“How was he killed?”

“Garroted.”

“Okay. Blunt force, strangulation, bullet. The guy is all over the board.”

“If,” Delion said, “if-and this is a really big if-if the guy killed both those people and taunted your brother about them, then why would he kill him?”

“I don’t know,” Dane said. “I’m really not sure, but I’ll betcha that our profilers would have an idea about that.”

“Oh man,” Delion said, screeching into a parking place in the garage, “the Feds are coming to roost on my head after all.”

“They’re good people, Delion.” Dane paused a moment, then said, “You know, I’m wondering about that woman-the one who called in my brother’s murder-why she was there at midnight on Sunday?”

“Yeah, everyone was wondering about that. No way to find her. Let’s hope she calls us again.”

“I wonder what she really saw.”

“We’ll probably never know. I don’t think we’ll have any luck finding her.”

Dane said, “Maybe she’ll be on Father Binney’s list.”

Delion glanced over at him. “You ever find anything out that easy?”

She stood on the bottom step of the ugly Hall of Justice building on Bryant Street.

It was a beautiful Tuesday morning, gloriously sunny, with just a nip in the air, actually a typical winter day in San Francisco, as she’d been told many times. Yes, the air was so clear and sharp you couldn’t breathe in deep enough.

She’d only been here about two weeks, and there had been other days like this. But this morning, this incredibly crisp, clear morning, she felt little pleasure. She walked slowly to the top step, people streaming around her, most of them moving fast, focused on where they were going. No one paid her any attention.

She was scared, really scared. She didn’t want to be there, but she didn’t have a choice. She’d tried for a solid two minutes to convince herself that Father Michael Joseph’s death had nothing to do with her, but of course that was not going to work.

It was time to step up.

She went through the metal detector, made her way through the crowded lobby, and took the elevator to the fourth floor.

She’d been to the police station once before, when she’d first arrived in San Francisco. She’d had a weak moment, thought she would just waltz in and tell someone what had happened, see if someone would help her. But she realized soon enough that she was dreaming. She’d snuck away. That first time she hadn’t noticed the series of black-and-white photos that lined the walls, many of them taken before the earthquake. She walked through the door to Homicide, into the small reception area. There was no one behind the high counter. She paused a moment, then walked through the door. She’d seen a lot of homicide rooms on TV and this one looked much the same except it was smaller, about a dozen big, scarred light oak desks shoved together in pairs, heavy old side chairs beside each one. There was a computer on top of each desk, stacks of loose paper, folders, books, a phone, and what looked like mounds of just plain trash. What struck her was that there wasn’t much noise, no cursing, no yelling, no chaos. Just the steady low hum of a dozen simultaneous conversations. On one side of the main room were two small interview rooms, with no windows, that looked like soundproofed coffins. Finally, from one of those rooms, she heard some raised voices.

There were eight or so men in suits standing or seated at their desks, speaking on phones, working on computers. She didn’t see any women.

Half a dozen other people stood around the room, some of them thumbing through the ancient metal file cabinets that lined every wall, some just studying their fingernails, some looking really worried. She wondered if they were criminals or lawyers, or maybe some of each. One young guy with purple hair and pants so low she could see that his navel was an outie, sauntered out of one of the interview rooms, winked at her, and smacked his lips. He must be really desperate, she thought, ducking her head down, to come on to her.

Other than the kid with the purple hair, no one paid her a bit of attention. She wondered if anyone would be willing to take the time even to listen to her. Everyone looked harassed, too busy-

“Can I help you, miss?”

It was a uniformed patrol officer. There wasn’t a smile on her face. On the other hand, she didn’t look like she was ready to chew nails either.

“I need to speak to the detective who’s investigating Father Michael Joseph’s murder.”

The woman lifted a dark brow a good inch. “They’re not detectives here in San Francisco. They’re inspectors.”

“I didn’t know that. Thank you. May I please see the inspector? Really, I’m not here to waste anyone’s time.”

The officer looked her over, and she knew what the officer was seeing. It wasn’t good. Finally, the officer said, “All right. I see that Inspector Delion is at his desk. I’ll take you to him.”

There was a man seated in the chair beside Inspector Delion’s desk, his back to her. The set of his shoulders, the color of his hair were somehow familiar to her. A criminal being interviewed?

The officer said, “Hey, Vince, I’ve got a woman here to see you about Father Michael Joseph’s murder.”

“Yeah?” He looked as harassed and as impatient as every other man in the room. Then he grew quiet, his dark eyes on her face. She knew what she looked like. Was he going to sneer at her? Tell her to get lost? No, he just sat there, staring at her, fingering his mustache. He didn’t say anything else, just waited.

“Yes, I need to speak to you, sir.”

The man seated in the side chair rose and turned to face her. She stared at him, unable to take it in. She had to be dead, there was no other conclusion. She didn’t feel dead, but who knew? Here he was, looking at her, and he was dead, she had seen the bullet hole through his forehead, seen his eyes.

She squeaked, nothing more than that, and folded up on herself, fainting for the first time in her life.

Dane caught her before she cracked her head on the edge of the desk behind her. The inspector sitting there jerked back and said, “Hey!”

“I’ve got her, it’s okay,” Dane said.

“What the hell’s wrong with her?” Delion shoved back his chair, splaying his hands on his desktop. “Damnation, it’s only eight o’clock in the morning. Here, Dane, take her into the lieutenant’s office. She and the captain are in a meeting with Chief Kreider, so it’s free.”

Dane hauled her up in his arms and carried her into a small glass-walled office. Like every other free space in the area, it was lined with old gray file cabinets that had seen better days a half century before. He laid her on the rattiest, ugliest old green sofa he’d ever seen. No, there was one just as ugly in the rectory at St. Bartholomew’s.

“You got some water, Delion?”

“Uh? Oh yeah, just a moment.”

Dane went down on his haunches next to her. He gave her a cop’s once-over, quickly done, assessment made. She looked homeless-torn jeans, three different sweaters, one on top of the other, all of them on the well-worn side, not dirty, just old and tattered. She wore no makeup, not a surprise. Her hair was a dirty blond with a bit of curl, longish, tied in the back with a rubber band. Even with all the bulky layers of sweaters, it was easy to tell she was thin, pale, no more than twenty-seven, -eight, max. Not doing well in life, that was for sure. She looked like she’d been in a closet for too long without a glimpse of the sun, or tucked away in a homeless shelter. She also looked like she needed a dozen good meals. She’d been carrying a wool cap. Even unconscious, she still clutched it in her fingers.

They had a homeless woman for a witness?

Of course, that was just the outside. What a person was like on the inside was what was important, what was real. But if her outsides gave any clue at all, it was that something bad had happened to her. Drugs? An abusive husband? Alcohol?