This place just took his breath away. Looking as though it had only yesterday been painted a rich Tuscan orange, it might have been plunked down whole and set here from the hills outside Florence. An actual turret rose over a circular entryway, giving the place the feel of a castle. One side of the face of the second story was a picture window that would, he knew, command a view of the Marina, the bay, and the Golden Gate Bridge beyond. Over the garage directly in front of him a riot of bougainvillea bloomed, and above that, apparently another entire wing stretched to the property line at the side and well into the back.

He took the fifteen curving steps up through a flowering garden of herbs and brightly colored blossoms and stopped at the top to check out the view behind him, which was, if anything, grander and more expansive than he'd imagined. Even the entry floor here was higher than the tops of the residences across the street, so the vista included the dome of the Palace of the Legion of Honor (in the lagoon in front of which Mickey had found Como's body) and, beyond that, the greenery of the Presidio.

He tarried a moment longer, taking it all in, and was just about to turn and ring the doorbell when the door suddenly opened behind him.

"Mr. Hunt?" Ellen Como waited expectantly. "I didn't hear the bell but I saw you standing out here."

Hunt shrugged an apology. "I'm afraid I got mesmerized for a minute. This is quite a view you have."

Cursorily glancing behind him, she nodded. "I tend not to notice it much anymore. It never changes, you know. But, please." She stepped back and pulled the door with her. "Do come in."

They sat on matching chairs with a table between them. The table held a plate of chocolate chip cookies, a floral pitcher of water, a coffeepot, sugar and cream, two cups and saucers, and two gla.s.ses.

Ellen was very nearly beautiful, obviously fit, and exquisitely turned out. Here in the midafternoon, she wore a demure, dark brown, tailored evening dress. Not a perfectly dyed reddish-brown hair on her head was out of place. Hunt thought it was possible that she'd had a face- lift and maybe other cosmetic surgery, particularly around the eyes, but if so, the work was all but undetectable. He noticed her hands-usually a giveaway of age-and they were smooth and graceful-looking. She might equally have been thirty-five or forty-five and, at whatever age, a product of wealth and breeding.

"Before we get started," Hunt began, "I wanted to express my condolences to you. I realize that this must be an incredibly difficult time, and if at any point you don't feel up to talking . . ."

She acknowledged him with a small nod, a tiny lift of her cheekbones that might have been an attempt at a smile. "Thank you, but I asked you here, if you recall. I'm very grateful to you for coming out."

"Of course. So how can I help you?"

She gathered herself, drew in a breath, folded her hands together on her lap. Her shapely legs were crossed at the ankles under her chair. "You said you'd be looking into tips you got from people who might want to claim part or all of the reward?"

"Right."

"Well, I thought to do that efficiently you might need to have background on Dominic, on what he was involved in, who he was involved with."

Hunt decided to come out with it right away. "Are you talking about Alicia Thorpe?" He'd already gotten the report from Mickey that Ellen had sent Juhle and Russo to talk to Alicia, to consider her a suspect.

Ellen Como narrowed her eyes, perhaps surprised by the question. "I mentioned her to the police," she said, "and they didn't seem too interested. They seemed more concerned with where I was, my so-called alibi."

Hunt was canted forward on the chair, comfortable. "They did go and interview her," he said. "I think the problem is that they don't have any physical evidence yet. The murder weapon, anything like that."

"So you've been talking to them too? The police?"

Hunt gave her what he hoped was a rea.s.suring look. "Last time, just about three hours ago. We're in pretty close communication."

"When you saw them, did they mention that girl?"

"As a matter of fact, they did. I think they're considering her a person of interest at this time, but as I say, since there's no actual evidence ..."

Her eyes flashed in sudden anger. "What do they need? There's plenty of evidence that she and my husband . . . I told them this, but they won't do anything."

"I'm sure they would if they could, ma'am. They're under a lot of pressure to make an arrest soon. If they get something on anybody, they'll move quickly on it."

She now came forward herself. "Listen to me. I'm telling you for an absolute fact that my husband was infatuated with that girl. He told me so himself. He thought it was only fair that I should know." She coughed out a bitter laugh. "He said they hadn't done anything, if you want to believe that. Lorraine Hess as much as told me that she caught them in flagrante in the office. And she said it wasn't the first time. As if that mattered. He said he was 'just kind of in love with her,' whereas he loved me. That was the real thing, where with her it was just something he was going through, he was sure he'd get over it, but he wanted me to know. He wanted to be honest, whatever that meant. It was all so civilized. He didn't want to hurt our marriage."

"So what did you do when he told you that?"

"What did I do? I didn't do anything for a while. I was just numb. Here was my husband of thirty-two years telling me he was in love with another woman, but somehow that didn't mean he didn't love me too. Or even more. So for a couple of weeks, I think I just sleepwalked around the house, trying to understand." She let out a long breath and straightened up with her back against her chair. "Then I came to my senses and told him that I just couldn't take this any longer, that he had to fire her."

"When was this?"

"I'm not sure exactly. Not the exact day. But recently, anyway. In the last week before he . . . he disappeared."

"And what did he say to that? Your demand that he fire her?"

"He said he didn't know if he could. It wouldn't be fair to her." Suddenly, she slapped her palm down on her lap, and again, and again. "Fair, fair, fair. As if what he was doing to me was fair. All that talk of fair, it made me sick. Literally sick. He didn't know if he could. Can you imagine?"

Hunt could only nod.

"He kept saying that because they weren't doing anything, and by that he meant having s.e.x, that he was still faithful to me, that he wasn't cheating. But I didn't even know what he meant by having s.e.x. I mean, since Clinton, who knows what that means anymore? Maybe they were doing everything but. . . ." She blew out heavily. "Oh, listen to me. It doesn't matter what they were doing. He was in love with her. That was the important thing."

Hunt gave her a few seconds to get herself under control. Then he spoke quietly. "So what finally happened? How did you leave it?"

Her head nodded several times. "Last weekend, his last weekend, I mean, I told him I was kicking him out if he didn't fire her. That was it. I couldn't take it anymore. We had a terrific fight."

"And?"

"And he agreed."

"He agreed to fire Alicia?"

"Yes. I told him it was me or her, and for once he made the right decision."

"And this was just before he went missing?"

Another nod. "A day or two before."

Hunt mulled this over for a moment, then raised his eyes to meet hers. "Ellen, did you tell all this to the police?"

She hesitated. "Not all of it," she said, then went on. "They made it clear they thought it might have been me who killed him. They wanted to know what I had done the night . . . the Tuesday night. They kept going on about was I sure what I'd done and what time I'd gone to sleep, and why didn't I report him missing until the next day." She sighed. "Anyway, it was just clear to me that they thought it must be the spouse, it was always the spouse. They weren't going to look too closely at the Thorpe girl, no matter what I said, they already thought it was me. But then I got to thinking that maybe I didn't tell them what they'd need if they talked to her. I was just mad, and not thinking too clearly, since they'd only just told me they'd found Dominic."

Hunt paused again. "So did he, in fact, fire her?"

"Yes." She tightened her lips. "On that Tuesday, he called me at home to tell me specifically that he had told her it was over. She was done working for him." She gathered herself, drew herself up. "Then I'll tell you what happened. Then she met with him that night to beg to get her job back, and he told her he couldn't give it to her, and she went into a rage and killed him."

Hunt let out a breath. This was a compelling and believable enough scenario. Unfortunately for Ellen, there was an equally compelling argument to be made that everything had been exactly as she had described it except for Dominic actually firing Alicia. Instead, perhaps Ellen had followed him to the Palace of Fine Arts, and heard him tell Alicia he was leaving his wife to be with her. If it was going to be either Alicia or Ellen, Como might have said, it would be Alicia. And so by the time Alicia left, Ellen had worked up enough of her own jealous rage to kill him herself.

But Hunt only said, "Do you mind if I go back to the police and give them the parts of this story you left out?"

"Not at all," she said. "I wish you would. I should have told them the first time. I just wasn't thinking clearly."

"They may want to come back and talk to you again."

"That would be fine," she said. Then she added, "I know if they look, they'll find something on her." Then, suddenly, as though someone had thrown a switch, she broke a really beaming smile, wiped her palms on her dress, and stood up. "I've already sent Len my check," she said. Crossing back to one of the sideboards, she turned. "This is going to sound a little funny," she said.

Hunt got up on his feet as well. "What's that?"

"If it turns out that that girl did kill Dominic, and I'm certain that it will, and it's on my information that they get her, I'm going to claim that reward. All of it."

11.

The press release went out at 3:45 and Tamara got the first call at 4:08.

"You-all ain't cops, right, 'cause I ain't talkin' to no cops."

The caller identified herself as Virginia Collins and she lived alone on a thirty-foot sailboat named Delightly, berthed in the Marina. She'd heard the announcement about the reward on KNBC's four o'clock news on her radio, and she wanted to know who she could talk to to give her information. She wanted to make sure that there was a record of exactly who she was and when she had called so that if her information checked out, she would get the reward.

She'd heard all kinds of stories, she told Tamara, about where they'd announce a reward and then deny payment to the person who really helped get the arrest and conviction because they weren't connected and didn't know anybody who had to do with releasing the reward funds. And also, she wanted to know about the conviction part. What if they just arrested the person you'd helped to identify, and then they couldn't convict? Did you still get the money? Or any part of it?

And while she was at it, did Tamara know how hard it was to get convictions on anybody in San Francisco? It was common knowledge that juries in this town never convicted. Virginia's brother John had been an attorney for a while, working for the DA, this was back in the eighties, and even then it was nearly impossible to get a jury to convict somebody.

And what if there was a plea bargain? Did that count? They should definitely give some portion of the reward for the arrest itself. And then a bonus for the conviction.

"What about if they arrest the wrong person?" Tamara had to ask.

"That never happens," Virginia replied. "They arrest somebody, you can pretty well bet that they did it."

"But you see the problem," Tamara persisted. "They arrest somebody and give you half the money or whatever, and then they find somebody else actually did it and they've already lost the payment. Then what? That's why they've got to have the conviction along with the arrest."

"Okay, that's a good point. But even so, I want to make sure there's a record I called and what I told you, and when. Like if I'm first, that ought to make a difference. A big difference."

"I'm sure it will," Tamara said. By now she had concluded she was talking to, if not a certified lunatic, then certainly someone light on a few critical synapses. "Can you tell me briefly the nature of your information?"

"Are you kidding? I don't think so," Virginia replied. "Not on the telephone. They're all tapped, you know. The cops. I give you the information. They solve the crime, take all the credit, I don't get no reward. I ain't talkin' to no cops."

"I don't think all the phones are tapped," Tamara countered. "Not anymore."

A brief harrumph. "Well, if you believe that . . . if I were you, I'd just be a lot more careful. Somebody's listening in, I can tell you that for a fact. You're not on a cell phone there at your office, are you?"

"No. We've got a landline."

"Well, maybe that's a little better. At least they can't pluck it out of the air, but they can tap a landline just as easy. Especially an investigator's office like yours."

"I'll try to be careful what I say, then. Maybe you can give me a few more details on your contact information, at least, and we can have someone call you back, or set up an interview."

"I wouldn't have them call."

"No. Right. Of course. You said you were down on a boat at the Marina?"

Mickey had actually been out on real work, serving a subpoena on a dental hygienist named Paula Chow who had worked in the offices of Bernard Offit for six years, ending her employment with him a couple of years before. It seems that while treating female patients for TMJ or, in layman's terms, clicking of and pain in the jaw, Dr. Offit had developed a technique that included ma.s.saging the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of these women. Eventually, fourteen victims of this questionable treatment came forward and pressed charges. Dr. Offit's defense attorney, contending that this technique was indeed not just defensible but therapeutic, needed to call witnesses, such as Ms. Chow, who would testify that Dr. Offit was a fine man and a good boss, and would never have done anything so tawdry for his own s.e.xual gratification. And, more particularly, that she had seen him administer this treatment, and that none of the patients had complained at the time, nor had there been any s.e.xual component to it.

Mickey found Ms. Chow at her new place of employment at a dentist's office on Clement Street, and served her for a court date the following week. He then called his sister at work to check in. She told him that right at this moment, Mickey was needed to go talk to a possibly crazy woman who lived on a boat in the Marina.

"What makes you think she's possibly crazy?"

"You'll see."

So he drove out Park Presidio and around to the same Marina parking lot he'd used last Friday morning, parked, and came to the gate leading down to the boats. The sun was out by now, although the wind was brisk, and the bay was a kaleidoscope of sails skidding along over the whitecaps.

A woman stood just inside the gate with her arms crossed and an impatient look on her face. Wearing a yellow slicker over painter's pants and boat shoes, she seemed to be in her late fifties or early sixties, with windblown hair the color and consistency of straw. "I'm Virginia. Are you the Hunt Club?" she asked him with some asperity.

Mickey flashed his disarming smile. "Not the whole thing, just pretty much its top operative."

"Well, good," she said. "I need someone with brains. Got some ID?"

"Yes, ma'am." Mickey flashed her his driver's license and gave her a Hunt Club business card. This was a long way from identifying him as a private investigator, but it seemed to satisfy her. Only after she'd perused the card for a long ten seconds did she reach into her pocket for the key to the lock. While unfastening it, she shot him a squinty look. "Can't be too careful, you know."

"Yes, ma'am. I couldn't agree more."

"There's a lot more rape going on than people report."

"Right."

"People look at me, fifty-seven going on thirty I always say, and tell me I shouldn't worry about rape, I'm too old. But you know, rape's not a s.e.xual crime. It's not about s.e.x, it's about hate and anger. There was a woman last month, sixty-two, over in Berkeley, in a wheelchair, can you believe? Mugged and, as they say, s.e.xually a.s.saulted, which means raped. Anyway, that's why I like it down here, behind this fence. n.o.body gets in here doesn't know one of the boat owners."

"Good policy," Mickey said.

She looked him a good hard squint in the eye for a second or two, possibly to see if he was fooling with her, but again he must have pa.s.sed her scrutiny because with a "Follow me, then," she turned and led him down to a badly misused sailboat near the end of the pier, which she stepped onto.

Then she and Mickey were seated on cracked and slightly damp cushions around the wheel. Virginia had some laundry drying, hung with clothespins from the guylines on the seaward side. From inside the galley came the sound of talk radio.

Mickey had already decided that Tamara's call on this woman was correct, but crazy people could have good information. Still, he didn't want to take more time than was necessary chatting here, so he crossed a leg, casual and relaxed, leaned back against the seat, gave her a smile. "So, Virginia, I understand you have some information you think might be helpful about the Dominic Como murder?"

"I think I do, yes. Do you need anything to verify the time we're talking? Is there some official form or something we sign that I can keep a copy of?"

Mickey, feeling that maybe Tamara hadn't sufficiently prepped him here, figuratively put on his tap dancing shoes. "Well," he said, "I'm sure we could have you come down to the office and we could write up a statement for you to sign, and have it notarized, if it comes to that. But why would you want that exactly?"

"The reward," she said simply. "So someone don't steal the reward from me."

"Ah."

"An' n.o.body tells the cops who I am. I come up with something first, and then next thing you know everybody knows it, because I told it, and suddenly n.o.body remembers where it first came to light. Pretty convenient, if you ask me."

Mickey nodded, taking all of this very seriously. "All right, Virginia," he said at length, "I'll tell you what we'll do, if it meets with your approval. You tell me what your information is and if we both decide it's significant or important enough, I can take you down to the office right away and we can draft and notarize your statement. Then copy it and send you back here with your copy. How does that sound?"

She gave him the thousand-yard stare again, considering. Then, making up her mind, she nodded. "I'm glad they sent somebody with brains."

The three of them-Mickey, Tamara, and Wyatt Hunt-sat with their knees all but touching at a small table in a blessedly quiet corner of the Quiver Bar at the Epic Roasthouse, Pat Kuleto's gorgeous new place on the Embarcadero, right at the water's edge. It was a c.o.c.ktail hour of celebration about the new work they'd picked up, Hunt springing for drinks at the end of the day.