Six months ago.

Inside the mayor's office, Athena tossed back the final cool dregs of her coffee, finding in the delicious brew, even cold, that there was something to be said for the new coffee scene in the city after all, and took a seat facing the interim mayor, George Pavlou.

The chubby man in a pinstriped suit was enjoying his predecessor's double pedestal desk, putting his Cole Haan loafers on the only square that wasn't covered in stacks of paper, his family pictures, and his desktop computer. The sooner George Pavlou was thrown out of office, the better. Somehow the mafia strength went so far that the man who replaced the mayor they killed was theirs, tied to their strings, possibly even willingly backing their cause.

"You really didn't need to come all the way down here, Senator," said Pavlou. "I'm sure Sacramento misses you. The people of San Francisco elected you to represent their views in the Senate, to pass legislation that's important to your district — as far as I can tell today you're not doing your job. No offense."

Athena was surprised he took that bold approach. It was rude, but it was also pointless. She wasn't going to be scared off by the implication she was letting the people down; the people of San Francisco had been let down, their mayor taken from them in a bloody war. That was more important than sneaking bits of social welfare into spending bills. The legislature could function without her for a few days . . . or longer, considering what she was thinking, what she couldn't stop thinking of doing.

"The home front needs me more, George. I want to throw my entire support, publicly and with a force of action, behind the effort to turn this mafia occupation around, immediately. It's not my job anymore to speak out on municipal issues but damn, George, I'm going to be a vocal opposition to corruption in this city and I'm going to shine light on every politician who's soft on the mob."

That was a threat, and Mayor Pavlou took it as one. But he wasn't stupid. He nodded heartily and replied, "It's not that you're wrong, Senator, it's only that you're not in any position to be of use. I'm worried you'll only get in the way of important official proceedings. Let the city investigators take care of this. There's nothing you can do anyways."

"There's a lot I can do, actually," said Athena. "I can hold city officials accountable when they drag their feet. I can direct media pressure onto the SFPD and the city council, encouraging them to work together to solve Mayor Banikas's murder and put the parties responsible behind bars — not just the criminals who pulled the triggers but the gangsters at the top calling the shots. And I can put my vocal support, and endorsement, behind a mayoral candidate who's willing to do anything to uproot the criminal element proliferating in the city.

"So tell me, George, is that candidate you, or are you going to be the one getting in the way?"

George Pavlou didn't answer right away and he rubbed his face with fat frustrated fingers, which was telling, but Athena wasn't really expecting the answer to be yes.

"I don't see the point in putting additional pressure on our boys in blue, Ms. Rex, and I'd ask you to consider where you're treading. Making impossible demands and setting up this municipal government to fall short of them. And for what? To eliminate the criminal element? You think that's even at all possible? There's organized crime in every great American city and not a few of the not so great cities. I'm going to ask you just once, Ms. Rex, to please, please leave this situation to those of us whose job it is to deal with the situation, all right?"

It was worth a shot. It wasn't worth elongating this conversation any further. Pavlou's discouragement painted the picture of much more firm bonds of corruption than Athena had naively expected. It was even possible he wasn't a puppet held on strings of coercion, or blackmail, but something much more dangerous: a man with real loyalty to Mena Sigler's crime syndicate.

There wasn't much point in threatening him further, especially if he was firmly committed to the mafia, but Athena found she just didn't care anymore. "I'll be holding a press conference at ten, urging city council to replace its interim mayor immediately with someone who isn't going to crawl under the bed and wait for the mafia to leave the house on their own.

"If I end up dead you're going to look awfully suspicious. Just saying."

She stood up and held out a hand for him to shake. Pavlou looked her in the eyes and took it.

"A mere misunderstanding," he said. "Just a small difference of opinions, Senator. Please don't misinterpret my misgivings. You're welcome to support another candidate for mayor, but I hope you'll consider your next move carefully. There are other retaliatory forces than murder. Some of them worse."

He didn't take his feet off the desk. Athena let him have the last word as she left the office; she assumed he was speaking of political death, but he was the one sealing his own career's coffin.

An hour later she gave her press conference. "George Pavlou is not the mayor this city deserves in its moment of crisis," Athena said from a pedestal on the steps of city hall. "The mayor San Francisco deserves is John Banikas, but he has been taken from us in one of our darkest moments. I urge City Hall to immediately arrange a mayoral election to replace George Pavlou with a candidate the people can believe in to end the crisis of organized crime. The bloodshed is no longer limited to gangsters, criminals who have signed on to a life of violence; there is blood in the streets and innocent lives are being taken. George Pavlou is going to lie down and let the gangsters walk all over him.

"I endorse current city council member Zenobia King for the wartime mayor who will find justice for Mayor Banikas and restore peace to the streets."

Her meeting with Zenobia King went much better than her chat with Pavlou. Somehow the councilwoman had secured the second nicest office in the building and had it appointed with even more austerely polished dark wood furniture.

Her campaign team was present, and the room was a flurry of activity and a cacophony of voices over conference tables in the corner, in stark contrast to the laziness of the mayoral office. The young minions dressed in bright colors debated over tactics and slogans and warred over poster designs. In the first few minutes since Athena entered the room, it had gotten physical twice as the feisty youths slapped each others' ideas physically out of the way and fought for their own templates.

"How do I know I can trust you?" was the first thing Athena had asked.

"For one thing," said Zenobia, "my husband was murdered by the mafia."

Athena's eyebrows raised high up on her forehead. She didn't know who Mr. King was, and other than important figures the mafia usually only killed those involved with their business.

"Well, he was caught in the crossfire," Zenobia elaborated. "I'm not sure whether they call that murder. I know you're not so distracted up in Sac. as to not be up to date on my contributions to the war on organized crime, Senator, and I appreciate the blunt question but let's get even more real. Ask me what you're really here to ask."

"You're directly involved with the SFPD's investigations, more so than any other city official, sadly. They might not have enough information to prosecute Pavlou but there's enough to smear him, isn't there? So my question is what are you waiting for?"

"The cavalry," said Zenobia. She unlocked and opened a heavy oak drawer and threw a folder down onto the desk. "Is that you?" she asked. "Are you going to have our back?"

Athena took the folder, perused it for a matter of seconds, and replied, "Yes," before she even knew or understood what she was looking at.

On the podium outside City Hall Athena paused and let the content of her words settle in on the media and the crowds, feeling every click and every hot flash of the mass of cameras in the crowd even though one would think the morning was bright enough for flashless photography.

"I have with me," she said, words leading inexorably to a threat to her career and an almost baseless accusation that would damn her if the everyday citizen didn't believe her and rally for her, "evidence that George Pavlou maintains an amicable relationship with the Andreou family."

She took up from the podium one photograph given to her by Zenobia, a two-year-old picture of George Pavlou accepting a portmanteau from Ariadne Andreou, one hand on the handle of the case and the other hand gripping the hand of the Andreou family's heiress. It was the most incriminating evidence the SFPD had on Pavlou, and it wasn't incriminating in the least. Pavlou had gotten away with the suitcase, the contents of which had never been determined, and he had never been caught on camera again with any known member of the Andreou syndicate, least of all anyone with Andreou blood in their veins.

The photo was meaningless. But with the right storyteller, it was damnation.

Twenty minutes later, Athena was headed back to where she parked her Bentley just off Polk Street. She heard sirens, not the ubiquitous sirens that sang halfheartedly at any hour of the day or night from a single politely inquisitive fire truck or unrushed patrol car, but the desperate group howl of a real emergency that brought panic to cars and passersby in all directions. Close to Golden Gate Avenue, she could already smell smoke.

Having no intention of sleuthing out the cause of all the fracas firsthand, she pulled out her phone, looking up just to cross the street and turn the corner, calling up local news and then climbing into the driver's seat door for sanctuary while she read the headlines.

In the way of internet news, there wasn't much information yet, only a picture of a five-alarm fire and a headline: Flying Pig Deli Destroyed in 5-Alarm Blaze. The article included three sentences: the first said the fire broke out at 10:51 a.m. and was suspected to be the result of an explosion. The following two read: "This is a developing story. Please check back for more information as it becomes available."

Athena pulled out of the curb and into the flow going east, away from Flying Pig Bistro, and the smell of its smoldering remains. Her phone was left on the passenger seat for the drive to the SFPD's Public Safety Building, or headquarters, in Mission Bay.

She didn't need to refresh the article to foresee the details that would come pouring in over the next hour. George Pavlou's favorite deli was the Flying Pig, and it was a great spot to watch local news, such as the Senator for District 11 holding a press conference at San Francisco City Hall.

So Pavlou was dead. The Flying Pig would have been rigged by one mob or the other with explosives weeks ago, perhaps months. Probably by the Andreou family, but possibly by Mena Sigler's mafia, to get Pavlou for association with the Andreou family.

All they would have needed was the last hint to tip them over into certainty.

In any case, Athena had executed the surest plan to eliminate George Pavlou without getting her own fingers dirty. The only question that remained was whether Zenobia King would survive the day.

Thank you for reading Detective Fog. I am very grateful for all your support and the stars you leave behind. It helps to fuel my writing and my magic world. Let's give this new book a little lift-off!