The Dark Room(3)

“He wants to see you alone. Go on up, and when you’re done we’ll talk down here. I’ll introduce you to Karen Fischer.”

“Who wants to talk to me?”

“Castelli.”

He thought about that, what it might mean. He’d never been inside City Hall in the middle of the night. The lamps next to the staircase were lit, and there were a few spotlights farther off, illuminating the bust of Mayor Moscone and the spot of floor where he’d died. He could hear someone pacing in one of the marble-floored galleries above, and he looked around until he spotted the patrolman up there.

“Karen Fischer—who’s she?”

“Your contact with the FBI,” Nagata said. “Starting tonight, and until this is over. But go up. He’s waiting, and he’s had a long night already. It’ll just get harder for him from here.”

It wasn’t like Nagata to show sympathetic concern for anyone holding an elected office. The one exception was the mayor. It almost never came up, but when it did, she could be fierce about it. She owed him her job and paid that debt however she could. With her hand at the small of Cain’s back, she pushed him toward the grand staircase. He climbed up, passed under the ceremonial rotunda, and then nodded to the patrolman who stood between the flags flanking the mayoral suite.

Cain stepped inside the reception lounge, the red carpet thick underfoot. There was a glass-shaded lamp on the receptionist’s desk, and it was the only source of light after the patrolman closed the door behind him.

There was no one else in the lobby. Cain wasn’t sure if he was supposed to sit. Maybe in the mayor’s mind it made sense to pull him out of El Carmelo, fly him back into the city, and then make him wait. He crossed through the lobby and found the door to the mayor’s office. He knocked once with the back of his hand, then opened the door.

Harry Castelli was bent over his phone when Cain stepped in. He glanced up, then cupped his hand over the mouthpiece.

“He’s here, and I’ll—”

But Cain couldn’t make out the rest of it.

The mayor hung up, then pointed at one of the two chairs that faced his desk. Cain pulled one out and sat looking at the man who’d brought him. He was wearing a white dress shirt and a pale blue silk tie. His suit jacket lay atop his desk. His hair was black but must have been dyed because the stubble on his face was all white. His face was fall-down tired. Nothing like the man Cain had seen on TV, leaning with his elbows on a podium in the rotunda, facing a crowd of reporters that pressed all the way down the stairs.

“You’re Cain—Inspector Cain?”

“That’s right.”

“I called your lieutenant and asked for a name.”

“Okay.”

“I wanted the best, and that’s why you’re here,” the mayor said. “I see you wondering.”

“I appreciate that.”

If this had happened at the beginning of December, Nagata would have picked a different inspector. But December had been a hard month, and she didn’t have much choice. A pair of inspectors and the Office of the Medical Examiner had lost control of an investigation, and three of Cain’s closest friends had been killed. By New Year’s Day, he was the most senior man left standing in the Homicide Detail. He was thirty-seven years old.

The mayor reached halfway across the desk and lifted his suit jacket. There was a manila folder under it. He looked inside, then put it on the desk and weighed it down with his palm. He was wearing a thick gold wedding band. No scratches on it. He must have been in the habit of taking it off whenever he did anything with his hands—or else, there’d always been someone else to do those sorts of things for him. Any kind of real labor.

The mayor leaned forward. He may have looked exhausted, but when he spoke, his voice was deep, each word a jab.

“Let’s make one thing absolutely clear.”

“All right.”

Castelli took the folder again, holding it up without opening it.

“I don’t know what this is,” Castelli said. “And I don’t have anything to hide.”

“Okay.”

“We’re clear?”

“I heard you,” Cain said.

Usually, the first thing a witness said was a lie. This wasn’t starting well for the mayor.

“This—this thing—it’s bullshit.”

Cain didn’t answer. He looked at the mayor until the man put down the folder and opened it. There were only a few pages inside. Five, at the most. Cain could see a letter on top, upside down. Its author had conveyed his message in just a few lines. No letterhead, no signature. A nice, clean typeface. Cain didn’t need the mayor to tell him what kind of letter it was.

“This came today, in the regular mail.”

“It came today, or it got opened today?”

“Both—we open all the mail, every day.”

“Who opened it?” Cain asked. He looked at the mayor’s hands again. “Not you, I’m guessing.”

“My chief of staff. And then she brought it straight to me.”

“And she’s—”

“Melissa Montgomery. She’s giving her statement to the woman from the FBI.”

“All right,” Cain said. “Is that a copy?”

“The FBI’s got the original. This is your copy.”