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shook with the force of a couple of pile-drivers. I had been the victim of Cello’s
     crushing handshakes in the past, and I knew from my years playing football that you
     got hurt less when you met force with force. “C’mon back. Take a load off your feet,”
     he said, for Maddy’s benefit. Maddy, if I was not mistaken, was married to one of
     the guys who did building inspections for the coastal commission, guys who made sure
     new construction was not too close to the water or didn’t have too many bathrooms
     or nonnative plants in the landscaping, guys who could make life miserable for a lot
     of people if they felt so inclined.
    The chief’s office had fake wood paneling and bookshelves that were filled with trophies
     from youth sports: soccer, swimming, baseball, basketball. I couldn’t imagine the
     chief or his kids having much to do with basketball, given the fact that the chief
     was about five-feet-seven and two hundred forty pounds, but you can’t argue with trophies.
    He went behind his desk, which was strewn with various objects—a coffee mug, a wrist
     brace, a woman’s shoe, an aerosol can, a flywheel—but he did not sit down. He was
     wearing the dark blue uniform of his force, looking like a man ready to spring at
     the sound of an alarm.
    “What do you got?” he asked. He did not do it in an unfriendlyway, just a businesslike way. He and I were neither friends nor enemies, although
     the rules of our engagements required us to appear to others to have a certain camaraderie.
    “You still working on the Heidi Telford matter?”
    “Heidi Telford,” he repeated. “Anything New? It would be a closed case if it weren’t
     for that poor bastard. What do you got?”
    “Just the poor bastard. He’s kind of glommed on to me now. I told him I’d look into
     it.”
    “What’s to look into?” The chief still hadn’t sat. Neither had I. We were talking
     across his desk as if it were a stream that could not be forded. “Girl got her head
     bashed in and then got dumped on the golf course. Thing about that course is, you
     got a fairway runs right along West Street. You go down that street two, three o’clock
     in the morning, you’re gonna be the only one there. Stop alongside the road, pull
     the body out of the backseat, run it out to the fairway. You’re gonna be gone less
     than a minute and that body’s not gonna be found till dawn.”
    “Less than a minute? How much did she weigh?”
    The chief squinted at my impertinence. Then he regrouped. He still was not sure why
     I was there, what I was trying to do. “She wasn’t a big girl. Hundred and ten, hundred
     fifteen pounds at the most. Maybe less, I don’t remember. And maybe it would have
     taken a couple of minutes, get her out of the car, across the fairway, into the trees
     where we found her.” He slung his hand from one side of him to the other. “Point is,
     other than us guys patrolling the place, you’re just not gonna find any traffic out
     there at night. Only people live on West Street are rich ones who are so old they
     fall asleep at nine o’clock at night. What do you got?”
    “And what did she get hit with?” I asked.
    “Probably a golf club. That’s what the medical examiner figured, anyway.”
    “Okay, so correct me if I’m wrong, Chief. The girl’s found on a swanky golf course,
     her head crushed by a golf club. That doesn’t sound like she got picked up by a transient.”
    “Who said she was?”
    “Well, what do you think happened?”
    Perhaps it was the tone of my question. Perhaps I should have shown more deference
     to the chief of police. In any event, Cello DiMasi exploded. “How the fuck do I know?
     If I knew, I’d arrest somebody, don’t you think, Counselor?”
    I smiled. I said I was sure he would.
    He grumped, like maybe it would be best if I just got my overeducated ass out of his
     office, out of his police station, took my bleeding heart out to save the colored
     kids who