Moore let loose a quick, hard laugh. “That much I believe,” he said. “If you did know her, you wouldn’t go near her. That girl is strychnine.” He shook the fence again; the iron trembled against the small of Keegan’s back. The lieutenant pressed on: “Did she tell you about that other acquaintance of hers? The one who ended up off Pier 12 with four bullets in him?”

Keegan straightened up and took his back away from the railing. He turned to look at Moore. “What the hell are you talking about?”

The lieutenant seemed to be studying his face, trying to discern what Keegan knew and what he didn’t—a hard poker-table gaze. “Some insurance appraiser,” Moore said, eyes still on Keegan’s face, scrutinizing his reaction. “The family hires him to catalog the jewelry at the mother’s place in Pacific Heights. He and your girlfriend get chummy. Start seeing each other after hours. Spending a lot of secret time together.”

Keegan thought of Eve sitting across from him at the Regency—that frightened, trusting face. Even in memory, he could feel the pull it had on him.

The lieutenant’s face was pinched up now, like maybe he, too, was fighting off a headache. Light from the moving water glimmered across his face. “The appraiser in question stops showing up for work. A few days later, some crabbers haul his body out of the Bay. Tied to a cinder block with baling twine.”

Keegan turned to face the water and steadied himself on the iron rail. “Where’d you get all that?”

“Frisco’s finest,” Moore said. “They’re sending me the full report.”

Keegan’s head was so light now, he felt as though his knees might buckle. “You sure they got their facts straight?”

“Gospel,” Moore said. “I got it straight from the Central District Captain. They were looking at your girlfriend for it, but the brass waved them off.” Moore looked down at the water again and shook his head. “Money sure as hell makes the world go ’round,” he said. “Wish I had me a little.”

Keegan rubbed the knot at the back of his neck. His legs prickled under his linen trousers. He leaned more heavily against the iron rail. What he wouldn’t give for a few hours’ shut-eye in a cool, dark place. He tried to formulate a response, but the sun beat down on him, and his thoughts burned away to nothing. Better not to talk anyway.

“Here’s what I think happened that night at Ormsby’s place,” the lieutenant said. “The girl gave you some story about being afraid, and you saddled up and rode in to save the day with your .38 Special.”

The cowboy hero image stung. It felt a little too close to the truth, and it didn’t sit well with Keegan. Sweat trickled down his sides.