Ask any homicide inspector and he--or she-will tell you the same. Just before the end of shift on any given Friday, Murphy's Law prevails. If you have plans, you might as well cancel them, because someone's bound to find a body. Such is the life of a cop. Mine at San Francisco PD was no different.

On this particular Friday in early November, I got the call precisely twenty minutes before I was due to leave on a weekend trip to Napa. My ex-husband, DA Investigator Reid Bettencouurt, intended the trip as a means to bring us back together, though God only knew where he was getting the money--he still owed me three thousand dollars for bills I was left with after our divorce. I, having no intention of getting back together with him, agreed to go--Dutch, of course--and was dressed for the occasion in a winter-white cashmere sweater, tan plaid wool skirt, and soft leather boots. I wore my shoulder-length brown hair pulled back in clip, leaving a few trendy strands loose to frame my face and bring out the brown in my eyes. It wasa gray, windy day, and I was en route to Reid's North Beach flat when my pager went off, alerting me to the homicide out by Pier 24. I telephoned Reid from the car.

"Why can't Scolari take it?" he asked.

"I'm sure he will. Once he gets there." Sam Scolari, my partner, knew I was on my way out of town and had promised to cover for me. So far he had yet to answer his page, which left me no choice. "I have to respond. You know the routine." Reid should. It was one of the reasons we divorced. I was at the beck and call of fate, and he didn't like it. "Drive on up. If I get off in time, I'll meet you for dinner," I said. "If not, we'll make it breakfast. Hopefully they'll hold my room."

"How are we supposed to make this work if you're not there?"

"Short of making the body come back to life, I don't have much choice." Come to think of it, I'd had the same problem with our marriage.

"Scolari's doing this on purpose."

"Gotta go," I said, having no wish to get into it with him about my partner. "I'll call you."

I drove inland, past Pier 24, parking behind two patrol cars in front of a single-story brick warehouse that occupied one full block, making sure I kept my Irish-Italian temper in check. It was not the weekend away with Reid I was sore about missing. It was the weekend away, period. I wanted to go anyplace where I didn't have to look at dead bodies.

An officer stood sentinel at the door, and as I approached I did a double take. The officer, like me, had dark eyes and chestnut hair, reminding me of my older brother-until he spoke. It was not my brother's voice. That I would never hear again.

I composed myself, and showed my gold inspector's star. "Kate Gillespie. Homicide."

"Body's inside," he said. "Medical Examiner's investigator hasn't gotten here yet."

I pulled a small spiral notebook from my overcoatpocket. A gust of wind tore at the pages, made it difficult to write. I glanced at the officer's nameplate to copy it. Robertson. Star 5632. "Who's the, reporting party?"

"Officer O'Sullivan."

"Sully?" Kyle O'Sullivan was a senior officer assigned to the Mission Station. He liked the action, and I couldn't picture him working this area. Too quiet. "What's he doing out here?"

"Working security next door."

"Next door?" I looked up from my notebook, but didn't see another entrance.

"Hilliard Pharmaceutical. Entrance is around the corner. The warehouse is split in half. Cinder block right down the middle. From what Sully says, it's just a storage facility. No pharmaceuticals."

"Didn't know they had a facility out this far," I commented, jotting the information down. Hilliard Pharmaceutical was probably one of the single largest employers of off-duty San Francisco cops. My father had worked security there while he was an officer at the department,and I'd heard that's where my part per,Scolari, had earnedhis extra money, too, putting his wife through medicalschool.

"Where's Sully at?" I asked.

"Left as soon as Fisk and I got here and secured the crime scene. Said he was going to Tahoe for the weekend."

Must be nice." Had I wanted to get off on time ever again, I would have remained a patrol officer. Even then you rolled the dice.

"And the morgue gave a ten-minute ETA for their investigators. That was five minutes ago. Oh, and I got a statement from Sully before he took off. Said he was driving around the premises in a Hilliard Pharmaceutical security truck. Saw some kids climbing in that window over there." Robertson indicated a broken window at the east end, and a Dumpster below it. "They told him they broke in on a dare. Heard the place was haunted."

"Where're they at now?"

"Got'em separated. One in my radio car, the other in Fisk's. He's inside with the body."

I looked over at the black and whites parked nearby. Sure enough, the kids, maybe about ten years old, peered out the window of each car, their frightened gazes watching my every move. Probably scared about being blamed for the murder.

"Let's get them transported to the Hall, put a couple volunteers with them, hot chocolate, the works." "The Hall" was what we called the Hall of justice, a one-stop-shopping of county facilities housed in a seven-story building that included not only the police department and most of its investigative units, but the courts, the jail, the District Attorney's office, and nearly every other county agency you could think of I pushed open the warehouse door, stepped into the musty darkness, still harboring the hope that this would turn out to be simple homicide, something that wouldn't take more than a couple hours of my time, max.

Every Move She Makes. Copyright © by Robin Burcell. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.