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something, but all I had were rules and platitudes and a promise to find Barry’s killer. It was a promise I wasn’t sure we could keep.
    I promised anyway. And then I said, “Witness Protection will be here in a few minutes to take you and the children to a safe place. But first, could we talk with Stevie for just a minute?”
    Mrs. Schein led us down a hallway lined with framed family photos on the walls. Wedding pictures. Baby pictures. The little girl on a pony. Stevie with an oversized catcher’s mitt.
    It was almost impossible to reconcile this hominess with the truth of Barry’s still-warm body lying outside in the cold. Mrs. Schein asked us to wait, and when she opened the bedroom door, I was struck by the red lights flashing through the curtains. A little boy sat on the floor, pushing a toy truck back and forth mindlessly. What did he understand about what had happened to his father? I couldn’t shake the thought that an hour ago Barry had been alive.
    With Mrs. Schein’s permission Richie went into the room and stooped beside the child. He spoke softly, but we could all hear his questions: “Stevie, did you see a car, a truck, or an SUV?…Car? What color car?…Have you seen it before?…Did you recognize the man who fired the gun?…Can you describe him at all?…Is there anything you want to tell me? I’m the police, Stevie. I’m here to help.”
    Stevie said again, “Was a gray car.”
    Conklin asked, “How many doors, Stevie? Try to picture it.” But Stevie was done. Conklin opened his arms and Stevie collapsed against him and sobbed.
    I told Mrs. Schein to call either of us anytime. Please.
    After giving her our cards, my partner and I took the steps down to the halogen-lit hell in front of the lovely house.
    In the last ten minutes the street had thickened with frightened neighbors, frustrated motorists, and cops doing traffic control. The medical examiner’s van was parked inside the cordoned-off area of the street.
    Dr. Claire Washburn, chief medical examiner and my dearest friend, was supervising the removal of Barry Schein’s bagged body into the back of her van.
    I went to her and she grabbed my hands.
    “God-awful shame. That talented young man. The doer made damned sure he was dead,” said Claire. “What a waste. You okay, Lindsay?”
    “Not really.”
    Claire and I agreed to speak later. The rear doors to the coroner’s van slammed shut and the vehicle took off. I was looking for Conklin when an enormous, pear-shaped man I knew very well ducked under the tape and cast his shadow over the scene.
    Leonard Parisi was San Francisco’s district attorney. He wasn’t just physically imposing, he was a career prosecutor with a long record of wins.
    “This is…abominable,” said Parisi.
    “Fucking tragedy,” Conklin said, his voice cracking.
    I said, “I’m so sorry, Len. We’re about to canvass. Maybe someone saw something. Maybe a camera caught a license plate.”
    Parisi nodded. “I’m getting a continuance on the trial,” he said. “I’m taking over for Barry. I’m going to make Kingfisher wish he were dead.”

Chapter 19
    A week had passed since Barry Schein was killed fifteen hours before Sierra’s trial had been scheduled to begin. We had no leads and no suspects for his murder, but we had convincing direct evidence against Sierra for the murders of Lucille Stone and Cameron Whittaker.
    Our case was solid. What could possibly go wrong?
    The Hall of Justice was home to the offices of the DA and the ME, as well as to the county jail and the superior court of the Criminal Division. For his security and ours, Sierra was being housed and tried right here.
    Rich, Cindy, Yuki, and I sat together in the back row of a blond-wood-paneled courtroom that was packed with reporters, the friends and families of Sierra’s victims, and a smattering of law students who were able to get in to see the trial of the decade.
    At 9:00 a.m. Sierra was brought in through the rear door of