‘Evidently.’

‘I’ve got to go, be there for him. Keep him calm.’

‘I know you do. Don’t worry about the kids, I’ll get them fed and clothed and off to school.’

He gave her a look. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow. It’ll be a trade, sharing those special parental moments.’

‘But I do have a real idea,’ she said.

‘My favorite kind. Let’s hear it.’

‘On the way to his place, start thinking about a defense attorney you can recommend for him. David Freeman, maybe?’

‘Maybe.’ A pause. ‘If he needs one.’

Hardy had his map out. He stopped for a minute to consult it at the corner of Stanyan and Parnassus. Graham’s street was well hidden. He turned right, went a block, then hung a left onto a nearly vertical lane that he thought was the equal of any incline in the city. Street signs warned off trucks and delivery vehicles - too steep. Another sign informed him that this was not a through street. Whoever lived up here, Hardy thought, didn’t want anybody else to know about it.

He checked his map again. With the fog he couldn’t see more than a hundred feet up the hill. He wished he’d gotten directions to Graham’s place instead of simply the address, but he was stuck now. Nothing to do but keep going. If he was lost, he’d find a phone.

He nosed his old Honda up the steep hill, ran into another ‘Not a Through’ street that snaked off to the right and took it, and then suddenly – miraculously – the fog was gone. He’d climbed right out of it.

Into, it seemed, a wonderland.

Edgewood Avenue was paved with red bricks, lined with custom gingerbread houses, bathed in bright morning sunlight. On either side of the street a variety of trees were in full white and pink blossom. He rolled down his window and heard birds chirping.

What was this place? Hardy had lived in San Francisco for nearly all of his adult life, and he’d never been here, never heard anyone mention it, although it was less than half a mile from the Little Shamrock.

He pulled over at an open space at the curb, farther up the hill, just about to the copse of pine and eucalyptus that marked the end of the amazing dead-end street. He stood a moment outside his car, marveling at the red bricks, at the scented air. The fog below was a blanket of thick billowing cotton. The red spires of the Golden Gate jabbed through it.

But beyond the fog, to the east, the downtown skyscrapers’ windows twinkled in the morning sun. Ships were moving on the bay. Across the water Treasure Island seemed close enough to touch. A ribbon of traffic was moving on the freeways, coming in over the Oakland Bay Bridge.

He found the address at the end of a driveway, a front door cut into stucco where once, obviously, there had been a garage. Standing at the door, he paused a moment.

As soon as he knocked and entered Graham’s converted-garage mother-in-law flat, he was going to fall into the role, representing the rights of his client. And then if the police did find anything, he would be hip deep in Graham’s defense.

Could he extricate himself after that, even if he wanted to? All his protestations to the contrary, would he really want to get out?

He was aware that his pulse had quickened. It never did that when he contemplated the mounds of paperwork and number crunching with Tryptech that awaited him in the office. But he couldn’t afford the luxury of loving his work, he told himself again. He had other priorities now. He was a grown-up.

Then there was some noise from inside, and he took in a breath and rapped on the door.

‘Your client isn’t cooperating, so we don’t either.’ Hardy wasn’t through the door yet. Inspector Marcel Lanier, whom he’d known for years, wasn’t letting him in. ‘We’re conducting a search. You’re not entitled to be in here. It’s simple.’

Hardy lowered his voice. ‘How’s he not cooperating?’

Lanier shrugged. ‘My partner’s got some questions. He said if he’s a suspect, he’d like his lawyer present.’

‘He’s smart, that’s why. That’s his right.’

‘Absolutely. I couldn’t agree with you more. But it’s not his right to have anybody present while we look around here. People have been known to take things. You wouldn’t believe. So as soon as we finish up here, you can come on in and we’ll all have a nice talk on the record.’

Hardy could see Graham – barefoot, in running shorts and tank top – sitting at the huge country table by the floor-to-ceiling window, louvered shades blocking most of the sun and view in the back of the long, narrow one-room apartment. Lanier’s female partner was back talking with him.

It was a beautiful street, all right, but Hardy didn’t want to stand out in it for the better part of the day. Lanier wasn’t a bad guy. He’d just gotten his feathers ruffled. Hardy would have to talk to Graham about his behavior around the police. They could make life very difficult if you made them dislike you, even if you’d done nothing wrong.

‘Is he under arrest?’ Hardy asked.

‘He’s being detained.’

Hardy kept his patience. ‘Let me talk to my client. You guys’ being here freaked him out, that’s all. I’ll calm him down, maybe he’ll have something to say, something you can use.’ Hardy’s face cracked. ‘Come on, Marcel. If you do find something, you’re not going to want to tell Glitsky you had a chance to talk to your suspect and didn’t take it when it was easy.’

Lanier took a beat, then stepped back and motioned Hardy in. ‘All right. Sit at the table and don’t touch anything.’

Graham’s apartment was spotless and orderly. Hardy thought it was a fantastic living space. There was the huge picture window that dominated the back wall. Graham had adjusted the shades, and over the fog the view of downtown and points east was world class. There was a dark hardwood floor, Oriental carpets. The furniture was a mix of Danish and antique – heavy woods and teak – that somehow achieved a balance.

The wall to Hardy’s right was lined nearly to the ceiling with books. There was a tall wine rack nearly filled with expensive wines. Three tiny vertical windows above the shelves. The rest of the right wall, near the back of the house, was given over to a kitchen area, stove, overhead racks, good cookware.

The apartment radiated good taste. Graham Russo might be a jock, but there appeared to be a lot more to him than that. A further consideration raised its ugly head, though, and Hardy couldn’t put it aside: a place like this, and the lifestyle that went with it – the wine alone, for example – cost some serious money, and Graham was, at best, underemployed. He wondered how his young client could afford to keep all this up.

But he’d find that out on his own time. For now, he was here to hold hands, and that’s what he’d do. He asked permission to put on a pot of coffee and – another peace offering – offered it around.

He and Graham found themselves talking baseball at the table. Lanier was on the low leather couch on the left side of room, going through a stack of magazines, seeking stuff that might be tucked into them.

In her search for syringes and vials of morphine Sarah Evans had been looking through things in the bathroom, a small cubicle with a sink, shower, and toilet that had been patched onto the back corner of the room.

Hardy thought that Evans had a really wonderful, sincere smile. Like the Hispanic DA he’d met with Glitsky yesterday, she barely seemed old enough, in his eyes, to be a Girl Scout, much less a homicide inspector.

When Hardy poured the coffee, she came out and sat down with the men, smiled, and placed her pocket tape recorder on the table between them. Shoulder-length dark hair framed a freckled oval face, set off by widely spaced green eyes. A compact and athletic, very attractive body was evident under the utilitarian work-clothes. ‘You don’t mind?’ she said, still smiling. ‘Two birds with one stone.’