At the Hall, Scolari and I interviewed the two boys, but learned nothing more than what we were told at the scene. Their parents arrived about twenty minutes later, and we released the kids with a stern warning about trespassing on private property.

"Whoever stuck that freezer in there knew that power cord had juice," I said after they left.

Scolari didn’t answer. He took his mug and poured himself a cup of day-old coffee. I found his quiet as unsettling as the thought that Paolini might be involved in this latest homicide. It was well after eight p.m.

Outside, the wind had died, allowing the fog to slip in. I wanted nothing to do with Paolini, except to see him in jail. I’d settled that part of my life. "Let’s see if we can get a lead on the last two tenants," I said, "make a connection to the deceased."

Scolari grunted something sounding like a response. He swallowed the sludge he’d poured, then sat to type his daily report.

We were alone in the office, and after finishing my own report, I felt compelled to say something. We’d just viewed a corpse together. Sometimes we tended to forget how much the dead really affected us. I thought about the car he’d bought.

"What’d you end up getting? For your wife?" I asked, pulling on my coat.

"Range Rover. Dark green. Might as well have bought her a Ford Pinto for all it worked. She told me I should’ve donated the money to the Save the Rain Forest Foundation. She’s gone all environmental these days." He eyed the empty coffeepot. Several seconds of silence were broken when a police siren wailed outside our window, fading in the distance. Finally he said, "She still wants a divorce."

"So what’d you do?"

"Gave her the damn key and left."

He didn’t look at me. Didn’t even move. There wasn’t much I could say or offer. I didn’t know him well enough. I gathered the report from the printer, put it in the lieutenant’s in-basket, then headed for the door. "See you tomorrow," I said.

"Yeah." He was still staring at the coffeepot when I left for home.

The fog was heavy, even in Berkeley, where I lived. I loved the Berkeley hills, the trees, the vine-covered houses, the deer that wandered down from the eucalyptus groves and the valley beyond. I rented a small apartment with a minuscule view of the bay, if I stood just so to the left of my bedroom window. It was situated on the second story of a house built in the 1920s, accessed by a mossy brick walk along the north side that led to stairs at the rear. It was set on the hillside, so the backyard was nearly nonexistent, filled with ivy and trees, giving an illusion of privacy from the houses on each side and directly below.

Tonight there was no view as I looked out my window. Muffled wet gray obscured all traces of life on earth, and I thought of my partner, and how I’d left him there, alone, watching the coffeepot. I’d assisted in suicide cases while working on the Hostage Negotiation Team. I don’t know why I hadn’t seen it earlier, but Scolari had that same lost look, his voice devoid of all emotion.

I called his desk, his cell phone, and the apartment he’d been staying at ever since his wife kicked him out. No answer. I left messages on his voice mail and his answering machine, telling him to contact me the moment he came in. Finally I paged him, typing "urgent" at the end of my computer message to call me immediately at home.

I slept fitfully that night, dreaming of Scolari holding a gun to his mouth. The vision of a bloodied corpse was so vivid that I awoke with a start. My alarm clock went off simultaneously, five-thirty, and I had no idea if it was the alarm or my dream that had sent my heart drilling through my chest. I pictured the headline , and knew I couldn’t leave for Napa until I assured myself that Scolari was okay. I showered, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, and headed back to the city. I should have stuck around the office last night, talked to him. Halfway there, I realized I’d forgotten to let Reid know I wasn’t coming. I used my car phone and called his cellular.

"Bettencourt," he answered. I heard a woman’s voice in the background, thought it sounded familiar.

"Are you with someone?"

"Yeah, room service and the morning news. Where are you?"

"Still in the city. Something came up. Sorry I didn’t make it there last night, but I’m going to have to cancel. Do me a favor. Let the hotel know, so I won’t have to pay for tonight’s room."

There was a hesitation. "Yeah," he said tersely. "Don’t worry about it. I know these things happen. I’ll see you Monday."

Surprised by his mature response, despite the tone that said he was annoyed, I was glad he wasn’t going to wait around. It gave me the freedom to check up on Scolari without feeling guilty for standing Reid up.

At Scolari’s apartment, the Saturday newspaper was on his front step. When he didn’t answer his door, I got the manager to let me in.

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