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windmilling arms and
scissoring legs, was all over YouTube.
    Unfortunately, there was no connection to Rawlings.
The crime was plotted in Maui by one of the local boys who worked on the Weston
place. Seems the kid was pissed because Weston was boning his seventeen-year-old
sister. Maui boys consider it rude when a sixty-year old billionaire haole
slaps a four million-dollar estate on a dozen acres with a couple hundred feet
of pink sand. But when he starts diddling the little sister of one of his
minimum-wage workers—well, that’s just wrong.
    I walked over to Reception, the U.S. flag to the
left, Montana flag to the right. From behind the bulletproof glass, the
receptionist, a young guy I didn’t know, slid me a sign-in book and a visitor
badge. He said he’d notify the chief. A minute later, an electronic lock
clicked and Murtaugh came out through a wood-grained steel door. He said
“Detective,” which wasn’t accurate, of course, but sounded better than
“Visitor.” He didn’t come over to me, didn’t smile. He waited for me to tap tap
the twenty paces over to him. Then he turned and led the way, down the center
hall of the main floor, past the evidence rooms, the dispatch center, the
interview rooms, the roll-call room, and the detectives’ bullpen. I kept my
head down, not wanting to see my old partner, young Ryan. He’d smile and call
out to me, rush over and tell me how good it was to see me. Tell me I looked
well. I lie, but I don’t like to be lied to.
    In the chief’s outer office, I was glad to see
that Helen Glenning, the old chief’s old gatekeeper, was gone, along with her cat
photos, her inspirational wall posters, and her completely unearned sense of
superiority. In her place was another woman, who looked up briefly and nodded
to me as I followed the chief into his office. I liked her already.
    The office had some new furniture—a small couch
and a couple of soft chairs—so the chief could come out from behind his big
desk and talk one-on-one with colleagues. He gestured to one of the soft chairs
and walked around behind his desk, sitting down in one of those expensive
chairs with the mesh. On his desk I saw an open folder with a white legal pad
next to it.
    “I see from your file that there was no exit
interview conducted when you left in November,” he said.
    Fine, thanks, I thought, and you? Yes, it is good
to see some signs of Spring. And congratulations on your new position.
    “Did Chief Arnold indicate why there was no exit
interview?”
    “No, sir, he didn’t. He was kinda disgusted with
me. Just told me to get the hell out.”
    Chief Murtaugh held his gaze. I couldn’t tell
whether he was assessing me, the old chief, or both of us.
    “Our discussion today will function in that
capacity, then.”
    “All right,” I said. It wasn’t like I had a lot of
other appointments.
    “You and Detective Miner had concluded that Warren
Endriss, using Jonathan Ahern as an alias, had killed Arlen Hagerty, is that
correct, and you had gone to San Diego to arrest Mr. Endriss and bring him back
to Rawlings?”
    “Yes.”
    “But you failed to follow the regulations by
cuffing him appropriately when you took him into custody at his daughter’s
funeral.” He looked down at the folder. “Then, he requested that you drive him
out to Torrey Pines State Park, which he used to visit with his daughter. You
complied. Once there, he took his life by jumping off a cliff overlooking the
water. Is that correct?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you agree that your decision not to follow
regs when you apprehended him constituted an unacceptable deviation from
policy?”
    “Well, sir, yes and no.” Good thing about being unemployed:
you can’t piss off the boss.
    “Yes and no? I would have thought that was a
straightforward question.”
    “It was, sir. Very straightforward. It’s just that
I can’t give you a straightforward answer.”
    “You do agree that the regulations call for you to
cuff a suspect when