weight around and having ­people dodge out of the way. We detested each other on sight. I wanted to tell him what Pickles had told me about two guys running away. Tatum didn’t want to hear it. He was far more interested in what I knew about the “well-­known” feud between Pickles and the dead waitress. I told him about Pickles’s water-­in-­the-­crotch experience with Lulu McCaffey, not because I thought it was funny but because it was the truth.
    Lieutenant Tatum listened to my version of the story and then nodded. “I’ve heard that one before.” He said it in a bored fashion—­as though he hadn’t needed to hear it again from me. “But as I understand it, that was a long time ago—­a ­couple of years anyway. There has to be something more recent than that—­something more serious—­for them to get in this kind of beef.”
    â€œThere wasn’t any beef,” I explained. “Detective Gurkey went to take a leak. I’m not sure why he went outside, but he was there when whatever went down went down. He may have been in the parking lot when Lulu was shot, but that doesn’t mean he did it.”
    Tatum gave me his phony Cheshire cat grin complete with an offhand head shake that implied he wasn’t buying a word I said and that he thought I was a complete idiot.
    â€œDetective Gurkey’s prints are on the gun,” Tatum told me. “His are the