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northeast at the fog-shrouded towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. Below
     the house waves pounded the shoreline. Many millions’ worth of view. She remembered when she and Ricky and the real-estate
     agent had first toured the multilevel mansion in the exclusive Sea Cliff area: it was so beautiful that she ached to live
     there. She’d been poor and in debt most of her life, and she couldn’t believe anything remotely like that was possible. But
     in the bedroom with the indoor hot tub overlooking the sea, Ricky had put his arms around her and said, “What do you think,
     Red? Will you live here with me?” The answer was a given.
    Back to the present, she told herself.
    But the present was so depressing. Shar…
    She thought back to her initial interview with the woman she’d hoped would be her boss, when Shar was staff investigator at
     All Souls Legal Cooperative, a poverty law firm. Rae had been in her twenties, trapped in a bad marriage to a professional
     student, and adrift as far as a career was concerned. Shar’s faith in her ability to make a good investigator had given her
     the strength to break with her husband and move on. And as they worked together, a friendship strong enough to last a lifetime
     had formed between them.
    At least, she’d thought it would last a lifetime, till some scum-bag had pumped a bullet into Shar’s brain.
    And now she was trying without much success to connect this old homicide to Shar’s shooting. Cold cases fascinated most people,
     but as far as Rae was concerned they were a pain in the ass. For that matter, so was the director at the San Francisco Victims’
     Advocates. Maggie Lambert, an old-school feminist and former rape victim with great empathy for her mostly deceased clients.
     But Maggie wasn’t interested in providing accurate files or details. She wanted instant resolutions to cases that had been
     gathering dust forever.
    Plus it was hard for Rae to focus when she was so worried about Shar.
    Shar—now almost but not quite a relative by marriage. Ricky was only Shar’s former brother-in-law, but his and her sister
     Charlene’s six kids—four of whom Rae was participating in raising—had caused her enough trouble to qualify her for family
     membership. They weren’t collectively called the Little Savages for nothing.
    Back to the files.
    Angie Atkins, in her late teens, a hooker who’d been found slashed to death three years ago in an alley off Sixth Street downtown—San
     Francisco’s skid row. No family, no history. She’d never been fingerprinted—didn’t hold a driver’s license—but Rae had a lead
     on another hooker who had been Angie’s best friend. So far her informant had only given her a first name—Callie—which she
     could’ve made up in order to get the money for her next fix.
    Victims’ Advocates was a nonprofit group funded by various foundations and state and federal grants. Their focus was on cold
     cases involving violence to women. Although they employed two investigators, they were currently on overload, and McCone Investigations
     had agreed to take the case pro bono.
    Why, Rae thought now, had she been the one Adah Joslyn approached with the assignment? And why had she agreed? She didn’t
     draw a salary from the agency, didn’t need to work if she didn’t want to. But although she and Ricky had so much money that
     neither of them would have to lift a finger for the rest of their lives, idleness wasn’t a component of their natures. So
     he managed his recording company, scouted for new talent, issued an occasional CD, and performed charity concerts. She wrote
     and investigated, because both pursuits were in her blood.
    Now Rae tried to think of scenarios that would link the cold case with the burglar who had rifled their offices and then shot
     Shar. It was a stretch. She’d asked Patrick Neilan, the operative who coordinated their investigations, to look into those
     that Shar had been working three years ago.