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of the sworn testimony.”
    I clenched my teeth.
    “It’s probably not a big deal,” Danny continued. “But I wanted to let you know things could get a little dicey. You’ll probably have to talk to investigators again.”
    We were interrupted by a buzzing sound coming from the sergeant’s pants. He pulled out a pager. “Damn,” he said.
    He rose from the seat.
    “I’m not in charge of the café investigation. It’s Lieutenant Aravelo’s baby. But I’m tracking it.”
    He explained that San Francisco’s homicide rate had spiked in the past couple of years. Lots of the murders were unsolved, especially in the poor black corners of the city where gangs roamed. He reminded me that the mayor had made a big deal out of addressing unsolved murders, earning himself enemies on the police force by publicly questioning their capabilities, and then issuing a directive that high-profile murder cases would have two teams of investigators—one official team, and then one or two shadow investigators who investigated independently, found their own leads, and were supposed to feed information to the main group. Sometimes they preferred to take credit for a collar.
    It created competition, but also distrust.
    “What you told me—about the note—needs to be in the right hands. I am tight with a couple of the lead investigators on the café case. I’ll have them get in touch, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Or you can contact Aravelo directly—if you feel comfortable going that direction.”
    I couldn’t let him go. There was so much I wanted to know.
    “Sergeant Weller. I was hoping you’d be able to tell me more about what happened at the café. Who did this? Why would I be warned? Is this a random act of violence or some insane attack that I’ve wound up in the middle of?”
    He studied me, then shrugged. “I think you put it correctly yesterday. Something very strange went down.”
    He turned, then looked back over his shoulder. “Call me anytime you want to talk.”
    I needed another beer—or several—so I drove across town to my local joint. Samantha and Bullseye were parked at their usual spot, watching the Giants game. I barely said hello before launching in with my story.
    “Your chi is way out of balance,” Samantha said, grabbing my hand and vigorously rubbing my palm. “I can do some healing with massage. But you really need to come down to the studio for acupuncture—and energy work.”
    “What my chi needs is a pizza and some sleep,” I said.
    She was right. In the preceding couple of years, despite sometimes protesting otherwise, I’d come increasingly to appreciate Samantha’s witchcraft. I made an appointment for the next day.
    I walked outside of the bar and studied the piece of paper on which Erin had written her six-digit number. Maybe she’d left one out by accident. I tried a couple of combinations, adding a different last digit each time. Three weren’t real phone numbers, and a fourth was answered by an old lady with a slur in her voice who seemed like she wanted to talk anyway.
    When I got home, I was beyond exhausted, but I saw my laptop sitting there and I couldn’t help myself. I sent an e-mail to my attorney, telling him about Sergeant Weller’s revelation that the Aravelo case had been reopened, and seeking his advice.
    Then I started looking for news of the day’s events. There wasn’t much I hadn’t learned earlier from the
Chronicle
, and from Danny. I saw a picture of the eviscerated café and felt a wave of nausea.
    I read about the café’s owner, Idelwild Corporation, a holding company with some powerful corporate owners. They wanted a piece of the Starbucks café phenomenon and what it represented: the confluence of technological and interpersonal communications. Cafés were like campfires but with wireless access and better pastries.
    I followed link after random link for four hours. Even as my body yearned for bed and sleep, I couldn’t pull myself away, the