Producing his wallet, Glitsky displayed his badge.

"I'm Deputy Chief of Inspectors Abe Glitsky. I wonder if I might have a word with Mr. Granat."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, ma'am. I was hoping to catch him in."

"Is this, then, official police business?"

"I'd just like to talk to him, if he can spare a minute."

"Certainly," she said. "I'll see if he's available." She turned, had a thought and turned again. "Would you care to wait inside?"

Glitsky crossed the threshold into the house and watched the maid walk down the long hallway and then somewhere off to her left. She'd left him standing on a burgundy Oriental carpet that was larger than Glitsky's living room, yet still did not quite reach the walls around the grand foyer. Even with the sunshine outside and the windows behind him, even with the six-foot chandelier and its fifty bulbs lit above him, the space was dim. No sound came from the rest of the house, and only gradually did Glitsky become aware of the ticking of a clock, although he couldn't locate its source. His eyes went to the art-dark oils in large burnished gilt frames-hung in the spaces between doorways. They were frankly-he thought purposefully-disturbing, all blacks and reds, flesh and blooded browns. Erotic overtones, sexually ambiguous-hints of nakedness amid industrial waste, a pack of dogs gathered over something not quite identifiable in a graffitied doorway.

"You like my paintings?"

Surprised-where had the man come from?-Glitsky whirled and found out. A door on the left wall stood open, blessedly light and even inviting. "I can't really say they speak to me."

"Yes, I do suppose it's an acquired taste. The tension of whether something terrible has just happened, or whether it's about to."

Glitsky shook his head. "I get enough of that in my job."

"Yes, of course. I suppose you do." He extended his hand, revealing a mouthful of perfect teeth under a crisp gray mustache. He was about Glitsky's size, a bit thinner. His hair was thick, silver. Even here in his home on the weekend, he was well turned out-black merino sweater, tan slacks, expensive-looking loafers. A handsome, confident man. "Nils Granat," he said, gripping Glitsky's hand hard, meeting his eyes. "We've met before, haven't we?"

"Yes, sir, a couple of times at City Hall. I wasn't sure you'd remember."

Granat turned his mouth up slightly, touched his forehead. "I remember people. It's almost what I do best. So what can I do for you, Chief? Is 'Chief ' all right?"

"Fine."

"You want to sit in the library?" He jerked a finger behind him. "Right here." Without waiting for Glitsky to respond, he was already through the door and into the large, airy, pleasant adjoining room. "That foyer is a little gloomy, isn't it?" he said over his shoulder. "I should probably leave the side doors open, brighten it up. But then, I wasn't expecting anybody, especially this early on a weekend morning." He turned, confident that Glitsky would be there, and when he was, motioned him to the red leather couch. Granat himself pulled an Empire chair around and sat on it, crossing one leg over the other. "So how can I help you?" he asked. If he had any sense that this no-warning, early-morning visit by a high-ranking policeman meant that he was in trouble, he showed no sign of it.

Glitsky came forward to the front edge of the couch, and came right to the point. "I'm investigating the murder of Paul Hanover."

"God. Wasn't that a tragedy!"

"Yes, sir. But it was more than that. Somebody killed him."

Granat nodded. "That's what they're saying."

"You don't believe it?"

"Oh no, not that. Of course I believe it. I mean, he was shot, wasn't he, before the fire? I just meant I hadn't heard that anyone had determined he'd been the primary target."

"You mean the woman?"

"Yes. Didn't she have some . . . well, maybe I shouldn't say."

"No. Say anything you want. At this point, I'm interested in anything you might know."

"Well, I can't say that I know anything. It's just that . . . Missy, wasn't it? You know that she just sort of appeared one day, and after that she was with Paul-a fait accompli, if you will. Not that she wasn't beautiful, but she didn't seem to be quite . . . one of us in some way. I may not be saying anything very coherent."

"So you think somebody in her past might have . . ."

Granat shook his head. "I can't say I've gotten so far as to actually think anything. Maybe it was just that she was foreign. French, I think. In any event, when I heard about the killings, I wondered about her background first, her enemies, not Paul's. I mean, Paul was extremely well liked, very respected by everyone. And not just here, but in Washington, everywhere. He put people together, did immense good work on many, many fronts. I knew him pretty well, as you may know, and I can't imagine anyone wanting to hurt him, much less kill him. It just doesn't make any sense."

"So your initial feeling was that it had something to do with Missy?"

"More than with Paul. Yes."

Glitsky sat back. "That's interesting."

"Do you know anything about her? Not that it's any of my business."

"Not too much," Glitsky admitted.

"Well." Granat lifted his hands palms up. "But you came to see me? About Paul? It must be about the towing, then?"

Glitsky halfway apologized. "It was someplace to start."

"Sure, I understand. It would be." Granat sat back, his arm outstretched along the row of books behind him. "Well, I'd be the first to admit that for the most part, the towing industry is a bit of a tough crowd, although that's still a long way from saying that violence is a common negotiating tool."

"But not necessarily unheard of."

Granat shook his head. "As a matter of fact, I'm not aware of any time recently that Tow/Hold has resorted to anything like strong-arm tactics. It's one of the reasons they retain me. To get things done a different way."

"But now with Mayor Washington gone . . ."

The lobbyist smiled. "We still have a mayor, and the city still needs an experienced company to handle its towing. And in spite of what you might have heard, no final decision has been reached."

"No, I realize that. In fact, it's kind of my point. Now, with Hanover out of the picture, it leaves Bayshore rudderless. . . ."

Granat's dry chortle cut him off. "I wouldn't say 'rudderless.' These people are not rudderless. They're a very sophisticated bunch of venture capitalists who are trying to buy their way into a business they believe to be profitable but don't completely understand."

"As Tow/Hold does."

Another nod. "I believe the mayor might come to see it that way, yes."

"Or one of the members of the Municipal Transportation Agency?"

"Or one of them, that's true. Three, I believe, are already inclined to retain Tow/Hold."

"I've heard that, too."

"So from my perspective the decision is still very much a matter of the merits. Three of the MTA people obviously think that we-Tow/Hold-should stay on because we're doing a pretty good job, in spite of some of the problems we've had." Granat leaned forward in his chair. "You've got to understand, Chief, that whoever gets the contract, they're going to have the same problems. Fact is, they're going to have to hire the very same folks that we use to run the lots and patrol the streets. That's the reality. And they're not going to pay those people any more than we do-they can't and make a profit. So they've got the same labor pool doing the same work for the same price. The only change is the employer's name and a few guys at the top of the food chain. At least Tow/Hold has identified a lot of the bad eggs and knows to keep them off the payroll. Under Bay-shore, it'll be the same thing we've got now, only worse because of the learning curve on top of everything else. I'll be telling that to the folks at MTA next week, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if I convince at least one of them with the simple logic of it."

"Especially now that Hanover won't be rebutting you."

For an instant, Glitsky thought he saw a spark in Granat's eyes, but if he had, it disappeared immediately. "I liked Paul a lot, Chief. I really did. As you can see, I'm pretty comfortable here financially, so are the top guys at Tow/Hold. If we lose the contract, of course we'll be disappointed, but nobody's going under. I promise. We do twelve other cities in the ninecounty area. Nobody took Paul out to keep him from influencing Kathy West, which seems to be what you're implying."

Glitsky shook his head. "I haven't implied anything. I was just wondering what you'd have to say about all this. Have you talked to the mayor since Wednesday?"

A tepid smile. "I called and had a small talk with her right after I heard about Paul."

"And since then?"

"Well, I'm afraid her honor doesn't return many of my calls."

"So you've tried, then?"

"Of course. But it's all about access. And I don't have it. Not yet, anyway." He sat back, seemed to gather himself. "Look, I'm not going to bullshit you and pretend we don't want to keep the contract. It's a huge deal. But it's business."

"Yes, but if Bayshore can stop you in San Francisco, they're in a better position to poach in your other territories."

"That, too, I'm afraid, is just business. But, yes, of course, we'd like to stop them here. And I think we've still got a very good chance."

"Well, actually," Jeff Elliot said, "they don't." Glitsky was in his city-issue Taurus, talking on his cell phone with the reporter. "West's taken a potful of Bayshore's money to get elected, and she's not likely to forget that Tow/Hold's people came in large for Washington. It's payback time. She's not going to fold, and neither are her MTA members."

"Why not?"

"Because if one of them votes to retain Tow/Hold, she'll just fire him, replace him with a new warm body, keep the contract on monthly extension, go back again in thirty days and get Bayshore approved. So one of her MTA people going sideways, it's not going to happen."

"Except if she takes Hanover as a warning."

"You see any sign of that?"

"She called to get me involved in this within a very short time of talking to Granat. In any case, I'm going to ask her directly."

"What, though, exactly?"

"If Granat's call made her feel physically threatened. If this tow thing is playing on her mind at all. Why she really wants me on this case."

"I've got that one. She trusts you. She doesn't know much about Cuneo, and what she does know she has no confidence in. I think it's legitimate that she wants to get whoever killed Hanover. Whoever it was. He was politically important to her, plus she just plain liked him from everything I hear. She just wants to make sure it doesn't get screwed up."

"Okay."

"You don't believe that?"

"No. It makes sense. It's a little odd, that's all."

"Well, you'll find out."

"I know," Glitsky said. "I'm just not completely sure that I want to."

"Why not?"

Glitsky hesitated. "Cuneo," he said. "If I wind up taking the lead here, he's not going to like it. I'd rather he gets on to something and I come along afterward and say, 'yeah, looks good, nice job.' "

"So what's he looking at?"

"I don't know. He won't answer my page."

At that moment, Cuneo stood in the driveway of the Hanovers' stucco home on Beach Street, sniffing into the trunk space of their black Mercedes.

He'd arrived at a little after eight along with his former homicide partner, Lincoln Russell, whom he'd asked along to help with the search, as well as to serve as a witness that he was not sexually harassing Catherine Hanover. They'd sat, waiting outside, Cuneo driving Russell nuts with his drumming on the steering wheel, until Catherine Hanover came outside in her bathrobe to pick up the newspaper on her driveway-a bit of luck since Cuneo hadn't really known for sure how he would get a picture of her, which he badly wanted. And got.

A few minutes later, Catherine, her husband and all three kids had been shocked and startled by the appearance of the two policemen with a search warrant at their front door ("What's this about?" "You mean I'm some kind of a suspect or something? Of what?" "Do we have to let you in to do this?"). But then, perhaps because of the inspectors' assurances that it wouldn't take too long, they had all become reasonably cooperative, or at least acquiescent, waiting around the kitchen table while Cuneo and Russell went upstairs in search of the clothes that Cuneo remembered Catherine had been wearing on the night of the fire. In no time at all they'd found the blue silken blouse, black leather jacket, faded blue jeans. All were in her closet, the jeans still faintly smelling of smoke. They wrapped them all up, told Catherine that they would return them after the lab was through with them.

"What's the lab going to do with them?"

"Test for blood spatter. Traces of gasoline."

"This is ridiculous. Go ahead and look for that."

"We intend to, ma'am. We intend to."

The two daughters started crying.

When they had finished inside and announced their intention to inspect the car, the family broke up, the kids chattering nervously, upset about the weirdness of having their house searched. Everyone then went their various ways-the husband and wife uncommunicative, formally distant with one another, Cuneo noticed.

Will drank coffee and read the morning paper at the kitchen table, and Catherine announced that she would like to go outside with the inspectors. She couldn't imagine what they might be looking for. Now Cuneo was straightening up, and he turned to her. "Smells like you've got a gas leak. Did you know about that?"

She came closer, careful to keep her distance, leaned over the trunk and sniffed. "I do smell it. I ought to take it in for service."

"Have you noticed that smell before?" he asked.

"Not really," she said. "I don't use the trunk very often."

But Russell was feeling the rug on the trunk's floor. "This isn't a leak, Dan. Gas got spilled in here."

"No! That's not . . ." Then Catherine stopped herself. "Oh," she said. Her hand went to her mouth.

"What?" Cuneo was standing straight up in front of her, inside her comfort zone and knowing it, squinting in the sun. "Oh, what?" he repeated.

"That was a couple of weeks ago," she said.

"What was?" Cuneo's features were somehow expectant. On both hands, his fingers opened and closed.

Russell stood next to his ex-partner, paying attention to this development. Catherine Hanover, perhaps seeking some kind of support, directed her words over Cuneo's shoulder to him. "It was a few weeks ago," she said, beginning again.

"A few or a couple?" Cuneo asked.

"What?"

"First time you said 'a couple.' Then you said 'a few.' Which is it?"

"I don't know. I could probably remember."