"I just do, buddy," I said. "But I'll be back soon. I promise. You know I keep my promises."

"Is it because you're a policeman?" he asked. "Why you have to go away?"

"Yes. Partly. That's my job. I have to make money to buy VCRs and Pop-Tarts."

"Why don't you get another job?" asked Alex.

"I'll think about it," I told him. Not a lie. I would. I had been thinking about my police career a lot lately. I'd even talked to my doctor about it, my head doctor.

Finally, about 2:30, we made our way back to his house, which is a restored Victorian, painted deep blue with white trim, in excellent condition. It's cozy and light and, I must admit, a nice place to grow up in-as is Seattle.

Little Alex even has a view of the Cascades from his room. What more could a boy ask for?

Maybe a father who is around more than once every few months? How about that?

Christine was waiting on the porch, and she welcomed us back warmly. This was such a switch from our last face-to-face in Washington. Could I trust Christine? I guess I had to.

Alex and I had a final couple of hugs on the sidewalk. I took a few more snapshots for Nana and the kids.

Then he and Christine disappeared inside, and I was on the outside, alone, walking back to my rental car with my hands stuffed deep in my pockets, wondering what it was all about, missing my small son already, missing him badly, wondering if it would always be as heartbreaking as this, knowing that it would be.

Chapter 7

After the visit with Alex in Seattle I took a flight down to San Francisco to spend some time with Homicide Inspector Jamilla Hughes. She and I had been seeing each other for about a year. I missed Jam and needed to be with her. She was good at making things all right.

Most of the way I listened to the fine vocals of Erykah Badu, then Calvin Richardson. They were good at making things right, too. Better, anyway.