'I don't think so, Chris. I think he killed his wife for a million six in insurance money.'

'And why did he kill Trang? Jesus Christ, Art, people don't just become homicidal maniacs one morning out of the blue for no reason at all.'

Drysdale was suddenly happy – in the midst of this reaming – that he'd earlier decided not to mention as part of his argument the Chas Brown story. Instead, he stuck to the question at hand. 'He killed Trang because Trang pissed him off – hey, I'm not saying it's the best reason I've ever heard – but it worked. He got away with that so he got cocky, decided he could do the same with his wife and collect big time.'

'Why does he want to collect big time? Does he need the money? Is his business failing?'

Since Drysdale knew that, if anything, the contrary was true, he thought it would be wiser to shift gears, get on to the evidence. The point is, this time we've got witnesses, we got fingerprints on the murder weapon. We have one good citizen who saw Dooher's car near his house when he said he was at the driving range. Chris, we've got a case. We've got a righteous Murder One.'

But Locke was still frowning, his head swinging slowly back and forth, side to side. 'And Glitsky's the investigator again? How'd he get on this?'

'I don't know, Chris, but he's-'

'He's got a damn conflict of interest, if you ask my opinion. Even if he's not out to get this guy, for whatever reason, it looks like he is, which is just as bad.' Locke didn't want to add, although they both understood, that Glitsky, who for statistical purposes within the bureaucracy was considered black, was someone Locke couldn't afford politically to alienate or even, to a great degree, to criticize. As a show of solidarity, Locke had even attended Flo's funeral a few weeks before.

'Well, I'm afraid that's water under the bridge now, Chris. Glitsky's the Inspector of record.'

Locke stood still for a moment, then swore and slammed his hand down on his desk. He walked over to the windows and stood staring out, his hands clasped behind his back. Without turning, he spoke conversationally. 'I really, really don't want to charge anybody, much less an influential lawyer, with a murder he didn't commit.'

'No, sir. Neither do I.'

Now Locke did turn. 'What do you think, Art?'

Commitment time. Drysdale spoke right up. 'I think Glitsky's right, though it may be a bitch to prove.'

'You don't think there's anything to him being out to get Dooher, planting evidence, anything like that? Or his wife's death has-'

But Drysdale was emphatic. 'Not a chance.'

Back out to the window. 'All right, I'm going to give you my decision and you're not going to like it, but here it is. We go for the indictment on killing his wife, but not on Victor Trang. From what you say, we're not going to prove Trang.'

'Well, sir, there is the consistent M.O., with wiping the blade…'

'Forget it. It's not going to happen. So we go with one count, Murder One, no specials.' This meant special circumstances murder-killing a police officer, multiple murders, murder for profit, and other especially heinous crimes.

'But we've got specials at least two ways.'

'No.' Locke was emphatic. 'I am supporting my staff on the one charge that it has any chance of proving. But personally, I must tell you, Art, I am not convinced. It smells funny to me, but I can't not charge it, can I?'

'I don't think so, no.'

'All right. Then go get the indictment, but I want you to ride this case like white on rice – it starts to go sideways, I want to know about it yesterday, all right?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And one other thing. I want you to ask for a quarter million dollars' bail.'

'What?' Drysdale was stunned. This was unheard of. Murder suspects did not get out on bail, or if they did, it was for millions. A quarter million dollars' bail meant that Mark Dooher could put up his ten percent bond on one of his credit cards and be out of jail before he was in. In effect, he would never be arrested.

'You heard me, Art. This particular man is innocent until he's proven guilty, and I want him treated innocent. Do you understand?'

'But this bail, sir. The precedent alone…'

'This is an unprecedented case. If Amanda Jenkins wants it and you think it's a winner, I'll go along because I respect you, Art. But we'll do it my way. And that's the end of it.'

'But-'

He held up a warning hand. 'No buts! That's the end of it!'

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Glitsky liked this woman. The appointment was scheduled for his home at 7:30 and that was the exact moment she rang the doorbell. Glitsky generally believed that cleanliness was next to godliness, but punctuality was next. Rita was starting off on the right foot.

He'd been surprised, at first, by her nationality, since he'd expected Rita Schultz to be somehow vaguely Germanic. But she was a hefty and healthy-looking Hispanic woman. Her great-grandfather, she explained, had come over to Mexico with the Emperor Maximilian's troops, then stayed. She was thirty-three years old and her English was accented but at least as grammatical as most of what Glitsky heard on television.

She had been working for six years for the same couple – the references were glowing. The couple were having their third child, and the woman had decided that she was going to take an extended leave from her job in advertising and stay home with her new baby and the other two, so they wouldn't need a nanny anymore. But it did mean that Rita could not start for Glitsky until after the baby was born. It was due any day.

He thought that for Rita Schultz it would be worth the wait.

The light had faded long ago and Christina was sitting alone in her office at McCabe & Roth. The room was small, stark and utilitarian, with a desk, a computer terminal, a bookshelf, a gun-metal legal file. With her door open, she could look out across the open reception area and catch a glimpse of the Oakland Bay Bridge, but she had no windows of her own. The walls in her office had been bare when she'd moved in, but she'd tacked up a couple of posters to lessen the claustrophobic feel. On her desk she had a picture of her parents smiling at her from the pool deck in Ojai.

She heard a noise somewhere on the floor and glanced up from the brief she was writing. Seeing her parents in the picture, smiling and carefree in the bright sunlight, she felt a pang and looked at her watch.

9:35.

What the hell was she doing with her life?

She stretched and stood, thinking she'd go see what other lunatic was burning the oil the way she was. At her door, she paused – it was Mark's office, the light on now. He hadn't been back into work yet. She crossed the reception area.

The sense of disappointment when it wasn't Mark brought her up short.

She hadn't really been consciously aware that she was waiting to see him, wanting to see him again. She'd been biding her time until he could face coming back into work, and then, thinking it must be him in his office this late at night, her heart had quickened.

But it wasn't him. Another man was standing by the wraparound windows, looking out at the mezmerizing view. She knocked on the open door. 'Wes?'

Farrell turned, smiled weakly. She couldn't help but notice how drawn and tired he seemed.' C 'est moi. I thought everybody would have gone home by now.'

She took a step into the room. 'Can I help you?'

'I don't think so.' He held up a key by way of explanation. 'Mark asked if I'd stop by on my way home and pick up his in-box. He must be thinking about coming back to work.' Wes moved over to Dooher's desk, picked up his briefcase and opened it. 'What are you still doing here?'