"All right."

West cocked her head to one side. "You don't believe me?"

"If you say it, I believe you, but you've got lots of friends and lots of contributors. Your interest in how one of them is remembered after his death seems a little… unusual."

West scratched again at her blotter. "That's not it, how people remember him," she said. "Or rather not all of it. Maybe it's a corollary." She took a minute. "What I'm getting at," she said, "is if he didn't do it, somebody else did-killed him, I mean."

"Don't you think that would probably have been the girlfriend, Missy? I'm assuming from what I've heard that she was the other body."

"If she was, then, all right. At least we'll know for sure. At least someone would have really investigated, and Paul deserves that." She lowered her voice, narrowed her eyes. "I want to be satisfied that whoever killed him is either dead or caught. Call it simple revenge, but I liked the man and I don't buy that he killed himself or anybody else. And okay, maybe it was this Missy, but if it wasn't…"

Glitsky jumped. "Is there any reason you think it might not have been?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Business problems, family issues, something you'd got wind of?"

"No. But I'd be more comfortable if the various possibilities got eliminated." She turned a palm up. "So how about it, Abe? You want to help give a tired old lady some peace of mind?"

It wasn't really a request. West seemed about as tired as a hummingbird, as old as a schoolgirl. Glitsky had no choice. He gave her a salute. "It would be my pleasure," he said.

As a deputy chief, Glitsky had a city car and a driver- Sergeant Tom Paganucci-assigned to him for his personal use. Paganucci, humorless, taciturn and loyal, suited Glitsky well. He did not make suggestions or offer opinions, and only asked questions related to his work, though he would answer them on other topics if Glitsky asked him directly. He started no conversations at all, but waited for orders that, once given, he obeyed with what seemed to be a complete commitment of his body and soul.

He was forty-three years old, heavily built, cleanshaven, prematurely gray. Because he'd asked on their first day together, Glitsky knew that his driver was married and childless, but that was the extent of his knowledge of Paganucci's personal life, except he was reasonably certain that he didn't do stand-up comedy on his nights off.

Paganucci had kept the car running where he'd left his boss off a half hour before, out in the street in front of City Hall, and now Glitsky slid into the backseat. He closed the door after him and leaned back for an instant into the comfortable black leather. He looked at his watch-11:50. "Do you think the chief's in, Tom?"

Paganucci reached for his intercom. "I'll call."

"No, wait. What am I going to say to him anyway?" Glitsky didn't want an answer from Paganucci and wasn't going to get one in any event. He let out an audible breath. "All right," he said, "let's go."

"Yes, sir. Where to?"

"Alamo Square."

Paganucci put the car in gear and they started to roll.

"He was here 'til they bagged the bodies, sir," Becker said. "Then I guess he went home to get some sleep." They were standing outside on the concrete steps, where Becker had come out in response to Glitsky's hail.

"What about you?" Glitsky asked.

"What about me?"

"And sleep."

The firefighter chortled. "Not a priority. Not 'til I'm satisfied here anyway."

"And you're not?"

"I've got a pretty good basic idea, but I'd be more comfortable if I had more answers." "Like what?"

Becker shrugged. "Like multiple flash sights. The place went up so quick and thorough, it looks like somebody knew exactly what they were doing." He motioned behind him at the charred remains of the house. "But we've only got the one spot. You want to go in, take a look?" Without waiting for an answer, he led the way through the still-standing front doorway. Some of the ceiling above the lobby was intact, but with the fog burned off, the day was bright with sunshine and there was sufficient natural light to see clearly.

Glitsky squatted over an area of rug that appeared less scorched than its surroundings. There was another, similar spot about eight feet farther into the lobby, at the entrance to what might once have been a hallway. "This is where you found them?"

"Yeah. Plus, it's where the fire started. Get down and you can still smell the gasoline."

Glitsky leaned over and inhaled, but couldn't smell anything except fire. "You've probably gone through all this with Cuneo, but I'd be grateful if you ran it by me one more time. The mayor's personally interested. She was friends with Mr. Hanover. I'd like to sound reasonably intelligent when I brief her. I'm assuming it was Hanover?"

"That's the assumption, although Strout makes the formal call. But whoever it was-call him Hanover-he fell on his wallet so it didn't burn completely. It had Hanover's driver's license in it, so it looks good for him." "What about the other body?"

"No way to tell. Your man Cuneo seemed to think it was probably his girlfriend." "You don't agree?"

"I don't know. There was nothing to identify her. It could have been." Becker spoke with little inflection. He was assembling the facts and would share what he knew with any other investigating officials without any particular emphasis. "I can say it was probably a woman-we found what might be a bra strap under her-but that's all I'd be comfortable with for the time being. Again, Strout'll tell us soon enough."

"So what does it look like we have here? The news said murder/suicide."

Becker nodded. "Might have been."

"So you've seen this kind of thing before? Where somebody kills a partner, then himself, but before he does himself, he lights the place up?"

"Sure. It's not uncommon." He seemed to consider whether to say more for a moment, then shrugged as though apologizing. "The relationship goes bad, somebody wants to destroy every sign of it."

"Any sign that this relationship was going bad?"

Becker's eyes scanned the floor area. "You mean besides this? Maybe. Cuneo talked to Hanover's daughter-in-law."

"When did he do that?"

"She saw the fire on the news and came by here last night. Seems this Missy had just finished redecorating this place to the tune of maybe a million dollars of Hanover's money. Maybe he wanted to leave a message that it all meant nothing to him. But I will tell you one thing."

"What's that?"

"It wasn't her."

"What do you mean? What wasn't her?"

"She didn't do the killing. I told Cuneo, too. This might not be any kind of a proof that you could use in court, but if it's a relationship gone bad, there's two things here. First, if she does it, it goes down in the bedroom, maybe even in the bed."

"Why's that?"

"Because that's the center of the woman's life." He held up a hand. "I know, I know, it's not PC, and people will tell you it's bullshit, but you ask anybody who's spent time at this kind of scene, they'll tell you. If it's a crime of passion and it's not done in the bedroom, it's not the woman."

"Okay," Glitsky said. "What's the second thing?"

"I'm afraid it's another non-PC moment."

"I can handle it," Glitsky said. "What?"

"Women don't shoot themselves very often to begin with. And if they do, it's not in the head. They won't disfigure themselves. It just doesn't happen."

Suddenly Glitsky thought back to the suicide of Lo-retta Wager, the former senator from California who had been his lover and the mother of his daughter Elaine. She had shot herself in the heart. Becker was right, he thought. These were both indefensible sexist generalizations that no doubt would collapse under rigorous debate. That did not stop them, however, from being potentially-even probably-true.