And the phone went dead.

He handed it back to Jackson.

“I think I went a step too far. Keep in contact with her. Once we’ve got Camacho locked up, she can come in.”

“What about Camacho’s people? They’ll be coming after her. I’ve been around long enough to know what happens next.”

Donnally couldn’t disclose the federal investigation and the wiretap, but he needed to offer her some assurance.

“The world’s going to cave in on them soon enough. They’ll be so busy looking out for themselves, they won’t have the time or the inclination to help Camacho.”

Donnally thanked Jackson, then signaled to Janie to follow him out. She walked with him to the elevator.

“See if you can get Ryvver’s phone number from Jackson. I’ve used up my supply of touchy-feely for the day.”

Janie nodded and headed back.

Donnally called Navarro as he rode the elevator down, and then called Judge McMullin and drove to his house.

The judge let him use the desk in his study to handwrite his search warrant affidavit targeting Camacho’s house, restaurant, cars, hair, and blood. His fingerprints were already on file.

Donnally had the record of calls between Ryvver and Camacho, Ryvver’s own words to Camacho, Camacho’s calls to the person believed to be Calaca that bracketed the hours when Hamlin was killed, Camacho’s cell site records first putting him in the area of Hamlin’s house and then on a trail leading in the direction of the Golden Gate Bridge.

The search was aimed at identifying Calaca and at locating evidence of Camacho’s participation in the crime, not just hair samples, but also the rope matching the one found tied around Hamlin’s neck or the one Navarro had discovered on the floor between Hamlin’s washer and dryer.

Navarro arrived with the court-issued search warrant forms as Donnally was finishing and set them on the judge’s desk as he read over the affidavit.

“I’ve got officers spotting on Camacho’s house,” Navarro said, “but they can’t tell whether he’s there.”

“We better not go in until we see movement,” Donnally said. “If he’s not there, neighbors might tip him off that we’re on the hunt for him.”

Judge McMullin looked up. “I’m glad you aren’t asking for an arrest warrant. There’s barely enough here for a search. And I need a sworn officer to sign it.”

The judge handed it to Navarro to read over. “When you’re done, add your part.”

Navarro added a paragraph at the start stating the facts below had been told to him by Donnally and he believed them to be true, then moved to the last page and signed.

Then the judge said, “Raise your right hand.”

Chapter 54

I didn’t kill him,” Camacho said, looking up from the floor of his living room and rubbing his ribs where Donnally had nailed him.

It hadn’t been until 8 A.M. that they spotted a light come on in the house, and seconds after Navarro did the knock and notice, Camacho had run through his house and toward the back door. The wood and glass exploding inward and the SWAT officers marching into the kitchen had sent Camacho running back into the dining room and to the threshold of the living room, where he met Donnally’s lowered shoulder.

“I just helped her afterwards. Fuck, man, what was I supposed to do? I had a dozen calls with that lunatic. I had all kinda motive because he set me up and I had no fucking alibi. And she’s screaming she did it for me and for some guy named Little Bud I never heard of before. And how she’d just killed her father—”

“Killed her father?” Donnally tensed. “I thought we were talking about Hamlin.”

“We are. When we get over there, Hamlin’s tied to a chair, dead, a rope around his neck tied to a piece of a broom handle in the back. Like she used it for leverage, to tighten the noose, like squeezing water out of a rag.”

“Why do you think he was her father?”

“That’s what she said, man. She was bearing down on him and he’s saying, ‘Don’t kill me. I’m your father. I’m your father,’ and then the guy has some kind of spasm and slumps over dead.”

Donnally backed up a step and pointed from Camacho to the couch. He rolled over onto his knees, then pushed himself up and onto it. Donnally sat down on an ottoman. Navarro stayed by the door.

“I told you the bitch was nuts,” Camacho said.

“How do we know that it wasn’t her interrupting you killing him?” Navarro said.

Donnally knew the answer.

“Because I wouldn’t have strangled the guy. You know guys like me don’t do that kind of shit. I would’ve just kept breaking fingers until I got what I wanted. And how was I gonna get the guy stoned on opium? That’s how she got him dazed enough to get him into the chair and tied up.”

“And the rope,” Donnally said.

“Yeah. That, too. It was a mountain-climbing rope. Where the fuck would I get a mountain-climbing rope? It’s not like they sell them at Home Depot.”

“Why Fort Point?” Donnally asked. “And why leave him hanging there half naked?”

“Why do you think? We were protecting the chick. No daughter would do that to her own father. No fucking way.”

Donnally realized that if Camacho was telling the truth, his theory had been wrong. Hamlin hadn’t been stripped down and hung up in order to send a message or to humiliate him, but as misdirection, to keep the police from even starting down a trail that would lead to him.

“I knew she didn’t have the stomach for what we needed to do. We left her in the van in the parking lot when we went up with his body. I figure she didn’t even find out how we handled it until she saw it on the news.”

“Hamlin smelled like lavender,” Navarro said. “Why wash him off?”

“Wasn’t us. The flake said he’d gone running with some gal after work and they came back to his place and took showers. I don’t know if that was true, but he reeked like a fag.”

Donnally looked up at Navarro. The detective’s eyes hardened against the slur, then he nodded, telling Donnally that he’d figured out the rest just as Donnally had.

Ryvver then went after Lange, blaming him because she’d killed her own father and for Little Bud’s suicide. After their argument on the second floor during the party, she dropped Rohypnol into his drink and torched his house.

Ryvver’s Mother Number One was wrong. Killing Frank Lange wasn’t patricide.

But why would the mothers tell Ryvver Lange was her father?

Or why would Mother Two tell Mother One that it was Lange she’d slept with in order to conceive Ryvver?

Donnally shifted his gaze back to Camacho.

“I had no idea she was gonna kill Lange,” Camacho said. “She promised she’d be going away, up north. We’re driving away from Fort Point after we hung him up and she starts rambling on about a bookstore someplace. Why somebody would be going to a bookstore after murdering her father beats the hell out of me.”

Donnally was almost sure she hadn’t done that. Mother One was convincing in her worry, and Ryvver’s cell records showed she had stayed in San Francisco, or at least her phone had.

“Where’s the rest of the rope and the bolt cutters?” Donnally asked.

“Where do you think? At the bottom of the bay.”

Donnally rose to his feet, looked down at Camacho, and said, “Don’t move,” and then walked with Navarro just outside the front door.

“If he’s telling the truth,” Donnally said to Navarro, “she’s got to be figuring we’re getting close. Find out whether she’s still using that pay-as-you-go phone. There’s one person left on her hit list.”

Donnally walked down the front steps to the sidewalk. He called directory assistance and punched in the number.

A voice answered on the first ring, “Law Office of Reggie Hancock.”