The news. A shiny-toothed anchor announced a new development in the mayoral race. Somehow, Carrigan was pulling ahead—polling well with housewives, no doubt. It was only a three-point lead, but we were down to the wire. I studied his face on the TV, superimposed in the right-hand corner. We’d been so close. A late-breaking three-point lead, I could’ve done something with that. But Ellen had put an end to it. Like the television anchor had read my thoughts, his photo dissolved, replaced by Ellen’s face.

A young reporter in a skirt suit stood in front of the St. Leo Hotel in the waning light of early evening. My heart stopped beating, and I pressed the volume up, up, up, not caring if I woke Jackal.

“And now, to the case that’s captured the attention of our city, a small break in the investigation of the deaths of Hollywood producer Hiram Klein and his young mistress, Ellen ‘Lenny’ Howard.”

Lenny. I tried to reconcile my Ellen with a girl who could be called Lenny.

“Sources tell me, in a Channel 7 exclusive, that Klein and Howard were known to frequent the St. Leo Hotel. It may even have been the scene of the last-known sighting of the pair alive together. The two checked into a room earlier in the week, and witnesses claim that Klein left in a hurry, looking angry. Ms. Howard left the hotel an hour later.” No mention of her bruised face from these observant witnesses. Or of me. “Authorities are asking anyone with further information to come forward.”

A hotline to call for tips flashed across the screen, and it panned away from the young reporter back to the desk, to a man and a woman who looked appropriately sympathetic for the loss of two lives but who broke into immediate smiles once the St. Leo was out of frame. How nice to have that option, to set it down.

The news moved on to other tragedies. But I couldn’t get the picture of the St. Leo out of my head. I’d known it was only a matter of time, but still.

Here we go. It was really starting. I was almost glad.

Chapter 19

Four days later, early Monday morning, the cops found me.

Since Chinatown, I’d kept myself busy scouring the office, trying to erase all traces of her. I grabbed anything she’d touched—the picture of buffalo in Golden Gate Park Lou had given me that Ellen admired once, the tumbler I’d made her drink out of—and piled it all on the chair she’d sat in the last time she’d been in the office, when she’d tried to blackmail her way out of the Klein job. It took three sweaty trips to dumpsters four blocks away from the office to clear her out.