23
Rebecca was surprised to find the lights still on when she walked into Richie’s house at four in the morning. The situation she and Sutter had been called to was clearly an accident unless something remarkable showed up in an autopsy. A motorcyclist who reeked of alcohol had gone off the road south of Fort Point, sending him over a cliff and onto to the rocky beach below. She was glad it was now Friday morning—only a few more hours of being “on-call” and then her days, and nights would be her own again.
She entered the living room to find Richie stretched out on the sofa reading a mystery set in Naples at the time of Mussolini.
“I’m surprised you’re still awake,” she said. The room was dark except for the lamp beside the sofa. Spike had greeted her then jumped onto a chair to go back
