“Who’s the client?”

Kate shrugged. “It’s not that interesting.”

He felt trapped by the pain of being with this Kate, who no longer loved him and who reminded him of what he had lost—both wanting her to leave and needing her to stay. “Tell me,” he said. “Just sit there a minute and tell me.”

“Okay. Peter John Fenton.” Kate settled back in her chair. “Appearance before Judge Barron. Room 105J.”

“Barron? I hope your Mr. Fenton has friends in high places.”

“My Mr. Fenton has six friends every morning. His problem is, he drinks them for breakfast and then gets in his car.”

“Let me guess. Third DUI.”

“Fourth. Few years ago, this guy has his own tax preparation business. How do you screw that up, right? Somehow he manages it. Apparently his charm alone isn’t enough to save the marriage. The unemployment runs out, and his wife leaves him for sunnier shores. Takes the kid and the dog. To Mr. Fenton, all this looks better when he’s half in the bag. Which brings us to an appearance before Barron.”

Mahler drank more coffee. “This how you imagined your career when you were a first-year at Hastings?”

“Life’s a hoot, isn’t it?” Kate stood. “I should go. How’re the thingies in your eyes?”

Mahler blinked and stared at his desktop. “Better.”

His phone buzzed. He held it at arm’s length to read a text from Eden. He stood. “We might have a new break in the Partridge case. I’ve got to run, too.”

Kate paused in the doorway and turned back toward him. “You still talking to her, Eddie?”

“Who?” He saw Kate weave in and out of his vision.

She smiled. “Come on, Eddie. You’ve got two girls in your life. I’m the other one.”

“Sometimes. Not as much.”

Kate pointed to his phone. “You’ll arrest him now. It’ll end.”

“Yeah,” Mahler said. “Or at least it’s nice to think so.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

(i)

(FRIDAY, 10:45 A.M.)

Rivas and Holland drove Spear Street through San Francisco’s South Beach, each intersection revealing a right-hand view of the Embarcadero waterfront one block away. At mid-morning, the street lay in a dark canyon of tall buildings. The area had a cold, lonely beauty. When they found the block they were looking for, the wide sidewalk was empty but for a dog walker and a young mother pushing a stroller.

Rivas checked the address. In front of them stood a high-rise condo, occupying half the block. He double-parked and put a police ID on the dashboard. Climbing out, he bent backward to look up. A forty-story glass building rose to the sky, its upper floors gleaming in the morning sun. “Fuck,” he said.

Holland joined him on the sidewalk. “Yeah. Fuck is right. I just sent Frames the address. He asked me to keep him up to speed.”