The Lost Coast

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I’d been off the force and out on my own for a year when I got a call from Peter Franchette.

We met in downtown Oakland, at the same sushi restaurant where I’d last left him on a rainy afternoon, sitting across from a sister he’d never met. I’d tracked her down for him — a bit of extracurricular activity that was part of why I was off the force and out on my own.

The summer sun was harsh as he stepped in from the street. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Not at all. You shaved your beard.”

“And you grew one.”

I’d grown my hair out, too. The extra length masked a scar running from temple to nape.

“My wife likes me better this way,” I said.

We took a booth, put in our order, made conversation. Peter told me he’d kept in touch with his sister, closely at first. Then less so.

“She has her life, I have mine.”

I nodded.

“And you?” he asked. “Charlotte must be — what. Four and a half?”

“Good memory. We have a son now, too. Myles.” I showed him my phone.

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