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asphalt. Kids with shaved heads bobbing up and down. Throbbing bass beat. Not music. Words. Chanting—shouting to electric drums.
    Ugly, angry rant that passed for poetry.
    Someone shouted and he looked around and checked his rearview mirror.
    A siren shrieked in the distance. Got louder.
    The ultimate danger.
    He pulled to the curb and an ambulance passed and Dopplered to silence.
    Silence had been Irit’s world.
    Had she been cued into some internal universe, able to feel the vibrations of her own heartbeat?
    He’d been thinking about her all day and into the night, imagining and supposing and replaying the scene. But when he began the drive to his friend’s house he forced himself to stop because he needed to concentrate on the present.
    Still, so many distractions. This city .   .   . this neighborhood, all the changes.
    Don’t be shocked.
    He turned off onto a night-black side street, then another, and another, until he found himself in a completely different world: dim, silent, the big houses austere as bureaucrats.
    His friend’s house looked the same, except for the FOR SALE sign staked in front.
    It was good he’d caught him in time.
    Surprise!
    He pulled into the driveway, behind the dark van.
    Touching the gun, he looked around again, got out, alarmed the car, and walked up the flower-lined pathway to the paneled front door.
    Ringing the bell, he uttered his name in response to the shouted “Who is it?”
    The door opened and he got a face full of smile.
    “Hey!”
    He stepped in and the two of them embraced briefly. To his friend’s left was an old mahogany mail table against the wall. On it, a large manila envelope.
    “Yeah, that’s it.”
    “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
    “No problem. Got time to come in? Coffee?”
    “Sure. Thanks for that, too.”
    His friend laughed and they went into the kitchen of the big house.
    The envelope in his hand, stiff and dry.
    The guy had come through. Taking risks.
    But when had anything worthwhile ever come easy?
    He sat and watched as his friend poured coffee, saying, “Easy drive over?”
    “No problem.”
    “Good. Told you it got bad.”
    “Things change.”
    “Yeah, but they rarely improve. So .   .   . you’re back in the game. From the looks of it we’ve got plenty to talk about.”
    “That we do.”
    The hand stilled. “Black, right?”
    “Good memory.”
    “Not as good as it used to be.” The hand paused again. “Maybe that’s for the better.”

Chapter
    10
     
     
     
    “It’s affecting my work,” said Helena. “I see a suicide attempt wheeled into the E.R. and I want to scream, Idiot! I watch the surgeons open a gunshot wound and start thinking about Nolan’s autopsy .   .   . he was so healthy.”
    “You read the report?”
    “I called the coroner until someone spoke to me. I guess I was hoping they’d find something—cancer, some rare disease—anything to justify it. But he was in the pink, Dr. Delaware .   .   . he could have lived a long time.”
    She began crying. Pulled a tissue from her purse before I could get to the box. “The damn thing is,” she said, catching her breath, “I’ve thought about him more in the last few weeks than all the years before combined.”
    She’d come straight from the hospital, still wearing her uniform, the white dress tailored to her trim frame, her nametag still pinned.
    “I feel guilty, dammit. Why should I feel guilty? I never failed him because he never needed me. We didn’t depend on each other. We both knew how to take care of ourselves. Or at least I thought so.”
    “Independent.”
    “Always. Even when we were little kids we went our separate ways. Different interests. We didn’t fight, we just ignored each other. Is that abnormal?”
    I thought of all the genetically linked strangers who’d passed through my office. “Siblings are thrown together by chance. Anything from love to hate can follow.”
    “Well, Nolan and I loved each