Molinari shook his head slowly back and forth. I realized I was asking for a lot. He closed his eyes for a second and leaned back in his chair. When he opened them I saw the faintest outline of a smile. “I knew there was a reason I missed you, Lindsay.”

I took that as a yes.

“What I didn’t know”—he pushed back his chair—“was that it was due to the likely prospect we’re both going to have some time on our hands after we’re removed from our jobs.”

“I missed you, too,” I said.

San Francisco was in a panic the likes of which I had never seen before. The news stories never seemed to stop. Meanwhile, where the hell were we? Not close enough to the killers, I was afraid.

My whole theory depended on finding some way to make the other victims fit in with the current murders. I was certain there was a connection.

Bengosian was from Chicago. That seemed a long shot to tie in. But I remembered Lightower had gone to Berkeley. His CLO had told us that when we were up at Lightower’s company after he was killed.

I placed a call to Dianne Aronoff, Mort Lightower’s sister, and caught her at home. We talked and I found out that her brother had been a member of the SDS. In ’69, his junior year at Berkeley, he had taken a leave of absence.

Nineteen sixty-nine was the year of the Hope Street raid. Did that mean anything? It just might.

About one o’clock, Jacobi knocked on my window. “I think we found your guy Danko’s father.”

He and Cappy had started with the phone book, then matched up the address with a local high school. Danko’s father was still in Sacramento. Same address as they had lived in back in 1969. A man had answered when Cappy called. Hung up as soon as the inspectors had brought up Billy Danko’s name.

“There’s an FBI office down there.” Jacobi shrugged. “Or?”

“Here”—I jumped up, flipping him the keys to the Explorer—“you drive.”

It was about two hours on Highway 80 any way you cut it to Sacramento, and we kept the Explorer at a steady seventy-five over the Bay Bridge. An hour and fifty minutes later we pulled up in front of a slightly run-down fifties-style ranch. We needed a win here, needed it badly.

The house was large but neglected, a slope of faded lawn and a fenced-in lot in back. Danko’s father was a doctor, I recalled. Thirty years ago, this might’ve been one of the nicest houses on the block.

I took off my sunglasses and knocked on the front door. It took a while for someone to answer, and I was feeling impatient, to say the least.

Finally an old man opened and peered out at us. I could see his nose and sharp, pointed chin—a resemblance to the picture of Billy Danko in the Chronicle magazine.

“You the idiots who called on the phone?” He stood there, regarding us warily. “Of course you are.”

“I’m Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer,” I said. “And this is Homicide Inspector Warren Jacobi. Do you mind if we come in?”

“I mind,” he said, but he swung the screen door open anyway. “I’ve got nothing to say to the police if it concerns my son, other than accepting their full apology for his murder.”

He led us back through musty, paint-chipped halls into a small den. It didn’t seem that anyone else was living with him.

“We were hoping to ask you just a few questions regarding your son,” Jacobi said.

“Ask.” Danko sank himself into a patchwork couch. “Better time to ask questions was thirty years ago. William was a good boy, a great boy. We raised him to think for himself, and he did, made choices of conscience—the right ones, it was proven out later. Losing that boy cost me everything I had. My wife …” He nodded toward a black-and-white portrait of a middle-aged woman. “Everything.”

“We’re sorry for what happened.” I sat on the edge of a badly stained armchair. “No one’s here to cause you more distress. I’m sure you’re familiar with what’s been going on in San Francisco recently. A lot of people have died there.”

Danko shook his head. “Thirty years later, and you still won’t let him rest in peace.”

I glanced at Jacobi. This was going to be a tough go. I started in talking about Jill, how we had found the connection between her father and the raid on the Hope Street house. Then how one of the other victims, Lightower, also had a connection to Berkeley and the student revolts.

“Don’t mean to tell you your job, Inspectors”—Carl Danko smiled—“but that sounds like a lot of crazy suppositions to me.”

“Your son had a code name,” I said, “August Spies. August Spies is the name that’s being used by the people who are doing these killings.”

Carl Danko snorted derisively and reached for a pipe. He seemed to find all of this humorous.

“Do you know anyone who might be involved?” I pressed. “One of Billy’s friends? Maybe someone’s been in touch with you lately?”

“Whoever is doing it, God bless him.” Carl Danko cleaned out his pipe. “Truth is, you’ve wasted your time coming out here. I can’t help you a lick. And if I could …I hope somehow you can understand why I might not be so disposed to help the San Francisco Police. Now please leave my house.”

Jacobi and I stood up. I took a step toward the door, praying for some kind of epiphany before I got there. I stopped at the picture of his wife. Then I noticed a photo next to hers.

It was a family shot.

Something caused me to focus on the faces.

There was another son in the photo.

Younger. Maybe sixteen. A spitting image of his mother.

The four of them smiling, not a care on what seemed a pleas

ant, sunny day in the distant past. “You have another son.” I turned back to Danko. “Charles …” He shrugged. I picked up the photo. “Maybe we should talk to him. He

might know something.” “Doubt it.” Danko stared at me. “He’s dead, too.”

Back in the Explorer, I called in to Cappy. “I want you to run the background on a Charles Danko. Born in Sacramento, 1953–54. Possibly deceased. That’s the best I have. And go back as far as you have to go. If this guy’s dead, I want to see the death certificate to prove it.”

“I’ll get on it,” Cappy said. “Meanwhile, I got one for you. George Bengosian, Lieutenant. You were right, he did get a pre-med degree from the University of Chicago. But that was after he transferred there from Berkeley. Bengosian was there in ’sixty-nine.”

“Thanks, Cappy. Great work. Keep it up.”

So now we had three—Jill, Lightower, and Bengosian—who were tied to the murderous police raid on Hope Street. And the code name August Spies linked to Billy Danko.

I didn’t know what to do with it yet. As Danko said, it was all a bunch of suppositions.

While Jacobi drove back to the city, I finally dozed for a bit. It was my first solid sleep in three days. We got back to the Hall about six. “In case you were wondering,” Jacobi said, “you snore.”

“Purr,” I corrected. “I purr.”

Before heading back to my office, I wanted to check on Molinari. I ran upstairs and squeezed myself into his office. A meeting was in progress. What was this?

Chief Tracchio was sitting at his desk. So was Tom Roach from the FBI. And Strickland, who was in charge of the G-8 advance security.

“Lightower was there,” I announced, barely able to hold back my excitement. “At Berkeley—at the time of the BNA raid. George Bengosian was, too. They were all there.”

“I know,” Molinari said.