“Yes, I went to her dormitory, if you want to call it that, on Bancroft Way. She had already heard from the coroner’s office, which was a helluva way for her to be told. I don’t think Russ meant that much to her, but the girl at the front desk said she’d gotten hysterical when she heard the news. You know: ‘What’ll I do now,’ that sort of thing, just like you’d expect from a kid. But she’d pulled it together by the time I got there. Real emotionless, state of shock probably. She just wanted to know what she had to do. I guess she’s all alone in the world now.”

I needed to call her then and there, but Culpepper wanted to hear about the previous night. I gave him a thumbnail sketch of the evening, including everyone’s time of departure, and felt obliged to mention Russ’s three pitchers of pink gins. I omitted his pawing of Gail because I didn’t think it was in any way relevant. “I did my best to sober him up, and he seemed lucid enough when he left, although he did have a bourbon.”

Culpepper wriggled his shoulders in disgust. “Gin, then bourbon. Not my idea of a chaser.”

“It didn’t occur to me they’d be going anywhere other than home, which is almost a straight line from here. What in God’s name were they doing in the hills at that hour?”

Culpepper said finding the answer to that was one of the foremost reasons the City of Oakland paid him a salary. He said he was going back to inspect the accident site in the overhead spotlight of noon, and asked if I’d like to join him.

I asked if I could call Gail first and he said that would be fine. I had the Claremont’s operator try her at the Berkeley Club, but the desk clerk there said she was out. I tried her at Russ Hewett’s number and got no answer.

I hadn’t liked Martha Prentice one bit, except for one giddy night almost twenty-two years ago. But I owed it to her, to Gail, and to myself to visit where her unlovely life had concluded.