He spent nearly a half hour scanning through a selection of the hits-there were over seventy thousand of them, so anything greater than a cursory look was impossible, even after he winnowed his searches down to the narrowest parameters he could. The Manion name hadn't quite made it into the very pinnacle of the San Francisco pantheon inhabited by the Swigs and Gettys and Ellisons, but they seemed to be well on their way to getting there. Hunt already knew about their statewide-rumored soon to be nationwide-chain of discount specialty grocery stores. Likewise, in just the last couple of years, they had acquired huge brand recognition for their fledgling Manion Cellars label by producing some extremely cheap, remarkably high-value Napa cabernets and merlots. Hunt himself had a couple of bottles of their stuff in with the rest of his minimalist collection on the floor next to his refrigerator. The family had been among the biggest bidders at the Napa Valley Wine Auction for the past several years, last spring paying more than one hundred thousand dollars for a jeroboam-size bottle of '96 Screaming Eagle from the birth year of their younger son, Todd. In sports, aside from their involvement with the 49ers and NFL football, they owned a minor-league baseball team in Solano County and were big-time sponsors of the U.S. Winter Olympic Ski Team. The tragedy Hunt had vaguely remembered concerned their older son, Cameron, who'd died in a waterskiing accident just last summer. The twenty-four-year-old golden boy was a competitive racer who'd been training in Lake Berryessa for the Emerald Bay Classic at Lake Tahoe when he'd hit a submerged log at seventy miles per hour.

Hunt did quite a bit of this kind of computer work and knew exactly what he was looking for, and suddenly there it was. The Manions' private residence was the site of the Kidney Foundation dinner in 2000, and the society write-up of the event included the information that the home on Seaview Drive in the Seacliff neighborhood "commanded a stunning panoramic view from the Golden Gate to the Farallones."

Hunt punched in Mickey Dade's cell number again, and this time gave him his marching orders: Would he try to get out to Seacliff before it got dark, ask around if he had to, and get the exact address of the Manions' home? With that, Hunt would be able to find their personal telephone number, where he could then reach Mrs. Manion and maybe get a few words with her.

Finally, in his kitchen, suddenly ravenous, realizing that he hadn't eaten since the morning's bao, Hunt cut a three-inch chunk of dry salami off the roll that hung from a peg inside his refrigerator. It would have to do.

He had to move.

Hunt didn't go to the Little Shamrock much anymore. Directly across the street from Golden Gate Park on Lincoln and Ninth Avenue, the bar used to be the local hangout for him and Sophie, but he didn't live in the neighborhood anymore, and it really wasn't much of a destination place in its own right. Even if it had been, Hunt wouldn't normally have chosen to frequent it. He'd put away and buried that part of his life.

Still, tonight, no one had been home at Juhle's when he'd gone by. He cursed himself for not calling first, but he hadn't wanted to endure more scorn and perhaps rejection on the phone. If he simply showed up with another apology to his friend, though, he might get in the door. And from there make some kind of pitch for information. He wasn't, in fact, sure of exactly what he was going to say.

But the Shamrock was on this side of town, and now something else-the recent though mostly oft-repressed memories of his life back then, the photograph of Sophie at the bar-was drawing him back to revisit the old haunt.

On a Thursday night at seven thirty, Hunt expected that the place would be crowded wall-to-wall with people, which wouldn't have been saying much since on its best night the watering hole's maximum occupancy probably peaked at a hundred souls. Sophie and Hunt sometimes used to get in here when there were only a couple of customers before the cocktail hour, and it had always struck them as almost impossibly small for the flourishing concern that it obviously was-the establishment had first opened its doors in 1893 and had been in continous operation ever since.

The old wooden bar ran halfway to the back of the place. Directly in front of the bar, the place was only about eight feet wide. Three tiny tables with four chairs each provided some seating. The facing wall was further cluttered by antique bicycles and other turn-of-the-nineteenth-century memorabilia, including a grandfather clock that had stopped for the last time during the 1906 earthquake. In the back by the dartboards and jukebox, the room widened out a bit, but a couple of seating areas with sagging couches and overstuffed chairs took up a lot more room than tiny cocktail tables would have and gave the spot a homey feel.

Now out the wide front window the sun cast its last long shadows on Lincoln. A couple in matching black leather sat on stools at the far end of the bar, nursing pints of stout. A lone dart thrower pegged in the back. Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time" played quietly over the speakers. The television was dark, and no bartender trod the boards behind the bar.

Hunt took one of the stools nearest the door, wondering if he should just leave, unsure why he'd stopped by here in the first place. For most of a minute, he sat waiting and had just about made up his mind to go when the dart player ducked under the far end of the bar-"With you in a sec."

Parking his darts in the gutter, the bartender started toward him, and Hunt said, "Mr. Hardy?"

The man stopped, cocked his head. "Doctor Hunt," he said, then lowered his voice. "You can drop the Mr. Hardy when I'm here behind the bar. It's Diz. And what brings you all the way out to the frontier on this fine night?"

"I've got a better one," Hunt said. "What's a top-dog lawyer doing tending bar at a place like this?"

Dismas Hardy-Amy Wu's boss and Wes Farrell's partner-flashed a craggy grin. "I own some of this place," he said. "A quarter of it, to be precise."

"And you bartend part-time?"

"Very part-time. As in almost never. My brother-in-law's usually back here, but he's…well, he's doing a bit of rehab, and he asked me to fill in for a few days. I didn't realize you came in here."

"I don't, really. Not in a few years."

"Well"-Hardy threw a napkin down onto the bar-"you seem to be here now. So what're you drinking?"

"I'll have a beer. Tap. Bass."

"Coming up." Hardy walked to the spigots, drew two brews, then walked back, carrying both of them. He placed one on the napkin in front of Hunt and took a sip from the other, putting it down in the gutter. "So. You working tonight?"

"Not for money." Then, "You hear about Andrea Parisi?"

Hardy nodded. "Amy and Wes were telling me earlier. She still missing?"

"Yep."

"You're looking for her?"

"Starting, yeah. I was just with Wes and Amy at your offices, in fact."

"Doing what?"

"Putting them to work on it."

"I thought it went the other way. The law firms hire the investigators."

"Usually that's true." He hesitated, wondering if he was shooting himself in the foot. He and Hardy had always gotten along, but in Hunt's experience, the average managing partner usually wasn't overjoyed to hear about billable hours that didn't get billed to some client or another. "But we're all pretty worried." He ran through his quick analysis of Parisi's chances. "We figure we might have a day, maybe two."

"How long has she been gone?"

Hunt checked his watch. "Thirty hours, give or take. It doesn't look good, but at least her body hasn't turned up anywhere. On the slim chance…"