And then four days ago, Tania's murder had been all over the news. She'd been raped in her apartment, tied and taped to her bed, gagged and strangled.

The Center had called the police at that time.

Christina found she had to clear her throat. Glitsky was asking her something, which she didn't catch. 'I'm sorry…?'

He showed no sign that he was bothered by having to repeat the question. 'I was just wondering how much she might have told you about the man.'

Christina was sitting on the front edge of the ragged couch, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, her hands folded in front of her. Her hair, still wet from the rain, hung in front of her face. 'Almost nothing,' she said. 'She knew him. He lived near her, maybe in her apartment building. She definitely felt that if she moved she could get away from him, but she couldn't afford to move.'

Glitsky nodded. 'And she didn't want to press charges.'

'I'd hoped we were getting to there, but no, not by – not in time.'

'And no names, not an initial, a nickname…?'

She shook her head. 'No, nothing, I don't think. I wish… I'm sorry.'

'Did you take any notes I might look at? Maybe there was something.

'I know I took some. I'll go check. It wouldn't have been much, but maybe…' The Sergeant's face had clouded – he was staring blankly out through the fogged glass, out into the desultory traffic on Haight. 'Can I get you anything?' she asked. 'Cup of coffee or something?'

Glitsky didn't answer.

She touched his arm. 'Sergeant?'

Back with her. 'Sure. Sorry. Just thinking.'

'Are you all right?'

Suddenly the face wasn't terrifying at all. What she saw was sadness. Tm a little distracted,' he said. 'My wife's sick.' Then: 'Some tea would be nice, thanks.'