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telling you where the grassy yard had to end.
    Pepe killed the engine, then turned to me. ‘The TV and newspapers, they been at this place ever since.”
    I looked at him. ”Since what?”
    Pepe shook his head. ”I still just the driver, man.”
    He got out, and I followed suit. We walked toward the steps of a ”back” door that could have been lifted off hinges at Buckingham Palace.
    Pepe said, ”Is easier this way.”
    ”Because of the media people out front?”
    A shrug as the door opened, and I assumed the gate guard must have radioed ahead about us. When I looked up, Justo Vega was smiling at me.
    ”John, it is so good to see you again.”
    Justo hadn’t lost any more hair, but he’d started growing a mustache under the wide nose in his moonish face. As tall as I am, Justo wore a light gray business suit with a white, collarless shirt underneath, top button fastened. His broad shoulders moved under the jacket in a swaying motion that always reminded me of a man making up his mind to ask somebody for a dance.
    Climbing the steps, I went to shake hands with him. ”Justo, it’s—”
    He came forward, enclosing me in a bear hug. ”Truly good to see you, John.”
    ”Same here.”
    Justo broke the hug. ”No problems with your flight?”
    If my eyes gave anything away, Justo’s didn’t. ”Fine. Just fine.”
    He nodded once, then spoke in a grave, modulated tone. ”I am afraid the Skipper hates pity, so please, brace yourself for seeing him.”
    I closed my eyes, then nodded once, too, as Justo led me into the house.

    As the rear foyer yielded to real rooms, I blinked, but less from the lighting and more from the contrast. While the architecture viewed from the street was modern, the inside felt like a Maine hunting lodge. Each room seemed to have its own cathedral ceiling, with exposed beams of rough-hewn, stained wood. Same look to the walls, and even the Parts of the floor not covered by thick rugs or carpeting. Taste is a personal thing, and I found myself warming to the interior of the house in a way I never could to its exterior.
    ‘To the right, now,” said Justo, as though comforted by giving directions.
    We turned into a massive den, fully twenty-by-forty, another cathedral ceiling looming overhead. The colors red and buff dominated—on leather sofas, plaid chairs, and seascapes-at-sunset hanging from the walls. Two men were in front of a stone fireplace I could have entered without bumping my head on the mantel. One was standing, no more than five-five and slight of build. His black hair ran to medium length, parted on the right side but so straight it didn’t quite lie flat against his skull. A long-sleeved rugby shirt swam on his torso over shiny athletic pants that had a designer logo stitched into one pocket. It was more his features that caught you, however. Vietnamese, I’d have bet, with piercing eyes that didn’t smile despite the nod and upturning of the corners of his mouth. I ballparked his age at early thirties.
    When I looked into the face of the sitting man, I thought, Jesus Christ.
    ”Good to see you again, Lieutenant,” said Nicolas Helides from the chair to the Asian man’s right.
    The voice was still there, the intonation a rounded baritone that caught your attention without having to demand it. But the words came out garbled, as though someone were pulling down his right cheek, making it into a jowl. That sagging cheek caused some of his teeth to show, both too pearly and too big for his mouth, kind of like a ventriloquist’s dummy. His hairline had evolved into a long, narrow widow’s peak, the hair itself gone a dusty gray though the eyebrows were still a bushy black. And the hands—large and strong in my memory—were both nearly skeletal, the right one crabbed enough that the fingernails nearly touched the underside of his wrist. Doing a quick calculation in my head, I realized that the Skipper would be only about seventy, but somehow he looked more reduced than