He rose from his chair and faced Galen straight on.

“Or maybe it was just so he could keep bleeding you.”

Galen’s mouth opened. He swallowed. “How . . .” He licked his lips. “How did you find out?”

Chapter 20

The sounds were disgusting. They reminded Donnally of the two weeks early in his career when he’d filled in driving the wagon picking up street drunks to deliver them to the SFPD tank.

Donnally and Navarro stood outside the open door to Hamlin’s private bathroom as Galen hunched over the toilet, retching, gasping, sobbing. His body shuddering, his once creased pant knees rubbing themselves flat on the tile floor. Positioned just feet away, Donnally and Navarro weren’t going to take a chance of him jumping out of the tenth floor window.

When it appeared that Galen was done, or at least empty, Donnally stepped inside and reached down with a couple of paper towels. Galen took them and wiped his mouth before straightening up. He washed his face and hands, then Donnally led him back into the office.

“I didn’t kill Mark,” Galen said, looking back and forth between Navarro now sitting next to him and Donnally across the desk. “And I can prove it. I’ve got witnesses.”

“You throwing up sounded a lot like a confession,” Donnally said. “And lawyers like you are experts at fudging up witnesses to say what you want.”

“I had a court appearance in Monterey and stayed overnight. I hung out with the lawyer who brought me into the case until about 1 A.M., then went back to the hotel.” Galen glanced at Navarro. “The desk clerk will remember me calling at about three because the people in the next room were making too much noise.” He looked at Donnally. “The press said that you got the call at four and it’s a two-hour drive.”

“Which hotel?” Navarro asked.

“The Intercontinental. I don’t remember the clerk’s name, but he was a chubby Hispanic wearing rimless glasses.”

Navarro rose and walked from the office.

Donnally tilted his head toward the bathroom. “Then why that?”

“Because . . .” Galen hesitated.

Donnally could tell Galen had just realized that it had been his mind racing toward a conclusion that had sickened him. If Donnally knew about Hamlin’s extortion, he must’ve known where Galen got the money to pay it.

“Because you dipped into your trust account again?”

Even as he said the words, Donnally realized he’d made a mistake. He might have given Galen an explanation for the source of the money that couldn’t hurt him any more than he was already going to get hurt.

Galen looked down and nodded. He looked up again and opened his mouth to speak—

Donnally cut him off. “Be careful what you say. We’ll be checking your answer.”

And the answer as to whether the money came from his trust account would show up in his bank records.

Galen leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and interlaced his fingers on top of his head.

He looked to Donnally like a defendant who shows up in court all geared up for trial, who’d fantasized for months about how the case would go, even convincing himself that despite the fingerprints and the DNA and the eyewitnesses, the DA couldn’t prove his case—then just before the jury is seated his attorney comes to him with a deal offered by the prosecutor to make the case go away, and tells him he’d better cut his losses and take it. He’s got only minutes to make a decision. And even though there’s only the two of them in the interview room, it’s like the whole world is watching—

“I need to think,” Galen said.

“No,” Donnally said, “you need to talk.”

Galen lowered his hands and opened his eyes.

“I can handle a bar suspension, but not a felony,” Galen said. He pointed at the chair in which Navarro had been sitting. “Will he cut a deal?”

“It won’t be up to him, but to Hannah Goldhagen.”

“Then I’m screwed. She hates me. Really, really hates me, almost as much as she hated Mark. She won’t do it.”

“Maybe she won’t have to know it’s you until after she makes the decision.”

“Who’ll pitch it to her?” He glanced toward Navarro returning to his seat. “You or him?”

“Me,” Donnally said. “But not yet. I need to know how many felonies you expect to walk on and what we get in return. We have a homicide to solve.”

Galen paused. “I’ll tell you one thing now because I need the credit. The rest you’ll have to wait for until I get a pass from Goldhagen.”

“Is this one worth much?” Donnally asked.

“It’s huge. I mean really huge.”

Chapter 21

Galen was right,” Navarro said as they sat in the office of the A&B Gas Mart on International Boulevard in East Oakland near the Sixty-fifth Avenue housing project.

Donnally remembered when the name of the wide commercial street had been changed from East Fourteenth Street. It had been done at the same time and for the same reason that garbage collection had been renamed waste management and budget cuts were called revenue recapture—and nobody had been fooled. There weren’t fewer drug dealers on the side streets, hookers walking the sidewalks, or murderers hanging out on the corners and along the storefronts because the four lanes of litter-strewn blacktop had been relabeled based on some bureaucrat’s melting pot fantasy.

It sometimes seemed to Donnally that more than the taquerias and Vietnamese noodle shops and Arab markets, what made the boulevard international was the same thing that made it territorial: the gangs that controlled it from Lake Merritt downtown all the way to the southern city limit. The Mexican Norteños, Sureños, and Border Brothers; the Asian Bui Doi, V-Boyz, and Sons of Death; and the Salvadoran M–13.

Despite the name change, the street remained not merely mean, but wounded, like a victim of Tink Fischer’s fight-mangled pit bull.

Donnally and Navarro were peering at a monitor displaying a soundless month-old video showing the market’s gas pump islands and the front of Burger’s Motorcycle Repair across the street. They’d just watched Mark Hamlin pull to a stop under a streetlight in his Porsche and knock on the door an hour before a homicide had been reported to 911 by the admitted killer, David Burger.

On the drive over, Navarro had relayed to Donnally what he’d learned from Oakland homicide. Burger and the victim, Ed Sanders, operated both the garage on International Boulevard and a meth lab in the Central Valley, but they’d had a falling out. Burger had claimed in his statement to the police that Sanders had come at him with a lug wrench. Burger had punched Sanders and he’d fallen back, hitting his head on a metalworking lathe.

Donnally and Navarro were only able to recognize Hamlin in the grainy video because Sheldon Galen told them what to look for and when to look for it. Navarro hadn’t asked the Oakland Police Department to review their copy of the recording for fear they’d study it more closely and figure out why he wanted it. Neither Navarro nor Donnally wanted to risk losing control of the investigation.

They watched the front door to the garage open from the inside. A white male stuck his head out and glanced up and down the sidewalk, then stepped back into the shadow to let Hamlin in.

“That’s Burger,” Navarro said.

A homeless man pushing a grocery cart came into the frame a couple of minutes later. He peered into Hamlin’s car and tried the passenger door handle. He then reached in among the cans and bottles in the cart, pulled out a brick, glanced around, and smashed the window. He yanked out what looked like a laptop case, hid it in the cart, and disappeared from view.