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best margaritas in the Bay Area.”
    I smiled, thinking of a long ago Best Ramos Fizz Hunt.
    “And Jake? How did he figure in all of this?”
    “I met him at a club in the Mission, the Screaming Eagle. After he and I got together, Amelia’s and my friendship sort of slacked off. Oh, we’d still have drinks and talk on the phone a lot, but it wasn’t the same. She resented Jake, and eventually she set about taking him away from me. Succeeded, too.”
    “And what was your reaction?”
    “I didn’t kill her.”
    “What did you do?”
    “Tried to kill myself. Pills and booze one night. My sister Patty found me and I ended up getting my stomach pumped. Believe me, I’d never go through that again.”
    “I would hope not.”
    “Thing is, I was there that night. I did confront Amelia about Jake. She laughed at me, said he wasn’t so great a catch and when she was done with him she’d throw him back. I loved him, couldn’t stand her disparaging him like that. So I left in a rage. That was when the witnesses saw me in the elevator and the lobby.”
    “Did you go home?”
    “No. I was a real-estate agent, had a house to show in the Richmond. I’m afraid I didn’t do much of a selling job. Afterward I’m not sure where I went. It’s a blur. All I can remember is flashes of purple and red and yellow. A blur of people. Fragments of music and noise.”
    “Perhaps you had a recurrence of the epilepsy?”
    “I don’t think so. There’s an aura when an attack is coming on; I would’ve known what was happening. And if I’d had a spell people would’ve seen me, called 911. No, I have a sense I wandered the streets for quite a while.”
    “Where?”
    She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s one of those memories that’s locked down deep. I’ve even tried hypnotherapy, but I just can’t bring it to the surface.”
    When we’d talked earlier she’d seemed strong and in control; now she was fragile, vulnerable.
    She said, “It’s not going to be easy, is it—investigating for me?”
    “No, it isn’t.”
    “Are there any rules?”
    “Only one: you tell me the truth at all times. If I find out you’ve lied to me, I’ll terminate the investigation—and you’ll forfeit the unused portion of the retainer.”
    “Agreed.”
    “Good. Now let’s get to work. Tell me about your collaborative book with Greta Goldstein.”
    “She approached me last August. You know she’s done a number of biographies and true-crime accounts?”
    “I’m familiar with her work.” In fact, Goldstein had approached me about a book on several of my cases. I’d turned her down; I didn’t need or want that kind of sensational publicity.
    “Greta’s New York publisher, Wyatt House, was interested in the book. We signed a contract and started to work, putting together a timeline and establishing the major characters. Then in October, Greta’s agent heard a rumor that another publisher had contracted for Jill Starkey’s book and they were pressuring Wyatt House to drop us.”
    “Can they do that?”
    “Anybody can do anything in publishing, according to Greta. It’s a tight-knit community: people owe other people favors, or have something on them.”
    Same as in my business—and the world at large.
    “What was Wyatt House’s reaction?”
    “They stood by our contract. We’ll deliver the final draft in April. In fact, I have to go to my self-storage unit in South City to look for a final batch of documents Greta needs. I’ll see if I can dredge up something that might be helpful to you too.”
    “Good. And what about Starkey’s book?”
    “I hear she’s having trouble with it. A lot of the people she needs to interview about me won’t talk with her.”
    “This ‘vendetta’ you say Starkey has against you—could that be about your stance on gun control?”
    “Yes.”
    “Nothing more personal?”
    “We differ on issues—social, political, individual. Do you know Jill Starkey?”
    “I’ve never met her and I