“My friend here has a rich fantasy life,” Glitsky said. He handed the gun back to Ling. “You think this is Dodge City or what? You can pick it up back at the Hall.”

“Abe, it’s a legal weapon.”

“And this is a murder scene, Diz. It can’t hurt to check the paper on it.”

Hardy turned to Ling. “And what brought you guys out here?”

“The couple who live on the next boat over were going out for a jog and passed you walking around with a gun in your hand. They saw you come in here, and they went back to their boat and reported it.”

“The only two good citizens in San Francisco and I run into them on their morning jog.”

“Good citizens abound in our fair city,” Glitsky said.

“They are Chinese,” Ling said, as if that explained it.

“All right. Let’s go see the body.”

“I hope you’ve had your breakfast,” Hardy said.

From identification found in the purse by the bedside, the woman was tentatively identified as Maxine Weir, thirty-three years old. Her address was 964 Bush Street.

From the trail of blood, she had been shot the first time as she exited the bathroom after taking a shower. That first shot went through the towel that had been wrapped around her.

There was a splatter of blood on the wall by the door to the bathroom, as though she had either been spun around by the shot or had put her hand to the wound and then to the wall to steady herself.

It was impossible to determine the order of the remaining shots. One had entered high on the right breast and did not appear to exit, probably hitting the clavicle and ricocheting downward. A second had passed through the side of her abdomen and out her back. Another had hit her in the right thigh. She had clearly gone down by the bathroom and lay still-perhaps pretending to be dead-for a few minutes. A pool had formed there. Then she had crawled across the room and into the hallway, where she had died and where Hardy had found her.

Glitsky came away from the body with a glazed, guarded look. He had told Ling to wait in the living room to send in the techs. Hardy sat on an upholstered chair in the corner, elbows on knees, his hands folded.

“What about the bed?” he asked.

“I’m getting there.”

A second trail of blood began on the bed, which was still made up. Someone had been lying on top of its covers when they’d been shot. The trail crossed the room like a thin strip of syrup to the back door. Glitsky opened the door.

There was a walkway about four feet wide that must have been used mostly for storage. Paint cans, cardboard boxes, a bicycle, other garage stuff filled the space on Glitsky’s left, hard by the piling. The right side had been Astro-turfed. A large pot-style barbecue squatted by the other back door, which led to the galley. Paraphernalia for outdoor cooking hung on the wall by that door.

The blood drew a line in the middle of this area, swerved over the Astro-turf, paused and pooled at the railing, disappearing over the side of the barge.

Glitsky came back inside, shivering even in his parka. Hardy was standing now by the bed.

“The walking dead,” Glitsky said.

“Look at this.” Hardy knew enough not to touch anything. He had been a good cop once.

There was a small hole in the center of a splotch of blood on the bed, at about shoulder level if the victim’s head had been on the pillow.

“Rusty was first, I guess,” Hardy said. “He was sleeping, maybe. Lying down. She was in the shower, heard the shot, came out and got hers.”

Glitsky jammed his hands further into his pockets. “What the hell are you talking about? Rusty who?”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

Hardy let out a breath. “Ingraham. Rusty Ingraham. He lives, lived here. Louis Baker shot him.”

Glitsky was looking somewhere over Hardy’s shoulder, not focusing, putting it together. “Louis Baker.”

“And I’m next.”

“I’ll have a cheeseburger with everything, to go.”

The young man punched his register. “Would you like onions and pickles?”

Glitsky nodded. “Everything please.”

“Will that be here or to go?”

“To go, please.”

“That’ll be one cheeseburger to go.” He pushed some more buttons, waited until the machine stopped whirring, then looked up with relief. “That’s two sixty-seven.”

Hardy, having just endured the same litany over a much more difficult order of two fish sandwiches, fries and a Diet Coke, rolled his eyes. “Do you want that here or to go, Abe?” he asked when the boy went to retrieve the order.

Glitsky kept his face straight.

They sat at a tiny yellow table on a stretch of sidewalk midway between the Third Street Bridge and the Southern Pacific Station. Every few minutes a train’s whistle would sound, shrill and distant.

It was early afternoon. The fog had burned off completely and it was getting warm. They had stayed at Rusty Ingraham’s barge through the morning, waiting while the techs photographed and collected and dusted, while the deputy M.E. had examined and moved Maxine Weir’s body, while they had begun preparations to drag the canal.

Hardy opened his bag. “After all that, I get onion rings. Did I say fries or what?”

Glitsky chomped into his burger. “Twice, I think, maybe three times.”

“Rocket scientist,” Hardy said.

“No dumber than walking around with a loaded weapon out in the open. You should’ve called me first.”

“And you would’ve come, right?” He had already told Abe why he was at the barge, about his telephone arrangement with Rusty.

Abe chewed some more. “Probably not.”

“No probably about it.”

Glitsky reached over and grabbed Hardy’s drink. “You mind?” He sipped through the straw. “Louis Baker, huh?”

Hardy grabbed the cup back. “Louis Baker scares me, Abe. No kidding.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. I think I’d be nervous myself. Baker know where you live? You moved since you were a D.A., right?”

“So did Rusty.”

Glitsky chewed and swallowed. “So how’d he find him?”

“Maybe he’s listed. He’s a working-he was a working attorney.”

“Quit talking about him in the past tense, would you?”

“He’s dead, Abe. You know it and I know it.”

“I don’t know it. Maxine Weir is dead. Otherwise, we’re dragging the canal, checking the blood type on the bed, see if we can match it to Rusty, see if we can find him. I’ll let you know when I think he’s dead.”

“He’s dead,” Hardy said.

Glitsky shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“So what am I gonna do?”

“I don’t know. About what?”

“About Louis fucking Baker, is what.”

“Don’t get all excited, Diz. We finish our lunch here and I locate Louis and drive down and have a talk with him.”

“And what if he’s sitting outside my house, or even in it, with a gun?”

Glitsky said, straight-faced, “That’d be in violation of his parole.” The inspector finished his burger, took Hardy’s cup back and had a last loud slurp of Hardy’s drink through the straw. “Just don’t you do anything, Diz. We frown on private citizens shooting one another.”

“Yeah. Well, I frown on being shot at. I see him around my house, I’m going to shoot first.”

Glitsky leaned across the table. “Do me a favor. Let him get a shot off. Make sure he’s armed.”

“The rules, huh?”

Glitsky nodded. “The rules, that’s right.” He stood up.

“I don’t think Louis told Maxine about the rules,” Hardy said. “Or Rusty either.”

Glitsky picked up Hardy’s cup and dumped some ice in his mouth. He chewed a minute. “Guess he forgot,” he said. “Other things on his mind.”

“When can I get my gun back?” Hardy said.