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Marcello, in the eyes of the police she could well be seen as a fugitive from the law.
    They wouldn’t look at her that way, would they? Anyone could tell she was a good person. But there was that damned witness . . .
    She’d have to get Charles to talk to his lawyer friends after all. If they got involved, however, they could find out about her and Marcello. She couldn’t let that happen.
    What in the world was she going to do? She lay her head back, trying to relax, trying not to let this upset her any more than it already had, then bolted upright.
    A monogrammed handkerchief? Satin?
    Wasn’t that what Angie had said?
    A strange and horrible thought came to her, and with it a chill, the kind that caused old women to say someone had walked over your grave.
    No, she told herself, it can’t be . . . .
     
    Lieutenant James Philip Eastwood, the new chief of the homicide bureau, was pacing the halls when Paavo and Yosh arrived back at the Hall of Justice.
    The wide, marble-covered corridors of the government building usually teemed with employees and those members of the public called there by the city’s municipal and superior courts, by the District Attorney and his staff, by the administration and special bureaus of the police department, or by the coroner’s office or the city morgue. Now, though, all was quiet Almost everyone had gone home.
    But not Paavo and Yosh’s new boss.
    The old chief, Ray Hollins, a forceful, knowledgeable, yet unpretentious man, had been reassigned to be head of the Traffic Division to make room for a virtual celebrity.
    “It’s about time,” was Eastwood’s only greeting. He turned and marched into Homicide. The two inspectors followed.
    Jim Eastwood was in his late forties, and had transferred to San Francisco from Los Angeles to take a promotion. He’d made a name for himself working the murder of a movie star’s wife—a case that had actually resulted in the star’s conviction, to everyone’s amazement. From all Paavo could tell, Eastwood was ambitious and planned to use his new job as nothing but a PR opportunity. He liked seeing his picture in the newspaper, and it was obvious that he wanted to be Chief of Police. His first day on the job he gave a rah-rah talk and announced to his team that they’d be the best damn homicide detectives in the city. They didn’t bother to remind him that, as opposed to the sprawling metropolis of Los Angeles, which had an immense police force with detectives doing homicide investigations in every large precinct, San Francisco was physically small, and homicides were handled centrally by the Bureau of Inspections in the Hall of Justice. That meant they were the only homicide inspectors—as they were called in the city, rather than detectives—in town.
    Eastwood’s first job as the new boss was to build himself what he considered to be a proper office. Hollins had used a small area separated from the inspector’s desk by floor-to-ceiling partitions. Eastwood wanted one about twice the size—an expansion that resulted in the main homicide room, where all the inspectors sat with their desks, files, and bookcases, becoming even smaller.
    The workmen had gone home for the day. Two-by-four studs for the walls had been put into place, and now Sheetrock was being cut and attached. White dust hung in the air, floating like an ominous cloud of fallout.
    When Eastwood pushed the door to his small temporary office open, it banged against the wall.
    The room had been Homicide’s supply closet. With the renovation, all the supplies were moved into an electrical closet off the women’s room. Since there was only one female inspector and one female secretary in the bureau, retrieving the necessary forms and papers was now difficult—if not awkward and embarrassing.
    “A murder in the Sea Cliff is the biggest thing to hit this department since I’ve been here,” Eastwood roared as Paavo and Yosh joined him. “And I’m left in the dark.” He