Abe's reaction, though, seemed a long march beyond hurt. Ridley had come to know most of his lieutenant's moods, which generally ran the gamut from grumpy to glum, but he'd never before seen him as he was tonight – in a clear and quiet unreasonable rage, breaking his own sacred rules about prisoners and regulations.

Walking back to where the body lay, the knot of people bunched in the mouth of the alley, Ridley decided to risk a question. 'You all right, Abe?'

The lieutenant abruptly stopped walking. His nostrils flared under piercing eyes – Ridley thought of a panicked horse. Abe let out a long breath, took in another one, looked down toward the body. 'Yeah, sure,' he said. 'Why not?' A pause. 'Fucking peachy.'

Abe made it a point to avoid vulgarity. He'd even lectured his inspectors, decrying their casual use of profanity. His troops had been known to make fun of him for it behind his back. So Ridley was surprised, and his face must have shown it. The lieutenant's eyes narrowed. 'You got a problem, Ridley?'

'No, sir,' he replied. Whatever it was, it was serious. 'No problem at all.'

2

On that same day – Monday, February 1, at a little after five o'clock in the afternoon, Dismas Hardy placed a call to another San Francisco attorney.

He put his feet up on his desk and listened to the phone ring, was transferred to voice mail, heard the beep. 'Mr Logan,' he began, 'this is Dismas Hardy again. If you're keeping track, this is my fourth call. I'd really appreciate a callback. Same number I left the other three times.'