“It works better when it’s loaded.”

Glitsky flipped open the cylinder and let the bullets fall, one by one, into the palm of his hand. He put them into the pocket of his blue parka and smelled the weapon. “It hasn’t been fired.”

“No, sir,” Ling said. “I realize that.”

“Come on, Abe,” Hardy said. “I didn’t shoot anybody.”

“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.