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desk.
    “Irene said to send you a copy, so you could pull what you like for
your piece.”
    “It’s good, thanks. I’m sorry we brushed you off at the Hall
earlier. It was crazy, you know.”
    “How’s Molly doing?” Lepp slipped on his jacket.
    “Well, she’s pretty tough.”
    “It’s terrible what’s happened to her, but she’ll survive it.”
    “Hope so.”
    “You two are pretty close, huh?” Lepp adjusted his tie.
    “Yeah, we’re good friends. We’ve been through a lot on this beat.
She’s a good reporter.”
    Lepp nodded, nudged his glasses while taking stock of Molly’s desk.
    “Didn’t you guys date for a bit?” Tom asked.
    Lepp’s face flushed, and he smiled as he looked off
self-consciously.
    “Yeah. It was a long time ago. We went out several times. She was so
nice. It was fun.” He shrugged.
    “She’s dated a lot of guys. But I thought she was getting serious
about Hooper. They’d been going out for a few months, but in all the time I’ve
known her I don’t think she was ever as serious about anyone.”
    “I guess that’s what makes this so tragic.”
    Tom nodded until something occurred to him.
    “There’s a group from the paper going to see her shortly.” Tom wrote
Molly’s address on a clear notebook page.
    “Thanks. I’ll be over to offer my condolences, see how she’s doing.”
    Tom resumed writing, incorporating a few lines of Lepp’s material
into his piece. Then he came to the point in his story where Molly had entered
Hooper’s bedroom. She’d said she’d found items placed in a certain way. What
were those items? She’d refused to tell him. Didn’t want to jeopardize the
investigation.
    “Hey, big guy, you’d better hurry up and file.”
    Della Thompson stopped to smell the flowers on Molly’s desk. She was
one of Molly’s closest friends. Grew up in Sunnydale where she’d helped raise
her little brother after her father walked out on her sick mother. Della had
worked as a waitress and a UPI stringer to put herself through college
before becoming one of the Star ’s best reporters.
    “Irene said to send you my stuff.”
    “Got it. Thanks.”
    The history of Bay Area cop deaths. It started with the case before
Hooper. The cop who was killed during a jewel heist in the Richmond District
several months ago. That one was still fresh in Tom’s mind.
    “Who sent Molly these roses?” she asked.
    “Don’t know. They came this morning as I was heading out.”
    “This morning? That was early.” She hunted for a card. “I’m going
over to Molly’s now with Carmine. You coming?”
    “I’ve got to finish this. Maybe I’ll catch up.”
    “All right.” She collected the flowers. “We’ll bring these with us.”
    It took nearly an hour before Tom wrote the last sentence and sent
the story to the metro desk editing queue, minutes under the first edition
deadline. The night editor asked him to stick around in case they had any
questions. Standing to stretch, he spotted the small card that had accompanied
Molly’s flowers and retrieved it from the carpet. He looked at the little
envelope, contemplating his temptation to open it.
    Finally, he decided he’d give it to Molly later. Unopened.

SEVEN

     
    “Even if it turns out we pried an SXT
Talon from Hooper’s wall, it doesn’t mean a whole hell of a lot right now,”
Sydowski said. “It’s a commercial caliber, not exclusive to the SFPD. If that’s
what you’re thinking.”
    “To be honest, I don’t know what I’m thinking anymore. It’s nearly
three-thirty in the friggin’ morning.”
    Turgeon dropped off Sydowski at his home in Parkside after a futile night
of re-canvassing in Hooper’s neighborhood.
    Might as well look in on the birds. Sydowski headed for the aviary
he’d built under the creaking oak tree in his backyard. His grandchildren loved
how it looked like a tiny cottage from a fairy tale. His late wife had made the
curtains. Twenty-five years ago, a friend had given them a