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certainly had taken a beating after Manny’s death. He’d liked his brother-in-law, a darkly handsome man with flashing white teeth and a deep belly laugh who’d won his sister in less than thirty minutes upon one meeting over shared drinks. He had wanted to find the conspiracy behind Manny’s death and had rashly chased imaginary leads and listened to gossip and conjecture and reported it as fact.
    He’d really pissed off Koontz, who had friends in high places. For that he wasn’t sorry.
    And since that time he’d been forced from his job—well, technically he’d quit when they’d given him the “retract-or-you’re-fired” speech—he had steered clear of conspiracies, major news stories, and anything that remotely resembled real investigative reporting, until this teenage thievery ring fell into his lap. Was the fact that he was interested in this story progress? Was he ready to give up the bullshit small stories he’d been delivering to the Seaside Breeze and make a run at the big time again? Maybe even try to dig into Manuel Rojas’s death a little deeper again? On his own time, of course, and without involving the Breeze or anyone else? He had friends in high and low places himself, regardless of how he’d been treated in Portland. He sensed that if he were to ever step forward into the larger arena, he would be welcomed by some, reviled by others.
    But did he really even give a damn? He hadn’t for over a year. Yet . . . there was an itch beneath his skin he couldn’t completely deny.
    He shifted his weight and Chico growled again.
    “Oh, shut up,” Harrison muttered without heat, an order that Chico utterly ignored, as the growling continued on as if he’d been encouraged.
    Night had fallen completely, and the shops along Broadway were decked out in bright white lights, giving it a carnival feel. Harrison glanced to his left, to the overhang of the coffee shop/gelato bar/gift shop, where his “quarry” was leaning forward and conversing rapidly with the girl behind the counter. Without looking, he could describe them both in detail: slim, dark-haired, practically nonexistent hips, expensive jeans or cutoffs for weather like today’s, flip-flops, smirky smiles, eyes that exchanged glances with their friends as they made unspoken comments about the rest of the world. The one behind the counter had her hair scraped into a ponytail; the one leaning over the counter was wearing impossibly short cutoffs, so ragged they looked like they might disintegrate. Her hair was tucked behind her ears, and Harrison could see an earring that glimmered as she tossed her head. Diamonds? Fakes? Hers, or something she stole . . .
    Harrison had followed the news and been aware of some unconnected robberies, though it was nothing that initially blipped on his radar. But then, one night while he and Chico were on a walk along the beach neither of them wanted to take, he overheard a girl—the one he was surveilling tonight—talking about hitting the Berman mansion with a group of friends. He’d noted the girl and her friends by habit and watched them get to their feet from the stone bench where they’d been sitting and amble toward Seaside’s main drag, where bumper cars and stands that sold elephant ears stood cheek by jowl with trendy clothing stores, art galleries, and wine shops. The girl he was watching walked up to the counter of the hip gelato/coffee/gift shop and talked in whispers to a girl behind the counter whose eyes narrowed and mouth tightened into a cold, hard smile of relish.
    Two days later the Bermans were robbed, the thieves taking money, jewelry, and expensive handbags.
    And Harrison had thought, Huh.
    The last couple of days he’d made a point of waiting outside the coffee and gelato store with Chico, passing time, his mind traveling of its own accord to Manny and the reasons behind his death. He’d gotten in trouble for suggesting his brother-in-law’s death was more than a random killing,