Fisk cast a grateful eye over to Bracco, who'd taken not only good notes, but some of the right ones. "A little under two hours," Darrel said, then volunteered some more. "And by the time he'd come out and gotten admitted to the ICU, some of the Parnassus executive staff were there. Malachi Ross, the medical director. Also Markham's secretary, a guy named Brendan Driscoll, who evidently got in a bit of a discussion with Dr. Kensing."

"About what?"

"Access to his boss."

"Markham? He was unconscious, right? Did he ever regain consciousness?"

"No, sir."

"Then why did he want to see him? This Driscoll."

"Nobody seems to know." Bracco's disappointment over his failure to find out was apparent. "But he did get in, though."

Glitsky leaned forward. "Driscoll? Was in the ICU? For how long?"

"Again," Bracco answered, "nobody knows for sure. But when Kensing found him in there-"

"You're telling me he was alone?"

"Yes, sir. Evidently. And when Kensing found him in there, he went batshit and kicked his ass out."

Glitsky replied with an exaggerated calm. "I don't believe 'to go batshit' is a legitimate verb, Darrel. You're saying Kensing and Driscoll had an argument?"

"Short, but fairly violent. Kensing physically threw him out."

"Of the ICU? Of the hospital?"

"No. Just the unit. Intensive care. But Driscoll was still around when Markham died."

"People remember him?"

"Yep. He lost it entirely. Just sobbing like a baby."

"Okay. And what was your source for this later stuff? Did the OR nurses come up?"

"No," Fisk replied. "There's another nurses' station outside the ICU."

"I've got the names," Bracco added. "There are at least twelve regular ICU nurses, three shifts, two a shift, but they run two weeks on, then two off. It's pretty intense, evidently."

"Hence the name," Treya commented dryly.

Glitsky squeezed her hand. He went on. "But you're telling me that even with all that help, sometimes the ICU is empty, right? Except for the patients?"

"Right." Bracco was off his notes and on memory again. "Everybody's on monitors for heartbeat and blood pressure and kidney function and who knows what else. The doctors and nurses go in regularly, but it's not like there's a nurse there in the station all day. They've got other jobs-keeping up supplies, paperwork, taking breaks."

Glitsky considered that. "Can they see anyone who goes in or comes out of the ICU from their station?"

"Sure, if they're at it. It's right there."

"So who came in and went out?"

Bracco turned a page or two of his notepad and read, "Besides Kensing, two other doctors, Cohn and Waltrip. Then both nurses-I've got their names somewhere back-"

"That's all right. Go ahead."

"Then Driscoll, Ross, three members of the family of another patient in there. They were there for morning visiting hours. I could get their names."

"Maybe later, Darrel, if we need them. What time did Markham die, did you get that?"

Again, Bracco was ready. "Twelve forty-five, give or take."

"So Markham was in the ICU maybe four hours?"

"That's about right. Maybe a little less."

Another thought occurred. "Ross went in, too? Why was that?"

"I don't know," Bracco said.

"But he's a doctor, you know," Fisk added. "He's got the run of the place. He was in there with Kensing right after they got him up from OR."

After a moment of silence, Glitsky finally nodded. "Okay. That it?"

Bracco flipped a page or two, then lifted his head and looked across at Glitsky and Treya. He brought his head back up and nodded. "For today, sir." Then he added, "I'm sorry we interrupted your night for you."

"Don't be silly," Treya said quickly, standing up. Then wagged a finger at them, joking. "Just don't do it again."

Glitsky took her lead and was on his feet. "Working late's part of the job." He had meant it sincerely as a simple statement of fact, but as soon as the words were out, he realized from Fisk's expression he took it as another Glitsky reminder of his failings as a cop.

Which wasn't fair. These two inexperienced inspectors had finally done some investigative work. They'd stayed late to make their report to him. They were trying hard. They had worked a long day. Glitsky knew that a kind word to them wouldn't kill him. He tried to put some enthusiasm into his voice. "That's a good day's work, guys. Really. Keep at it," he said. "One thing, though. Tomorrow morning, make sure you get your tapes into transcription ASAP. I want to get all this into the record."

The two men froze, threw a concerned glance at each other.

Glitsky read it right. "You did tape all these interviews, didn't you?"

Hardy remembered to buy the flowers. Beautiful bouquets, too, both of them. Baby pink roses for his daughter, the Spring Extravaganza for his wife. They were next to him on the passenger seat of his car even as he drove around looking for a parking place in his neighborhood. He didn't think there was much chance that Frannie and the Beck would appreciate them much just now, since they were probably both asleep.

It was ten minutes until midnight.

He'd left Strout's office in high spirits. The warm night, the fragrant air, a true sense of accomplishment. He'd cut a great deal for his client with Jackman, convinced the medical examiner to autopsy James Lector as soon as he cleared the way for it with his family. He called Frannie on his cell phone and told her he didn't think that would take more than an hour, and then he'd be home. Maybe on the way he could also pick up some fresh salmon and they'd have the first barbecue of the season.

And back at his office the good luck had held. Lector's death notice was in yesterday's Chronicle, and it named the next of kin, who were listed in the phone book. Hardy called the eldest son, Clark, reached him at his home on Arguello, halfway out to Hardy's own. He made an appointment for when he got there. Perhaps most astoundingly, he only had one message on his answering machine-Pico with the sad news that Francis the shark finally hadn't made it. He just thought Hardy would want to know.

But even Pico's disappointing news couldn't bring him down. In fact, he was half tempted to call him back at the Steinhart and invite him and his family over at the last minute for the salmon barbecue, cheer them all right up. Then he remembered that he'd done pretty much the same thing with Moses and Susan the night before, and he reconsidered. Maybe it should just be his family, together, for tonight.

But after the first half hour with Clark and Patti Lector, and James's widow, Ellen, he called Frannie again and told her he was sorry, but it might be a while. The Lectors were not in favor of an autopsy. It was going to be a long, hard sell. He'd try to get home as soon as he could, but she might want to go ahead with the kids and not wait on him for dinner. There was no anger, not even real disappointment in her voice when she'd told him it was all right. The only thing he thought he discerned was a bone weariness, and in some ways that bothered him more than if she'd thrown a fit.

He finally found a parking spot three long blocks from his house. Bedraggled bouquets in hand, he undid the latch on his picket fence, closed it back behind him, then in five steps crossed the walk that bisected his tiny front lawn. At long last, he'd succeeded in getting the Lectors' permission, but only after tomorrow's service, which would not end with Mr. Lector's body in the ground at the family's burial plot in Colma, but rather on John Strout's metal table at the morgue.

Dragging himself up his front steps, he vowed that he had had enough of this getting home at all hours. He had to change something, not just for himself, but for his children, his wife, his marriage.