Chapter 13: Open Palm

At six in the morning, Lincoln Park belonged to the fog, the dead, and men determined to improve their handicaps. A golf ball struck the pavement beside Callum's van and bounced under the rear axle. He looked toward the fairway. "We're parked." A voice called through the mist. "Sorry." "You should put that on your invoice," Sau-lin said. Callum locked the van. "I don't invoice for attempted manslaughter before seven." "Poor business model." Frying bacon drifted over from the clubhouse. Sau-lin wanted it with a hunger she considered unbecoming in the dead. A radio had once told her that bacon was what mornings were made of, and she saw no reason to doubt the radio. The Legion of Honor rose above them in white columns, its courtyard half erased by mist. Stone lions guarded the entrance with the patience of creatures that had never needed parking validation. Beyond the museum,…