Captain Paulette pulled out his cell. “I’ll see if I can’t get Otis over here right now. He lives on Potrero Hill so it shouldn’t take him long this time of night. Hey, if I missed the Warrior-Laker game, so can Otis.”

“The Warriors are down,” Inspector Bigger said. “I was listening to the game on the way over here.”

Cheney realized it was only nine o’clock. He said, “Frank, the FBI has a facial recognition program they’ve modified to allow you to plug in an artist’s sketch. We used it a couple months back and caught the perp. We can do it again.”

Captain Paulette nodded. “That sounds hopeful, if you’re right and this guy is a pro. Yeah, I met the agent who was one of the guiding hands behind it—Dillon Savich. He and his wife, Lacey Sherlock, and another agent, Dane Carver, were here a while ago.”

“Yes,” Cheney said, nodding, “when Dane’s brother was murdered.”

“The Script Murders,” Inspector Whitten said, leaning forward in his chair. “Lieutenant Delion still talks about it.”

Cheney said, “Then you know they aren’t into big-footing locals.”

“Others in that nice big federal zoo of yours are, Cheney.”

“Yeah, well, Frank, what can I tell you. I can speak to Savich personally, see what he can do with the sketch after Mrs. Ransom gives us the guy’s face.”

Julia remembered the Script murderer who had butchered three people in San Francisco, including a priest. She shuddered to think she was part of that world now. She rose. “While we’re waiting for the police artist, I’ll make everyone coffee.”

When she was out of the room, Inspector Rainy Bigger said, “She’s making the coffee? The help goes home at night?”

“Evidently so,” Cheney said, and waited to see what else she’d say.

It didn’t take her long. She jumped up from her chair and began pacing. “It’s obvious one of her confederates decided to knock her off. Ain’t that a kick? I guess she must have tried to screw him, or maybe she wanted to stop screwing him.”

Captain Paulette said sharply, “That’s enough, Inspector Bigger. No charges were ever brought against Mrs. Ransom. You don’t have a clue why this guy tried to kill her tonight. None of us do. Yet.”

Inspector Bigger looked like she still wanted to spew, but she wasn’t stupid. She nodded, looked around the living room. “I’d forgotten what a palace this place is. And now it’s all hers. What is she, twenty-eight?”

“Something like that, I’d guess,” Captain Paulette said. “Hey, Cheney, why don’t you go help Mrs. Ransom?”

Because she doesn’t look at me like the enemy, Cheney thought, Frank thinks she’ll talk to me. And maybe he was right. Cheney didn’t say anything, just nodded and walked out into the vast front entrance hall. Which way was the damned kitchen?

He paused, heard a woman’s voice, singing low and soft, and walked in that direction. The kitchen was halfway down the back hallway, on the left. Another room the size of his living room, he thought, staring at the array of stainless-steel appliances, with copper pots hanging over a huge center island, and gleaming Italian tiles. Julia was singing to herself, probably trying to keep her fear at bay, as she flipped off the European carafe and poured boiling water into a large glass French press carafe. He wondered if making coffee this way made it taste better.

“I’m here to help,” he said, and shoved his hands into August Ransom’s pants pockets.

Without looking up, she said, “In the cupboard beside the fridge you’ll find some big mugs. I’ll get a tray.” She paused a moment. “Do you think I should put some cookies on a tray? Something like that?”

He grinned. “I was busy hauling you out of the bay, and I never had dinner. What kind of cookies do you have?”

“Oreos,” she said. “You got a couple dozen?”

“Yep, a brand new bag. Mrs. Filbert says it’s the only way she can get me to drink milk.”

“Mrs. Filbert?”

Her chin went up. “My cook.”

She pulled out a big tray from a drawer beneath the island, a bright beach scene, he saw. As he set out the oversized mugs on the tray, he asked, “Why does Inspector Bigger hate your guts?”

She paused, then walked into the pantry. She reemerged with a big unopened bag of Oreos. He watched her domino the cookies into a circle on a plate and set it on the tray. “You could answer that question yourself, Agent. She believes I murdered my husband. Actually, I think she’d have been singing hallelujahs if I’d drowned tonight or gotten a knife shoved into my throat.”