‘What way was that?’

‘I wanted to refer Sal to a pain management center, but he refused. They have more sophisticated techniques and medications that could have kept him from having to give himself so many injections.’

‘But in the end you stayed with the morphine. Why was that?’

‘Basically it was because the old man was a pain in the ass. We started with morphine a couple of times and it worked, and he wasn’t going to take anything else.’ Cutler looked imploringly at Hardy, as though he hoped for absolution. ‘Look. I’m in the last year of my residency. I’m really not supposed to follow my own patients independently. I mean, it’s not illegal, but it’s frowned on in real life. Strongly frowned on. I’d be screwed. And after this many years it’s kind of important I get to the end.

‘See, Graham didn’t want his dad in the system in any way either. Sal was just terrified that somehow somebody would decide he had to be institutionalized. So I did all this on my own.’

‘What about the other opinions? How’d you get them?’

A shrug. ‘That was easy. I got a tech buddy helps me with the scan itself, then a specialist gives me a curbside consult and verifies it’s terminal and inoperable. There’s nothing that can be done anyway, so what are we supposed to do? See?’

Hardy saw. ‘So you knew, or thought, Sal was going to kill himself?’

‘Let’s just say we wanted to keep that option open.’

‘And so Graham scratched your name off the vials? You’re doing him a favor and in return he agrees to keep your name out of it so you don’t get screwed at work?’

‘Yeah, that’s it. I figure it’s bad enough if I follow a patient independently. If I even appear to assist at a suicide on top of it, then best case I’d be looking for another residency. Worst case they’d take my license.’

Hardy had to appreciate the similarities in the problems of the two young men. No wonder they became friends; their professional concerns were nearly identical.

‘But you didn’t help Sal kill himself?’

‘No. I did prescribe the drug, though.’ He shrugged. ‘We should have just been up front with it, I suppose. Now I see Graham in jail charged with murder and he’s still protecting me. I figure I’ve got to say something. Maybe it’ll help him.’

And having said it, suddenly he appeared to grow calm. Sitting all the way back on the couch, he let out a deep breath. ‘I bet they serve beer here. I could go for a beer.’

‘I’ll get it.’ Hardy got up, went behind the bar; and pulled at the Bass tap. When he got back, Cutler thanked him for the beer. ‘So what do we do now?’

Hardy sat across from him. ‘When is your residency over?’

‘Mid-July. Why?’

‘Because the trial starts in September. As soon as I put you on my witness list, people are going to want to talk to you. But we ought to be able to keep it between us until then. You didn’t break any law, did you?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Okay, then. And the police haven’t asked the mystery doctor – that’s you – to come forward, have they? No? So put it on hold, don’t worry about it. My main concern, to tell you the truth, is that these are more lies Graham told.’

‘But he was just protecting me.’

‘I understand that.’ Hardy wasn’t going to go into it. Graham’s penchant for benevolent falsehoods might well wind up hanging him. ‘But back to you. I won’t have to list you as a witness until just before the trial, so by the time any of this comes out, you’ll be clear with your residency.’

‘I shouldn’t have done it,’ Cutler repeated.

‘I don’t know about that. You did the right thing. The morphine helped Sal while he was alive, didn’t it?’

Hardy could see he wanted to accept this, but still had doubts. He leaned forward and patted the young man’s knee. ‘This legal stuff, forget it. Nobody’s going to bust you for what you did. You tried to ease someone’s suffering. That’s what doctors ought to do, don’t you think?’

A sip of beer, a lopsided grin. ‘I don’t remember anymore. I used to think so when I had a life.’

Hardy patted his knee again. ‘Believe it,’ he said. ‘Now enjoy your beer, then go get some sleep. And thanks.’

Hardy and Frannie stayed in the Avenues at the Purple Yet Wah, a Chinese restaurant not fifteen blocks from their house. Eating their way through the appetizers – pot sticker, calamari, egg rolls, paper-wrap chicken, barbecue pork rib, deep-fry shrimp, and half a dozen more dishes – they were back home by ten-fifteen.

Hardy had five messages waiting. Glitsky left his name.

Michelle was really sorry she’d snapped at him and left so abruptly. They had a lot of work to catch up on tomorrow. Maybe he could set aside a little Tryptech time?

Graham Russo had understood that Hardy would come by every day. What was going on? Why hadn’t he come in? Was everything all right? His only visitor that whole day had been his mother. He’d been thinking, and maybe Hardy’s decision not to mention Joan Singleterry – the phantom woman from Sal’s past – was a mistake. Graham wasn’t making her up. Sal had really wanted to give her the money. Please call. Jail is hell.

Graham again. Same thing. Going nuts.

The last call was from Sarah Evans. Ten minutes ago. She had talked to Graham again and gotten an idea and thought maybe she was on to something.

25

There was a muted tone even in the public areas of Baywest Bank. This would have been noticeable even if the building weren’t located on such a blighted and vulgar thoroughfare. Since it was on Market Street, though, with its bums and garbage, its debris and stench, its fumes and pornography, the contrast was especially striking.

The other day when he’d come to lunch here with the Taylors, Hardy had passed right through the lobby to the elevators and had scarcely looked at the surroundings. Now his business was here and he took them in: polished floors, burnished dark wood, tinted windows to the outside.

There was nothing so obviously crass as a waiting line in the lobby here at Baywest. When you entered through the revolving front doors, you were greeted by a young man in a business suit and asked your business. If you needed to see a teller, of which there were only three, you were given a number and asked to have a seat in one of the upholstered chairs tastefully arranged around the lobby.

Hardy identified himself as Graham Russo’s lawyer and said he would appreciate a few minutes with George, although he didn’t have an appointment. It was nine-fifteen A.M. Mr Russo was at a meeting. Hardy said he would wait and was directed to another armchair in the back of the lobby.

The bank’s officers lived in cages, as they do almost everywhere. The burnished-wood motif from the public area was carried over here in the back, creating half-high walls around each unit. The upper half was glass, and Hardy, getting to his wingback chair, looked into George’s office for a quick glimpse.

Without the nameplate he could have picked him out from a hundred people. Dressed in a different style than Graham, sitting in a posture behind his desk that Hardy had never seen in Graham, George still bore a remarkable resemblance to his older brother.

As he waited, Hardy made a few notations on the yellow legal pad he’d begun carrying with him everywhere he went. There was so much to remember, so much to organize, and he only had three months before the trial – an absurdly short lead time that he’d argued bitterly against at the Calendar hearing. But his old colleague Tim Manion – the judge – though inclined to sympathy on the bail issue, had proved intractable in scheduling the trial.

After Hardy had argued for a couple of minutes, Manion had summoned him up to the bench and given him a little lecture. ‘I understand you turned down a very reasonable settlement offer, Mr Hardy’ – no ‘Diz’ on this topic – ‘so I assumed your client would be anxious to tell his story and clear his name.’