"No. I don't know if I ever knew it." Cary pushed at the bridge of his eyeglasses. "She really wouldn't talk about it at all. It bothered her that she'd been a part of putting this guy away forever. She just felt tremendous guilt about the whole thing."

"Why? Didn't she think they reached the right verdict?"

"No. It wasn't that. Mostly it was she didn't feel like she should have been sitting in judgment of another person. Even if he was guilty. She wished she'd never done it." Cary put his hand to his head and closed his eyes. After a moment, he opened them again.

"Was it here in San Francisco?" Glitsky asked.

A shrug. "I don't even know that, for sure. I think it must have been right after she got out of school, college. She went to Santa Clara. She may have still been living down there. Maybe one of her brothers would know." He pointed to the Post-it. "Anyway, I've included them in with Ted's number there. But again," he said, "I can't imagine…" His voice petered out. "It doesn't really matter anyway. It won't bring her back, will it?"

Even though it was a Monday night, by a little after nine-thirty the crowd was four deep at the bar of the Balboa Cafe, at the corner of Greenwich and Divisadero. Although the intersection had four corners and not three, it went by the nickname of "the triangle"- after the Bermuda Triangle- where singles went to disappear for the weekend. By ten o'clock every night of the week, the three major bars and the streets in front of them were clogged mostly with young professionals, but also (what gave the place its uniquely privileged character) with the sons and daughters of the older generation of San Francisco's elite society.

These people weren't out slumming- they owned the bars and restaurants, and this was where they played with their friends. But the influence and surface glitter drew a fast, smart, ambitious crowd- local politicians, music celebrities, movie stars in town for a shoot or a party. And, of course, all the others- lawyers on the make, lovelies of both sexes, suppliers of different kinds of fuel.

And because so much juice flowed to this one spot, a regular contingent of hangers-on was also always on hand, literally out in the street, adding to the color. Two well-connected, extremely personable and relatively hip San Francisco cops- Dan Bascom and Jerry Santangelo- had the best and most lucrative permanent assignment in the city. Eight to two, they kept their squad car parked across from the entrance to the Balboa, a presence that only rarely required any muscle. The two of them, along with Tommy Amici, the Balboa's chief valet, hauled in Cuban cigars, tickets to every artistic, cultural or sports event in the tricounty area, business cards and introductions, as though they ran clearinghouses. The Bay Guardian had done a story on Amici a few months before where he claimed he made eight thousand dollars a month to park cars. Bascom and Santangelo, also featured prominently in the piece, refused to comment about their income or the other undocumented perks.

Three and a half months ago, Amy Wu had come here for the first time. Since then she'd become one of the regulars.

Tonight she had somehow claimed a stool before the nighttime mob had begun to appear in strength. Now, two cosmopolitans down, she sat sideways to the bar near the front door with her back held straight. A lot of her crossed legs showed beneath her black leather miniskirt.

The noise wasn't jet-engine level, but between the canned music, the buzz of the hundred or so customers in a space that could comfortably hold eighty, and the televisions, nobody here was sharing intimate secrets. Wu was half watching the Giants game and half stringing along two guys, Wayne somebody and his friend. The two of them couldn't seem to decide which one was going to make a move. Wayne wore a wedding ring and Wu ached to tell him, if he did come on to her, that he might want to think about the ring next time.

But for the moment, that was premature.

So far he'd only bought her a drink, wedged himself up next to her stool, told her she was too pretty to be a lawyer, only the thousandth time she'd heard that one, whatever it was supposed to mean.

So he was moving toward it, but not there yet.

The crowd suddenly cheered and Wu looked up at the TV. One of the Giants was in a home-run trot.

Wu drank off half of her drink, put it back down. Wayne had a fist raised as though he'd hit the home run himself, and under his arm a space opened in the press of bodies and she caught a glimpse of Jason Brandt as he pushed his way through the swinging door.

And he saw her, flashed a genuine enough smile, started moving in her direction. In a minute, really before she could do anything even if she'd known what it was she wanted to do, he'd come up beside Wayne, pointed to Wu and said to him, "Excuse me, that's my girlfriend," and was standing at the bar, calling over the bedlam to his good friend Cecil to give him a double JD rocks. Then he turned to her, still smiling. "Hey."

"Hey yourself." Then, to Wayne: "He's not my boyfriend."

Before Wayne could respond, Brandt turned and looked him up and down. "Are you married, dude?" he asked, and clucked disapprovingly, then came back to Wu. "That is bad form. If he's looking to hook up, the least he could do is lose the ring."

"I wasn't trying to hook up," Wayne said. "I just bought the lady a drink. I'm not looking for any trouble."

Brandt's own drink, delivered in seconds, was in his hand, and he raised it to clink Wayne's beer glass. "Then we, my friend, are on the same page. Can I buy you another beer?" He turned and yelled out over the noise, "Cecil?" But Wayne had already put the remainder of his beer on the counter and was gone.

Brandt turned back to Wu and cracked a grin. "Predators. Scumbag's got a wife at home with the kids and he's hitting on babes in bars. There ought to be a patrol out for those guys, publish their names and pictures in the papers. Wanna bet he's going across the street, checking out the action at Indigo's?" Suddenly he seemed to notice that Wu wasn't smiling. "What?"

"That's what I want to ask you. What are you doing, Jason? Chasing off somebody I'm talking to? What's that bullshit?"

He cocked his head. "You kidding? You think that guy, like, wants to be your friend?"

Wu's eyes flashed. "Whatever he wants to be, whatever I want him to be, it's none of your business. How about that?"

He drew his mouth into a pout, picked up his drink and had some. "You're mad about today, aren't you? This afternoon?"

"No."

He looked surprised. "You're not. I would be."

She shrugged. "It was always a detention case. I knew that going in."

"Okay. So what are you mad about? You are a little pissed off."

"Yeah, I am pissed off."

"You mean me chasing off that married dweeb?"

"His name is Wayne."

"Oh, excuse me, Wayne. Maybe you didn't hear me, but I just offered to buy him a beer. That's not chasing him off."

"You chased him off. You ever think about what if I liked him?"

"It never crosssed my mind. Did you like him?"

"I didn't not like him. He seemed nice enough."

"Very strong. If he meant that much to you, I really am sorry I ruined your night."

"You didn't ruin my night and that's not the point anyway. The point is it's my life and it's got nothing to do with you."

Brandt put a hand to his chest. "And I would be the last to deny it. But all the books say you don't want to get involved with a married guy."

"Jesus, Jason, he bought me a drink, that's all. That's not exactly involved."

"It's not exactly uninterested either. Did he let his hand, however casually, fall and rest upon any part of your body?"

"My shoulder. One second, leaning over to pay Cecil. That was all."