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he said to me. Then: “How ya doing, Justine?”
    “I love waking up to a fiery explosion. Doesn’t everyone?” she said, handing him a mug.
    “I do! The bigger the better,” Del Rio said.
    I knew Del Rio better than I knew anyone, and he had full knowledge of a part of my life I didn’t know at all.
    What I remember about that night was that I had set Danny Young’s bleeding body down and then it was as though the ground had erupted. I felt a shocking blow to my chest and that was the end.
    I died.
I went through the tunnel and for all I know, I was coming out the other side.
    I just remember swimming up to the light. My eyes flashed open and there was Del Rio in my face, his hands pressing down on my chest. He laughed and at the same time tears ran down his sooty cheeks. He said, “Jack, you son-of-a-bitch,
you’re back
.”
    He told me later that a chunk of shrapnel had struck my chest. My flak jacket prevented it from penetrating my body, but the concussion stopped my heart. Then the helicopter right behind us blew up and was consumed in flames.
    I wasn’t dead, but so many of my friends died that day. I swear to God, I would have traded my life for any of them.
    I watched Del Rio now, joking with Justine. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, a brown canvas jacket, and had a two-day-old beard. Rick was a homely guy, not the type that got cast as a hero in movies. He was a hero anyway.
    But the
People v. R. Del Rio
didn’t care about that.
    He said to me, “Want to know what I think, Jack? Whether that car was firebombed because it was available or because it was personal, the price tag on it
makes
it personal. You live in a glass house, you know? Stay at Justine’s until this thing is closed.”
    I looked at Justine.
    She said, “Of course. Stay with me.”
    But she didn’t really want that. I didn’t know for sure, but I had a pretty good idea that she’d started seeing someone else. Maybe he was a man who could go the distance, the whole length of the aisle.
    “I’ll be fine at home,” I said. “But thanks.”
    “Well, then, my work here is done.” Del Rio put his mug in the sink, headed to the door.
    I called after him, “Rick. Make sure you shave.”
    “Yes, sir.” He gave me a salute and a grin. But his eyes weren’t smiling. He was worried.
    I was worried too.
    I said, “This time next week, this whole thing is going to be behind us.”
    “I always come out on top, right, Jack? When it counts.”
    “Yes, you do. See you in court.”

Chapter 11

     
    BY THE TIME Justine dropped me off at the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center, I was caffeinated to the core and worried about Rick’s day in court.
    “He’ll do okay,” Justine assured me. “He’s got Eric.”
    I nodded, kissed her good-bye, and watched as she took off down West Temple Street. Then I lowered my shades to hide my missing eyebrows and headed for the entrance to the blocky nineteen-story high-rise commonly known as the Criminal Courthouse.
    There was a swarm of tabloid reporters and trial-junkie bloggers at the foot of the stairs. These “journalists” are what I call raccoons, carnivores who sift through garbage cans, and they’ll do grave mischief if you don’t lock the door behind you and bolt it shut.
    The Criminal Courthouse was like a raccoon feeding station. Some of the most famous defendants in the country had been tried here: O.J. Simpson, Phil Spector, Conrad Murray, and other criminal superstars.
    Rick Del Rio even at his worst was never in that league, but because he worked at Private Investigations and was charged with a felony, his trial made for a sexy story that could be sold to celebrity magazines and supermarket tabs for big wads of cash.
    I worried about Rick and I worried about Private’s reputation. Private wasn’t “private” when it was top of the news.
    I waved to big and small raccoons I’d known for years, shouted out, “No comment, thanks a lot,” smiled like I meant it,