And the private investigator, who Navarro later identified through a pretext call to his office, walked because the witness wasn’t around to authenticate the recording and testify that it hadn’t been altered.

Donnally looked back at Jackson.

“If I get you immunity,” Donnally said, “you’ll have to answer every question I ask. Every single one. That’s how immunity agreements read. It’s a contract. A trade. And it’s absolute.”

Jackson’s eyes widened and her jaw clenched. “Then I’ll take the Fifth on everything.”

“I know you think that sounds like something Mark would’ve said, but in the real world you can’t do that since not every answer will implicate you in a crime. Some may only implicate others. I’ll have Goldhagen put you in front of a grand jury, you’ll pull your stunt, and Judge McMullin will hold you in contempt and lock you up.”

Donnally paused and let a picture of San Francisco’s crowded, gang-ridden county jail form in her mind.

“You sure you want to be brushing shoulders with Hamlin’s old clients? Them all looking at you funny, wondering when you’re gonna crack and spill everything in order to get yourself sprung.”

Jackson’s finger started tapping again. It seemed to Donnally like a private sign language for spelling out her fears.

Donnally heard the door open. Navarro signaled him to come outside.

“And you will crack,” Donnally said, rising to his feet. “You know it and I know it. You’re not going to throw your life away living out Hamlin’s fantasy all the way to the end.”

He walked outside and swung the door closed behind him.

As the latch clicked into place, Donnally flashed on her face and her fidgeting hands and realized he was seeing more than just fear of potential accusations. He was seeing terror at her failing resistance against dissolving self-deceptions that were once held firm by Hamlin’s force of will.

The immunity she wanted was more than just strategic, it was existential, and there was no way to give it to her.

“Three things,” Navarro whispered. “One, beat cops found Hamlin’s car parked along Ocean Beach.”

“They towing it in?”

Navarro nodded.

“And two?”

“Hamlin’s cell phone was on the pavement next to it. Smashed. Nothing recoverable in it.”

“And three is . . .”

“The news radio station is reporting Hamlin did a David Carradine right out there at Fort Point.”

Donnally felt a rush of anger.

Navarro raised his hands. “It wasn’t me. I haven’t talked to the press—and I’m not that stupid. Autoerotic asphyxiation means do-it-yourself. And you can’t do it yourself with your hands tied behind your back. The damn reporter should’ve figured that out himself.”

“Go down to the station and make sure Hamlin’s car stays sealed until I get there.” Donnally tilted his head toward the conference room. “I’ve got to work out some kind of deal with her.”

Navarro headed toward the hallway and the elevators beyond.

Donnally opened the door. He spotted Jackson standing next to an open file cabinet drawer, her hand under her suit jacket. He jabbed a forefinger at her.

“Put it back.”

Chapter 5

I got nothing,” Donnally said to Navarro as he walked up to Hamlin’s Porsche in the police garage. “Jackson claims Hamlin didn’t tell her who he was afraid of, or why.”

“You have to give up anything to get her talking?” Navarro asked.

“She wanted immunity, but I explained to her why that wasn’t a possibility.” He smiled. “I caught her trying to sneak off with a file. It showed Hamlin had been paying part of her salary under the table out of cash retainers he’d received from clients. He wasn’t reporting the fees to the IRS and she wasn’t reporting the income.”

“Tax fraud and money laundering.” Navarro smiled back. “I see why you took immunity off the table. There’s no way of knowing all the crimes she’s committed. What about the other two in the office?”

“No immunity demands, but no one will admit to knowing what Hamlin was worried about or where he went last night—if they even know. They’re little ferrets. Neither one has the guts to do anything more dangerous than steal Post-it notes from the office. I sent them home and told them to stay there until we need them again.”

Navarro nodded toward two evidence technicians, who then opened the doors of the car and began dusting for prints.

“The cell phone records?” Donnally asked.

“In an hour. They’ll e-mail them to me and I’ll get printouts to you.”

Donnally shielded his eyes and looked through the back window.

“Man, what a mess. Who spends a hundred and twenty thousand dollars on a car like this and treats it like a garbage dump.”

Navarro bit his lower lip as he stared at the passenger seat and floor. On both were scattered court filings, fast-food wrappers, sheets torn from legal pads, balled-up clothing.

“This’ll take hours.”

Donnally thought for a moment. Anything that Hamlin had left in plain view in his car couldn’t be considered confidential. Whatever attorney-client privilege he might have claimed for any document had been waived as soon as he let the sunshine fall on it, at least as far as Hamlin’s part of the privilege was concerned.

If his clients had a beef on their end with him leaving case documents where anyone could see them, they could sue Hamlin’s estate. But it wasn’t Donnally’s problem. Preserving Hamlin’s money for his heirs wasn’t part of his job.

Donnally waited until the evidence techs finished dusting for prints, did a quick check of the glove compartment, console, and trunk without finding additional case files or notes. He pointed at the two techs, and said to Navarro, “Have these guys bag up everything. Let’s go check out Hamlin’s apartment.”

Navarro gave the instruction and then led Donnally to his car, parked in a lot under the freeway behind the Hall of Justice.

“You’re a little more flexible than I remembered,” Navarro said, as he turned the ignition.

“Not really, I’ve just learned to draw finer lines. I’m not going to do any more to protect Hamlin than he deserves and the law requires.”

Navarro drove out from the thin shadows next to the police department into the late morning sun. He skirted downtown as he worked his way toward the Panhandle, a narrow arm of Golden Gate Park running along the north side of the Haight-Ashbury District.

Donnally’s cell phone rang as they passed the steep-sided Buena Vista Park, trees rising up from the otherwise house- and apartment-covered heights.

“I came home to pick up a file for work and found a television satellite truck driving away.”

The caller was Janie Nguyen, Donnally’s girlfriend, a psychiatrist at the Fort Miley Veterans Hospital. Donnally had come down from Mount Shasta a few days earlier to visit her and replace the roof gutters on the house they shared a few blocks from the ocean. He drove down two or three times a month, usually for three or four days. He always brought his tool chest in the bed of his truck to repair damage to the shingled bungalow inflicted by salt air driven hard by onshore winds.

“One of the neighbors told me they knocked on the door, then took a video of the house. You up to something?”

“The call that got me out of bed this morning and put that grumpy look on your face was about Mark Hamlin.”

Donnally felt Navarro’s eyes on him. He covered the phone and said, “Janie.”

Navarro raised his eyebrows. “Still?”

Donnally nodded.

Navarro reached up and tapped the wedding ring on his left hand, gripping the steering wheel.

Donnally shook his head, and then said into the phone, “I’m helping out Ramon Navarro on the Hamlin investigation.”