Like: "Ms. Kensing, you said that your husband confessed to murder. That's part of the record in this case. If you go changing your story under oath, someone could decide you're committing perjury. You might get in very big trouble yourself. Do you understand that?"

Like: "Isn't it obvious to you that Mr. Hardy here is using your own children as bargaining chips so that you'll help him get his client off? Could it be any more transparent?"

Like: "Of course your husband isn't pressing charges against you about what happened Saturday. He's lucky he didn't have them brought against himself. But please be clear on this: He doesn't decide what charges get filed, the DA does. Try to understand that what he's really doing is trading your possible misdemeanor charge against his own murder rap."

Like: "You don't have to make this kind of deal. We can in all likelihood have a judge sign a TRO"-a temporary restraining order-"and get your children back with you."

Finally, Hardy had had enough. Glitsky was overdoing it. Besides, it was in his own best interests to rise to her defense. "Actually, the lieutenant's a little off base. There's no judge in the world who would grant a TRO on what's going on here." He turned to Mrs. Kensing. "Unless, it must be said, he issued it against you. You're the one with charges pending here, not your husband."

Back at Glitsky, his voice hardened. "And you know the woman's got every right in the world to talk to me, Lieutenant. We need to know exactly what Dr. Kensing said, and if perhaps your inspectors were too eager. Mrs. Kensing got it wrong the first time and, realizing that, would like to get back on some kind of cordial footing with her ex-husband so that they can cooperate, as they always have before, on raising their children. I don't see how you can have any kind of problem with that."

Glitsky's scar seemed to glow red in the dusky light. "You don't? You don't consider what you're doing tampering with this witness?"

"Absolutely not."

"You deny that you're bringing undue influence to bear?"

Hardy bit back his initial response, which prominently featured the vulgarity Glitsky so despised. Instead, he turned again to Mrs. Kensing. "Am I forcing you to do anything?"

"He's not, Lieutenant."

Glitsky believed that like he believed in the Easter Bunny. He wanted to pull Hardy into another room where they could duke out some of their continued differences outside of the presence of this woman, but if he suggested that, he knew it would come across as though he were trying to hide something from her. And he couldn't have that, either. There was no other good option, so he went right ahead with what he had to say.

"Well, I'll tell you what, Counselor. I'd call this tampering. I'd call it undue influence, if not outright coercion. Jackman cut you a sweet deal, okay, but that's not carte blanche to sabotage any case we might be building. I think he's going to find you went way over the line with this. To say nothing of this autopsy charade I'm learning about with Strout. And now he tells me you've got Wes Farrell on your team, too, trying to pull the same crap."

"Wes isn't on any team of mine, Lieutenant. He's got his own client and his own problems."

"Yeah, which includes somebody else who died at Portola Hospital? Just surfacing at this moment? You expect me to believe that? It's just a coincidence, is it?"

"I don't expect you'd believe anything I said. But I'm not trying to obstruct this case. I'm trying to see it for what it is and solve it."

Glitsky just about spit it out. "Yeah, well that's my job."

Hardy shot it back at him. "Then do it."

"I just tried and Jackman stopped me."

"He did you a favor."

Glitsky snorted scornfully. "You're telling me I got the wrong man? Then how come every time I turn around, you're playing some legal game covering his rear end-cutting your deal with Jackman, muddying the waters with Strout, talking to my witness here. You know what that makes me think? You've got something to hide. That all you're doing is trying to get your client off, and be damned with the law, and be damned with the truth."

"That's not who I am and you know it."

"Yeah, well if the shoe fits…" Glitsky turned to Ann Kensing. "You're making a mistake here," he told her. "If you want to change your mind again, after you've calmed down, you've got my number."

Hardy was in a true high rage now, and he wheeled on them both, his voice laden with disdain. "If you do, make him promise he won't charge you with perjury."

Glitsky glared at him. "You think that's funny?"

"No," Hardy snapped. "I don't think it's funny at all."

While the Kensing children got used to their mother again, the cast on her foot, the bandage on the back of her head, their father stayed away from her. He called out for a pizza delivery and spent the best part of the next half hour picking up around the house-he collected and started two loads of laundry, put every dish and utensil he could find into the dishwasher, ran a sponge mop over the kitchen floor.

Hardy called Frannie to tell her he would be a little late. Yes, sorry, he knew. But he was still shooting to be in time for dinner, which they'd rescheduled over the past weekend for 8:00, instead of 6:30 or 7:00, to better accommodate Hardy's workday. He also took an extra minute and described a bit of his terrible fight with Glitsky. He needed to talk to her; he needed her. And he would definitely be home by 8:00. She could set the clock by it.

Hardy went to the bathroom to throw some water on his face, hoping it would counteract some of the nausea he was feeling, the residue of his argument with Glitsky. He felt as though he'd swallowed a rock. When he returned, the children were devouring pizza in the kitchen, a video of some action flick on and purposely turned up loud.

In the living room, Ann and Eric had taken their respective neutral corners, and now they sat in silence, not even facing each other, waiting for Hardy.

He started to go back to his old spot on the couch with Ann, but decided that this might have the appearance that he was taking sides, so he stayed on his feet and stood by the trash-and ash-filled fireplace. "Both of you are doing the right thing," he began. "I know it's hard." He looked from one of them to the other. Both obviously still seethed. He kept on. "I've been involved with this case for going on a week now and there's far too much I don't know. We need to talk together about it. Who might have killed Mr. Markham."

Ann took it as an opening, and she wasted no time getting to the crux. "All right. I've heard your lawyer tell me you didn't do it, Eric. Here's another chance for you. Why don't you tell me yourself?"

He turned his head to face her, then shook it in disgust and weariness, and brought a flat, dead glance back to her and answered her with no inflection at all. "Fuck you."

"There!" she exploded to Hardy. "See? That's him. That's who he really is."

Kensing came right at her, up out of his chair, his voice a rasping whisper so the children wouldn't hear. "You don't have a clue who I am anymore. I'm just so tired of your shit. Did I kill Tim for Christ's sake? Fuck that and fuck you again."

"Eric," Hardy began.

But now his client turned on him. "I don't have to listen to this all over again, do I? It won't work with her. You can see for yourself-she's an irrational menace. I'm out of here and I'm taking the kids with me."

"Don't you touch them again!" She might use crutches for her sprained ankle, but Ann could move quickly enough without them when she had to. She was at the entrance into the hallway, blocking Kensing's way, before he'd gone three steps.