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metal desk held a storm of crisscrossed papers, files, and reports. While his in-box overflowed, his out-box held nothing but an M&M’S candy wrapper. The pink beige walls were covered with indecipherable charts, infamous “Wanted” posters, a whiteboard with what looked like football plays, and some bizarre artwork that may have been painted by the criminally insane.
    But what surprised me most was the movie poster hanging on the back of his office door. It looked like an original copy of The Maltese Falcon , signed by director John Huston. Humphrey Bogart’s Sam Spade gazed out at the city holding a smoking gun, while Mary Astor’s Brigid O’Shaughnessy leaned on him sorrowfully. The Fat Man and Cairo peered out from small cameos at the bottom corners. The Black Bird—“the stuff that dreams are made of”—guarded the scene from his perch at the top of the poster.
    Shoot. Don’t tell me I had something in common with this cop.
    Shutting my open mouth, I sat down in a wooden chair and tried to look as innocent as Brigid O’Shaughnessy—because I was. But somehow, sitting in a homicide detective’s office, I didn’t feel that way. Then I remembered Brigid’s harmless demeanor hadn’t helped her with Spade—and he’d been in love with her.
    I straightened up, leaned forward, and met his blue eyes. “ ‘I haven’t got the bird, Detective.’ ”
    Detective Melvin blinked. “Pardon me?”
    I sat back and waved my hand. “Nothing . . . I was just . . .” I pointed a thumb at the poster. “I’m a big fan of The Maltese Falcon. . . . I saw your poster. . . . Never mind. Why am I here, Detective Melvin?”
    The detective glanced at the poster behind me, nodded slightly, then shuffled through the pile on his desk and read over what looked like my statement. After a few dramatic moments, he retrieved a file marked “Sax, Andrea.” He opened it, pulled out a photograph, and held it up for me to see. The popular party planner was standing between the governor of California and the mayor of San Francisco, grinning as if she’d just won a jackpot at the local Indian casino.
    I nodded, making an effort to meet his intense stare. I felt beads of sweat break out under my bangs. I knew he was watching my body language, something I do when hosting a party to see who’s bored, who’s having fun, and who’s having too much fun. I hoped my body was saying, I’m innocent!
    His, on the other hand, was formal, confident, and seemed to be saying, “You’re going over for this, schweetheart.”
    “Ms. Parker, when’s the last time you saw Ms. Sax?”
    I shook my head. “Like I said before, I never saw her. I didn’t even know her—although I knew of her, of course. I heard she was planning the mayor’s wedding and then . . . I guess there was an argument or something . . . and he fired her and hired me. That’s all I know.” I clutched my purse, ready to bolt at his dismissal.
    Detective Melvin frowned as he replaced the photo in the file folder. From a locked drawer he withdrew a plastic bag. Inside was a BlackBerry that looked small in his large hands. He set the bagged object on the desk in front of me. I relaxed the grip on my purse.
    “Ever seen this before?”
    I shook my head. “I mean . . . I’ve seen a BlackBerry before—I have an iPhone—not the new one—but it has all the apps—” I was rambling, a sure sign of guilt. “Is that Andi’s?”
    Apparently the answer was obvious, because instead of answering, he said, “Your business address on Treasure Island is in her contacts list. If you say you don’t know her, any idea why she might have that information?”
    “You’re kidding.” I frowned. I had no clue why she would have the address of my office barracks in her BlackBerry.
    His look told me he was no kidder.
    “No, I don’t know why, Detective. Maybe she was planning to stop by for some reason.”
    “It’s the last entry in her calendar on the day she died.”
    My heart