Following the beam through heavy-lidded eyes, Amy sat up abruptly. "Wait a minute. Stop!"

"What?" Barry slammed on the brakes.

Before the car had fully stopped, Amy opened the door. She was halfway out, staggering. She fell once, cut her knees, then got up and moved forward again.

"What are you doing?" Barry, still in the car, called from behind her.

She turned and pointed. "Get your lights next to that car, over by the wall." She kept moving over toward a dark amorphous mound on the pavement up against the building. As the headlights hit it, its shape became obvious.

Barry came running up next to her. "Jesus Christ!"

The body was dressed in a business suit under a trenchcoat. It lay skewed on its side, the face visible now in the headlights. A dark pool had formed under the head, but Amy wasn't able to pay any attention to other details. She stood transfixed, unable to tear her eyes from the awful, vacant stare of the victim.

The dead man was Allan Boscacci.

PART TWO

12

Excuse me, are you a Mr. Hardy?"

It was all he could do to remain polite with the sweet young waitress. It was Date Night and he was out with his wife, having the world's best chicken at the Zuni Cafe. Everyone in his world orbit knew that Wednesday night with Frannie was the one time he was absolutely not to be disturbed. To further that end, he had taken to leaving his cellphone and pager at home. He put down his fork mid-bite, used his napkin, nodded and forced a polite smile. "I have that distinction," he said.

"You have a telephone call."

Frannie, thinking the same thought as Hardy- that it must be one of the kids and if they were interrupting Date Night it was a true emergency- was halfway out of her chair when the waitress added, "An Amy Wu."

Glitsky, in his uniform and on his way to the ring of police cars in the lot, stopped in his tracks, changed directions and walked over to a subdued group who stood in a knot under the pool of light from the pole lamp by the pay booth. He nodded all around, said to Hardy and Frannie, "What are you two doing here?"

Hardy motioned to the circle that was now crawling with police. "They asked us not to leave until they'd talked to us. We're waiting." He half-turned. "You remember my associate, Amy Wu." Hardy paused, came out with it. "She discovered the body."

Wu came forward, still a bit unsteady, and gave Glitsky her hand. "Good to see you again, sir."

Glitsky held onto her hand, squinted down into her face. "Have you been drinking?"

"Yes, sir," she said. "A few down at Lou the Greek's. Barry and I. But we're fine now."

The other man came forward, introduced himself- Barry Hess- said he was who'd called 911. Glitsky took that in, stepped toward the crowd by the body, stopped again. "Anybody get statements from you two yet?" he asked both Hess and Wu. As the people who'd discovered the body, both could probably look forward to a long night in a small interrogation room.

"No, sir," Hess replied.

"I'll try to get somebody over here soon," Glitsky said. Then he closed in on Frannie. "I can see your husband, who lives for parties like this one, but why are you here?"

She forced a weak smile. "It started out as Date Night."

"Right. Of course. Great timing," Glitsky said. "You okay?"

Frannie nodded. "But maybe we'd be more comfortable in a car with the heat on."

Glitsky tossed his head toward Hardy's car. "Go on ahead. I'll send somebody over."

After Wu's short interview at the scene with Sergeant Belou- she had promised to come and give a better, more coherent statement at the Hall tomorrow- she didn't want to be with Barry anymore. It was obvious to Frannie that, badly shaken by the murder, and still very drunk, she didn't want to go home alone, either, so she asked Wu to come and stay with them at their house tonight. Then Dismas could take her down here tomorrow, where she could do any more business that needed to be done at the Hall, pick up her car.

Wu passed out on the drive home. They had to wake her up to let her off at the house with Frannie while Hardy drove around the neighborhood- a constant ritual- and tried to find a parking place. By the time he got back to the house, she was asleep again on the fold-out bed in the family room behind the kitchen.

Hardy couldn't sleep. Sometime well after midnight, he swung quietly out of bed, pulled on a pair of drawstring gray sweatpants and went downstairs.

A bulb over the stove threw out about fifteen watts in the otherwise dark room, and Hardy opened the refrigerator and stared into it. What he craved was some alcohol, get his brain to stop its endless looping. Today there'd been the long nap in the afternoon, no wine with lunch, an interrupted dinner. The drunken condition of Amy Wu, passed out on the fold-a-bed, and Frannie's lack of interest in a nightcap, had somehow constrained him from a drink when they'd gotten home.

Nightcap. A harmless little old nightcap.

Maybe he'd have it now- a couple of fingers of gin and peppermint schnapps over crushed ice. It would help him sleep, finally. And God knew he had to get some sleep if he was going to be any good at work tomorrow. Sleep had to be the first priority. If he had one short one now, the only effect would be sleep. He'd wake up refreshed, strong for whatever challenges the day might bring.

And with Boscacci's murder, there would be lots of them.

But something kept him from opening the freezer, from reaching for the crushed ice.

They kept a three-legged stool in the kitchen because Frannie needed it to reach the higher shelves, and suddenly, the refrigerator still open, Hardy found himself sitting on it, leaning over, elbows on his knees.

In the dimness- stove light, refrigerator light- he turned his hands over, looked at his palms. There was no shake. Closing his eyes, he dropped his head, sighed audibly.

"Sir? Are you all right?" Wu was a spectral shape in the doorway. Barefoot, wrapped in the comforter they'd provided, she came into the light.

He looked up, raised his hand in greeting. "I'm trying to make the critical midnight snack decision. Could you eat something?"

"Do you have some aspirin first?"

"Sure." Hardy reached into the top drawer right next to the refrigerator, where he'd taken to storing the bottle so he could get it with his coffee, so he wouldn't have to walk the extra steps to the bathroom. "How many you need?"

"What's the legal limit?" she asked.

"I'm impressed, sir. I didn't know you could cook."

"I can't, really. If it's not in that one black pan, I'm hopeless. But that pan, I know all its secrets. I treasure it, for what that's worth. No soap, just salt and a wipe. Nothing ever sticks. It's magic."

Hardy had grabbed one of his daughter's bathrobes and Wu had put it on to come and eat. Now they sat kitty-corner to each other at the dining room table, splitting a very runny four-egg omelette of fried salami, artichoke hearts, cheddar cheese. Sourdough bread. They both had cups of hot Ovaltine.

Hardy had closed the connecting door to the kitchen so his family wouldn't wake up, but still he whispered. "And you can drop the 'sir' if you want. I realize that my august personage is intimidating, but somewhere beneath the awesome authority figure beats what Mr. Buffett calls a schoolboy heart."

"Warren Buffett talks about a schoolboy heart?"

Hardy shook his head. "No. But Jimmy does."

Wu couldn't quite get to a smile. "I've got a searing headache and you've got a schoolboy heart. Want to trade?"

"No, thanks. But they can remain our little secrets." Hardy tore a piece of the bread and sopped up some melted cheese. "Anyway, that pan. My mother got it from her mother and gave it to me when I went away to college."