The Bass came sliding across the rail and McGuire leaned over, smiling. 'Everything patched up between you lovebirds?'

Farrell sighed. 'She's mad at me.'

'I guessed that. I don't blame her. They're always right, you know. I don't know why we argue with 'em.'

He sipped at his ale. 'I know.'

McGuire got called away on an emergency down by the picture window – Tommy, a fixture, had finished his fourth Millers of the day and was slapping the latest empty on the bar.

There was more truth than Farrell wanted to admit in what McGuire had said. Which of course meant that there was more truth than he'd acknowledged in what Sam was saying.

Mark Dooher was a dangerous man who studied his prey. He knew Trang worked alone and would meet him alone. He'd known Sheila would never refuse a drink – even a mickey – that he put in her hand. He knew Farrell was an idealist who believed in the goodness of man, in confession's healing power, in forgiveness. He also knew he would come when beckoned.

So Dooher had beckoned, and Farrell was going.

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

Dooher looked wrung out, with bags under his eyes and a deep pallor to his skin under an uncharacteristic stubble.

He wore a Sam Spade overcoat, an old felt hat and a pair of tattered running shoes. A grieving husband, he blew out in frustration. 'Christina's got to call somebody, wouldn't you think? Who would she call?'

'I don't know. Not me.'

Dooher stepped out on to his porch. 'About last night. I don't know what to say.'

Farrell waved it off. 'We going somewhere?'

'There's something I want to show you. I bet your heater still doesn't work?'

'Good bet,' Farrell said.

'We'll take the Lexus. That all right?'

'Sure.'

They walked back down the driveway, past the infamous side door. Farrell let Dooher go into the garage. He waited outside, nervous. The garage door opened and Dooher backed out.

Sliding into the passenger seat, Farrell noticed that he' d put on his driving gloves, and cast him a sideways look. Dooher gave him a weak smile. 'Alea jacta est, I guess.'

The die is cast. They both understood the reference – Julius Caesar's words as he crossed the Rubicon, after which he would either rule Rome or be killed as a threat to the Republic. Dooher was saying he was crossing over, taking the irrevocable step – he was going to turn himself in. He put the car in gear and they began to move.

They drove out to the beach, up to Golden Gate Park, back halfway through it, then south on Sunset Boulevard – a straight and usually scenic shot to Lake Merced. Today, in the fog, the scenic aspect wasn't evident, but the road wasn't crowded and Dooher drove slowly, talking about the lives they'd lived together, trying Farrell's patience.

Finally he couldn't listen to it anymore. 'I didn't come out here with you to talk about old times, Mark, to talk about us. You said you had something to show me. You want to tell me what it is?'

The ever-enigmatic Dooher didn't answer directly. 'I want you to understand what happened, Wes, that's what I want.'

'What you want isn't a burning issue with me anymore. I'm not going to understand what you did. That's not going to happen.'

Dooher kept driving, eyes on the road. 'And what did I do?'

'You killed Sheila, Mark. You may have killed Victor Trang, too. Andre Nguyen. How am I supposed to understand that?'

'Did I ever say I had?'

'Fuck you, Mark. Let me out. Pull over.' But he didn't. He kept driving. 'You think I did all that?'

'I know you did some of it, and any part of it's enough. Christ, you all but told me after the trial.'

Dooher was shaking his head no. 'You misinterpreted that.'

'Bullshit!'

Shrugging, Dooher kept his tone relaxed. 'You wearing a wire, Wes? Glitsky hook you up? That's why you really agreed to come today, isn't it? To set me up.'

The great manipulator was wearing Farrell down. 'There's no wire, Mark. I came because you called me and that's who I am,' he said. 'I didn't call you. You called me. You couldn't take it anymore, whatever "it" is. Remember?'

Dooher spent a long time not saying anything, driving slowly through the deep fog. Finally, he sighed heavily. 'What do I need to do? What do you want me to do? I want my wife back.' There was real anguish in his voice. 'I want you to forgive me.'

Farrell asked him to pull over at a gas station just off Sloat Boulevard. They'd made a big circle from where they'd begun in St Francis Wood. He had, he believed, forced the play, though it wasn't over yet.

He told Dooher he had to use the can. This wasn't true. It was nearing the time he'd told Sam he would be home, and he wasn't going to make it. He didn't want her to worry. 'I know I said two hours, but I was late getting here… I had another beer is why. Another hour, tops… No, listen, it's perfectly safe, he's… Sam! He's beaten.' An earful. 'I know that, too. No, we're… one more hour, I promise.'

He had more to say, but she hung up on him.

Contractions every four minutes. Three centimeters dilated.

'Three? Only three? I've got to be more than three.'

Diane was next to Christina in one of the labor rooms at St Mary's, holding her hand, doling out ice chips. Jess Yamagi, Christina's doctor, checked the monitors, ignoring her outburst. 'Everything's going along fine,' he said, 'but it's going to be a while.' He gave her a reassuring pat and turned to Diane. 'You okay with this?'

She nodded. 'I'm here for the duration.'

'You bring along any music?' Yamagi asked. 'You could use a phone if you want. You're going to have some time, Christina, might as well enjoy it.'

Another contraction began and Diane helped her breathe through it. Yamagi was frowning at the monitors.

'What?' Christina asked.

'Nothing. A dip in the baby's heartbeat. It's normal during contractions. We'll keep an eye on it.'

Christina looked over at the beeping machine. 'I'll take that phone now.'

'Where are you, hon?'

'Mom, it's okay. I'm okay. I'm in labor. At St Mary's. Everything's fine.'

'Where's Mark? Is he with you? He called this morning. He's so worried.'

'No, Mom. No. Mark isn't here.'

'He said you'd left him.'

She didn't have the strength to come out with all of it. She sighed. 'Just for now, Mom. Until we figure some things out.'

'Can't you figure them out together, Chris? Having a baby, that's a time you can't get back.'

'I know that, but…' It was so tiring, trying to explain. 'Mom, you have to trust me. Everything will be all right. I'll tell you all about it after the baby's born.'

'But Mark, he deserves to-'

'Mom, please. Don't tell him. Don't say anything to Mark. Promise me.'

Farrell's rising hopes when he'd called Sam had been dashed when he got back in the car. The critical moment – Dooher vulnerable – had shifted again.

Dooher had begun driving, heading north now. He had not yet confessed and Farrell was at the end of his tolerance. This wasn't going to work. Suddenly he saw it clearly.

Hard by the Golden Gate Bridge is a parking area favored by pedestrians who want to walk the three miles across it. Sepulchral in the fog, the place was otherwise deserted now in the late afternoon. A perennial gale battered the evergreens that bordered the northern lip of the lot, where below the trees, a cliff dropped nearly a hundred feet to the beach below.

Dooher parked the car, opened his door, and got out. Farrell sat a minute in his seat, then did the same. They heard the foghorns moaning deeply, the wind here on the headland raking the trees.

'What are we doing here?' Farrell asked.