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floorboards. “Whatever it is, it’s creepy as hell.”
    Daniel turned the sheet over, his fingers leaving impressions. On the back, the same sloppy handwriting, pencil pushed hard enough to leave grooves in the paper.
    you hav til november 15 at midnite
    “Last Friday,” Daniel said. “November fifteenth was last Friday. The deadline’s already passed. That makes no sense.”
    Cris snatched the torn gray envelope from his lap and flipped it over. Through her teeth she shot a breath strong enough to flutter the envelope in her hand. “It’s not for you.”
    “Not for…?” He stopped, his brain still jarred out of gear. “Right.” A rush of relief. “So it was outgoing mail that the person accidentally stuck in my box. Intended for…?”
    She lowered the envelope for him to read.
    jack holley
    And an address in the Tenderloin. The city, misspelled, with no state or zip code.
    The stamp, unmarred by a postal mark. Not surprisingly, there was no return address.
    “So Jack Holley, whoever he is, never got this ultimatum,” Daniel said.
    He looked up from the couch, and she looked down at him. Her hand, clammy against his neck.
    At the same time, they directed their stares to the silver laptop on the kitchen counter.
    Side by side, they walked over. Cris flipped the laptop open and keyed JACK HOLLEY TENDERLOIN into Google. Took a deep breath. Her finger hovered above the return key. A faint sheen of perspiration glistened on her cheek.
    Reaching across, he clasped his hand over hers and lowered her finger to the key.
    The little wheel spun atop the page as it loaded, and then the top search result slapped them in their faces.

    LONGTIME TENDERLOIN RESIDENT
VICTIM OF BRUTAL KNIFE MURDER
    November 16—Everyone in the Tenderloin seemed to know Jack Holley . Always a bright smile and a wave on his way to the second-floor walk-up where he’d lived for nearly thirty years. Which is why his vicious murder last night has left this community in shock.…
    Heat rolled across Daniel’s skin. He felt his face flush, his breath snag in his throat. “Not a joke,” he said.
    Cristina glanced down at the envelope still in her hand, then released it quickly onto the counter, as if it had burned her. Her throat lurched a bit when she swallowed. “Okay,” she said. “Now what?”

 
    Chapter 7
    When Daniel opened the door, the woman behind it was not at all what he expected. Attractive bordering on stunning—pronounced cheekbones, smooth ebony skin, slender body fitted into a plain white oxford and pressed slacks—and younger than seemed plausible. She couldn’t have been thirty. A small hip-holstered pistol bulged her jacket on the right side.
    “Thanks for coming so quickly, Detective.”
    “It’s ‘Inspector.’ San Francisco likes to be special. Which means we get to be inspectors instead of mere detectives.” She flashed a quick smile, showing honest-to-God dimples, and it was no longer a question of bordering on stunning.
    Daniel stepped aside. “My wife, Cristina.”
    The inspector offered her hand. “Nice to meet you. Theresa Dooley, Homicide Detail. Your husband and I spoke on the phone.”
    “Glad you’re here,” Cris said. “Can I get you something to drink?”
    “Nah, I’m good.” Dooley moved inside with a single swift step, glancing up the two-story height of the foyer. “Now you’re Brasher, right? As in the Brasher—”
    “Yep,” Daniel said. “The letter’s on the kitchen counter. Right up this way.”
    As Dooley followed them up, Cris said, “We didn’t handle it anymore after … you know, we saw what it was. We figured fingerprints.”
    “Smart,” Dooley said.
    “I’m a Mission High grad. That’s what we learned instead of baking pies in home ec.”
    “Mission High?” Dooley paused on the stairs. “No shit. I went to Balboa.”
    Cris’s face lightened. “The Buccaneers.”
    “First time I’ve heard a Bear call us anything but the Fuckaneers.”
    “You’re armed, so