We got back to San Francisco at seven in the morning. I didn’t know how Jamilla could drive, but she did just fine. We forced ourselves to talk most of the way back, just to keep awake. We even had a few laughs. I was bone-tired and could barely keep my eyes open. When I finally closed them inside my hotel room, I saw Mary Alice Richardson in her coffin.
Inspector Hughes was drinking coffee at her desk when I arrived at the Hall of Justice at two o’clock that afternoon. She looked fresh and alert. None the worse for wear. She seemed to work as hard as I did on a case, maybe harder. I hoped it was a good thing for her.  ‘Don’t you ever sleep?’ I asked as I stopped to talk for a moment.  My eyes went to the clutter at her work-space. I noticed a photograph of a smiling, very good-looking man propped on her desk. I was glad that she had time for a love life at least. It made me think of Christine Johnson, who was now living out here on the West Coast. I felt a stab of rejection. The love of my life? Not anymore. Unfortunately, not anymore. Christine had left Washington and moved to Seattle. She liked it there a lot, and was teaching school again.  Jamilla shrugged. ‘I woke up around noon, couldn’t get back to sleep. Maybe I’m too tired. The ME in Luis Obispo says he’ll send us a report late today. But listen to this. I just got an e-mail from Quantico. There have been eight murders in California and Nevada that bear some resemblance to the Golden Gate Park ones. Not all of the victims were hung. But they were bitten. The cases go back six years. So far. They’re looking back even further than that.’
‘What cities?’ I asked her.
She glanced down at her notes. ‘Sacramento - our esteemed capital. San Diego. Santa Cruz. LasVegas. Lake Tahoe. San Jose. San Francisco. San Luis Obispo. This is so goddamn creepy, Alex. One murder like th............