To him, the names were inert, mere labels on imaginary stick figures. And instead of seeing live conflicts and connections, he was just seeing dead letters on a page—and he recognized Jackson would have an advantage on him. She knew the players and understood how the game was played in the city, at least those players and games that related to Hamlin. He now realized he’d have to rely on Navarro more than he wanted to, and share more with him than he had intended to, for the detective would see relationships Donnally couldn’t and understand their meaning.

Jackson appeared at the office door. “Can I go to lunch?”

“You coming back afterwards?”

“What?” She smirked. “You think I’m starting my job hunting already?”

Donnally didn’t like the sarcasm. “That’s not what I meant.” He rose from the desk and walked over to her. “We need to figure out some way to work together. I don’t see me finding out who killed Mark without your help.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then lowered her head and picked at her thumbnail.

“Shit . . . shit, shit, shit. I didn’t sign up for this.”

“What did you sign up for?”

“I don’t know anymore.” She looked up again, shaking her head. “All I know is that this place seems more and more like Jonestown on the night before they served the Kool-Aid.”

Chapter 8

I know who killed Mark Hamlin.” A recorded voice overrode the next words spoken by the man. “This is a call from a California state prison.”

It had come in on Hamlin’s main firm number. The caller had asked for Donnally by name, and Jackson had routed it to him in Hamlin’s office. Donnally was relieved that he had enough of her cooperation for her at least to do that.

Unless the murder was a gang-related execution, which the condition of Hamlin’s body suggested it wasn’t, Donnally wasn’t sure how someone in prison could have any credible information.

“Who did it?”

“Pay me a visit and I’ll tell you the story.”

The man’s voice sounded as though he was in his fifties or sixties, maybe older.

“How do I know you’re not a lunatic?”

The line beeped, indicating that the call was being recorded.

“Look at my file. It’s somewhere in the office. Five years ago. My name’s Bennie Madison. A murder case. There’s no psych report in there and no trips to the loony bin. I’m as sane as anybody ever is in here.”

“Hold on.”

Donnally wrote out the name, then walked to the outer office and asked Jackson to retrieve the file. He kept watch on her as she pulled it from a cabinet in the conference room and brought it to him. He sat down and flipped it open.

“There’s almost nothing in here,” Donnally told the caller. “A police report, a detective’s investigative log, a transcript of your plea, and a court sentencing form. Twenty-five to life.”

“There should be a letter in there I sent last month saying I’m filing a motion to withdraw my plea.”

“I don’t see it. Did you want Hamlin to represent you?”

The man laughed. “Not a chance. It’s the last thing that asshole would’ve done.”

“Because . . .”

“Take a drive up here and you’ll find out.”

“Where’s here?”

“The California Medical Facility in Vacaville. And I’ll also tell you why someone wanted him dead.”

“You’re being a little too cryptic for me to spend the hours it would take to get up there and back at this point in the investigation.”

“You’re gonna have to see me eventually, might as well make it now.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Donnally disconnected and called the SFPD homicide detective whose name appeared on the log. She told him that Bennie Madison had pled guilty to a robbery murder. He’d dragged the victim into an alley near her downtown office as she walked from an ATM to her car. He stabbed her, robbed her, and then flopped her body into a Dumpster.

Madison had been homeless at the time, living under an overpass. He was arrested for trespassing a couple of days later, and the arresting officer found the victim’s wallet and credit cards in his backpack. Madison claimed he found it all in an alley. A city worker in the area of the bank around the time of the murder wasn’t able to ID Madison, but gave a description of the killer’s clothes that matched his.

The clincher in the case was a statement from a jailhouse informant that Madison had confessed to the crime and tried to get the informant to send someone to dispose of the knife, which was hidden inside his sleeping bag. Detectives went to the overpass, located it, and the lab later found traces of the victim’s blood lodged between the blade and the hilt.

“The unusual thing,” the detective said, “was that Hamlin volunteered to represent the guy pro bono and took the case over from the court-appointed lawyer.”

“Why was that?”

“My guess? Grandstanding and money. A public defender proved that an informant in another case was making up stories in exchange for get-out-of-jail-free cards. I suspect Hamlin figured if he had a horse in the race he could ride the scandal to the bank a few times. I think the plan was that he’d prove that the informant in the Madison case was a liar, then get other convicts sending him retainers to reopen their cases.”

“But Madison ended up pleading guilty anyway.”

“Two weeks later, before he even had a preliminary hearing—and I still don’t have a clue why. What kind of idiot pleads to a life sentence? The smarter move would’ve been to roll the dice. You never know what a San Francisco jury will do.”

Chapter 9

Donnally looked at his watch as he hung up the telephone. An hour-and-a-half drive out to Vacaville in the Central Valley, an hour with Madison, and the trip back. A decade earlier he could’ve badged his way into the facility; this time he’d have to rely on Navarro to make the appointment for him and get him inside.

After a drive that took him over the spot where Hamlin’s body was found under Golden Gate Bridge, up through the hills of Marin County, skirting the north end of the bay, and past suburbs and outlet malls spread out in a series of wide valleys, he pulled into a parking spot outside the California Medical Facility. He unclipped his holster and slipped his semiautomatic into the glove compartment.

Madison’s correctional counselor met Donnally in the small administration building, a one-story, wooden structure set into the razor wire–topped fence surrounding the prison.

“Five years nobody comes to see this guy,” Rich Taylor said after Donnally showed him the court order appointing him special master, “and now you’re third in the last month.”

“Who else?”

Taylor pointed at the order. “Hamlin was the first. Then a lawyer who specializes in getting convictions overturned. Not as sleazy as Hamlin, may he rest in peace, but close.”

“Why is Madison in here rather than in a regular prison?”

“You’ll have to ask him. That kind of medical information is covered by HIPAA.” Taylor paused, biting his lower lip, then said, “But I can tell you this. We’re moving him out of here in the next few weeks. He’s about to start doing some really hard time in supermax. Maybe up in Pelican Bay.”

Taylor pointed toward the security station. “Why don’t you go through and I’ll take you to him.”

Donnally emptied his pockets, took off his belt and shoes, and put everything in a plastic tray. He waited until it got moving toward the scanner tunnel, then stepped through the metal detector.