The single tangible indication so far that strengthened the possibility of murder was the disappearance of her answering machine. It might have been taken by someone who feared that a recorded conversation would identify them. That pointed to someone who had access to Eden's apartment, and who she had talked to. But it was also possible that her parents had thrown the machine in with the other things they had taken and just not remembered, or it had been moved in another innocuous way.

The intangibles weighed more heavily in Monks's own mind – primarily, that there were people who might have wanted her dead. The more he was learning, the more his list was expanding.

D' Anton was still at the top. He was a physician, familiar with medicines and chemicals. He certainly had the opportunity to administer poison. As for motive, he had been spending a lot of money on her. She had even suggested to acquaintances that he was going to marry her. He might have decided he wanted out of the relationship, and she refused – maybe threatened to expose him to scandal.

But as things stood, D' Anton was untouchable.

Ray Dreyer also had opportunity and motive. His jealousy might go much deeper than he admitted, especially if he realized that he was losing Eden for good. He could have given her poison, and still spent his night of passion with Coffee Trenette. And it was just possible that he was smarter than he wanted anyone to think.

Julia D' Anton had to be considered. If she knew about Eden's affair with her husband, she might have acted to protect him, or her own glossy life. And there was another bit of information that might conceivably enter in. Eden had posed for Julia to sculpt. Julia's models were also sometimes her lovers. Could she have been jealous at losing Eden – especially to her own husband?

There was the suspect Gwen Bricknell had hinted at. And he dutifully added Gwen herself to the list. As D'Anton's assistant, she had reason to be protective of him, too. Monks didn't give this much weight, although it was going to put an edge on his date with her tonight.

He started wondering if the poison could have come from the clinic, and decided to include the other personnel there – the nurse, Phyllis; the maintenance man, Todd; clerks, janitors, anyone who might have had contact with Eden and access to supplies.

Then there were all those possible connections and reasons that there was no way to imagine – someone Eden had angered, an obsessed fan from her porn days, a rejected lover, a random psychopath. She was sexually arousing, the kind of woman that men would do stupid things over – and that other women would see as a threat.

Monks put the cards into an ordered stack and set them aside. The bitter truth was, he had a vested interest in murder. If it was a toxin that had caused the DIC, his use of heparin was going to be far more justified than if he had failed to recognize and treat salmonella.

But so far, intangibles were what all those factors remained. It would take hard evidence to push this into an official investigation.

He poured more coffee and took it to a window. Outside, the fog was burning off. The Embarcadero, skirting the Bay, looked festive with traffic and tourists.

Now that the up-to-date information about Eden was fixed in his mind, he turned his attention to what Larrabee had said earlier:

We might be talking about more than one murder.

Monks started a new set of cards.

Katie Benson disappears after treatment by D'Anton

D'Anton dismisses nurse who talked to police Roberta Massey's mother claims that D'Anton hurt Roberta

He stared at that last card, trying to see into it, as if it were a door he could force open.

The trailer court where Roberta Massey lived with her mother was at the eastern edge of Redwood City, squeezed up next to the area's salt evaporators, huge greenish-brown fields of stagnant water that extended out into the Bay. It was hot here, almost treeless, with the sea air gummy and smelling faintly of processed sewage.

Monks was alone. He and Larrabee had decided that the two of them together might be intimidating to a reluctant witness – that a doctor, with a personal grievance against D' Anton, would have a better chance to win Roberta's sympathy.

The mobile homes were decrepit and crammed close together, and the maze of sticky streets was lined with junker cars. He felt himself being watched through dirty curtained windows as he cruised, looking for the address. He decided that if he left the Bronco here overnight, it would be gone by dawn – although treated with respect, becoming the personal ride of some biker.

1632 Paloma Court was a corrugated aluminum single-wide that had once been aquamarine. Time and the salt air had reduced it to a dull flaky green. It was set back only about ten feet from the street, and surrounded by sparse grass struggling up through the sandy soil. A small dog inside started yapping when Monks climbed the rickety wooden steps.

The woman who came to the door was wearing a calf-length blue denim dress and a silver cross around her neck. Her dark hair was long and straight, with bangs over her forehead. She wasn't wearing much, if any, makeup, or other jewelry besides the cross. He guessed that she was about thirty, maybe younger, but with the unhurried movements of someone who had settled into an older pace. She was thick-bodied, pale-skinned, pretty in a puffy sort of way.

"Are you the doctor?" she asked through the screen.

"Yes. Roberta?"

She nodded shyly.

"Thanks for seeing me," Monks said.

Mom's gone next door, but she'll be back."

Monks wondered if that was a warning, in case he intended to try something. Letting people know they were being watched might be standard procedure around here.

She unhooked the door and opened it. The dog, a little dust mop with feet, jumped up on his shins and wagged its tail furiously, but then nipped his fingers when he bent to pet it. He stepped into a space that was clean but claustrophobic, heavy with the pall of cigarette smoke, and beneath that the less definable spoor of people who had been living close together for a long time. A large TV faced a much-used couch. The walls were hung with crosses and cheap reproductions of religious paintings, including a suspiciously handsome Christ.

"Mom told me what you said, about how I might be able to keep him from hurting somebody else," Roberta said.

"I'm glad you see it that way, Roberta. I know this is difficult for you. Will you tell me what happened?"

She bent her head down, as if she were praying, and swept the bangs back off her forehead.

Monks saw the scar, just at the hairline, going from the far right of her forehead to the center. His hand moved to touch it, his forefinger tracing the hard ridge of flesh.

"Dr. D'Anton did this to you?" he said in disbelief.

She nodded, her eyes still cast down. Then she turned away, bending over and hugging herself, with sudden wrenching sobs shaking her body. Monks put his arm around her shoulders. She turned again, toward him, and wept against his chest.

A few minutes later, calmer but with her voice still trembling, Roberta told Monks her horror story, in halting words that were a strange mixture of pious platitudes and street talk.

It had happened in the summer of 1998, starting when she went to a party in San Francisco. She was looking for drugs, preferably narcotics. She had no luck at first, but she met another young woman there who wanted the same thing. The second girl knew about another party, that same night – at D' Anton's house, in Marin County. She had been there once before, with friends. She hadn't been invited this time, but she thought that a couple of attractive young women might be allowed to crash. Things could get pretty wild, she said, and there had been plenty of dope around. But she needed a ride, and Roberta had a car.