Susan Tuttle, his assistant, came in. “Pasternak just faxed over a report — you might be interested.”

“What is it?”

“A neo-Nazi from San Francisco named Chuck Hanratty was killed two days ago.”

“How old was he?”

“Hanratty? Twenty-four—”

Avi waved an arm dismissively. “Not old enough to be a war criminal.

Except that it means there’s one less asshole in the world, why’d Pasternak think I’d care?”

“Hanratty was killed in a fight while trying to mug a French Canadian named Pierre Tardivel.”

Avi scowled. “Yes?”

“And this Tardivel worked at Lawrence Berkeley in the Human Genome Center there, so his boss is—”

Avi’s shaggy eyebrows lifted. “Burian Klimus.”

“Exactly.”

Avi stabbed the intercom button on his desk. “Pam?”

A woman’s voice. “Yes?”

“I need to get a flight to California…”

When Pierre had gone to Berkeley police headquarters to file his report, he’d asked the black man — Officer Munroe, his name turned out to be — for more information about Chuck Hanratty. Munroe really didn’t have much to add. Hanratty had lived, and was most frequently arrested, in San Francisco. After mulling it over for a day, Pierre decided to drive across the Oakland Bay Bridge and try his luck at SFPD headquarters.

It was raining. The bridge turned into the 101, and headquarters was just south of that at 850 Bryant, between Sixth and Seventh Streets.

Pierre furled up his umbrella, entered the building, and made his way down the short corridor that led to the desk sergeant, a burly white man with curly black hair atop a loaf-shaped head. He had a computer screen mounted at an angle beneath his desk, visible through a glass window on the desktop. He was reading something on it, but looked up when Pierre cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”

Pierre wasn’t sure where to begin. “I was mugged a few nights ago.”

“Oh, yeah? You want to fill out a report?”

“No, no. I’ve already done that, over in Berkeley. I was just looking for more information. The guy who mugged me lived here, and, well, he died during the attempt. Fell on his own knife.”

“What’d you say your name was?”

“Tardivel. T-A-R-D-I-V-E-L.”

The sergeant typed on his keyboard. “Can I see some ID?”

Pierre opened his wallet and found his Quebec driver’s license. The sergeant looked at it, nodded, and turned back to his monitor. “Well, sir, I don’t know what kind of info you’re looking for. If he died in the attempt, it’s not like we’re still looking for suspects in the mugging.”

“I understand that,” said Pierre, nodding. “I was just interested in other cases this same guy was involved in.”

The sergeant eyed Pierre suspiciously. “Why?”

Pierre figured the truth was the simplest approach. “The officers over in Berkeley said Hanratty had been a member of a neo-Nazi group. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out what such a person would have against me.”

“You Jewish?”

Pierre shook his head.

“But you are a foreigner. The skinheads aren’t keen on immigrants.”

“I suppose, but… well, I was wondering if I could see the file on him.”

The cop looked at Pierre for a time. “Hardly,” he said at last.

“But—”

“We’re not running a library here. Your case is closed. If your insurance company needs some paperwork to substantiate a claim, they can contact us or the Berkeley PD through normal channels. But otherwise, forget it.”

Pierre thought briefly about trying to push the point but realized it was hopeless. He laid a sarcastic ‘Merci beaucoup’ on the man and headed back to the lobby. It was still raining, so he stopped just inside the front doors to get his umbrella ready. As he was doing so, his eyes happened to glance over the building directory, made of little white plastic letters slid into a black board with slots in it, covered by glass.

Pierre’s eyebrows went up. He looked back. The sergeant had his head tilted down, reading. Pierre turned around, walked past him, and entered the elevator.

He got off on the third floor and found room 314. There was a sign on the door that said Forensics. Beneath it were two names in smaller letters:

H. Kawabata and J. Howells. He pushed the door open and stuck his head in. “Hello?”

A tall, fortyish Asian woman appeared from behind a room divider. She had frosted blond hair cut in a pageboy style, three rings on her right hand, a chain-link bracelet on her right wrist, a matching choker, and two small studs in her left ear. She wore a white lab coat, unbuttoned, over a pink pantsuit. Her lipstick matched the suit. “Can I help you?” she said in a rapid-fire voice.

Pierre didn’t like to make assumptions, but this one seemed a safe bet.

“Ms. Kawabata?” he said.

“That’s me.”

Pierre smiled and entered the room. “Forgive me. I was in the building on other business and I couldn’t resist stopping by. I know I should have made an appointment, but—”

The Asian woman’s voice hardened slightly. “All purchasing is done through the office on the fourth floor.”

Pierre shook his head. Maybe he needed to acquire better taste in sports jackets. “I’m not a salesman,” he said. “I’m a geneticist. I’m with the Human Genome Center at Lawrence Berkeley.”

She touched a hand to her lips. “Oh, I’m sorry! Come in, come in, Mr… ?”

“Tardivel. Dr. Pierre Tardivel.”

“I’m Helen,” said the woman, extending her hand. “I did my graduate work at UCB. Say, I hear you got that Nobel winner running things now, what’s his name…”

“Burian Klimus,” said Pierre.

Helen nodded. “The Klimus Technique, right — wonderful method; we’re starting to use it here. How is he to work for?”

Pierre decided to be honest. “He’s a bear. Fortunately, he’s spending a lot of time at the Institute of Human Origins these days; he’s gotten interested in Neanderthal DNA.”

Helen smiled. “I saw him on TV once — he looks old enough to have firsthand knowledge of that.”

Pierre laughed and looked around the room. Like just about every lab he’d ever been in, this one had some Far Side cartoons taped to the filing cabinets. “Nice equipment you’ve got here,” he said.

Helen looked at the centrifuges, microscopes, and other hardware, as if appraising them herself. “It does the trick. We don’t get to do nearly as much DNA work in-house as I’d like, but it’s quite exciting when I get to testify in court. We nailed a serial rapist last week. Doesn’t get much better than that.”

Pierre nodded. “I read about that case in the Chronicle.

Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“You know, I’m wondering if you can help me out. I— I was assaulted last week; that’s why I’m down here. I’m trying to find out why that particular person might have gone after me and, well…”

“And they told you to take a hike downstairs, right?”

Pierre smiled. “Exactly.”

“What do you want to know?”

“One of the officers who came to investigate said the guy who attacked me was a neo-Nazi, and he had a long record. I was wondering if there was any other info I could see about him.”

Helen frowned. “Are you really with the Human Genome Center?”

Pierre was about to reach for his wallet, but then decided against it.

Instead, he smiled. “Try me.”

Helen’s eyes twinkled. “Let’s see… What’s a riflip?”

“Restriction-fragment-length polymorphism,” said Pierre at once. “The variation from person to person in the sizes of DNA pieces snipped out by a specific restriction enzyme.”

Helen smiled. “I’d love a tour of your lab, Pierre.”

This time Pierre did pull out his wallet. He removed a business card — he’d gotten new ones the previous month, when the lab had changed its name from Lawrence Berkeley Laboratory to Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory — and handed it to her. “Anytime.”