‘You’re probably right,’ Hardy said.

After Graham left, he tried calling Jeanne Walsh again. She hadn’t bought an answering machine since yesterday, or if she had, she’d neglected to plug it in.

It wasn’t his night. He was going home.

When he opened the door to his house, it was almost eerily silent and he listened for a minute, then called out. ‘Frannie!’

Furtive noises from the back of the house. ‘Frannie. Kids. Dad’s home.’

In seconds he was in the kitchen. ‘Anybody here?’

Muffled giggling – at least recognizable as benign – from farther back. He walked through the master bedroom and into Vincent’s, which had been transformed into an impenetrable maze of blankets, pillows, ropes strung from bed to chairs to bookshelves. He lifted up one of the blankets and looked under. ‘Hey, guys.’

Rebecca held a finger to her lips. ‘Shh!’

‘Where’s Mom?’ he whispered.

‘I don’t know. Shh!’

This was not Hardy’s favorite answer, but since a game was obviously in progress he didn’t want to be a spoilsport, so he stood up and turned around.

‘Mr Hardy? Hi.’

It took him a moment. This was Mary, their baby-sitter, having come out of hiding from wherever. What was she doing here? ‘I’s Frannie all right?’ he asked foolishly.

The girl’s face was all confusion. ‘I guess so. Weren’t you meeting her someplace? That’s what she said.’

It was all coming back to him. It was Wednesday night. Date Night. He was picking Frannie up at the Shamrock at seven. His mind, in its dance of frustration and speculation, had spun that little fact out of its galaxy. He’d not so much forgotten as absolutely misplaced the information.

He looked at his watch – seven-twenty – and gave Mary an apologetic grin. ‘Sorry to break in on you like this. My brain’s turned to mush. I’ve got to use the phone.’

They were at Stagnola’s. Hardy and Frannie never ate on the Wharf, although the food was often wonderful. It was just such a tourist place, with traffic hassles and exorbitant parking rates. There were dozens of other spots offering great food in the city. Tonight, though, Hardy felt as though he needed to be here.

He also felt like he’d traveled a hundred miles in the past three-plus hours – from the Hall of Justice to the fire department main office, back to the Chronicle. Then the jog to the Federal Building and back. His office. Driving his own car all the way across town to his home in the Avenues, almost to the beach. Now halfway back downtown to the Shamrock to meet the long-suffering Frannie.

Until at last he was settled at his table, Chianti poured, tucking into an antipasto plate – pepperoncini, salami, mortadella, provolone, artichoke hearts, olives, caponata. Hot sourdough rolls by the basket. Heaven.

She’d given him several rations of grief since he’d finally arrived to pick her up. ‘No, I understand, lots of times I’ll get caught up in things around the house and forget that you exist too. Then I’ll snap my fingers and go, “Oh, that’s right, Dismas.” ’ Et cetera.

Since Hardy felt he basically deserved it, he’d let her go on. Except now it had all wound down, she was holding his hand over the table, glad they were together. He had to tell her, bounce it off her, see where he didn’t have it right.

She listened carefully, then went another way. ‘I think you should turn it over to the police.’

‘What, exactly?’

‘Whatever you’ve got. Let them go with it. Give it to Abe. This is what he does, Dismas.’

But Hardy was shaking his head. ‘No, it’s not. He’s got to have a murder, a case.’

‘How about Sal Russo? Doesn’t he count?’

‘Sure, he counts. But I don’t have any proof of anything that would get him involved. All I’ve got is this hose-and-ladder belt, a fire in this place eighteen years ago, a dead fireman who might or might not have been at this fire.’

‘And fifty thousand dollars.’

‘So what? Nobody stole that from Sal, as a matter of fact. He had it when he died. Or Graham did, which is the same thing.’

Frannie sipped wine. ‘But you think they’re related?’

A nod. ‘They’ve got to be. I’ve just got to find out where a few things connect.’

‘Just.’

He shrugged.

‘All I’m saying is you might want to run it by Abe. Have him look up this Palmieri, call the woman in Eureka-’

‘Hassle a sitting federal judge.’ He knew Abe, knew he didn’t have enough. ‘Abe won’t do it, not yet, maybe not ever.’

Frannie’s point was well taken, though, and in a day or two, after he’d secured his inferences, that’s exactly what he’d do. He had no desire to get close to cornering a murderer. That was police work. It could be very unhealthy.

But he didn’t yet think it was Giotti. Or rather, he didn’t want to think it was Giotti, although he was convinced that the judge had some information that would move things along. Information that, whether he knew it or not, he’d somehow kept out of Hardy’s scrutiny. That’s all he needed – to talk to him.

The waiter had earlier introduced himself as Mauritio. He was one of those personable, talk-your-ear-off, swarthy and handsome older men in a tuxedo that you’re either in the mood for or not. Now he came up to ask them about their dinner.

Hardy broke his most disarming smile, squeezed Frannie’s hand gently, cueing her to be cool. She gave him a warning look; as if she wouldn’t be. ‘Does Judge Giotti still eat here all the time?’

‘Oh, yeah. They’re in here a couple of times a week for lunch, he and his wife. You a friend of the judge’s’ – he pointed at the Chianti – ’that bottle’s on the house.‘

‘I don’t know if he’d call me a friend. I’m a lawyer. But he’s a good judge. He raves about the food here.’ Hardy motioned down at his empty plate. ‘This antipasto, he’s right. He’s a great guy.’

‘The best,’ Mauritio replied.

‘Did I hear this place used to be in his family?’

‘Yeah. Long time ago. Used to be Giotti’s Grotto.’ Mauritio’s tired face took on a little more life. ‘Believe it or not, I used to bus tables back then.’

Hardy shamelessly flattered the man. ‘Before they had child labor laws?’ Frannie squeezed his hand – don’t pile it on too thick. ‘So you must have known Sal Russo too?’

Mauritio’s brow darkened briefly, but cleared when Hardy explained that he was the lawyer who’d gotten Sal’s son off.

‘Well, damn,’ Mauritio said, ‘that bottle is on us. That was good work. Poor Sal. Pray to God my son could do what his son did, I ever need it. What’s your name again?’

They went through the introductions. Then Hardy asked if Sal had been around during the Grotto years.

‘Oh, yeah. He and the judge, they were like this.’ Two fingers together. ‘Salmon Sal.’ A shake of the head, a wistful tone. ‘What happened to him, huh? But at least it was over fast. Any more time on the street, something worse might have happened.’

Hardy shot a look at his wife, went back to Mauritio. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, you know, at the end, the last few months, the guy was a real pain. Last time I snuck him a lunch here, back in the kitchen, he wound up wanting to fight me over some bet we must have made twenty years ago. I didn’t even remember it, something about Roberto Clemente, for Christ’s sake. So I break him the news that Roberto’s been gone awhile and suddenly he’s all over me, I owe him a large one, he’s gonna kick my ass.’ Mauritio smiled over at Frannie. ‘Scuse me the language.’

‘It’s all right.’ Her brilliant smile. ‘If I hadn’t heard it before, I wouldn’t know what it meant, would I?’

Hardy figured Mauritio was halfway to abiding love for his wife. He was going on. ‘Anyway, the poor guy. He makes a scene, I kick him out, so he’s yelling at me by the back door, says he gonna tell all the guys I’m a welsher. And I just made the guy a free lunch.’ He shook his head in commiseration. ‘You knew he couldn’t help it. You couldn’t hold it against him, but you didn’t want him around. It was probably better he went out when he did. His boy did him a big favor.’