Glitsky shrugged.

'I mean, you and me together…'

'I know what you mean,' he said. 'I'll try to keep my hands off you, I promise.'

There was no impetus to move inside. In the open area by the cathedral's main entrance, people continued arriving on foot, got let out of cars and taxis. Singles, couples, small groups. It was twenty minutes until the service was scheduled to begin and already the forecourt was packed.

A snatch of narration carried from somewhere. '… expecting close to five hundred mourners from every walk of the city's public life, this charismatic young woman's tragic death has fired the imaginations of…'

It being San Francisco, of course there were already several groups of demonstrators hanging around – any excuse for a party. They were just starting to get organized. On the periphery of the crowd, Hardy could see placards for and against the death penalty. In the park across the street, he could make out where earnest groups had set up tables giving out literature on drug abuse awareness programs, the Nation of Islam, homeless advocates, gun control lobbyists and their opponents.

A mime, dressed as a World War I doughboy, had sprayed himself head to toe in bronze paint and gotten himself up on the pillar by the cathedral's door. He didn't move a muscle, a living statue with his rifle trained down on the crowd.

Three of the local news vans had scored some primo reserved parking nearby, and teams with their reporters and cameras were unloading and shooting, getting some B-roll local color.

A limo slowly pulled up through the congestion and stopped behind several others. As the mayor emerged from behind the tinted windows, one of the news crews recognized him and yelled something about it. Around Hardy and Glitsky, the crowd seemed to become more dense, pressing into itself. It no longer seemed cold.

'Lieutenant?'

Glitsky turned around, nodding matter-of-factly. 'How you doing, Ridley?'

The young cop shifted uncomfortably. 'Not too good, I guess.' Tongue-tied.

It wasn't much Glitsky's nature to give anything away, but he'd considered himself in some ways the boy's mentor in the years since he'd come up to homicide, so he cut him some slack, making conversation, indicating Hardy. 'You know my friend?'

Banks said sure, nodded again, didn't offer a handshake, though. He kept his attention on Abe. 'I thought you'd be here,' he said awkwardly.

'Looks like you were right.' Glitsky could throw him a bone, but he wasn't about to spoon-feed him. If Ridley wanted to say something, he'd have to figure out how.

It took him a minute. 'The thing is,' he began, 'OK, I'm not blaming anybody else. It was completely my fault, but you should know that Torrey sandbagged me.'

No response. None.

The sergeant continued. 'When the arraignment got over, we were standing around outside in the hallway afterward, you know, talking about it, all of us pretty pissed off, mostly at… uh…' He made a gesture.

'Let me guess,' Hardy put in. 'That would have been me.'

Banks seemed grateful for the help. 'Yeah. So anyway… I knew you had problems with the tape, I knew you and Hardy here, you went back. So Torrey is all bitching and moaning about how'd Hardy know so much about everything so soon. And I just blurted out that I wouldn't be surprised if you showed him the tape.'

'Sometimes blurting out is a strategic error.'

Banks looked directly at Hardy. 'Yeah, but in court you made it pretty clear you'd seen it.' Back to Glitsky. 'Torrey didn't seem to remember that, but I did. So I figured it had to be you, Abe.'

Glitsky finally was moved to speak. 'Deduction's a great tool.' It didn't come out as a compliment.

Ridley kept on. 'But I didn't think he'd… I mean, I didn't know it was going to go this way. That wasn't why I brought up the tape, to get at you. I know we disagreed about it, you and me, and I didn't want you to think… What it was, was we were just all talking, wondering out loud, and I guess I got caught up in it…' The rambling narrative wound down. Ridley looked as though he'd been having a miserable few days worrying about all this.

Glitsky couldn't say that the boy's malaise bothered him too much – maybe Ridley would pick up a useful lesson about politics that would serve him well in his dotage. But in the here and now, the sergeant had messed up his lieutenant's life pretty good. Now he was saying he hadn't meant to do it. Which helped exactly zero. Glitsky removed his sunglasses and folded his arms over his chest. His voice, when he spoke, had a resigned quality to it, the anger all leached out. 'Well, I guess we both got caught up in it then, didn't we, Rid?'

After a moment, Banks realized that this was about all he was going to get from Glitsky in the way of absolution. He took in a breath, let it out heavily. 'So what are you going to do now?'

'I'm waiting until somebody in Rigby's office decides something.' A shrug, a glance at Hardy. 'Meanwhile, I'm exploring some other career opportunities.'

'He's thinking of opening a chop house.' Hardy, poker-faced.

'Not really?' Banks asked.

'It could happen,' Glitsky replied, equally deadpan. 'You never know.'

The church bells began to peal, cutting off the riff. It was a quarter to ten, still fifteen minutes until the service, but at the signal, the crowd shifted, began to move.

Ridley wasn't ready for that, yet. He still wanted some more resolution. 'Anyway, Abe, listen, if there's anything I can do…'

Glitsky raised a hand, a farewell. He was going inside now. 'Rid, listen, it's done. Don't worry about it.' He turned for the cathedral, leaving Banks out where he'd found them.

Hardy hustled a step or two and fell in beside him. 'You know what I can't believe?' he asked.

'What's that?'

'My brother-in-law doesn't think you have a sense of humor.'

Glitsky threw him a sideways glance. 'He's not paying close enough attention.'

It was the day that Treya was supposed to begin on the Grayson project for Mr Jackman, but he and Mr Rand had closed down the firm for the morning so that all of Elaine's co-workers could attend the memorial. Treya had arrived early to pay her own private respects.

She found Grace to be an odd sort of cathedral. With its classic lines, stained glass and cavernous open space, in some ways it almost seemed to fit the medieval mold – an imposing edifice calculated to reflect the majesty and glory of God. But this church, for the past twenty years or so, had also been the locus of compassion, support, and empathy for the victims of AIDS. And now the heartbreaking quilts hanging over her seemed to fill all the open space, humanizing the cold stone. In a tragic way, yes, but Treya found it strangely comforting.

She felt it strongly – this was no longer the home of some harsh and angry deity, but a true community center, with an almost palpable sense of forgiveness, acceptance, serenity. Outside the large crowd might be milling uneasily, but in here there was only peace.

She'd wandered about inside for a while and finally seated herself in the sixth row on the right – she had no need to claim any pride of place.

People had begun filing in, talking quietly among themselves. It was no surprise to see a lot of her colleagues, if she wanted to use that word, from the firm. It was even less of one that they held mostly to their cliques. None of them sat in her row.

Clarence Jackman tapped her on the shoulder, said hello, introduced her to his wife Moira, a regal matron in black. Treya recognized some of the students from Hastings who had been to Rand and Jackman for the post-arraignment gathering last week. The mayor, arm-in-arm with the District Attorney. Then her Chief Assistant, Torrey, the prosecutor at the arraignment, someone who was actually trying to do the right thing, to bring Elaine's killer to justice.