The arrival of a gray Nissan pickup put a halt to any further conversation about my marriage, which was just as well. A man exited the truck, and as he approached, his sport coat blew open in the wind, revealing a gold pen in the pocket of his white shirt. Something about his craggy face and pale blue eyes looked familiar, though it wasn’t until he held out his hand that I placed him.

"I’m Dexter Kermgard," he said. "Chief security officer for the lab."

"Dex?" Dex Kermgard, a regular in my father’s late-night poker games, used to be an officer, before circumstances and opportunity led him to the more lucrative job at Hilliard Pharmaceutical.

He gave me a searching look. "Son of a gun. Kate Gillespie. How are you?"

"Fine," I said.

"Haven’t seen you since—well, forever."

Since my brother’s funeral. Dex had left SFPD under a cloud about twelve years ago, right after my brother died. He’d killed a man in a narcotics-related offense, and his use of deadly force as well as some missing drug money had been brought under scrutiny.

"I hear you made Homicide," he said. He reached into his left coat pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He held the pack out in silent offer; I shook my head. "So, how do you like it?"

"Not bad. You remember my partner, Sam Scolari?"

Their gazes locked. Dex broke contact to light a cigarette. "We go way back," he said on the exhale. Scolari simply stared, the vein in his temple pulsing again. Although Dex had been absolved of any wrongdoing, his reputation as an officer had suffered—there were still those in the department who believed him guilty. Scolari, apparently, was one of them. For a moment I thought Scolari intended to ignore Dex’s outstretched hand. Finally he gave it a gruff shake.

"You better be taking good care of this girl, here," Dexter said, seemingly unfazed by Scolari’s reaction. And then, as if he suddenly realized the significance of our presence, he tensed. "Anything I should be worried about?"

"Hopefully not," I said. "At the moment, we can’t release any details—but if possible, we would like to get inside the warehouse. Have a look around."

After Dexter tossed his cigarette into the gutter, he unlocked the door to let us in. "It’s used primarily to store old research files. They’re scanned into the computer banks, then boxed up and sent here."

Row upon row of metal shelves revealed just what he said. File boxes. Thousands of them.

The place smelled of dust, but even so, appeared sterile. Fluorescent lights overhead and the cement floor painted white below made it seem as though we’d stepped into a different world from that on the other side of the wall. We walked down one aisle toward the back, past neatly stacked boxes, each dated and labeled with unpronounceable compounds. I suspected the company gave them those convoluted names to keep the public in the dark as to why one simple prescription for the newest antibiotic could possibly cost twenty-five dollars a pill.

Dex gave us a running narrative, probably to avoid direct conversation with Scolari, who was pointedly not making eye contact with him.

"I don’t know who occupied the place before Hilliard Pharmaceutical," Dex said, looking back at me over his shoulder as he led us to that end of the building, "but I understand it was built in the forties, and was retrofitted in the sixties with cinder block separating this side from the other. The electrical on this side has all been reworked, and is self-contained, if that’s what you’re wondering. Since we were using it to store files, we had a sprinkler system installed, and the lights put in …"

Personally I found the file boxes more fascinating, especially as I began to recognize a few of the brand names I read on some of the labels. Some had color names. Project Yellow, and Red. Others were more scientific sounding, such as Virunex, the plant derivative that was supposedly the promising cure for some cancers. There must have been three dozen file boxes on this drug alone.

Scolari wandered about, looking for any hint of the power cord. False ceiling panels impeded our visual inspection, and we couldn’t tell if the cord made it to this side of the building.

I looked around and saw a ladder on wheels. It reminded me of something you’d use to board an airplane with, only on a smaller scale. "How about this?" I asked.

I wheeled it toward them, and the cardboard lid of a file box fell to the floor. I picked up the top, but the file box it belonged to, labeled "Project Green," was just out of reach.

"I’ll put it back later," Dex told me, so I set it against the bottom row of shelves, out of the way.

Scolari climbed to the top platform of the ladder. He lifted a ceiling panel, then shined his flashlight, eventually discovering the power source. "Got a mouse condo sittin’ on top of it," he called down. "Looks like it’s been here forever."

He climbed down while Dex related more of the building’s history. Hilliard Pharmaceutical bought the warehouse after the earthquake of ’89 damaged their storage facility. They leased out the other half, which had had two tenants since then, most recently an export business—undoubtedly Paolini’s front.

After Dex locked up, he took my hand in his, shaking it warmly. "It was good to see you again, Kate. Give my regards to your aunt."

"I will."

Scolari took my spiral notebook from me, scrawling something in it as though taking copious notes of our visit. He managed a curt nod when Dex left, never looking up from the paper. The moment Dex got into his car, Scolari quit writing.

"What was that all about?" I asked.

"Don’t like the guy. He was a bad cop."

"He was cleared."

"Was he?" With that, Scolari returned my notebook. Without another word, he headed to his car, leaving me to wonder what had crawled under his skin.

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