LITMIR.BIZ

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other establishments: the Sexy Over Sixty Gym and, where an escrow office used to be, an electronics repair shop.

      He recalled that the stairs were steep, with a freight elevator available for the handicapped. However, Grandpa used to say that most clients preferred to conduct business by phone and the internet or to have a detective pay an office or home visit.

      Once, the prospect of entering that building as an employee had loomed like a prison sentence. He associated P.I. agencies with retired or partially disabled officers, not young men eager for the challenges of police work. Plus, the idea of being under his grandfather’s thumb would have been enough to send Wade fleeing even had he not already held the position in Pine Tree.

      Now Bruce’s ownership was gone, and so was the job up north. Wade had emailed his résumé to Mike Aaron last night and to his surprise had received an immediate response inviting him to drop by for an interview. “Just phone first,” the new co-owner had written.

      Wade’s hand went to his pocket, cupping the bulge of his mobile. And missing the weight of his service weapon.

      He wasn’t ready to place the call. Instead, he put the car in gear and drove out of the lot, heading south toward the ocean.

      Bruce Hunter’s condominium complex occupied bluffs above the harbor. Emerging from his sports coupe, Wade drew in a deep breath of salt air and tilted his face to the autumn sunlight. Seagulls mewed overhead, while below the bluffs traffic hummed along a highway. Less than a quarter mile farther south, boats bobbed at anchor in neat rows extending from a curving wharf. A few sails dotted the waters of the harbor.

      He’d missed living near the ocean. While Pine Tree’s mountainous locale had provided a beautiful setting for hiking and exploring, this was Wade’s native habitat. All the same, he was far from certain of his welcome.

      Dropping in unannounced might be tempting fate or, more likely, his grandfather’s temper. Wade might even catch the old man in an embarrassing position with this new girlfriend. Wouldn’t that be interesting?

      Someone had propped open the gate. Amused to find Grandpa Bruce occupying a complex with such lax security, Wade followed a walkway to the old man’s two-story unit and pressed the bell.

      No response. He tried again and still heard nothing stirring. Where would his grandfather be at 10:00 a.m. on a Monday? Wade couldn’t picture Grandpa hanging around a seniors’ center.

      From behind a screen of bushes, the thump of rubber-soled shoes reached his ears. Bruce Hunter came into view, sweat darkening his California Angels T-shirt and athletic shorts hanging loose on the old man’s bony frame. Gray hair laced with black clung to his scalp.

      He slowed his pace, studying Wade coolly. “Figured you’d drop by sooner or later.” His voice had a dry rasp.

      “Daryl told you I was here?”

      His grandfather took out his key. “Nope. This is a small town.”

      Wade stepped aside, disappointed at losing the element of surprise. As usual, Bruce had the upper hand.

      The door opened into a living room almost military in its neatness. The brown couch and tan carpet were freshly vacuumed, while the carved wooden cabinets and chest were buffed to a sheen. They had belonged to Wade’s grandmother, who’d brought them from Germany when she married.

      Karlotta Hunter had been buried before he was born, so he knew little of her except that she’d met Bruce while he was stationed in her country and had died when their son was in college. The official story was that she’d awakened late at night, tripped on the staircase, fallen and hit her head. The unofficial story, from Daryl, was that due to her unhappy marriage, she’d taken to drink, which had contributed to the accident.

      Alcoholism ran deep in this family. It had skipped Bruce, although he had his own compulsion: chain-smoking. Apparently he’d quit, though, since the place no longer reeked of tobacco.

      Wade settled on a polite greeting. “You look well.”

      “I look dirty and smell worse.” His grandfather started up the steps. “Help yourself to coffee. There’s no beer.”

      At 10:00 a.m.? The old man was assuming the worst, but Wade didn’t bother to correct him. “Thanks.”

      He took his coffee black in a souvenir mug from Catalina Island. From a day trip with the girlfriend, perhaps? Over the buffet in the dining room, Wade studied the array of framed photos, hoping for a glimpse of the new lady, but these were all familiar faces.

      Grandma Karlotta had sad eyes and old-fashioned braids wrapped around her head. A young black-haired Bruce stood stiffly erect in his blue dress marine uniform. Daryl at about the same age sported a combat utility uniform, better known as camouflage. At his college graduation, Wade posed in mortarboard and gown. There was no picture of Wade’s mother.

      Upstairs the shower ran for about a minute, followed by a brief fit of coughing. It ended quickly and sounded less alarming than in the old days.

      Bruce descended within minutes, his pants and shirt pressed, his hair slick. “Guess you’ve got some news for me,” he said without preamble.

      How much had he heard via the grapevine? “About my son?” Wade asked.

      The old man’s nostrils flared. “The one you abandoned.”

      How typical of him to state that as fact rather than a question. “No, I didn’t. His mother threatened to file false abuse charges. She was...troubled.” Wade saw no reason to go into detail. “I’ve been paying child support.”

      Bruce’s scowl eased. “Glad to hear you aren’t a deadbeat.”

      And I’d have appreciated your not assuming the worst. Wade hadn’t come here to fight, however. “I figured you might like to meet your great-grandson once I get visitation squared away with his aunt.”

      “His aunt?” From the refrigerator, Bruce took out a glass bottle of orange juice. “You’re his father. Don’t be a weakling. Take your son and tell her to get lost.”

      Wade hung on to his temper. “I’ll handle this my way.”

      “Suit yourself.” Bruce poured juice into a glass. “Yeah, I’d like to meet the little guy, whenever this aunt snaps her fingers and gives you permission.”

      “I’m here to make peace, but that isn’t going to happen if you keep insulting me.” Wade poured the remaining half of his coffee in the sink. It was decaf anyway.

      Avoiding his gaze, his grandfather peered at a framed California Angels team photo on the wall. It bore half a dozen signatures from the players. “You tossed off a few insults of your own the last time we met.”

      Had he? “Such as?”

      “Called me a rent-a-cop, for one thing,” Bruce snarled.

      “Sorry about that.” Wade had lashed out in the heat of the moment.

      “Your apology is too late.” Resentment that must have been festering all this time blazed from his grandfather’s face. “I had to sell the agency I spent years building because my son’s a drunk and my grandson holds me in contempt.”

      Behind the anger, Wade sensed the hurt. “I don’t hold you in contempt. And you never told me the future of the agency was on the line.”

      “I shouldn’t have had to.”

      “I’m not a mind reader,” Wade said. “Now I’d like to let bygones be bygones.”

      “Why? Because you need a job?” Bruce fired back. “Guess you’re not too proud to be a rent-a-cop now.”

      “Guess I’m not.”

      That stopped his grandfather. “You’re applying there?”

      “Already have,” Wade said.

      They faced each other across the kitchen. If he’d

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