"What have we got?" Tina said. She was very serious and matter-of-fact. He was not sure he had ever seen her smile.

Larrabee handed her a printout with the pertinent information about D' Anton.

She scanned it, eyebrows rising. "You're going after a big fish."

"Know anything about him?"

"Just his reputation. Lifter of famous boobs and booties."

"I want you to check his malpractice insurance company files," Larrabee said. "Pacific Doctors Mutual. Any kind of complaint or irregularity that shows up."

"Did somebody's tits explode on an airplane?"

"It's nothing that simple."

"Okay," she said. "I should be able to do it tonight. Insurance company firewalls usually aren't much."

"You want some money up front?"

"We know where you live."

As he was stepping out into the hall, Tina said, "Hey, Stover." She was standing with her hands on her hips, watching him thoughtfully. Her face was stone serious, as always.

"I wouldn't mind blowing you once in a while," she said.

Larrabee had thought that he was pretty good at turning a compliment, but this one left him speechless, twisting in the wind.

"Don't worry, Bev's at work," she said. "But it would feel too weird here anyway. I could drop by your place."

"That's, uh, a lovely offer, Tina. I'm incredibly flattered."

"It's the only thing I miss, with guys. I'm very oral. Dildos aren't any good for that, I like it to feel alive. But I don't want to, you know, ask just anybody."

"No, that wouldn't be smart."

"You have to keep it secret. If Bev found out I even thought about it, she'd kill me."

"I believe you." He did.

"And you can't come in my mouth. I don't like that part."

"I promise."

"Yeah, and the check's in the mail," she said. "Keep it in mind."

In fact, it was impossible not to.

There was one more place Larrabee wanted to look at tonight, a restaurant that Eden Hale had talked about to her brother Josh. Apparently she had painted it in glowing terms – a classy establishment with an upwardly mobile clientele, a different order of business from the sorts of places where she had hung out with Ray Dreyer in her earlier life. Larrabee wondered how much time she had spent here, and if she had made any acquaintances. She had to have done something with her time, besides shopping and carrying on her affair with D' Anton.

The place was called Hanover Station. It was located several blocks west of China Basin – another industrial building that had been abandoned as industry died. Dot-commer entrepreneurs had refurbished it and opened it at the crest of that money wave, five or six years ago. Larrabee had never been inside.

When he walked in, he saw that it had been turned into a single space the size of an airplane hangar, ringed by a second-story balcony for dining. The brick walls had been left uncovered, the old hardwood on the main floor refinished. The back bar was antique, cherry or rosewood. All in all, it was not bad, although the nut must have been fearsome. The room was nowhere near full now, and he suspected it was in jeopardy, with the crashing of the markets that had built it.

He ordered a Lagavulin scotch, straight up with an ice-water back, at the bar. He paid for it with a twenty and got five back. That came as no surprise, but the drink was short. For a place that was losing business, that was the wrong direction to take. The bartender was a slick, good-looking young man, brimming with unconcealed self-admiration. Larrabee decided there was no help there for what he wanted.

He stood and sipped, casually watching the scene. The crowd was all young, mid-twenties to thirties, well-dressed, confident, used to spending money. Two cocktail waitresses circulated among the tables. Larrabee made his choice, left his empty glass on the bar with no tip, and sat at a table in her area.

She came over immediately. He had picked her because she didn't really fit this place – she looked like she would have been more at home in North Beach or the Haight. She was about thirty, tall, and very slender, dressed in close-fitting black, with long straight dark hair. She wore at least one ring on every finger, and many bracelets, all silver. She was quite attractive, although there was a certain Morticia Addams quality.

"What can I get you?" she said.

"I'd like to buy you a drink."

She rolled her eyes. "Sorry. I work till two, and I'm going straight home. Alone."

"I didn't say you had to have it with me." He laid a twenty-dollar bill on her tray.

"What do I have to do for that?" she said warily.

Larrabee handed her three photos of Eden Hale taken from the Internet, face shots with different angles and hairstyles, that he had chosen from her films. "Recognize her?"

The waitress touched one of the photos with a long-nailed fingertip. 'There was somebody who used to come around, who looks like this. I think her name was Eden?"

"That's her."

"I haven't seen her for a while."

"You won't," Larrabee said.

The bored glaze in her eyes went away. Her mouth opened a little.

"Have you got five minutes to talk to me?" he said.

"You a cop?"

"Private." He opened his wallet and showed her his license.

She was starting to look interested. "I'll meet you out front," she said.

He waited outside the front door. A sea breeze was springing up, and the moon was dimming behind thickening fog. There was not much traffic on the streets, but a few blocks away, the stream of headlights on the skyway of Interstate 80 was steady, an unending fuel line of human fodder for the city's guts.

The waitress came out and stood by him, fishing nervously for cigarettes in her purse. Larrabee took her Bic lighter from her fingers and held it while she leaned into the flame, cupping her hand against the breeze. She inhaled and stepped back, crossing her arms, one hand cupping the other elbow.

"Thanks," she said. "She's dead, that woman?"

Larrabee nodded.

"Murdered?"

"It's looking that way," he said.

She shivered. "What do you want to know?"

"What she was like. Who she hung out with. If there was anybody in particular."

"She was nice enough. She always came in alone, and I never saw her leave with anybody. But she got hit on a lot."

"She was a good-looking girl," Larrabee said.

"Yeah, but it was more than looks. There was just something about her that said 'fuck me.' I'd see the guys watching her; it was like they were back in the jungle – wanted to throw her down on the floor right there. She'd play into it, but it wasn't really even like she was prick-teasing. It's just the way she was."

"You ever overhear her talking? Figure out her story?"

"Just a little. She said she'd been an actress, but she was getting into modeling. There was something else, too. Wait a minute."

The waitress put her hand to her forehead, concentrating, with the cigarette smoking between her fingers.

"She was going to work for some famous surgeon, something like that. Seems like maybe she hinted she was going to marry him."

Larrabee's eyebrows rose. "Marry him, huh?"

"I think I heard that. I didn't pay much attention, really. I hear so many people talking about all the stuff they've got going, and I think, then why are you sitting in here trying to impress everybody?"

She inhaled deeply on the cigarette, watching him. Her eyes were softer now, the early toughness gone. It was something that happened, an odd bit of psychology, like transference. People wanted to please their interrogators, to contribute something important. People who were not criminals, at least. The suggestion that Eden had talked about marrying D' Anton was a choice bit of information. But there wasn't much else he did not already know, and he doubted there would be much more.