I’M LUCKY to be still on the case, much less in charge.” I glared at Howard, who was waiting in my desk chair, legs extended across the aisle. I’d spent the night—too worried to sleep—surrounded by questions that either defied solution or whose answers only increased my anxiety. Why hadn’t I checked out the knife with real Buddhists in the first place? And when I learned Padmasvana was a phony, why hadn’t I seen immediately that that raised more questions about the markings on the knife? And the whole temple fraud and Paul Lee’s confession—what leads did they give me? Now it was Saturday afternoon. Lt. Davis’s Sunday deadline was closing in. The sleepless night had taken its toll; I felt like I was running on coffee alone. I sat atop the desk, looking down at Howard. “I didn’t pressure Kleinfeld,” I said. “Even a rookie would have.” “Jill—” “I spend ages waiting for Berkeley’s slowest judge to get off his duff and issue the warrant, and then the box gives us not a thing…”
