Was that too much of a stretch? Glitsky wasn't sure. He'd known a lot of people – perennial losers – who'd tried to fool themselves and others in similar ways. Maybe that had been Trang, trying to convince himself as well as the women in his life. And then when the settlement didn't come through after all, he'd fall back into victim mode. It hadn't been his fault. The breaks were against him, the power of the Church, the bigger players had ganged up.

But – Glitsky brought himself up short – the truth was that there had been a substantial offer. Six hundred thousand dollars had been on the table, and Trang had turned it down. Would he have done that if he wasn't fairly sure he was going to get more?

No. He would have taken it.

Which meant – what?

That the penny-ante psychological profile Glitsky had been drawing of Trang-as-loser was not valid. And if that were true, then at the very least, Trang believed something was happening with Dooher and the settlement. He hadn't made it all up. Or possibly any of it.

So Dooher had called him. Twice on that Monday. Maybe three times.

He wondered if he'd admit it. It didn't exactly reek of probable cause, but Glitsky knew he could find a judge to give him a warrant for Dooher's phone records based on the inconsistencies. But if Dooher hadn't called Trang from his home or office, any other call would be nearly impossible to verify – the phone company kept track of the calls you made, but didn't keep records of non-toll calls received.

He chewed the last of his piroshki, tipped back the soda. Well, at least now he had a plausible excuse to go back and talk to Dooher, take another look at the Vietnam photograph while he was at it. Maybe casually bring up some other topics. 'Say, I was doing the crossword this morning and came across a seven-letter word, starts with "b", means infantry knife. What do you think that could be?' Subtlety was the key.

Dooher was going to be in meetings out of the office for most of the rest of the afternoon, but if he checked in for messages, his secretary would tell him the Sergeant had called.

So the rest of Glitsky's Wednesday afternoon was lost in paperwork. He labored over his initial report on the Tastee Burger killing. He checked the transcription of his interviews with three of the witnesses there.

Moving along, he filled out the warrant for Dooher's business and personal phone records. Then there was the application for the Lieutenant's exam.

A final Homicide issue involved re-booking a burglar who'd killed a seventy-year-old man last week. The elderly resident had had the bad luck to wake up and grab his.38 in the middle of the night when he'd heard the noise.

At 5:10, completely fried with the paperwork, as he was putting on his jacket to go home, his telephone rang. 'This is Mark Dooher,' he said to himself. And it was.

Dooher was free now, but maybe if the Sergeant just had a quick question or two, he could answer it on the phone, save him a trip. Glitsky wondered if he really needed to actually see the Vietnam photograph again. It was quitting time. He wanted to go home and be with his family. He'd worked a long day as it was. He wasn't the same cop he had been. He said some questions should do it.

'Sure, I talked to him that day.'

'More than once?'

'I may have. I believe so. Why?'

'When you and I talked last time, you didn't mention it.'

'Did you ask about it? I'm sorry. I don't-'

'I thought it might have occurred to you as relevant, talking to a murdered man just before he was killed.'

No answer.

'Do you recall what you talked about?'

'Sure. He was asking for my strategic advice on another case he was handling. As I told you, we kind of hit it off. I think he was hoping I'd offer him a job at the firm here.'

'You didn't discuss the settlement of your suit?'

Another pause. 'No, not that I recall.'

'Although he was threatening to file it the next day, ratcheting up the figures?'

'And then we'd duke it out in court. That's how we do it, Sergeant. 'Those lines had been drawn. There wasn't anything to talk about.'

'And he didn't seem concerned, worried, anxious?'

'Not to me. He seemed normal.'

'Do you remember what the other case was about, the one he wanted your advice on?'

'Sure, it was another settlement on a personal injury. Sergeant, am I under some kind of suspicion here?'

'The case is still open,' Glitsky said ambiguously. 'I've been trying to get a sense of what Mr Trang did in those last hours.' But may as well just come out with it. 'Did you have a bayonet as part of your gear in Vietnam?'

So much for the subtle approach.

'It sounds like I should contact my lawyer.'

'Or just answer the question.'

'Yes, I did. Did a bayonet kill Victor?'

'We believe so. Do you still have yours?'

'No. The Army takes it from you when they send you home.'

'Do you mind telling me where you were last Monday night?'

A sigh, perhaps an angry one. 'I believe I went to the driving range, then came back to the office here and worked late. Sergeant Glitsky, why on earth do you think I'd consider killing a man, any man, much less Victor, whom I've told you I liked?'

'I didn't say I did. I'm collecting all the information I can, hoping some of it leads somewhere.'

'The implications are pretty damn infuriating.'

'I'm sorry about that. Archbishop Flaherty thought so, too.'

'You talked to the Archbishop? About this?'

'He's your biggest client, isn't he?'

'By far. So?'

'And Trang's death means the suit gets dropped…'

'Trang's death means Mrs Diep gets another lawyer, Sergeant. And that's all it means.'

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The earthquake that rocked the city at 5:22 the next morning wasn't as destructive as the World Series Quake of '89 – it didn't collapse any part of the Bay Bridge, for example, or any freeways. However, with a magnitude of 5.8 and an epicenter just a mile into the ocean northwest of the Cliff House, it was by no means a minor temblor. The eventual damage total exceeded $50 million. Seventy-seven people were injured seriously enough to seek medical help, and four people died.

Bart was going insane. He jumped up on Farrell's bed, howling like a coyote rather than the intelligent and sensitive Boxer that Farrell knew him to be, so something must be wrong, but Wes had no idea what it could be. He cast a quick glance at the clock next to his bed. 5:19. What the hell! 'Bart, Bart! Come on, boy. It's all right. It's all right.'

But apparently Bart knew more than his owner on this score. Wes was grabbing for the dog's collar to pull him nearer. It sounded like he was dying. Wes was thinking, I knew I shouldn't have given him that lamb bone. That's what it is – it's cut his stomach to shreds.

He flicked on the light, holding the dog close now, murmuring to him, petting to try and calm him down. 'Please don't die. Come on, hang in there, I'll call-'

Wham!

It was a sharp up-and-down, similar to the Northridge quake that had done so much damage to Southern California. The experts later estimated that the shock was equal to a vertical drop of five and half feet. It was probably fortunate that Farrell had no art on his walls and very little furniture, so there wasn't much to fall or fly around.

After one terrified bark coupled with a desperate escape maneuver involving claws and fangs that scratched Farrell's face badly, Bart got himself to a corner of the room and set up another howl.

The lights went out. There was a second, smaller jolt, and Farrell rolled from his bed and started crawling, eventually arriving at the bedroom doorway, his hands gripping both sides of it for support should the foundations shake again.