“Mysteries, I was saying.” Smoke chugging from his mouth, roiling in the cold air. “Lots of mysteries in San Francisco. You heard of the Zodiac?” “They never caught him.” “They never—yeah.” He scowls in the rearview. Nicky shuts up; it’s his city, his story. “He’s our Jack the Ripper. Then we got the Romance of the Skies. She was a jetliner disappeared back in the fifties. Flying to Hawaii, and she just—” A suck of his cigarette. “Gone.” A puff of smoke.