It could only be one thing, something he'd seen only once before – with Victor Trang – in his career.

The killed had wiped the blade off on his victim's clothes.

Farrell didn't look like a lawyer at the moment.

He was in the pair of white painter's overalls that had been next to his bed. He'd finally finished all the repairs, the caulking and the cracks in the walls of his apartment. For the past few weeks, after work, when he wasn't visiting Sam, he had been haphazardly painting a baseboard here, a door there.

Tonight, after the midnight call from Mark, he threw on the paint-stained pants, stepped barefoot into his trashed topsiders, threw on a ragged and grubby University of California sweatshirt, and grabbed his Giants hat from the peg by the door.

So he didn't look like a lawyer, but he wasn't here as a lawyer. At least he didn't think so. He was here as a best friend. Mark's voice had been calm, though there was no mistaking the anguish. They'd had a burglar, he said. Sheila was dead.

He pulled his Datsun up behind the police cars. The driveway and the street in front of Mark's house were clogged with the ambulance, the coroner's van, the knot of curious neighbors, two local news trucks.

He went up to the nearest uniform. 'Excuse me, I'm a friend of the resident here. He asked me to come over. I'd like to go up to the house.'

The cop had his orders, though. His arms remained crossed, and he shook his head. 'Afraid not. This is a crime scene. It's closed to the public.'

'I'm not the public. I'm an attorney.'

The officer looked him over.'Then be an attorney outside. This is still a crime scene.'

'Look, why don't you go ask Mr Dooher if he wants Wes Farrell up there with him?'

'You're Wes Farrell?'

'Yeah.'

'Well, Wes, we don't run things the way Mr Dooher wants them run, especially at a murder scene. You know what I mean? We're investigating a crime here. We don't want people tramping all over the evidence. That's how we do it. Now, when we're done, you can go up. Meanwhile, somebody comes out, I'll send word up if I can see some ID.'

Wes patted his empty pockets. He could visualize his wallet on the top of the dresser next to his bed at home.

He considered breaking and running up the pavers, but figured he'd get shot or arrested or something for his troubles. No. The only hope was to drive the two miles back home and get his goddamned ID. 'Have a nice night,' he told the cop.

A polite smile. 'You, too.'

The CSI – crime-scene investigation – unit knew the drill, and Glitsky knew them. He didn't want to step on toes, but he wasn't working backward from any theory now. This time he was looking at what he knew was evidence, not wanting it to go away through inadvertence or simple bad luck.

He walked up to Sergeant Jimmy Ash from the photo lab, a gangly, forty-year-old freckled albino who, tonight with the late hour, even had pink eyes, and who'd already 'painted the room' in videotape. Ash was standing by the bed, taking stills of the body that had been Sheila Dooher.

'Hey, Jimmy. You got any special technique for splatter stains?'

'The blood?' He swallowed, a prominent Adam's apple bobbing. 'No, nothing special. Clear photos – my particular area of expertise, you know – and something to provide perspective in the picture. You see something?'

'I think so.'

'Then you got it.'

Thieu was standing next to them both. Glitsky could figuratively almost hear him panting there, dying to ask what he'd seen and having no clue. He started to take pity on him, turned to answer, when Alice Carter, the coroner's tech from the other side of the bed, spoke up.

'Abe?' She pointed a finger at him and curled it toward her. Come here. 'Anybody move this body?'

'I don't think so. Not since I've been here.'

Thieu spoke up. 'She was this way when I came in, too.'

'I think you want to be sure on this. The responding officers still below?'

Thieu was already moving out the room's door, going to get them if they were still there.

'Why?' Abe asked.

Ms Carter pointed at Sheila Dooher's bare right shoulder, the exposed back beneath it, a slight darkening, red under the skin. 'Because we've got what looks a whole lot like fixed lividity here in the upper right quadrant.'

'Which means she was moved…'

'Right, and after she'd been dead a while.'

It was well after midnight. Thieu trailing behind him, Glitsky stopped in the doorway to the library and caught Dooher in an unguarded moment, sitting back in his wingchair, legs crossed, talking with another man. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but Dooher's expression was bland, his body language relaxed.

It had been a week now since Abe had lost his wife and he had yet to draw an easy breath. His tired muscles seemed as though their ache would never end and his jangled nerves, strung with fatigue, twitched like a thoroughbred's.

And here was Dooher, his wife gone less than three hours, all but holding court. The comparison invited conclusions. Glitsky was going to have to concentrate to keep his personal feelings from intruding.

This had to be by the book.

Today's date is Wednesday, June 8th. The time is approximately 0020

hours. This is Sergeant Inspector Abraham Glitsky, star number 1144.

/ am currently at 4215 Ravenwood Drive, San Francisco. Present

and being interviewed is Mark Dooher, Caucasian male, 4/19/47.

With me is Sergeant Inspector Paul Thieu, star 2067, and Mr Dooher's

attorney Wes Farrell.

Q: Mr Dooher, I'll be tape-recording your statement, as you can see.

Do you have any objection to this?

A: No, none.

Q: But, for the record, your attorney did raise some objections to

your coming downtown to give your statement.

A: (Farrell) Sergeant, we've been through that. It's after midnight

and the man's wife has just been killed. Since Mr Dooher wasn 't home

all night, he couldn't possibly be a suspect in this crime. He voluntarily

has agreed to give a statement here and now. There's no reason to go

downtown.

A: (Dooher) It's all right, Wes. What do you need for the statement,

Sergeant?

Q: How about starting by telling what you found here tonight?

A: All right. At about nine forty-five, I got home from hitting a couple

of buckets of golf balls at the San Francisco Driving Range, (pause)

As you know, I've had some bad luck with driving ranges lately.

Q: You got home at quarter to ten…

A: Right. I came inside…

Q: What car were you driving and where did you park?

A: I was driving my Lexus. It's light brown with personalized plates

reading ESKW. I drove up the driveway and parked in the garage

behind the house. I closed the garage door behind me – it's automatic

– and walked out the side door of the garage on the path next to my

back lawn, to the driveway, and in the side door.

Q: Was the door locked?

A: I don't remember, to tell you the truth. I wouldn 't have noticed

anyway. I always just put my key in first, give it a turn, it opens. I

don't remember specifically.

Q: Do you remember if the overhead light was on?

A: No. I don't believe it was. It must have burned out.

Q: Okay. What did you do then?

A: I went to turn off the alarm system – we have a box next to the

doors – and I noticed it hadn 't been set.

Q: Was that unusual?