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cab?”
    “Last coupla years. Ever since they laid me off at Boeing.”
    “What’d you do at Boeing?”
    “Worked the tool crib…up in Everett. Janie’s dad…Harvey…he got me on. Harvey’s been with the Busy B thirty-two years. Knew the foreman.”
    He slid the car forward three car lengths. They were second in line to cross Broadway. “Got my pink slip in the first big wave of layoffs.” He checked the mirror again to make sure she was listening. “That’s when it all started to come apart for Janie and me. I look at it now…you know like in hindsight…it was mostly about money, but, you know…at the time…seemed like we couldn’t agree on anything anymore.” He caught himself rambling and changed the subject.
    “Whata you do?” he asked.
    “I’m a photographer.”
    “You mean like for one of the papers or something?”
    “Freelance,” she said. “I work for myself.” She read the question in his eyes. “Sometimes I work for a famous writer. I take the pictures for his books.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Frank Corso. He writes—”
    “The crime books,” he interrupted her. He smiled for the first time and flicked on the overhead light. Opened the glove compartment. Rummaged around inside. Came out with a battered paperback copy of A Blind Eye, which he held up like a trophy. “I read all of ’em,” he proclaimed. “Soon as they come out in paper, I’m right there.”
    The light changed. He kept the cab about four inches from the blue Volvo in front as they crept through the intersection and began to roll downhill, along the north side of Seattle University. A blinking yellow light marked the walkway leading from the university’s parking garage to the main campus. They stopped and waited as a solid line of chattering students crossed in front of the cab. While they waited, he thumbed his way into the center of the book, found the photos, turned the book sideways.
    “Margaret Dougherty,” he read.
    “Meg.”
    That’s when it hit him. He moved his eyes upward for a second and then buried them in the book. She’d seen the expression so many times before there was no mistaking the look. That combination of palpable pity and carnal curiosity her story seemed to inspire. Especially in guys. They always seemed torn between offering their condolences and begging for a peek.
    “They ever catch the guy?” he asked. “You know, the one who…”
    She had the answer ready. It was like a part in a long-running play. A part where she never forgot her lines. “He left the country. France they think.”
    He opened his mouth to speak, but, mercifully, changed his mind. The last student passed in front of the cab. He lifted his foot from the brake, allowing the cab to roll downhill, where they made the light and turned north on Twelfth Avenue. The meter read six dollars and ninety cents. An idea nearly brought a smile to her lips. She’d give Steveland Gerkey the rest of Corso’s hundred bucks as a tip. Make his whole damn day. Because Corso was such a goddamn fool and because Steveland had a well-developed sense of when to shut up. The song changed to Norah Jones. “Don’t know why I didn’t call…” Dougherty sat back in the seat and closed her eyes. The singer’s husky voice tickled her insides.
    She kept her eyes closed, rolling around inside the music until she felt herself pressed back in the seat by the steep slope of East Republican Street.
    “Left at the top of the hill,” she said.
    He eased the cab over to the curb and brought it to a halt. “Which building?” he wanted to know.
    She scooted forward in the seat and pointed out over his shoulder. “The little house with the gate,” she said.
    He took his foot off the brake and the cab began to roll forward. “What gate?”
    “Between the apartment buildings,” she said, pointing again. “See the white sign above the gate?” He peered out through the semidarkness. GRAVEN IMAGES , the sign said. PHOTOGRAPHY BY M .