"Line of heart meets line of health, just below the plain of Mars," said Erik. "My college girlfriend minored in palmistry and the other hard sciences, like astrology. That's definitely a right palm, upper right corner, exactly where you'd cradle that camera for a shot."

Harley photographed the prints, then shut down the bench laser.

"Luck of the Irish," said Erik.

"Luck nothing," said Hector. "He's just a good detective."

The cyanoacrylate fuming chamber made the prints visible to the naked eye, chemically hardening them into a nearly permanent record. Erik photographed them with a digital camera fitted with a strong magnifying lens, taking several shots of each print, complete with a ruler for measurement. He came back from the computer printer less than five minutes later with twenty-two large, clear fingerprint images.

Next, they spread out the fingerprint cards taken from Pete Braga's house, and from the inside of the latex gloves found down on the beach.

McMichael had always liked visual fingerprint analysis- trying to match the ridge patterns between two prints. He looked for the telltale bifurcations and endings and furrows that could match one print to another. It was difficult work to do well, very difficult to do well enough for a court of law, which is why the detectives left it to forensic specialists. McMichael reminded himself how easy it was to mistake a blood bridge for a ridge ending, for example, and how too much or too little ink would obscure a minutiae point and lead you to the wrong conclusion.

"No," said Harley after ten seconds. "The left thumb whorls are miles apart. Ditto the right index loops."

It took McMichael a full minute and a sinking heart to confirm what Harley had seen.

"Nice try," said Erik. "It really was."

"Hey," said Hector. "Not so fast. So this guy leaves one of his bird feathers, but he doesn't leave a fingerprint. He's the brains of the team. He lined up the mark- an old guy just like his neighbor. Made his partner use the club. Just because somebody else's prints were there doesn't mean he wasn't."

"Sure," said Harley, without conviction.

McMichael tried to picture a twosome. A robbery team had made some sense when it looked like the paintings and baseball gloves had been boosted that night. But if you ruled out robbery as motive, that left you with a basher and someone standing around… doing what? He wondered if Patricia might have missed some jewelry, besides the South African diamond earrings she'd remembered her mother wearing. And the hummingbird. Maybe Pete had cash in there that Patricia never knew about. But why would they close up the floor safe and move that heavy brass-nail sofa back over it? If they'd marched him up there to open it himself, why march him back down to his fish room, sit him down, then start hitting?

Pete was a collector, thought McMichael: baseball gloves, paintings, mounted trophy fish, signed books. And what else was he?

A businessman: sold cars, made investments. A politician: Port Commission, former mayor, city booster.

I'd look to the new airport if I were you.

All I can say is that Peter Braga was a tempestuous man.

McMichael realized he needed to spend a little more time with Pete Braga. Which meant a little more time with Patricia. Which had once been what he wanted more than anything in the world.

Back at his desk he found her number and made the call.

"I'll be aboard the Cabrillo Star," she said. "Meet me at four."

Pete Braga's Cabrillo Star was berthed in Tuna Harbor, just a few blocks from downtown. Walking up the gangplank McMichael knew that the ship had seen some history. She had been built of wood as a tuna clipper back in the thirties, when they still caught the big fish with poles. She had seen action in World War II along with dozens of other tuna ships requisitioned by the navy to carry food in their freezers. She'd been converted to a seiner- a net boat- after the war. Then retired when the great super-seiners took over the industry and the Cabrillo Star became nothing more than a failed tourist venue and a quaint reminder of a time that was gone.

And, in 1952, she'd been the place where McMichael's grandfather, Franklin, had been shot to death by Pete Braga after a dispute over money.

All of this had come to McMichael through Gabriel, who gathered information and gossip about Braga as if it was required by his religion. So what's Pete do with that worthless old tub of leaks he murdered Franklin on? He sells it to the city as a tourist destination and parks it out in Tuna Harbor. And does the city think people will pay to step aboard that stinking rat nest? Of course not. But Pete offered them options on some of his waterfront properties and they saw green- hotels and restaurants and tourist stuff. So what's the city council going to do- buy his rotten old ship for a few hundred grand or lose out on a shot to develop the harborside? Like Pete isn't a millionaire ten times over by now. Like he needs that kind of beer money. Like he's not selling Fords to the city all day every day and offerin' no bargains. Take my word for that.

McMichael called Patricia's name, got no answer, walked the port side past the freezer holds and the converted bait wells. He saw that his father had had it wrong about the Cabrillo Star- the hull was clean and true, the decks and bridges were bright white in the cool January sun, hardly a chip on the gunwales or rails, and even the old winches looked ready to handle a couple of hundred feet of nylon net, no problem.

"McMike!"

She came down off the radio bridge in jeans and tennis shoes and a red anorak with fur around the hood. Little oval sunglasses. Her dark curls bounced to her shoulders as she walked toward him and McMichael felt the familiar old tickle in his stomach.

She kissed his cheek and aimed him back toward the bridge. "I'm cleaning out Pete's things," she said. "The city owned this ship for twenty years and never got around to it."

"I thought the city still owned her."

"Pete bought it back when the tourists stayed away by the thousands. The galley's full of old junk."

"What are you going to do with her?"

Patricia started up the ladder. "We've agreed to sell it," she said, looking back down at him. "I got a restaurant guy up in Marina del Rey maybe interested. Three hundred grand he can have it. Sell the Ford dealership, too, though it's worth more."

McMichael waited until she was onto the bridge, then climbed up. "Split five ways?"

"You talked to Hank Grothke."

"Both of them."

Patricia shook her head. "The old man, last month they caught him stalking around the office early one morning, shredding papers. You name it- contracts, wills, magazines from the lobby, even some of those ass gaskets from the bathrooms. Made me think, you know, when I get that old just take me out and shoot me."

"Sure."

"I knew I could count on you."

"I kind of liked him."

"You're still capable of the unexpected."

She grinned at him. He'd never been able to tell if her half smile held joy or something more complicated. Unlike Stephanie, whose face was her heart.

"Never know what you'll find behind enemy lines," he said.

"Fun, wasn't it?" Patricia deployed her half smile again.

"Lots of that."

"Now we're older and duller," she said.

"Yeah," said McMichael. "Wheelchairs and shredders, right around the corner."

Her grin was gone. "What can I do for you, Tom?"

"I can't figure out who'd want to kill your grandfather. The nurse is clean. I don't think she set him up, either. I don't think she was involved at all. Nothing taken from his home, except those earrings you mentioned and maybe the hummingbird. And like you said, why would someone take those and leave the other two pounds of gold and diamonds? Tell me about him, Patricia. What was he doing on the Port Commission with the new airport? How was the car dealership going? And the Tunaboat Foundation- I know it has deep pockets and I hear there were some disagreements on the board. I'm throwing a wide net, but help me if you can."