"Jimmy and I just happened to work Metro/Vice, sir. I don't think he has anyone else to talk to. So far as Sally Rainwater goes, my ass is on the line and I know it. Grothke's father has managed to misplace something material to the Braga case, I just have to figure out where it went. The driver, I made him wait outside while we interviewed Old Grothke. He was under an awning, not in the rain."

"Tell me about these lawyers."

McMichael filled him in, just enough details to justify the alleged harassment.

A note of dour amusement crept into Bland's face. "What did Thigpen have to say when you saw him yesterday?"

"He said he blew it. He regrets what he did."

"Which was what, exactly, to have three-hundred-plus grand lying around at his attempted two-hooker party?"

"He offered no details, sir."

"That's all he said?"

"Not much else."

"Rawlings has got his lip-reading buddies over there at the jail, and that's all they could come up with for him? You and Thigpen talked for what, ten minutes?"

"We mostly just walked around, sir."

"Yeah, right. McMichael, get out of here."

McMichael sat at his desk with Sally Rainwater's references. He read the letters and the names of the writers, realizing how easily you could fake the damn things with a decent printer, a few different kinds of paper and a little practice on the signatures. Rainwater wasn't even her real name. Legal, but not real.

I have nothing but the highest praise for Miss Rainwater, who helped my husband back to health at a time when my own cancer had disabled me as a caretaker… thoughtful, courteous and good humored… endlessly patient and very understanding of our special needs… Sincerely, Alma Beasley. He read all five of them- believing every one of them, not believing any.

When he was finished he dug out Raegan's customer list from Libertad and read down the names. Then he looked away for a moment and read the names again, having failed to register a single one. He could feel Hector's eyes burning into his back, even though Hector was upstairs in Bland's office. He could feel Barbara's eyes on him, too, even though he was pretty sure she hadn't yet been told what a total dumbshit he was. Staring at the list he wished he could make himself small enough to crawl into the "O" of maduro- just slither right through the paper into another dimension where he would be competent and unrecognized.

He called Charley Farrell at the dealership and asked about selling a wine-colored Escape, Explorer, Expedition or Excursion.

"Sergeant McMichael," he said. "I completely forgot. Give me a few more hours, will you?"

Arthur Flagler, the crime lab director, called at ten-twelve.

"You ought to drop by when you get a minute," he said. "Like right now."

McMichael rode the elevator up, wished it would just keep going.

Flagler welcomed him to his office with a wicked smile.

"We came up with something else from Pete Braga's," he said. "The wine samples we took from those glasses by the fireplace? Well, somehow they got put aside- in the refrigerator, of course- and we overlooked them. I was looking for a set of fingers in the freezer, figured maybe someone had put them in the refrigerator instead. They hadn't, but I found the wine. Ran some basic tox tests yesterday. The nurse was drinking with him that night, right?"

McMichael nodded.

"Well, her wine probably tasted just fine. But Pete's- from the glass closest to his chair? Loaded with meperidine, which is a strong tranquilizer."

"Same thing his dog ate on New Year's Eve," said McMichael.

"Correct."

"Pete's prints on one glass and Rainwater's on the other?"

Flagler smiled and nodded. "Hers on the glass without the meperidene, mind you."

"But Pete didn't have meperidine in his system?"

"Oddly enough, he did not."

"Thanks, Arthur."

McMichael left the headquarters building, walked the eight blocks west to Kettner, rode the trolley up past the airport then back down again, wandered around the Gaslamp, snuck past Libertad with his face hidden from Raegan, spent some time in an import store featuring African tribal crafts, among them a gigantic black mask, six feet high and three across, carved from dark brown wood and festooned with brass rings and ivory and animal claws, tufts of savannah grass and crude twine, the eyes furious and bloody, the mouth a gaping snarl, the war paint stacked in scintillating bars of blue and yellow and red.

He walked Fourth and Fifth Avenues, Island and Market, bought a paper on Second and threw it away on Third. He tried to think rationally.

In defense of Sally Rainwater he came up with justifiable homicide, terrible childhood, taking care of herself, trying to help others, friend of the sick, coincidence, bad timing, bad luck. He tried to delete any personal feelings or opinions about her, except for his gut call that she wouldn't. These still counted, didn't they- belief, judgment, faith in someone? Strongest of all was what wasn't there: a reason to kill Pete Braga.

Against her he came up with means, opportunity and prior action. She'd killed someone with a blow to the head before. Self-defense or not, she had the physical and mental ability to attack with violence and take a life. This was a fact. It seemed clear to him that she could not have killed Pete Braga alone- the fingerprints on the club told him that, almost certainly- but she could have organized the entry and the attack. All she needed was to leave the door open behind her when she left. Simple to poison Zeke on New Year's Eve. Simple to spike Pete's wine that night. She was there. Maybe she'd switched out the club when she was finished, thrown the used one in the bay and set the new one- with the sales clerk's prints on it- in the blood. It's a gift for my brother. What's the best way to hold it? Oh, wow, just like that?

But again, why? He was giving her gifts. He might have been trying to cut her into his will but hadn't yet. Why kill the old man?

He could get a search warrant for her home- controlled substances and stolen property. The meperidine could be small enough to hide anywhere, which would neatly justify a detailed and thorough search. Maybe they'd find her motive, too, something he hadn't thought of, something precious and attainable only with Pete dead. A search could reveal nothing, too.

Logical.

He could talk to her first, hear her explanations. And risk letting her destroy evidence?

Idiotic.

He could step aside, let Hector and the rest of Team Three serve the warrant and search the house, not have to look at Sally Rainwater.

Gutless.

He could wait until she'd gone to work and look around inside her house himself, test the waters. And let the PSU get a few more good shots of him conducting an illegal search?

Beyond dumb.

They could surveil her, see if she's really attending her classes. Maybe she's meeting a fence, her partner, the guy who used the fish billy. Let her lead them to the real pay dirt.

Expensive and iffy.

He found himself at the Santa Fe station, looking across the tracks toward the bay. Then he was outside headquarters, considering the odd blue-and-white paint.

When in doubt, he thought, you go with the evidence. You go with what you know. With what you've been taught.

McMichael went up to Homicide and told Rawlings he wanted a warrant to search for controlled substances and stolen property in Sally Rainwater's home in Imperial Beach.

"Who's going to search the place?" asked Rawlings.

"All of us."