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I’m sure there were people unhappy with my decisions. But nothing that stands out.”
    â€œDid you have a personal staff, Mrs. Vanderveer? Maids, gardeners? Maybe someone who knew Michael and would have known where he would run to?”
    â€œWe have a woman who comes to clean twice a week. And we have a gardener. They are husband and wife. Mexican, both of them. They know Michael, but I doubt he would discuss his plans with them.” She seemed relieved to be done talking. She looked down into the folded hands in her lap.
    Lang wanted to say something encouraging, but he didn’t feel encouraged enough to do so. Knowing that the police not only suspected young Michael of the kidnapping but also of the murder meant that even if the exchange went well, the parents wouldn’t get out of the hell they were in.
    He asked a few more questions before they separated. Lang reminded them that they wouldn’t hear from the kidnappers any more that day and recommended a small café a block and a half down on Taylor.
    â€œI couldn’t possibly eat,” Mrs. Vanderveer said.
    â€œYou mind?” Lang asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. He used his phone to photograph the Vanderveers. “About the hotel, why did you choose the Huntington?”
    â€œWe always stay here when we’re in San Francisco.”
    â€œDid Michael stay here with you?”
    â€œYes. At least twice. The whole family.” Vanderveer shrugged. “It was a whole family then.”
    Â * * * 
    Lang took a moment to grab a bite to eat at the Nob Hill Café. Even though the address spelled “money,” and the clientele looked to be local and therefore moneyed, the atmosphere wasn’t the least snooty and the menu was surprisingly affordable. Unsure about where his next paycheck would come from, Lang ordered with cautious economy—a plate of spaghetti alla carbonara, which turned out to suit his appetite perfectly, and a glass of the house red, which cut through the rich, creamy pasta.
    Back outside, as night eventually started to fall, he sat in the park again and called Thanh. He told his friend to wrap up the insurance case and be ready to move on in the morning. There were other things that needed doing, Lang explained. He did the same with Brinkman. Brinkman was happy that he might have something more to do. Lang told him his assignment began immediately and provided instructions.
    Park benches weren’t made for long-term comfort, Lang soon discovered. He walked down to Powell and looked farther down the steep hill as it descended into a glittering Chinatown and a deserted but impressive high-rise financial district. For many tourists this was a magical, fanciful city. And it was that, but there was no shortage of dashed hopes, deep tragedies, and genuine monsters lurking just this side of the dreams.
    He walked to his car, retrieved a coat and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses with plain lenses. He had the night shift, and Thanh, completely briefed, would relieve him early in the morning. He wished he had a pillow.
    Lang understood that the stakeout was nearly useless. It wasn’t likely the kidnappers would make any move this evening. Surely they didn’t expect the Vanderveers to keep the money in their hotel room, and the banks were closed when they’d made their call. He wasn’t likely to recognize them if they walked in through the front door. Yet it was possible that this was a setup for a robbery. That would be clever. Plan an exchange, but steal the money beforehand. Lang would maintain his surveillance.
    Â * * * 
    Lang was bundled up against the chill. The fog meant visibility ended about a hundred feet away. He could barely see the entrance to the Huntington. Lacy fog hung about the hotel’s doorway. The other buildings, usually dominating Nob Hill, had vanished or merely hinted at their existence.
    He thought he saw a rat, or perhaps it was a