"And if that's true, you don't believe me, do you?"

"Listen to me, darling. You tell me to my face that you walk on burning coals, I'm going to believe you. I'm just saying that for Dominic, the Dominic I knew, it might have been a little out of character if he didn't even try."

She took a long beat and waited. "Did Mickey know that Dominic too?"

"Mickey? I don't know where Mickey-"

She shook her head in impatience. "Come on, Jim. What I'm asking is if Mickey is a.s.suming that I slept with Dominic too? The way everybody else is?"

"Well, first, not everybody else is."

"That's not an answer!" Her voice taking on a panicky tone. "Did you tell him that you thought I probably was?"

"Easy, hon, easy. Mickey and I never talked about it. Not at all. I had my business with Dominic and Mickey has his life. He never asked about my opinion on any of this we're talking about, and I wouldn't have told him anything because I didn't know anything. Now I do, but only because you've told me. And it's still none of my business. Or his."

"No. I think it is his."

"How's that?"

"It's just that Mickey's investigating who killed Dominic. And I already told him what I told you, that Dominic and I were close but not that close, and if he thought that wasn't true, then not only would I be a liar, but I'd have a motive, you see?"

Parr reached over and patted her on the hand. "You're overthinking this, darling. Mick's not that complicated. You want an old man's opinion, I'd say that he's thinking about you and him, not about you and Dominic. And I couldn't exactly say I'd blame him."

She all but blushed. "You're sweet, Jim. That's a sweet thing to say."

"I'm a sweet old fart all right. But the point is Mick's on your side. We all are."

She let out a deep sigh. "I can't tell you what a relief that is, Jim. Especially after what Ellen . . . what she did in there. I can't have Mickey thinking I did this too. I didn't. I really didn't. You'll tell him that, won't you? And he's got to believe me and you, too, then, right? To stand between me and the police. You see that, don't you?"

" 'Course I do, darling. Even a blind man could see it."

"Well, all right then." Taking another breath, she picked up Parr's hand and kissed it. "Now let's get you home," she said.

She pulled out into the traffic lane, got up a couple of blocks to California Street, and hung a left, heading west.

"You know, if you don't mind," Parr said after a moment, "it's out of the way, but maybe you could drop me out at Sutter."

"What for?"

"I thought I'd talk to some people, see who's hanging around, who knows what."

"Mickey said he was going to be out there talking to Al Carter."

Parr scratched at his cheek. "That's Mickey and Al, and Al's back there at the memorial. So I don't think I'll be in anybody's way, not for a little while, at least."

"So what are you looking for?"

"I don't know exactly, except I'll know it if I see it or hear it. Somebody always knows something, you know, even if they don't know what it is. And what else am I doing with my time anyway? That is, if you don't mind the drive."

"The drive's nothing. Driving's what I do. I'll be happy to take you out there."

"Even you," he said after a bit.

She shot a glance over to him. "Even me what?"

"You drove Dominic that Tuesday morning, didn't you?"

She nodded.

"How long? Four hours? Five?"

"Something like that. Why?"

"You think hard enough, I bet you can remember something he said that would give you an idea about who he was meeting that night. 'Specially if you two were close, like you say. You talk about anything important with Dominic that morning? Anything unusual?"

Her hands were again tight on the wheel, her eyes straight ahead, her brow creased in concentration or worry. "No," she said. "No, I don't think so. Nothing I can remember, anyway."

Linda Colores, heretofore the Hang-up Lady, tried to make herself comfortable on the one wooden chair that Tamara had set up across from her reception station in the outer office. But it didn't seem to be working.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Ms. Colores, perhaps twenty-two years old, was a thin and stylishly dressed woman. She flashed a quick and apologetic smile, then raised a hand to her right temple. "I'm sorry. My head . . ."

Tamara had already opened her desk drawer. "I've got some ibuprofen, if . . ."

But Ms. Colores waved that off. "No. I'm sorry, but I know what it is. Food."

"Did you eat something that disagreed with you?"

"No. Not food that way. I shouldn't say food. I should say no food." She stole a quick glance at her watch. "Is that the real time, eleven-fifteen?"

Tamara checked her own watch, then the corner of her computer, saw that it was, and nodded. "Eleven-fifteen," she said.

Ms. Colores swallowed. "I'm so stupid. I'm out of bed at seven, I run five miles, I get ready for my appointment with you before I have to go and work all day, and I just forget one little thing. Actually, two. The first one is that I'm hypoglycemic. I don't eat, my head explodes, and other things. The second thing I then forget is to actually put some food in my mouth."

Tamara eyed her with some suspicion. "Are you sure you didn't talk to my boss or my brother? No, I'm kidding. But both of them are always on me to eat, eat, eat." She paused for a second. "Maybe we should go out and have a little bite. Would you like to do that?"

"I think I have to. I'm sorry."

Tamara pushed her chair back and stood up. "No more apologizing, okay? We go get something to eat, we talk about what you heard the other night. Good?"

"Yes, good," Ms. Colores said. "Thank you."

Fortuitously, Hunt's office was close to Belden Alley, just a block away. Mickey often said that Belden Alley alone, one short block in length, if it were the only street in the city, might make San Francisco qualify as a better-than-average-destination restaurant town, and then he'd list its restaurants like a carnival barker: "Brindisi Cucina di Mare, Voda, Taverna, B44, Plouf, Cafe Tiramisu, Cafe Bastille, and Sam's Grill."

Partially guided by expense, although none of the places would bust even Tamara's budget, she convinced Linda that Brindisi was what they wanted. Fifteen minutes later, during which they made small talk mostly about food and their brothers (Linda had two, both older), the waiter delivered Tamara's rigatoni with lamb ragout and artichokes, and Linda's grilled salmon sandwich on ciabatti with lobster mayonnaise, salad, and fries.

"So," Tamara began, a few bites into her lunch, "what happened that Tuesday night?"

"Well, that's the thing," Linda said, then paused for a moment. "I feel really bad that I didn't do more, I mean when it happened. But then, I know it sounds bad to say I didn't want to get involved, but at the time it just seemed like a fight, and all I wanted to do was get away from it. And then at the store, they were talking about how they found the body right near where I'd been. And then at first I wasn't even sure it was Tuesday. I mean, I really didn't think about it at all as maybe connected to Mr. Como's murder until I heard about the reward-I know that sounds a little cra.s.s . . ."

"Don't worry about that."

"Still. I just thought about what if it might have actually been important. You know?"

"It's fine, Linda. That's why they put out a reward. Get people thinking about things that otherwise they might not really have registered. But now you're pretty sure it was Tuesday?"

"No. I'm completely sure." She dabbed a napkin at her mouth. "I have this little calendar book-I know this is pretty Type-A, but welcome to Linda Land, as my brothers say. Anyway, I kind of use it as a shorthand diary for everything I do every day-how much I ran, hours I worked, where I ate, who I went out with, movies, books. It's probably a disease, and I've definitely got it." She shrugged. "In any event, I checked back and realized it had been payday and Cheryl-she's my friend from work-and I decided to go wait at the A16 bar and have dinner there. Which, of course, took about three hours."

"For dinner?"

"Well, one and a half for the wait-totally worth it, by the way-then about the same for dinner. But the point is that I probably got out around ten, ten- fifteen, said good- bye to Cheryl, and then-remember, it was that warm week?-I was stuffed so I decided it was so nice out I'd walk some of the food off, so I headed down to the Palace of Fine Arts, which I love at night."

"Go on."

"So then I'm down by the lagoon, just really strolling, enjoying the night, and I get down to the parking lot by the Exploratorium and I hear these voices, a man and a woman, so I stop. It's not like I was trying to eavesdrop. Just ahead of me the trail turned and they must have been around the bend."

"You didn't see them?'

"No. Even if I had, it would probably have been too dark to recognize them. But anyway, it was obviously a fight, I mean just from the sound, but then I'm standing there and the woman goes, 'G.o.d d.a.m.n you!' and I hear this, like, slap. And then she's all 'Oh, G.o.d, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean that.' "

Clearly getting caught up in the emotion of her retelling, Linda Colores blew at a few of her hairs that had fallen in front of her face, then brushed them from her forehead. "So now I'm thinking," she continued, "I've got to get out of here, but it's like my feet are stuck to the ground. I'm just rooted there, afraid I'm going to make some noise if I move. I mean, I really don't want to be there, but . . ." Another shrug, followed by another sigh.

"So she hit him?"

Now Linda nodded. "And then there's this silence, and finally I hear him plain as day. 'Look,' he says, 'I'm sorry, but it's over. I can't do anything about it.'

"And she goes, 'You can. You can if you still love me.'

"And he goes, 'Aren't you listening to me? That's the problem. I don't love you anymore.'

"And then I hear her say, 'No, no, no, that can't be,' and then there's this kind of sickening sound, like a . . . I don't really know what it was like exactly. I mean, she kind of groaned with exertion or something and then there was this, this kind of dull sound-I even thought at the time it could have been somebody getting hit with something. I know I should have maybe gone and looked then. I mean, it sounded bad enough, but by then I was scared. I mean really scared. And then suddenly I start to actually feel sick and light-headed myself and I turn back and start walking away as fast and as quietly as I can. I really should have done something about it then, I think. I mean, called the police or told somebody. But when there was nothing about it on the news, not until Friday when they found the body, and even then I didn't immediately put it together. Although I guess I should have, shouldn't I?"

"You're here now," Tamara told her, "when a lot of other people wouldn't be. So I wouldn't beat myself up over it too much."

"I don't like to think I'm such a coward," Linda said, "or that I only came forward now because of the reward."

"I don't think that," Tamara said, "and I'm the only one listening."

20.

Being thorough, Mickey stayed on at the Sanctuary House offices and spoke for a time with each one of the five other women who worked there to see if any of them had seen or heard anything from Nancy Neshek on the Monday afternoon of the reward announcement that might bear on the question she had meant to put to the Hunt Club. None of them was particularly helpful; all were shaken and tearful.

It was after noon when Mickey finally finished and left the admin office. From the hospital lobby, he called Hunt on his cell phone and left a message, thinking, What's the G.o.dd.a.m.n point of having a cell phone if you don't take it with you or keep it turned on? Hunt was supposed to be at the Como memorial. So was nearly the entire cast of characters from which he needed to find alibis for the past Monday night. So it was doubly frustrating that Mickey had just learned that the Communities of Opportunity people had held a meeting on that night. Presumably-in fact, almost certainly-Nancy Neshek had been there along with many others of the nonprofit executive directors, a.s.sociates, and certainly even Len Turner.

And Hunt, at this very moment, was in all probability with these people and didn't have that one rather critical bit of information. But then, getting to his car, Mickey realized that if Hunt spoke to even one of these people, he'd find out about the Monday-night meeting right away anyway.

Still, Mickey liked being the bearer of good news, especially when he thought it was good stuff and he'd discovered it himself. So he placed another call to the office to brag a bit to Tamara, but she didn't pick up there either. And what was that about? he wondered.

For just a brief moment, he found that his stomach had gone a little hollow. Where was his sister? Had he and Hunt been too cavalier about bringing her back to work, in a.s.suming that's what she wanted, in giving her more responsibility? Or might Mickey hope against hope that she had actually, of her own volition, gone out for something to eat? It was, after all, lunchtime.

His phone still in his hand, without much forethought, he went to his favorites list and hit Jim's number, heard it ring four times, got his answering machine. "Give me a f.u.c.king break," he said aloud, and leaving no message, he threw his phone onto the seat next to him.

He knew who he wanted to call next. But really, what was he going to say to Alicia except that he had just loved her company the night before and wanted to see her again? Wanted to see her all the time, in fact. What she had called her nerd moment from the night before had struck Mickey as incredibly poignant, echoing as it did his own feelings. It had humanized her to an extent that had taken him by surprise. He really didn't need anything to help make her more compelling, but there it had been, unpracticed and sincere, a glimpse of the person under the package.

Beautiful there as well.

Still, he would have to wait. She was mourning Dominic Como. In fact, now that he thought of it, she was almost certainly at the memorial herself.

This was just swell, he was thinking. Here he was, all dressed up and no place to go. In the future, he would really have to try to remember to get more and/or clearer a.s.signments from Hunt before he left the office for the day, which now stretched long and empty before him.

He turned the key in the ignition, the car started right up, and he pulled out of his s.p.a.ce. When he got to Potrero, the traffic was heavy and unbroken going south to his left, but there was an opening turning right if he moved quickly, and so he jammed down on the accelerator.

That was the extent of the thought he gave to turning back uptown. It could have easily gone either way, since he didn't have a destination in mind.

Such a small, random decision. Such huge consequences.

The windows that overlooked the booth tables at Lou the Greek's were set high in the west-facing wall, their bases perhaps six feet from the floor. This unusual design feature wasn't due to some architect's skewed or artistic vision; from outside the building, all six of the windows sat level to the asphalt that paved a debris- and Dumpster-strewn alley. Lou's had been built about halfway underground. Patrons entering the building's front double doors could either go up the stairs to the first floor-Acme Bail Bonds, Florence Ward/Notary Public, and Presto Dispatch (a doc.u.ment delivery service)-or down eight ammonia- or possibly urine-tinged steps, through a red- leather one-sided swinging door, and into the bustling netherworld of Lou's-"Open Six to Two Seven Days a Week/Full Bar/Daily Special."

When you walk in, the bar is to your right. If it's lunchtime, the bar is jammed, with all the stools taken, and behind them a couple of rows of standing room. If it's your first time here, you notice the high windows, under them the six old-fashioned four-person wooden booths, the low-slung acoustic tile ceiling, the faint odor of cooking oil, soy sauce, maybe spilled beer. The place squeezes twenty four-tops onto the floor, and six two-tops around the walls, and every weekday it serves over two hundred lunches, all the more remarkable because its menu every day, save the occasional bonanza of fortune cookies, is comprised of only one dish: the Special.

Lou the Greek's wife, Chiu, was Chinese, and for twenty-five or more years, she'd been honoring her and her husband's union by creating a new dish nearly every single day, always based on their two nationalities. Today's Special, for example, General Lou's Pork, was at once typical and unique: pita bread pockets stuffed with bright red Chinese barbecued pork, scallions, garlic, hoisin sauce, yogurt, and hot pepper flakes. A lot of hot pepper flakes.

Juhle and Russo sat sucking their iced teas through straws across from each other in one of the booths.

Russo set her gla.s.s down, swallowed, and blew in and out noisily a couple of times. "Holy s.h.i.t," she said. "Lou calls this 'some spicy'? I'd like to see a lot spicy if this is some. This stuff is fire."

Juhle slid over the little jar of pure hot pepper seeds in oil. "You want to get serious, add some of this. Then it gets spicy."

"I pa.s.s." Russo sipped again, rubbed at her lips. "I mean it. Holy s.h.i.t."

"You already said that."

"It's a two 'holy-s.h.i.t' pita pocket."

Juhle took another bite, chewed contentedly, switched to another subject without preamble. "So how can it hurt? We're just talking to her."

"We don't know it's her scarf, Devin."

Juhle shrugged, sipped some tea, shrugged again. "We ask her. We show her that lovely color photograph you took and ask the lovely Ms. Thorpe if she's ever seen this thing before. She says no, we keep looking, maybe ask some other people if they ever saw her wearing it, or somebody else wearing it. On the other hand, she says yes, we're getting close."