Chapter One
It was Philip Iverson's big night.
He stood at the podium of the Golden Gate Grand's Crystal Ballroom and basked in the applause of San Francisco's elite. As the audience rose to its feet, he took a step back and held up his hands, gesturing for everyone to sit down. In his midfifties, his trim runner's body -- draped tonight in an elegant tuxedo -- and his close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair made him seem ten years younger. His pale blue eyes glistened as the emotion of the evening caught up with him, and he nodded to the people at the front tables. Some of them sat, then others, until, gradually, everyone in the ballroom took their seats.
The huge room hummed in anticipation as Philip Iverson, the city's best-loved citizen, finally stepped forward and adjusted the microphone.
"Thank you, my friends." He picked up the award he'd just received. "Thank you for this honor. Thank you for this incredible evening ... and thank you for the many opportunities this great city has given me." He returned the plaque to the lectern. "It is because of those opportunities that I feel especially fortunate to announce tonight my pledge of an additional fifty million dollars for a new cancer wing at Children's Memorial Hospital."
The audience erupted in cheers. Philip Iverson held his hands out toward the crowd. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I just want to add that, with this gift, I and my Make It So Foundation have now passed "one billion dollars in donations. And, my friends, we're not stopping there." He raised a champagne glass. "Here's to you. Here's to our beautiful city. And here's to the "next billion dollars ... with love ... from me to you!"
Everyone in theballroom lifted their glasses to join him in the toast.
Beyond the faces beaming up at him, beyond the shimmering chandeliers, beyond the smoked glass of the towering floor-to-ceiling windows, the man who would kill Philip Iverson waited in the coming fog. - - -
FOG.
Like the cold breath of God, it descended on San Francisco. The heavy clouded air moved through the parking structure of the Golden Gate Grand. The dark shapes of the luxury cars on Level Seven grew more and more indistinct. And then they were invisible -- afterimages of themselves in the mist.
The green light of the exit sign above the stairwell door glowed dimly. A tiny beacon.
The door burst open, throwing a sudden wedge of light onto the slick concrete surface. Philip Iverson, his hair now damp with sweat, raced through the door. His breath coming in desperate searing gasps, he jabbed in his coat pocket, frantically searching for his keys. He ripped them out and thumbed the remote as he ran.
The door locks on a black Mercedes S600 popped up like sentries, and Iverson, thinking the haven of his car would save him, ran even faster. He chanced a look back.
The light in the doorway was filled by the hulking body of his pursuer. He spotted Iverson, and without hesitation, he pushed forward, parting the fog before him like a ghost.
Philip Iverson was almost to his car when he slipped on a wet patch of grease. He scrambled to regain his footing and hurled himself toward the Mercedes.
But it was too late. His pursuer was upon him.
A sob of resignation catching in his throat, Iverson grabbed at the door of his car.
A flash of light. An echoing pop.
Philip Iverson gasped and stumbled forward,the bullet in his brain extinguishing his life even before he crumpled facedown on the cold concrete floor.
Kneeling beside him, his pursuer barely had time to tear Iverson's wallet out of his trousers when the squeal of tires -- above or below he couldn't tell -- sent him racing back toward the stairwell.
As he pulled the door shut, there was music, a fanfare coming from the ballroom, and applause. The fanfare reached its crescendo and the applause died away.
The fog covered Philip Iverson like a shroud. - - -
Jane Candiotti stood at her bedroom window watching the fog roll into San Leandro. It moved onto Oak Street, she thought, like some great enveloping cloud in a science-fiction movie.
The grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs chimed. Announcing midnight. Jane turned at the sound. Kenny Marks, her partner in the SFPD Homicide Division, snored softly in their bed. She crossed the room, brushed a kiss across his lips, and went out the door.
Jane and Kenny had been married for four months.
The floorboards of the upstairs hallway creaked as she walked. Passing the room that had been hers as a child, Jane entered the bathroom. This one bathroom, small and simple, had been the only one in a household of four when she was growing up.
Jane flicked on the bathroom light and went to the mirror. She studied her face. Her eyes, black and shining, stared back at her as she touched her high cheekbones, her pale, almost translucent skin.
She knew she was pretty -- some thought her beautiful -- but lately the gray hairs and the fine etching of tiny wrinkles around her eyes had begun to make her feel her age.
Poppy used to say that her hair was the color of ablackbird's wing. She grasped a gray hair between her thumb and forefinger and yanked it out.
She would turn forty this month.
"Hey, knock it off," Kenny said as he came into the bathroom. He wrapped his arms around her. "I like those guys." He flashed his easy smile and Jane kissed the scar on his chest. The size of a small coin, the bullet scar was a constant reminder that they were in a very dangerous business ...
The national bestselling author of "Blindsided" brings back San Francisco homicide detective Jane Candiotti in this third high-voltage thriller. "Clyde Phillips is quickly becoming a master of the page-turner."--Michael Connelly.