AT 7:45 THAT MORNING, I took off my jacket, hung it over the back of my chair, opened my coffee container, and sat down at my desk across from Conklin.

  “He died on purpose, that monster,” I said to my partner.

  “He’s dead, but this is not a dead end,” Conklin muttered.

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Yeah. Boy Scout’s honor.”

  I opened my desk drawer, took out two cello-wrapped pastries, not more than a week old. I lobbed one to Rich, who caught it on the fly.

  “Oooh. I love a woman who bakes.”

  I laughed, said, “Be glad for that coffee cake, mister. Who knows when we’ll see food again.”

  We were waiting for phone calls. A blurry photo of Hawk being wheeled out of the Campion house was running in the morning Chronicle. It was unlikely someone could ID him from that, but not impossible. At just after eight, my desk phone warbled. I grabbed the receiver and heard Charlie Clapper’s voice.

  “Lindsay,” he said, “there were a dozen prints on that bottle and the foil it was wrapped in.”

  “Tell me something good.”

  “I’d l............