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Traffic on Bryant and all around the Hall had been jammed all week with satellite vans. None of my phones had stopped ringing: office, home, or mobile.
    I felt brittle and edgy as I went through the front door of Susie’s. I was first to arrive and claimed “our” booth in the back room. I signaled to Lorraine and she brought me a tall, icy brewski, and pretty soon that golden anesthetic had smoothed down my edges.
    Just about then I heard Yuki and Cindy bantering together and saw the two of them heading toward our table. There were kiss-kisses all around, then two of my blood sisters slid onto the banquette across from me.
    Cindy ordered a beer and Yuki ordered a Grasshopper, a frothy green drink that would send her to the moon, and she always enjoyed the flight. So did the rest of us.
    Cindy told me that Claire had phoned to say she would be late, and once Cindy had downed some of my beer, she said, “I’ve got news.”
    Cindy, like every other reporter in the world, was covering the Sierra trial. But she was a crime pro and the story was happening on her beat. Other papers were running her stories under her byline. That was good for Cindy, and I could see from the bloom in her cheeks that she was on an adrenaline high.
    She leaned in and spoke only loud enough to be heard over the steel drums in the front room and the laughter at the tables around ours.
    She said, “I got an anonymous e-mail saying that ‘something dramatic’ is going to happen if the charges against Sierra aren’t dismissed.”
    “Dramatic how?” I asked.
    “Don’t know,” Cindy said. “But I could find out. Apparently, the King wants me to interview him.”
    Cindy’s book about a pair of serial killers had swept to the top of the bestseller lists last year. Sierra could have heard about her. He might be a fan.
    I reached across the table and clasped Cindy’s hands.
    “Cindy, do not even think about it. You don’t want this man to know anything about you. I oughta know.”
    “For the first time since I met you,” Cindy said, “I’m going to say you are right. I’m not asking to see him. I’m going to just walk away.”
    I said, “Thank you, God.”
    Lorraine brought Cindy her beer, and Yuki took the floor.
    She said almost wistfully, “I know Barry Schein pretty well. Worked with him for a couple of years. If anyone can handle the King’s drama, it’s Barry. I admire him. He could get Red Dog’s job one day.”
    None of us would ever forget this very typical night at Susie’s. Before we left the table, it would be permanently engraved in our collective memories. We were chowing down on Susie’s Sunday-night special, fish fritters and rice, when my phone tootled. I had left it on only in case Claire called saying she wasn’t going to make it. But it was Brady’s ring tone that came through.
    I took the call.
    Brady gave me very bad news. I told him I was on my way and clicked off. I repeated the shocking bulletin to Cindy and Yuki. We hugged wordlessly.
    Then I bolted for my car.

Chapter 17
    From the look of it, the Scheins lived in a classic American dream home, a lovely Cape Cod on Pachecho Street in Golden Gate Heights with a princely view, two late-model cars, a grassy yard, and a tree with a swing.
    Today, Pacheco Street was taped off. Cruisers with cherry flashers marked the perimeter, and halogen lights illuminated an evidence tent and three thousand square feet of pavement.
    The first officer, Donnie Lewis, lifted the tape and let me onto the scene.
    Normally cool, the flustered CSI director, Clapper, came toward me, saying, “Jesus, Boxer, brace yourself. This is brutal.”
    My skin prickled and my stomach heaved as Clapper walked me to the Scheins’ driveway, which sloped down from the street to the attached garage. Barry’s body was lying faceup, eyes open, keys in his hand, the door to his silver-blue Honda Civic wide open.
    I lost my place in time. The pavement shifted underfoot and the whole world went