"Making you a sandwich." His voice seemed to come from very far away. "Roast beef with red onion that I've sliced paper thin."

I propped my head on one fist and watched him place two thick slices of homemade bread side-by-side. He spread them liberally with mayonnaise, spicy brown mustard, and horseradish. "This is virulent, but you need something fierce. Pep you up." He cut the sandwich in half and laid it on a plate with a sprig of parsley; pickles, olives, and pepperoncini clustered to one side.

He set the plate in front of me and returned to the refrigerator, where he opened the freezer and removed a beer mug so cold that a white frost formed instantly on the glass when it hit the air. He opened a bottle of beer and poured it gently down the side of the mug to avoid the foam. He picked up his whiskey glass and sat down across from me.

I took a bite of the sandwich. The horseradish was so ferocious it brought tears to my eyes. Pungent fumes licked through my sinuses making my nose run as well. "Mph. This is great. I can't believe how good it is. You're a genius." I paused, using my paper napkin as a nostril mop. The roast beef was succulent, its chill tenderness the perfect foil to the heat, salt, and sour of the condiments. Now and then I'd suck down a mouthful of cold beer, all tingle and bubbles tasting of hops. Life was reduced to its four basic elements: air, food, drink, and a good friend. I shoved in the last bite of sandwich, licked the mustard from my fingers, and moaned in gratitude. I took a long, slow breath, noting the fact that my headache was gone. "Better."

"I thought that might help. Now tell me about the doctor."

I gave Henry a summary of events leading up to my discovery. He knows how my mind works so I didn't have to fill in all the nitty-gritty details. Most intuition is the sudden leap the mind makes when two elements fuse. Sometimes the connection is made through trial and error; sometimes the underlying question butts up against observation and the answer pops into view. "I didn't spot the car so much as I spotted the traces it left in its journey down the hill."

"So that is the end of that job."

"I'm assuming as much, though I haven't spoken with Fiona."

"What now?"

"The usual. Dr. Yee will do the autopsy in the morning. Don't know how much they'll learn, given the shape the body's in. The vehicle's probably been submerged since the night he dropped from view. As soon as the post is done, I'm guessing they'll cremate the remains."

"I'm sorry to hear this. It's too bad."

"It has to be worse when the questions are unresolved. At least now his family knows and they can get on with life."

We chatted on in this vein, exploring our reactions and speculations until the subject petered out. Henry picked up my plate and took it to the sink.

"I can do that," I said.

"Stay where you are." He ran hot water in the sink and picked up a dish sponge with liquid detergent in the handle. He soaped the plate, rinsed it, and set it in the rack. "By the way, I saw a friend of yours tonight."

"Really. Who?"

He put the cutting board in the sink and began to put the condiments away. "Tommy Hevener came into Rosie's. He was looking for you, of course, but we ended up having quite a chat. He seems like a nice fellow and he's clearly smitten. He asked a lot of questions about you."

"I have a lot of questions about him, too. That's the part of my day I haven't told you about yet."

He paused with his hand on the refrigerator door. "I don't like the tone of this."

"You won't like the rest of it, either." I waited until he returned to the table and took a seat.

He said, "What?" with apprehension, like he really didn't want to hear.

"Turns out Tommy Hevener and his brother hired a punk down in Texas to break into the family home and steal the valuables, including close to a million in jewels. The burglar did as instructed and then set fire to the house to cover his tracks. What the boys failed to mention to him was that Mom and Dad were stashed in the closet, bound and gagged. They died of smoke inhalation while the place burned down around them."

Henry blinked. "No."

"Yes."

"But that can't be true."

"It is," I said. "The insurance investigator-this is a woman named Mariah Talbot-came to the office this morning and showed me the clippings from the Hatchet Daily News Gazette or whatever the hell it's called. I left the file at the office or you could see for yourself."

"But if that's the case, why aren't they in jail?"