Hall?"

"Just the rumor that she was firing him, but I don't believe it."

Treya spoke into the phone. "He hasn't heard anything either." She listened. "Okay. Well, whatever it is, I wouldn't worry. No, I know. Good luck."

She hung up, and realizing that she hadn't told her husband her own news, their own news, she bit at her lip again.

"Are you all right?" Hardy asked.

"I'm fine. Just a little distracted."

"Well," Hardy copped Billy Crystal's old Saturday Night Live accent, "it's not how you feel but how you look, and dahling, you look mahvelous." When Treya didn't react, Hardy went sober. "Is Abe really worried? Are you?"

"I don't think so. He'd just rather be prepared whenever it's possible."

"You're kidding? Abe?" Then: "I do wonder what Kathy wants, though."

"Whatever it is, it's got to be important, don't you think? She wanted him ASAP," she said. "And in person."

Kathy West had been a city supervisor for six terms and, during the last couple of years before her election to mayor, had been a regular at Clarence Jackman's informal "kitchen cabinet" meetings, held most Tuesdays at Lou the Greek's bar and restaurant, located just across the street from the Hall of Justice. Glitsky-and Treya and Hardy, for that matter-were also members, so there was a history of goodwill and mutual respect between the deputy chief and the mayor.

Nevertheless, Glitsky did not feel free to sit down and relax in her office, but stood at ease in the center of her rug.

Nor did Kathy West come out from behind her large and ornate desk. Through the open double windows behind her, downtown San Francisco shimmered mostly white as the fog burned away. Small-boned and delicate, West's fragile packaging all but disguised a ferocious will and laser intellect. Completely at home in polite society, raised to an old standard of born-to privilege mixed with a heightened sense of civic responsibility, she was in her bones a pragmatic, skillful politician, now somewhere in her late fifties. Playing somewhat against type, she talked the good talk about believing in getting her hands dirty if that's what it would take, whatever it was. And that had gotten her elected.

This morning, Glitsky was discovering firsthand that it wasn't all talk. "I just can't accept any part of it, Abe. The Paul Hanover I knew-and I've known him for thirty-five years-did not shoot his fiancee, and then himself, and then burn down his house. That is just not what happened. I can't accept it." She stabbed the open flat of her desk blotter with a bony index finger. "I don't care what the medical examiner rules."

Glitsky wasn't going to fight her. At least not yet, before he knew anything. He assumed she just needed her hand held. "I don't think John Strout is anywhere near making a ruling," he said. "It's just the usual media madness, filling that awful silence they hate so much."

West's mouth went up in a tic of appreciation that vanished quickly. "I think it's more than that. They were, and I quote, 'police sources.' "

"I heard that, too. Saying they couldn't rule out murder/suicide. Which, in all fairness, they can't. It might have been."

Glitsky reserved judgment as he always did, but if Strout eventually came to this conclusion, it wouldn't be a shock. At this stage, it certainly looked like it could have been a murder/suicide. But he wasn't going to press that argument with the mayor. "I don't blame you for being angry at the stupid reporting, but it's not like we don't see it every day. If you want, I'll see to it you're informed with every development. Then you can call the press conferences yourself and maybe even have some fun."

But fun wasn't on the mayor's agenda. Impatient, she was shaking her short bob of gray hair, a quick birdlike movement. "No," she said, "I want more than that. That's why I called you here, Abe. I want somebody I trust working on this. This cannot be what it seems. I will not have Paul Hanover's name slandered over something that he didn't do." She asked abruptly, "Do you know

Dan Cuneo?"

"Sure."

"What do you know about him?"

Glitsky knew he did not like him. He guessed that the feeling was mutual. Cuneo had never worked in homicide under Glitsky, and worse, a couple ofyears before he'd actually accused Glitsky of collusion with Dismas Hardy for trying to deflect a murder rap from one of Hardy's clients. But West didn't need the history lesson about him and Cuneo. "Marcel Lanier says he's okay. He makes his numbers."

"My, what a ringing endorsement." West's bright eyes stayed on Glitsky, waiting.

His mouth went up a fraction of an inch-a pass at a smile-and he shrugged. "I don't know him personally. If I can ask, what about him?"

"The latest version of the news I've seen named him as the police source. He's the inspecting officer on this case. I think he's a hog for press and he's already jumping to conclusions. I think he's the wrong man."

After a minute, Glitsky nodded. "Would you like me to talk to Lanier? Maybe he can assign Cuneo a partner, although I hear he likes to work alone."

"I've heard he can't keep a partner." Kathy West scratched at her blotter. "Actually, Abe," she said quietly, "before I asked you to come up here, I called Frank Batiste." This was the chief of police, Glitsky's boss, the man who'd promoted him. West's mention of his name in this context-low-key, to be sure-marked a change in the dynamic of things. "I asked Frank who, in his opinion, was the single best homicide inspector in the city, and he said it was you."

"I don't know about that," Glitsky said, "though of course I'm flattered. But I'm not in homicide anymore, as you know. They have good people down there."

West stared at him for a long moment. "Abe, I don't want to beat around the bush. I'd consider it a personal favor if you would agree to help investigate this case. Chief Batiste has agreed to assign someone else temporarily to your administrative duties, press conferences, public appearances and so on, during the interim. You've made no secret about how little you like that stuff. You'll enjoy the break."

"And what about Cuneo?"

"That's a police matter, Abe. I'm confident that between you, Frank and Lieutenant Lanier, you'll be able to come to some resolution there."

Glitsky looked out over the mayor's shoulder to the city beyond. Though it wasn't particularly warm in the room, he had broken a light sweat and wiped a sleeve across his forehead. "Ms. Mayor," he began.

"Abe, please." She held up a hand. "It was always Kathy at Lou the Greek's," she said. "It's still Kathy."

He had the permission, but that didn't tempt him to use it. Nodding, noncommittal, he drew a breath. "I was going to say that it's impossible to predict where an investigation is going to lead. I'm concerned that I won't find what you're looking for."

"But I'm not looking for anything," she said.

"Forgive me," he said, "but it very much sounds like you don't want me to find that Hanover killed anybody. Or himself."

"No, if that's what he did, then that's what you'll find. And I'll live with it. But what I want is somebody who'll really look. Somebody who won't go to the press on day one and say it looks like a murder/suicide, that it looks like Hanover killed his girlfriend."

Glitsky chewed at one side of his cheek. "All right, then. I need to ask you something else."

"Of course. Anything."

"What was your relationship with him? Hanover?" The mayor's eyes closed down. "He was a friend and a donor to my campaign." "Nothing more?"

She straightened her back. "What are you implying?"

"I'm implying nothing. I'm asking. Call it the start of my investigation."

"All right, I will, and I'll give you the same answer. He was a friend and contributor. Nothing more."