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WE COULDN’T FIND ANYONE who could help us with the security footage right away, so Mahoney and I studied a map on his iPad, trying to figure out Judge Pak’s likely route from the federal courthouse.

We decided that because of the rain, Pak had probably taken the most direct route, which meant walking toward Market Street to Grove. While Hinkley managed a team of FBI agents who’d just arrived on the scene, we walked back along the south side of Grove, opposite the opera house.

While the homeless problem in the Washington, DC, area was growing, it was eclipsed by the situation in San Francisco. We dodged human feces, tents, and discarded hypodermic needles as we neared Van Ness.

Mahoney’s conservative suit and demeanor screamed law enforcement, and most of the homeless people gave us a wide berth. But then a young filthy couple with blankets around their shoulders stepped in our way.

“We need money, man,” the guy said. “Give us five.”

“Ten,” the girl said, sniffing. “You got bucks. We can tell. It’s inequity, man.”

Ned flipped his FBI badge at them. “Sorry about the inequity.”

The guy swore and stepped back.

I said, “But maybe you can help us.” I turned to the girl. “What’s your name?”

“Alice, but we don’t do narc here,” she said. “Especially with the feds.”

“What narc?” I said. I held out Mahoney’s iPad. “We just need to know if you saw this guy last night.”

“Nah,” she said, not bothering to look. She pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “It was raining hard last night. I was in our tent.”

“Look anyway.”

Alice rolled her eyes, stepped forward, and glanced at a photograph of Bitgaram Pak in his robes. She cocked her head to one side and studied him thoughtfully for a few seconds.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Someone put a knife in his back.”

“Clark?” Alice said to her partner. “Check this out. I think it’s the ramen guy.”

“Ramen guy, yeah,” Clark said, but didn’t move.

“What do you mean, ramen guy?” Mahoney asked.

Alice said, “He eats all the time at the ramen place south of the symphony hall on Franklin. There’s a grate there we sleep on when it gets cold. He used to give us something when he left the place, money or leftovers. Good guy.”

I said, “But you didn’t see him last night?”

“Like I said, it was raining buckets.”

Clark was standing a few feet away, staring at the ground.

I took a chance, said, “But you saw him, didn’t you, Clark?”

“What? Nah.”

“You never left the tent?”

He shook his head slightly.

Alice looked at Clark. “You did, twice, to piss.”

His hold on his blanket tightened. “Jesus, Alice. I don’t want to be involved.”

“So you did see him,” Mahoney said. “Where and when?”

Clark seemed ready to punch something or run, but then he gave up. “He walked by on the other side of the street, past those tents over there by the opera house.”

“How’d you know it was him?”

“He carries a Forty-Niners umbrella. He’s a big fan.”

Alice nodded. “Clark is too. They used to talk football every once in a while.”

“Notice anything odd about him?”

“Nah,” he said. “But a white chick with locs came out of the tents there and followed him.”

“She followed him?”

“That’s what it looked like to me. Wasn’t anyone else walking in a monsoon. She stayed right behind him about thirty yards until I lost sight of them.”

“Describe her.”

He shrugged. “Like I said, white. Had on a peasant skirt and them Ugg boots. A dark hooded raincoat too, but you could see locs sticking out.”

Mahoney called Hinkley. “We’re looking for a Caucasian female with locs, peasant skirt, Ugg boots, and a dark hooded raincoat.”

“Come back soon,” she said. “The symphony hall security chief will be here in fifteen minutes, and the local homicide detectives have pulled other recordings.”