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“is that K. C. Riley is probably a whole lot like you: tiger on the job, pussycat at heart.”
    â€œOh, puleeze.” I rolled my eyes in exasperation.
    â€œWhy not give McDonald a call when he gets home?” she said. “He’ll probably need lots of TLC after Ground Zero. Be sweet, check it out. Maybe nothing’s going on there. Maybe they’re buddies. You know cops. How they like to hang out with other cops, live in the same neighborhoods—”
    â€œYeah, and they tend to intermarry. I never returned his last message,” I confessed glumly.
    She frowned. “You need a blood test,” she said, “to see if any is getting to your brain. I thought you and him were—”
    â€œSo did I, Lottie.” I sighed impatiently. “So did I.”
    â€œWhat about Fitzgerald?” she asked. Dennis Fitzgerald is an investigator for the Volusia County state attorney’s office, and we had hit it off when an old case brought him to Miami.
    â€œA great guy,” I said, “but in Daytona Beach, three hundred miles away.”
    â€œHe’d be here in a heartbeat if you’d show a little interest.”
    â€œMy heart just isn’t in it, Lottie.”
    Mercifully, she changed the subject. “So this gal Sunny survived, but did she recover? Living a normal life?”
    â€œI guess so,” I said uncertainly. “As if anybody could after what happened to her. You remember what sixteen was like. Everything was a big deal. A date for the school dance was a matter of life or death. She’s grown up now, must be twenty-nine or so. I wonder if she has a life, or just therapy three or four times a week.”
    â€œPeople are resilient,” Lottie said quietly, “especially kids. We see it all the time. Even close to home, look at little Darryl.”
    â€œRight.” I couldn’t help smiling. “He couldn’t be better. In fact, Onnie gave me one of his new crayon drawings the other day. It’s on my refrigerator; I love it. I think he’s got a real talent, even though he’s only six.” I lifted my glass. “I hope Sunny’s life is happy. Maybe she’s married, with kids of her own. Strange, isn’t it, for us to be here, talking about her like this, knowing something she doesn’t?”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œThat even if she has put that terrible night behindher, it’s back. Nobody outlives the past.” We watched a quarter moon emerge in the darkening sky. “Wherever she is, whatever she’s doing, I wonder if she feels something in the air, senses that her life is about to change.”
    â€œIf that barbecued bandido was one of ’em, she’ll be happy to hear he’s on an elevator ride straight to hell and the rest of ’em may soon git what’s coming to ’em.” She smiled sweetly and winked back at a hunk at the bar.
    An apprehensive chill rippled up my spine. What was Sunny’s life really like? I wondered. How would she react to the news?
    The man at the bar, a smiling sun-bronzed yachtsman named Brad, zeroed in on Lottie like a heat-seeking missile. He was eager to buy us drinks, dance with us to the island music, and whisk us away on a moonlight cruise. She was ready to go, but I wanted an early start in the morning.
    Lottie gave Brad her phone number as he walked us back to her company car, still cajoling us to stay. As we rolled out of the parking lot, her dashboard police scanner crackled to life. Typical Miami night: shots fired in Wynnwood, a hit-run driver fleeing east in the westbound lanes of I-95, and an out-of-control fire at 224 Northwest 14th Street.
    My heart sank. I wanted another Painkiller. “Hear that, Lottie? Fourteenth Street. Let’s go.” I fastened my seat belt.
    â€œOnly one engine company so far,” she protested. “Don’t sound big to me.”
    â€œIt’s big,” I said, a bitter taste