When Leander wasn't sitting on top of the piano machine, he followed Malyssa Alafogiannis​. He tailed the detective in and out of bakeries and dive bars, giving her the polite smile of a chance encounter every time she spotted him and watching with keen eyes he didn't even try to hide every time she met with a possible accomplice.

If he could, he would snap a picture on his phone, drawing and shooting in the time it took most tourists with photography skills to unlock their home screens, all while looking as if he was only maneuvering to get a 3G signal.

Once or twice he added a little flip of the device as if clumsily fighting not to drop it in a dimly lit brasserie, then apologizing to the closest patrons for the obnoxious bright light, leaving none the wiser that he had captured a perfect flash photo​.

His collection of Detective Fog's friends became like baseball cards that he showed to other officers in search of recognition. He Googled their stats. In the few days after the Minardos/Aniston murder, Malyssa Alafogiannis​ had met with a dozen friends. She had hugged an old mate with tie-dye pants and an afro at a grunge bar, brunched with roommates on a Tuesday, bumped into someone she knew at the grocery store, and grabbed coffee with an eligible bachelor. When Leander asked Officer Dianthea whether her sister usually kept such a thriving social calendar, his partner had responded, as expected, with, "No idea" and no apologies.

Even if she suspected that Leander was sniffing out the scent of her accomplice, there was no way she could orchestrate bumping into people she knew every single place she went just to throw him off. He was being paranoid. But his pool of possible accomplices seemed to grow every hour, as he seemingly had to take into account every single person the woman had ever met. And she managed this while appearing to carry out her investigations as well.

She chose Bush over the Stockton tunnel to confront him. Four days after the murder, in the bright light of day, he shadowed her in and out of a liquor store on Stockton with no complaint from her. It seemed he lost her when she exited while he bought a cheap bottle of whiskey with no regrets. He caught a glimpse of her left turn, tripping south, downhill. Even though she had completely disappeared in a matter of thirty seconds, Leander went downhill too accelerated, by the hill's steep grade, into a near run, thinking that was most likely how she had disappeared so quickly as well. He checked doorways and alleys for a sign of her.

The little city's view wasn't bad from where he tripped down the hill at a fast clip. A corridor of short highrises with Victorian detail ended in the distance, blocked by the wall of Market Street buildings, including a striking pistachio and terracotta hotel declaring itself "Palomar" with an Old Navy and Levi's sharing the street-level storefront. Much closer, the street came to an end at the waist-high stone wall protecting against the drop over the famous Stockton tunnel. Stockton Street seemed to end in a cliff at Bush street and, unseen from Leander's vantage, but beneath his feet, the road emerged from the tunnel and continued on to Market.

Trotting across the intersection of Bush and Stockton where the hill leveled out before the stone wall, he had tunnel vision. He could see only the wall over which he expected to see Fog jogging the rest of the way down Stockton toward Market Street, passing Macy's and all of the other big brand stores, plus luxury stores. She must have fled down the stairs at one side or the other of the cliff at Bush Street. Where he now stood.

The last thing he expected was for her to come back up the stairs and appear in front of him, and when she did, panting a little and with dots of perspiration on her forehead from a short sprint to get to where she could ambush him, her face split into a grin that said it was so worth it. She wore slacks and a vest over her collared shirt, her thick mass of white-gold hair tied back.

"Funny bumping into you again, Inspector. Out for a post-liquor store impromptu whisky-carrying jog? That's the latest fitness trend, right? I love running in brogues, really wearing in that leather, much cooler than the shoeless running trend and much more applicable to city life, plus you can just slide seamlessly into the nearest business casual watering hole. Try doing that in your bare toes, not to mention sliding through the filth on these sidewalks. Four days after the last rainfall and already that fantastic urine and dung smell is back."

Leander let her talk herself out, having less than nothing to add to the conversation. Finally, she regained her social skills and stopped rambling, with a question for him. "Unless you've been following me." When she stopped talking, it was back to catching her breath in steady gasps.

"Not at all, Ms. Alafogiannis​. The hill encourages agility. Mere coincidence that we left the liquor store in the same direction." He wasn't admitting to anything until he had to.

"As was bumping into you at Thorough Bread, Thieves Tavern, Zeitgeist, Monk's Kettle, Gus's Community Market, the Castro farmers' market, outside my apartment, outside the offices of Fog and Lambetti Investigations, and inside the lobby of my best friend from high school's building. And at a house party in Marina I didn't even know I was going to until I smelled the barbecue from the street and was invited in by random frat boys. This has got to stop. It's not police procedure, nor is it the best use of your time in this investigation."

"It beats sitting around the precinct all day. You have good taste in pastries. And I'm not an idiot; those frat boys are friends of your cousin Grant Alafogiannis, recent graduates of the University of San Francisco, whom you met two years ago at a ski trip in Tahoe."

"At least I've established the level of detail you're working for."

​"Is there anything I can help you with, Ms. Alafoggianis? I was heading toward Market; thought I'd do a little shopping."

"Hey, you're the one who's following me. You don't get to be frustrated when I stop for a chat. Since I've got your ear, I'd love to know how the investigation into the murder of Athena Rex is coming along. That's not what this is about, is it? You know you can't suspect me of that; you saw me when you picked up Dianthea in the squad car. You're my freaking alibi."

"Your sister is your alibi," said Leander, frustrated and not even beginning to know how to reply to that other than gut reaction, whatever came out first. "The security camera features a person about Jimmy's height and build. I didn't see anything that night that precludes the possibility of division of labor."

"Cool theory. Do you usually stalk your suspects and then tell them everything you're thinking? Have they changed investigative procedure since back when my entire daily wardrobe was blue? Or do I just put you off your guard, so at ease you spill all your beans every time we talk? First the off-the-record question about the warehouse door, now this. You're giving my lawyer a hell of a lot to work with, should he ever have to defend me for these crimes. Tell me about Nick and Paulie. Got any damning evidence that'll put me away for sure if I don't get word of it first from a tall, handsome, and surprisingly daft investigator doesn't warn me first?"

When she stopped talking, the silence rushed in Leander's ears while responses tangled into knots in his mind, reduced mostly to a wordless flash of temper. Detective Fog was smiling broadly, relishing her domination in directing their talk and enjoying every minute of it. She would really enjoy it if she saw how angry she had made him. Some white sunshine lit her up from behind through cracks in the clouds overhead, giving her a halo she didn't deserve, and Leander vaguely wondered where her hat was today. It was the first calm thought that had made it through the red hot tangle, and after an awkward many moments, he was able to speak. "Your cooperation could be a real asset to both of these cases, Ms. Alafoggianis. I'm willing to share my thoughts, and I hope that you'll consider sharing any progress you've made in your investigations​ too." Proud of himself for keeping his temper to himself, he had to stop there and breathe deeply.

The detective looked back at him with x-ray eyes that looked partially satisfied and a hundred percent scrutinizing.

"I can appreciate that," said Detective Fog. "Look, Dexter Mars has hired me to find Athena Rex's killer and bring him or her to the attention of the law. You don't have to worry that I'll keep it to myself; the whole point is to put the killer in jail." Leander knew she was omitting the real reason Mars had hired her — to keep Adoni Rex as far down the suspect list as possible. Omitting his name in this conversation was a carefully considered part of that.

She went on, "In regards to the dual murder of Paul Aniston and Nick Minardos, for which I believe I remain the primary suspect, my purpose is more self-involved. I'm in it for get out of jail free cards, for the most part. There's a personal side to it as well — considering, despite their criminal leanings and possible involvement in the scourge of violence plaguing our neighborhoods, I kind of liked those boys. And considering I was set up to go down for their termination. Or someone was; I have no way of knowing the trap was set for me, but who else? Cassandra? Whoever came looking to rescue Paul? How could they know anyone would come for him? How could they know I'd come for him, I had a hard enough time catching his scent, and I almost failed entirely. Anyways. I've talked to you plenty, and I've cooperated plenty. The day I determine who done it, I'll seriously consider whispering a name in your ear. If you stop being such a double-barrelled dog fart and quit following me. Deal?"

"Hey, it's not like I want to follow you around everywhere," said Leander. "We're close to a deal. The problem is, I have no leads, and this case is getting cold. When DNA comes in, there's a strong likelihood it'll make you look worse and not give us anything on a real suspect. You want me to stop following me, you need to put me onto another scent. Anything. If this is such a waste of time, you need to tell me where better to spend it. Then we have a deal."

If she wanted off his shit list, now was the perfect opportunity to throw her partner under the bus and quite possibly the last good chance she would ever get. The question was whether she was scared enough to make that damning move.

​The light lighting her up from behind went out like someone had flipped a switch, and her smile went with it. Shadows didn't flatter her face, the bags under her eyes and low light hinting at sleepless nights he wouldn't have guessed at in the sunshine. What he couldn't tell was whether she was thinking or just defeated. Something told him she wasn't picking a chess move. Some sense he would never be able to identify or explain said the girl was tapped out and ready to quit.

Then the fight flashed back into her, and it was her turn to lose her temper. "You got nothing, no leads? No shame, either, admitting you're completely gosh all useless to me, a mere private investigator. Yesterday I was the dirt under your boots, and now today, you want to harness my insights and genius? I have the same evidence you do, Inspector. Get out your magnifying glass and look at your damn clues."

The detective was ready to spin on her brogued heels, but Leander grabbed her by the right bicep mid-revolution. "Where's your sense of self-preservation, Detective? The problem is, you're the best suspect I have. I know you're a magician. I know you are the one who blew open the warehouse door. Why were you discharged from the police force?" He spun her back towards him, accepting her death glare as an entirely fair reaction and throwing his hands up in an apologetic gesture, hoping she wouldn't lash out at him. "The records were sealed. I had them unsealed, but they don't say anything. That in itself is some magic trick."

She didn't answer, as if a lawyer in her head told her to keep her tongue. Quite a poker face.

Relenting on his line of questioning, he repeated, "Just give me a name."

"Mena Sigler." She spat, literally, over the edge of Stockton Street, when she said it.

"You think Mena Sigler was in that warehouse with you that night?" Leander's voice came out a higher decibel than he planned, going for incredulity but discovering curiosity in his own inflection.

"No, my dearest, dearest pig," said Detective Fog, "I think whoever was in the warehouse with me was sent by Mena Sigler, and I'm out for Sigler's blood. I think whoever brought Athena Rex into my office to be executed was sent by her. She's not getting away with it this time. She can kill the mayor of this freaking town and continue to walk free, apparently, when it's the police on the case. But this time, I'm on the case, and she's mine. If you're going to help me, you're going to need to look closer at what's right in front of your nose, Inspector Prince. That's all I've got for you."

She gave him a look before she turned away that warned him not to grab her a second time. Or there would be blood. But she stopped at the top of the steps and yelled back at him, "Heck, it's in my darn pictures, Piggy."

He yelled back, "Just give me a name," as she trotted down into the dark stairwell, but she didn't make any reply.

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