Turner clapped his hands. "Good. I really think this is an excellent idea, Mr. Hunt. Excellent. So how, specifically, were you planning to proceed?"

Over the next couple of minutes, Hunt gave him chapter and verse on Mickey's idea of contacting many of the city's nonprofit organizations and soliciting them for inclusion in the reward fund. Turner nodded in agreement throughout, at the end volunteering to help with the solicitations-he knew all these people-in any way he could. In fact, what made the most sense, he told Hunt, was that there be a central command; that Turner himself could act as the escrow holder of the funds, after which he would administer the reward and, in consultation with law enforcement, decide on the reward recipients, if any.

He would be the liaison between Hunt and the various organizations in Hunt's efforts to keep the contributors informed. He would also be happy to consult with Hunt when there was a question of whether or not information should come out. "And finally," he rolled along, "I think we have to talk about your compensation for all of your efforts on this."

"I was thinking of me and my two a.s.sociates billing at our regular hourly rate. I can get you our fee schedule first thing next week."

"That sounds fair."

"Great, but there is one other small thing. This whole concept really won't work unless we get a guarantee of a certain flexibility on the part of city government."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, if the police or the district attorney decide to seize any- and everything we may get over the phone by search warrant as it comes in, then we're not going to get any calls."

Turner pondered that for a brief moment. "I could make a couple of calls and be of a.s.sistance in that respect. Meanwhile, I could have a contract drawn up in the next couple of days, but if you'd like to get started as soon as you can, we can be old-fashioned gentlemen and seal the deal with a handshake right now. How does that sound?"

Again, Hunt wasn't completely sure how it sounded, but what Turner was suggesting was certainly not unethical and it would put Hunt, Mickey, and Tamara to work at full pay immediately. And it wasn't unusual for a job to morph slightly or even greatly as its execution played out. He was sure he could stay on top of what were clearly Mr. Turner's priorities.

So, stifling his minimal scruples, he stood up and reached out his hand across the table. "That sounds like a deal to me," he said.

7.

Wyatt Hunt hadn't been to Devin Juhle's home out on Taraval Street in a very long time. In the first years after Hunt had opened his office as a private investigator, he had nearly lived with Devin and Connie and their three children-Eric, Brendan, and Alexa. He and Juhle had been baseball teammates in high school, and they had still played games together, often including the children, whenever he came over-Ping-Pong, basketball, foosball, catch.

That was before California v. Gorman. It was also before the scandal involving Hunt's former a.s.sociate that had knocked the bottom out of his business and essentially destroyed his credibility with the Police Department and most of the criminal law community.

Hunt wasn't kidding himself-this thing with Juhle wasn't simply a bridge to mend. It was a chasm to breach.

Now, at nine-thirty on a Sunday morning that had blown in bl.u.s.tery and cold-the three days of San Francisco's summer weather having exhausted their allotted run-Hunt parked his Mini Cooper on the street in front of Juhle's small stand-alone two-story home, made sure he was packing presents for the kids, and sat for a moment gathering the courage to go and face the music, the near-tragic opera, that he'd helped to compose.

Finally, unable to stall any longer, he opened his car door and walked across the lawn and up the four steps to the front door and rang the bell. The chimes rang within and he heard running footsteps and the door flew open.

For a horrible second, Hunt thought that Brendan, the middle one, age eleven or so, didn't even recognize him. He'd grown about four inches and had put on fifteen pounds. But the face suddenly broke a smile as he said, "Uncle Wyatt!" and the boy actually threw his arms around him. Then, calling back into the house, "It's Uncle Wyatt."

More footsteps from down the hallway that led to the kitchen in the back of the house, and here was Connie in green sweats, formidable and attractive as ever, drying her hands on a dish towel, her expression welcoming and warm, with just a trace of concern around the eyes.

"Well, look at who's here!"

He stepped into the house and they hugged, bussed each other on the cheeks. After which Connie held him out at arm's length. "It's so good to see you, Wyatt. So good." And then, her face clouding over, "Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine." He looked around her and saw Alexa hanging back in the hallway, her body language quizzical and reserved. Hunt gave her a tiny wave and a "Hey, sweetie," but she only nodded and Hunt realized that it wasn't only Devin he was going to have to win over again.

Connie was going on. "Devin's off with Eric at soccer. Can you believe Sunday morning at seven o'clock? Is that obscene or what? But they ought to be back in a half hour or so, if you've got time to hang around for a while. Was he expecting you?"

"Unlikely. I wasn't sure I was expecting myself until I woke up." Hunt took a beat. Then, "You think he'll talk to me?"

She made a face and broke a half-smile that told him she wasn't too certain of that, but the actual words she said were, "Stranger things have happened. Meanwhile, how does a cup of coffee sound?"

"Like a fanfare of trumpets."

Amused, Connie shook her head. "I remember what I've missed about you."

They were catching each other up on their respective lives over the past months, the talk flowing as it always did with Connie, Hunt halfway through his second cup at the kitchen table, when they heard a noise and Connie said, "That's the garage door."

They fell then into a sudden and tense silence, waiting.

The garage connected to the kitchen. Eric was the first one through the door. Unlike his younger brother, he was about the same physical size as the last time Hunt had seen him, but his face had broken out with acne and his voice had a different pitch when, tentative yet polite, he nodded and said, "Hi, Uncle Wyatt."

"Hey, big guy. Good to see you."

"You too." He advanced and reached out his hand, which Hunt, standing, shook. He chose to take it as a good sign that they still called him "uncle," perhaps still considered him Juhle's brother on some level.

Devin evidently wasn't in any hurry to get in the house. He would have known Hunt was inside from the distinctive car parked out front. The connecting door closed shut behind Eric and they heard some sounds from the garage-Devin closing his driver's side door, throwing the duffel bag where it belonged.

Hunt found his breath snagged in his throat.

Juhle opened the door and stood for a second in the doorway, holding it open. Nodding first at his wife, then briefly at Hunt, he turned and closed it with an exaggerated gentleness. Turning back around, he leaned up against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest, nodding again, his face a mask. "Hey, Wyatt," he said with no inflection whatever. "What can I do for you?"

"I don't think so," Juhle said. "That's police work."

The two of them sat at either end of a sagging beige sofa in the downstairs family room, a converted half-bas.e.m.e.nt where Juhle had his Ping-Pong/pool table set up, along with a dartboard and a foosball game area. A television rested on the middle shelf of a built-in bookcase mostly devoted otherwise to sports trophies for the kids, and Connie's washer and dryer reinforced the place's basic functional nature. Juhle's house wasn't big, and the family and their activities filled it all up, every spare inch.

"It's police work," Hunt countered, "that won't do any good. You won't get the calls we're going to get and if you did, you'll spend all your time screening out the nuts."

Juhle shrugged, shook his head dismissing the idea. "How many good tips you think you're going to get? Two? Three? Not even that. End of story."

"No, it isn't. Not if we get the reward set up and it gets big, and it will."

"What's big?"

"I don't know. Maybe a hundred grand, maybe more. Mick's shooting for the moon, and he's a charmer." Hunt came forward on the couch. "So we're not talking any couple of calls a day here. It's not impossible the reward might go to half a mil, and if that happens, the flakes come out of the woodwork. You know this and I know it, and you're going to spend half to all of your time either chewing your cud on nothing or running down ridiculous leads trying to identify one good one."

Another shrug. "That's what we do, Wyatt. Run down leads. It's police work."

Wyatt sat back, let out a breath. "This is getting a little circular, don't you think? You got any of these leads?"

Juhle paused, then spit out, "We got squat."

"That was my guess," Hunt said. "You know, time was this would have been a slam dunk for both of us, Dev. Win-win."

Juhle glanced down the length of the couch. "Time was a lot of other things too."

"You want to talk about some of 'em?"

"Talk's cheap, Wyatt. And bulls.h.i.t walks."

"This isn't bulls.h.i.t. This is something I can legitimately do to help your investigation. We are going ahead and contacting potential reward sources-"

"And who are these sources?"

"People connected to Como. Who want to see his killer get caught."

"None of them more than I do."

"Granted. But we can generate leads you can't. Calls from folks who would never call the cops. Most of what we get will be c.r.a.p, sure, but if we even get one good tip you couldn't get, you're better off." Hunt sat back, spoke matter-of-factly. "This is a free gift to you, Dev. Call it an apology if you want. Sometimes the jobs we do, we're on different sides. It doesn't have to be personal."

This brought a cold smile. "And of course it's going to put money in your pocket for what you just admitted to me was mostly going to be c.r.a.p. For this I'm supposed to say thank you? You f.u.c.k with my career, my livelihood, and my family, and you tell me it's not personal?"

"It didn't happen that way, Dev. You could look at it that Gina and I saved you from being the cop who sent the wrong guy to prison. And then, P.S., she hands you the real guy, the actual killer. And you get the credit for that arrest. How's that hurt your career? You want to tell me that?"

No answer.

"Your feelings?" Hunt went on. "Okay. After what happened on the stand, okay. Sorry. But your career? Your livelihood? Your family? I don't think so."

Up one flight on the main floor, the television laid down white noise. Tires squealed and a car's horn sounded from outside on the street.

Juhle's jaw was set, the corners of his mouth drawn down. He stared in the direction of the bookcase wall across from him, then pulled himself upright on the couch and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

Hunt lowered his voice. "This is a done deal, Dev. I'm telling you as a courtesy. This is happening. But whatever you think of it, we will help you any way we can." Without a cease-fire, much less a peace treaty, in hand, Hunt got up. "Tell Connie and the kids it was nice seeing them."

Now that Hunt was on board with him, Mickey had all the excuse he needed to see Alicia Thorpe again.

They met at Bay Beans West, a coffee shop on Haight Street about midway between their two residences, got their brews, and realized it might be hours before they could find a place to sit inside. So they decided to walk instead, down to Lincoln and then due west into the teeth of the wind, out toward the beach.

For the first couple of blocks, they made small talk about the changing weather, Starbucks versus Bay Beans, how the La Cuisine cla.s.ses were going for both Mickey and Ian, how everybody their age seemed to be doing one job for money, then all these other things that they seemed to like better for free-Alicia volunteering at the Sunset Youth Project, Mickey and Ian learning to cook.

"So what's your day job?" Mickey asked her. "When you're not volunteering?"

"It's kind of embarra.s.sing."

"If it's work that pays you, it's not embarra.s.sing. As my grandfather used to say, 'There is no work, if done in the proper spirit, to which honor cannot accrue.' "

A small contralto laugh. "That's good. Does that apply to being the hostess at Morton's?"

"Every job in the world, according to Jim. But especially hostess at Morton's," Mickey said. "Perhaps the most honorable of the service jobs."

"Well, thank you. I'll start trying to look at it that way. Instead of as six hours of mind-numbing tedium."

"There you go." They walked on in silence for a while, and then Mickey said, "Ian told me about your parents."

She cast a quick glance over at him. "Yeah."

"Did he tell you that pretty much the same thing happened to me?"

She stopped and faced him. "Your father shot your mother and then himself?"

"No. But my father disappeared and then my mother overdosed. Same result. No parents."

She closed her eyes, then shook her head. "I don't really remember it too much. It was just the way it was. I was only nine."

"I was seven, but I think it's the most indelible memory of my life-the shape under the sheet on the gurney, knowing it was Mom, as they wheeled her out."

"I must have blocked it," she said.

After a silence that lasted for half a block, Mickey cleared his throat. "So, about Dominic, all these charities he ran . . ."

"He only ran one. The Sunset Youth Project. And of course all the subordinate groups off that."

"Okay. So what are those?"

She shrugged. "Let's see. The art gallery, the two schools, the development company, the theater, the moving company, the Sunset Battalion . . ."

"Sunset Battalion sounds like a bunch of commandos."

"No. It's more like an urban Peace Corps. Mostly older guys, some of the girls, people who've been in the program awhile."

"So what do they do?"

Another shrug. "Pretty much whatever needs to be done. Tutoring, handing out pamphlets, bringing back the strays, working the neighborhoods. They're kind of the boots-on-the-ground people."

His understanding limited at best, Mickey nodded.

"Well, then, with this other stuff, what's the actual Sunset Youth Project do?"

"Sunset itself? It's the . . . I don't know what you'd call it. The umbrella. The administrative side."

They kept walking, and she must have noticed another question playing around on Mickey's face, because she said, "What?"

"I'm just trying to get my arms around this whole thing. I mean, if Dominic was only running one program, what's with the car?"

"Well, the one program has maybe two dozen sites in the city, maybe more. The main office and K through eight down on Ortega, the residential treatment center in Potrero, the outpatient center for adults by City College. Then the high school . . ." She stopped the litany. "You get the idea. I could get you the whole list if you need it, but the point is that Sunset's a huge organization. Huge."

"What's its budget? Do you know?"

"Total?" She thought a moment. "Fifty million a year, give or take."

Mickey stopped in his tracks. "No. Really."

"Really. I'm pretty sure it's somewhere in that neighborhood. It's in the annual report. You could check."