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close on the clasped hands, and the credits rolled.
    I stretched. “How long do you give that deal?”
    Pereira tucked a foot under her thigh. “It’s four days to Thanksgiving. If Brother Cyril doesn’t manage to empty the Avenue of buyers this weekend, the truce could make it for two weeks. But if he ruins the biggest shopping weekend of the year, I’d say we’re out there in uniform, batons in hand, by Sunday.”
    Howard groaned. “And by Monday both the vendors and the brothers will be ‘victims’ and we’ll be the bad guys.” He glanced at me. “Or we will be if your friend Ott has anything to do with it.” He didn’t move, but his hand resting on my shoulder tightened. “So, Jill, it’s five o’clock. Shouldn’t the phone be ringing?”
    “Come on, Howard,” Pereira said, “Ott’s a Berkeley person; his time is fluid.”
    “Right, fluid like water under the dam. Jill, when has he ever called back? Ever?”
    Howard was right, more or less. And when he got around to telling me I should have known better, he’d be right too. But understanding that something is your own fault rarely makes you feel better.
    I glanced at the detritus of chips and dip. “We’re going to need something for dinner. Vietnamese?”
    “I’ll keep a pen handy so I can take a message when Ott calls.”
    “No gifts are necessary,” I snapped.
    “My gift, Jill, was not telling anyone but Connie where you went this afternoon.” Howard was still standing next to me, his hand stonelike on my shoulder, his voice as cold as I’d heard it in interrogations. “I didn’t tell your friends that you rushed out to accommodate a guy who shits on them.”
    Connie grabbed her jacket and headed for the door. “I gotta go. Bryant Hemming’s going to be interviewed on the local news tonight. Be interesting to hear his take on the mediation. He’s on at six. I gotta rush.” She was jabbering, trying to propel herself away before things got worse here.
    As soon as she was out the door, I pulled loose from Howard’s hand. “I’ve had enough hassle already today. I don’t want to deal with your attitude about Ott. Call in the order to Da Nang, and they’ll have it by the time I get across town. If I hurry, I can get back in time for the interview.”
    I was out the door before he could answer. No one in the department liked Ott, of course. Plenty of officers held him in a special contempt. But Howard’s reaction was different; I could see it in his suddenly pale face, hear it in his icy voice. He should have felt the affinity I did for Ott’s commitment to his principles. Howard, the King of Sting, should have applauded Ott’s maneuvers, but their similarity in that regard just scraped him closer to the bone.
    No one hates conflict more than Howard, particularly conflict in his home and most particularly with me. There was a level to his scorn of Herman Ott that I didn’t understand. If I hadn’t been so annoyed, I’d have done the wise thing and found out what caused it.

CHAPTER 4
    I STOPPED AT A phone booth on University Avenue and called Herman Ott. He didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t answer. He wouldn’t have picked up the receiver if Ed McMahon had been calling. “Ott,” I said into the phone, “you contacted me; you dragged me to a meeting for nothing. You said you’d call me by five—half an hour ago—and now you don’t even have the courtesy to reach over and pick up the receiver. I know you’re there.” I didn’t know, but I was too pissed to deal with that. “Call me at home. Tonight.”
    Maybe he’s not there, I thought, as I drove across town to the Da Nang Restaurant on San Pablo Avenue to pick up dinner. Maybe he was going out of town, and he wanted someone to know.
    But I couldn’t believe that Ott would leave town. And if he did suddenly, why would he use me as his tether? Surely he had friends and associates he trusted more than a police officer.
    But that was the thing: he didn’t. His