"I'm not even so sure of that."

"No? Why not, pray?"

"Because even if it's hers, we don't know if it's his s.e.m.e.n."

"Granted. But we will know in a couple of days. And?"

"And you just seem to want to be building this case on one flimsy lead after another. You really don't see this?"

"I see what you're saying, sure. First we get the tire iron. We know it's Como's hair on it, but we don't know it's from Como's limo, although the tire iron from the limo is missing. Right? Right. There are a lot of tire irons in the world. Close, but not proof positive. So then we search the limo and guess what? We find the scarf. And sure, it might not be the Thorpe girl's scarf, and it might not be Como's masculine essence on it, either, but-"

"Jesus, Dev, you think you could just say 's.e.m.e.n'?"

"I doubt it. I don't even say 's.e.m.e.n' when I'm talking to Connie."

"So what do you . . . no, never mind. Forget I asked. Go on."

"So I agree with you, is what I'm saying, in theory. We've got all these things we don't know for sure. Could be but might not be. The tire iron, the limo, the scarf that might not be hers, the s.e.m.e.n-see, I can do it-that might not be his. But let's say-let's just say-that the elements of the trail I see here all turn out to go in our direction. I mean, it turns out the tire iron came from his limo. It's her scarf and his s.e.m.e.n. Then, in that case, she's definitely lied to us, which tells us something new, doesn't it? Now, add to that that she had daily access to the limo, that he fired her that day-"

"We don't know that. Only maybe that he said he was going to."

"So we ask her that too. She tells us yes, she's got a motive. And all this is not even talking about Monday night, where she slept in her car out by the beach a couple of blocks below where Nancy Neshek breathed her last." Juhle took the last loud slurp from his iced tea, held up a hand until he'd swallowed it. "I'm not saying we're ready for an arrest here, Sarah. But come on. Put a little press on her, get another statement, see if she answers the same as last time. What have we got to lose?"

When the service was over, Al Carter hung back over in the corner of the downstairs lobby of the War Memorial building while Hunt corralled Turner, the Sanchezes, and Lorraine Hess into a circle off to the side at the bottom of the steps. Carter listened in while Hunt pinned down each of them in turn about their whereabouts the night of Neshek's death. It seemed to take some of the wind out of Hunt when he learned that they'd all been at a meeting with one another on the Monday night when Neshek had been killed. But then when he learned that Nancy Neshek had been there with them all, too, he picked up again. So, Hunt asked, what time did the Communities of Opportunity meeting break up? Where had every one of them gone afterward?

This last question got Turner hot enough that n.o.body wound up having to answer. Maybe, Turner had exploded, Hunt didn't realize that he was talking to the leadership of the philanthropic community in San Francisco. None of Len Turner's a.s.sociates were suspects in either one of these murders. In fact, Turner himself had hired Hunt and these people had contributed to the reward. Weren't those the facts?

Hunt had had to admit that they were.

And then Turner went on the offensive. Carter had heard him do it before. He reminded Hunt that all of these executives had places to go and important things to do, and maybe Hunt could better spend his time following the leads he had already developed through the process they were paying him for rather than hara.s.sing them in this ridiculous manner, thank you.

After the executive group broke up, Hunt had waited until they'd all left the building, then he'd sat down on the steps and had a brief talk on his cell phone. By the time he closed the phone and slid it into its holster on his belt, Carter was standing in front of him, arms crossed over his chest, leaning back against the wall.

"That Len Turner, he's a force of nature, isn't he?"

Hunt stood up, nodded in acknowledgment through a frustrated grin. "Al Carter, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. I had a talk with one of your people the other day out at Sunset. Mickey?"

"Mickey it is."

"And his grandfather is Jim Parr?"

"That's him. Do you know Jim?"

"I do. He was my predecessor and taught me some of the driving ropes. It's not all about steering and brakes and acceleration, you know. There's a significant political component as well."

"I'd imagine so. In any event, Mickey mentioned that he might be trying to see you again today, as a matter of fact."

Al Carter's wide, intelligent face closed down slightly. "He didn't make an appointment."

"No. I think he just planned to go out there and hoped he'd run into you."

"Did he mention what he wanted to discuss? Maybe you and I can take care of it here, whatever it might be. Although I must tell you, my ignorance about Mr. Como's movements that last night is near total. I dropped him off near his home, as I told your Mickey and the police, and had the limo back in the school lot by six-thirty. Then I went home myself. Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"The police impounded the limo last night. Do you have any idea why?"

"I presume they wanted to search it more thoroughly."

"For what?"

"For whatever they find. You know they think they have the murder weapon?"

This brought a little snort. "Yes. Lorraine Hess told me. The tire iron."

"Not necessarily the tire iron from the limo, but a tire iron certainly."

"And are they sure?"

"Reasonably, yes. Unless there's some way Dominic Como's hair ended up on another tire iron that found its way into the Palace's lagoon."

"Yes." Carter's smile did not reach to his eyes. "That would be an impressive long shot. So, presumably I had access to the tire iron more than most. Am I then a suspect?"

"I haven't heard that from the police. I don't believe they have a suspect yet."

"Ah, I was forgetting. We don't have suspects anymore, do we? Only persons of interest. The vocabulary change affords me little comfort." Carter's lips pursed out, and then in. His facial muscles moved in a way that suggested he was trying to smile, but this time, his lips could not hold the expression. "Let me ask you this, then, Mr. Hunt. Among the potential suspects-people with access to the limo and the tire iron and so on-are there any other black men with prison time in their background?"

"Not that I know of."

"Can you appreciate why this might be a matter of some concern to me? Of more than average concern?"

"Obviously. Don't take this wrong, but might someone come to the conclusion that you had some kind of a motive?"

Carter's eyes closed down almost to slits before he opened them again as the broad expressive face fell into relaxation. "I've had the job eight years. I'm an ex-convict. All the demographics predict that I shouldn't have a steady job, much less an education, and yet I do. All compliments of Dominic, a generous and powerful man."

"But there was a price," Hunt said.

"If he wanted to go, if he needed to go, doesn't matter where it was, what time it was, how long you had to wait for him, whatever he was doing, you either took him and took it or he'd find someone else who would. This was unstated and intuitively understood. And an absolute job requirement."

"So you were essentially on call all the time? Even with the other drivers he used?"

This brought a mirthless laugh. "Again, I don't mean any kind of slur. Dominic was a great man. It was a privilege to work for him. But for the interns, the younger people without criminal records, the girls . . . there wasn't much in the line of actual driving, except to our work sites. Certainly they did not drive him to open- ended events, nighttime meetings with partners and const.i.tuents, other things. . . ."

"Women?"

Carter's smile and gesture were ambiguous. "In any event," he said, "with the other drivers, the relationship was symbiotic. Dominic got good, presentable, inexpensive help, and then he placed that help with other people in the city who could help him. You want tickets to the Giants? The Warriors? The Niners? You want a parking ticket fixed? Or, more likely, a drug bust. You'd like the ear of your supervisor on a development issue?"

"But that wasn't you? You weren't in line for one of those jobs?"

"No. I was a lifer. I am a lifer. Except now, with him gone . . ." He spread his hands.

"And you're concerned that someone might take that as a motive? That you wanted out?"

"Perhaps unwisely, I mentioned it to a few people. And I don't really know if I did want that. What else would I do? What am I going to do now? But did I sometimes feel trapped? Yes. Might Dominic have heard about it and fired me? Perhaps. He didn't tolerate disloyalty, even the hint of it. He might even have fired me on Tuesday."

Hunt nodded. "Well, as motives go, I'd call that pretty weak. Even if anyone could prove it."

"I agree. But my so-called alibis for both nights are also flimsy. I live alone and I was at home alone both nights. So, combined with my record, my race, the motive, the lack of alibi, and the fact that except for his killer, I was the last person to see him, the police-"

"I see what you're saying."

"Well, no, I'm not sure that you do, since I haven't said it yet."

Hunt waited.

"I've wanted to stay out of all of this to the extent that I could. Reward or no reward, I know how the police often go about their work. And I'm afraid-you see, it's already happened to me once before-I'm afraid that they might find in me a path of least resistance. That's the only reason I've decided to talk to you."

"You know something."

"Yes. And I only mention it with great reluctance because of everything I've told you about here today. I wanted you to understand me. If they don't have someone else, there's a likelihood they're going to come knocking at my door." He took a breath and held it, his lips again pursed and tight. "He fired Alicia Thorpe that morning."

21.

"Yeah, we're sitting outside her place right now, hoping to talk to her," Juhle said. "Got any idea where she might be?"

Hunt was in his car talking on his cell phone, which miraculously had a strong signal two floors down in the City Hall lot. After finishing up with Al Carter, he'd half jogged through the thickening drizzle, gotten to his car, and punched in Juhle's number. "Sorry. I know where she was an hour ago, and that was here. But Ellen Como had her kicked out."

"She could do that?"

"It was her party, Devin. She could do anything she wanted. It wasn't very pretty." He paused. "So what did you get?"

Juhle ran down the latest link in the chain that was apparently beginning to close around Alicia Thorpe. "At least," Juhle concluded, "if it's her scarf . . ."

"Why do you think it's hers?"

"She's the only female driver. The scarf's in the limo. h.e.l.lo? Anyway, at least it gives us something to ask her about. Not to mention Carter corroborating Ellen's story that Dominic fired her. You believe him?"

"Yep."

"On the very day? We got that right?"

"Tuesday morning."

"Did Carter change his story, then, about who Como was going to see?"

"No. He didn't know that. Dominic said he was meeting an old friend and didn't go into it. In truth, it might not have been Alicia. But Carter thought it might have been. So how long before you find out about the s.e.m.e.n? If it was Como's."

"As opposed to whose?"

"I don't know, Dev. Maybe as opposed to any other guy who'd ever been in the limo getting some head from somebody wearing a scarf. Where'd you find it in the limo, anyway? The scarf?"

"Under the backseat. Why?"

"Just trying to picture the scenario that gets Dominic into the backseat."

"That's where people sit in limos, Wyatt."

"Yeah, mostly, I know. Except I don't think Como did. I read that somewhere. Or saw his picture. Something, maybe both. He prided himself on being a regular guy, sitting in the pa.s.senger seat up front. I'm sure of that."

"And what's that mean?"

"I don't know. Maybe nothing. So how long?"

"How long what?"

"Before you know the s.e.m.e.n was Dominic's."

"DNA? About the same as the DNA on the tire iron. Round it off to four days, maybe six, multiply by the phase of the moon, divide by, I don't know, let's say fourteen. It's anybody's guess. But after today, we may not need it until the trial. We'll see."

"You think you're near an arrest?"

"We'll see."

"It would be great if you could say something else besides 'We'll see.' "

"It would, I know."

"Well, keep me in the loop."

"We'll see." Juhle's tone was distinctly ironic. "Hey, this could be her. Gotta run." And he broke off the connection.

Alicia pulled up to the curb outside the house where she rented her bas.e.m.e.nt room and sat unmoving, staring straight ahead, in the driver's seat with the motor running, her hands locked onto the steering wheel. She had her lights on and the windshield wipers swished back and forth intermittently.

"What's she doing?" Juhle asked.

"I don't know. Waiting for her favorite song to end? Meditating?"

Juhle gave her a full minute before his patience ran out. He got out of his own car, crossed the street, came up behind her, and knocked on the driver's side window.