I had seen my father only twice since I was thirteen. He wore a uniform for twenty years in Central. Was known as a pretty good cop. He used to go down to this bar, the Alibi, and stay for the Giants game after his shift. Sometimes he took me, "his little mascot," for the boys to admire. When the sauce was ready I poured it over fusilli and dragged the plate and a salad out to my terrace. Martha tagged along. She'd been my shadow since I adopted her from the Border Collie Rescue Society. I lived on Potrero Hill, in a renovated blue Michaelian town house with a view of the bay Not the fancy view like the one from the Mandarin Suite. I sat down, propped my feet up on a neighboring chair, and balanced the plate on my lap. Across the bay, the lights of Oakland glimmered like a thousand unsympathetic eyes. 1 looked out at the galaxy of flashing lights, felt my eyes well up, and for the second time that day I realized that I was crying. Martha nuzzled me gently, then she finished the fusilli for me.

Chapter 12

QUARTER TO NINE the next morning, I was rapping at the fogged window of Lieutenant Roth's office at the Hall. Roth likes me- like another daughter, he says. He has no idea how condescending he can be. I'm tempted to tell Roth that I like him- like a grandfather. I was expecting a crowd- at least a couple of suits from Internal Affairs, or maybe Captain Welting, who oversaw the Bureau of Inspectors- but, as he motioned me in, I saw that there was only one other person in the room. A nice-looking type dressed in a chambray shirt and striped tie, with short, dark hair and strong shoulders. He had a handsome, intelligent face that seemed to come to life as I walked in, but it only meant one thing to me: Polished brass. Someone from the department's press corps, or City Hall. I had the blunt, uneasy feeling they'd been talking about me.