“There’s no mystery to it. I work for a private investigator. We’re offering to coordinate a reward program.”

“Ah, a reward program. I don’t believe I’ve heard of that.”

“It’s in its early stages. Ms. Hess is hoping that the Sunset Youth Project here is going to put up twenty thousand dollars. With others of Mr. Como’s charities kicking in, it could get to quite a substantial sum.”

Carter’s eyebrows went up, his head canted to one side. “So,” he said, “the assumption being that there is information out there somewhere. Someone knows something he’s not talking about.”

“I don’t know about assumption,” Mickey said. “More like a hope. Maybe someone knows something but doesn’t recognize its importance. The hope is that the money might get that person motivated to think a little harder about what they’ve seen or might have heard. You, for example, Mr. Carter. You were the last person to see him alive, if I’m not mistaken. Right?”

“No. That would have been his killer.” Carter broke a sad smile. “A small, yet critical distinction, don’t you think? But the police have already spoken to me and I told them everything I knew, which, I’m afraid, wasn’t much. I left him off near his home on Tuesday night.”

“How near?”

“A couple of blocks.”

“And he never mentioned who he was supposed to be seeing?”

“Not by name, no. He said it was just an old acquaintance who was having problems. But old acquaintances of Mr. Como could fill the phone book, Mr. Dade. According to that criterion it could theoretically have even been your grandfather. And beyond that, it’s possible that he had his scheduled meeting with the old acquaintance he’d told me about and then, after that, met with his killer. Or, as I think Lorraine would like to believe, it was a random attack by some mugger.”

“But you don’t think that?”

“No,” Carter said. “No, I don’t think I do.”

“Do you have any specific reason for not thinking that?”

Carter shook his head. “I wish I did. I wish there was something I could point to, but it’s just a nebulous feeling.”

“Well”-Mickey, his wallet out, removed one of his business cards-“if it gets to be more than that, call this number. Or, of course, the police. The information doesn’t have to come through us to qualify for the reward, if that’s a concern.”

“It isn’t. I wouldn’t be doing it for the reward, Mr. Dade.”

“No, of course not. I didn’t mean to imply that you would. And remember that as we speak right now the reward sits at zero. But still,” Mickey added, “if something does occur to you, or something new develops, it might be nice to know the money’s sitting there waiting for somebody to claim it.”

Carter nodded, his face set in grim stone. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

First thing that Monday morning, Len Turner had talked to the mayor. The mayor had placed a phone call to the chief of police, who had personally called Devin Juhle and suggested-an order would have been inappropriate-that he extend “every courtesy” to the “concerned citizens who were assisting in the investigation” by offering this so-far nonexistent reward.

Devin Juhle told Hunt he’d be with his partner, Sarah Russo, at the Ferry Building’s MarketBar restaurant at eleven A.M. They’d be willing to review the progress in the Como investigation to bring Hunt up to speed, with the understanding that if Hunt was successful in helping to get a reward established and funded, then when he got anything, he’d reciprocate.

In the normal course of events, they all would have met at Lou the Greek’s, the city’s legendary bar and eatery across the street from the Hall of Justice. But Juhle’s choice of a lunch venue far removed from the normal haunt of cops and other courthouse denizens drove home to Hunt the fact that he was still very much on probation, or worse, here. Juhle and Russo might cooperate with him and see how things went, but neither of them was ready to be seen with him in public.

Sarah was married to Graham Russo, a junior partner in the one law firm that was with some regularity still throwing Hunt the occasional bone of work. She was also a ten-year homicide veteran, and the mother of two boys. A freckled and athletic tomboy with Beatle-length dark hair, she looked about fifteen years younger than her actual age, barely old enough to drink. She and her husband and kids had been to a couple of case celebration parties at Hunt’s warehouse/home, and as far as she was concerned, Hunt was okay. She agreed that the reward idea was at best stupid and at worst distracting, but she pointed out that it was no more stupid or distracting than half of the political things that San Francisco’s Police Department had to put up with every day. She was willing to go with the flow.

Down on the Embarcadero, the morning cloud cover had lifted and mostly dissipated. Now a gauzy sunlight bathed the outdoor tables as Sarah was gearing up on her summation. “So we’ve got nothing on his activities after five forty- five last Tuesday. The wife, Ellen, didn’t even call to say she was worried about him and hadn’t seen him until almost seven o’clock on Wednesday night…”

“Apparently,” Juhle put in, “he frequently stayed out late at some fund-raiser or another, got home after she was asleep, and was up and out the next morning before she got up.”

“Didn’t sleep in her bed? Or in their bed?” Hunt asked.

“Evidently not,” Russo said. “Or not that she noticed.”

“America’s fun couple,” Hunt said. “So where was she Tuesday night, then? The wife?”

Russo didn’t have to consult her notes. “She walked up to Chestnut and went to a movie, The Reader. It checks. At least, that’s what was playing there that night. Still is, for that matter.”

“She went alone?”

She nodded. “That’s what she says. Got home around nine-thirty, read for a while, went to sleep around eleven.”

The waitress arrived with their food. All of them were having the Cuban pork sandwiches and iced tea and the young woman put the plates down, saying, “And today’s award for most original order goes to…”

Everybody got a little chuckle out of that.

And then the waitress was gone and Hunt took a bite of his sandwich and said, “But nobody saw him on Wednesday all day, right? He didn’t come into work?”

“Right,” Juhle said.

“So it was Tuesday night?”

“That’s close enough,” Russo said. “ME says he can’t be sure, but it’s not a stretch to say he didn’t come home Tuesday night because he was already dead.”

“How about his phone?” Hunt asked. “Who’d he talk to?”

“Lots of people,” Juhle said. “And I mean like forty different numbers in or out the last day. All of whom we’ve called, by the way, and most of whom we’ve reached. But the last completed call in or out was at nine-forty. After that, it all went to voice mail. And the cell site information says he’s where his driver said he left him.”

Russo held up a much-scribbled-upon computer printout for Hunt’s edification.

Juhle stopped his chewing. “Police work.”

“And a darned fine job of it too,” Hunt said. “And what did all these good cell-phone-talking citizens have to say?”

“Everybody so far,” Russo said, “has had a completely plausible reason to have talked to him, and about half of those are verified by Como’s calendar anyway. No ancient acquaintances that we’ve come across.”

“Maybe it wasn’t true, what he told his driver.”

“Maybe that,” Russo conceded. “Or maybe the driver-Al Carter-didn’t tell us the truth about what Como told him.”

Hunt put his sandwich down, looked across at Russo. “Any sign of that?”

She shook her head. “Not really, no. Carter got the limo back to Sunset’s headquarters, where they keep it parked, at six-thirty, when it was still light out. Three witnesses there agree with that timetable. And there’s no motive for him anyway. Carter’s loyal as a dog. He’s been driving Como around for something like eight years.”