"In spite of the fact that it was the right decision? No, don't answer that. It wasn't really a question. But off the record, it makes me think I've about Peter Principled out. I'm not cut out for spin. I must have the wrong genes or something."

"I don't know. Some of us Neanderthals in the media find it quaintly refreshing. You say something, you mean what you say; most of the time it even makes sense. The public can either deal with it or not." Elliot shifted in his wheelchair. "You don't watch out, you might become a cultural hero."

Glitsky ran a finger over the scar in his lips. "Unlikely," he said, "but give me an event number and a murder to investigate, I may not be totally useless."

"Which brings us back to Allan."

A brusque nod. "It does. Although I have to tell you, this is too soon for me to have anything you could use. We're nowhere. We sent a couple of inspectors out last night to canvass the neighborhood. Nobody heard or saw anything. I was actually hoping you might have something for me."

Elliot considered for a moment, then shook his head. "He wasn't everybody's favorite guy, but I never caught a whiff of anything particular that would make somebody want to kill him. I hope to get a chance to talk to Clarence, who's got to be devastated by this."

"He is. But we talked last night, and he's as mystified as anybody. Allan was a rock. Came in early, stayed late, great administrator, loyal as a dog."

"He fire anybody lately?" Elliot asked.

"A couple. We're checking them." The purging of the deadwood from the earlier DA's administration had been an ongoing, albeit low-key program for the past three years. To the affected parties, though, Glitsky would bet the termination was probably not as low-key as it seemed to others. "But to tell you the truth, Jeff, we're going to find out about everything in Allan's life. This is something I know how to do, as opposed to going to meetings and eating lunch with businesspeople. And for a change we've got the manpower and budget to do it right. If this killing wasn't completely random, and I can't believe that it was, we'll find who did it." He looked up, slightly startled. "Did I just say something quotable?"

Because the All-Day parking lot was cordoned off with police tape and he couldn't park there, Jason Brandt had to find a place nearly six blocks south of the Hall of Justice and walk up. He was standing in the hallway outside of Clarence Jackman's office at eight-thirty when Treya Glitsky got to the door.

"Can I help you?" she asked, introducing herself unnecessarily. All the assistant DAs, even those who worked mostly off-site, knew who she was.

Brandt pulled his hands from his pockets and introduced himself as well. He feigned an easy smile, but it was clear that he was wound up. "I was hoping to get a minute with Mr. Jackman."

She made a face of regret. "I don't remember an appointment…"

"It's about Allan."

Treya drew a heavy breath. "Well, then." She put her key into the door. "That poor man," she said. "It seems so… so completely unbelievable." She shook her head, clearing the thought, then came back to him. "I don't know when or even if Mr. Jackman will be in this morning. I know he was at the crime scene until well after midnight, then went to Allan's home after that. So it might be a while, if at all. You're welcome to wait, if you'd like."

Brandt thanked her and took the chair next to Jackman's door. Treya opened the blinds, turned on her computer, checked her voice mail, then the wall clock. The telephone rang and she picked it up. "District attorney's office." She lowered her voice. "Hi. No, not yet. I'll call you as soon as he does. No, really." A pause, the hint of a smile. "Me, too. Bye."

When she hung up, Brandt asked. "Was that your husband?"

"So much for subtle."

"I read that he was in charge of the investigation."

"I read that, too. He was gone before I was completely awake this morning. I can't imagine who would have done this. Can you?" She sat up. "Is that what you wanted to see Clarence about?"

Brandt shook his head. "No." He hesitated. "It's a little weird to talk about Allan's work and not his death, but with him gone now… I don't know, it seemed important to tell Mr. Jackman what was going on in this case so it didn't fall through the cracks. It doesn't have anything to do with Allan's murder."

"What's the case?"

Slightly embarrassed now, Brandt started to shrug it away, then spoke anyway. "Just up at the YGC…" He went on to tell the story- Andrew Bartlett, the juvenile proceedings, the scotched plea bargain deal. Amy.

Treya nearly jumped at the name. "Wait a minute. Amy Wu?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And this plea deal, it was between her and Allan?"

"Right. She was coming down here to explain it to him, how the kid- Andrew, her client- had screwed her, or screwed them both. Anyway, Allan probably would have gone ballistic." Having noticed something in her expression, he stopped. "What?"

"Nothing. I'm sure it's nothing." Then, after another pause, she said, "Did you know that Amy was the one who found his body?"

"Pardon?"

She nodded. "Really. Abe- my husband- mentioned it last night when he got home, only because we both know her a little. They were all down there at the scene."

Brandt's eyes went inward while he processed the information. "Was she hurt, too?" he asked with real concern. "Is she all right now?"

"Who?"

"Amy." From Treya's expression, she wasn't following him. "I mean, was she around when Allan got shot? Is she okay?"

"I think she's fine. I'm sure she is."

For a moment, Brandt felt light-headed with relief. The feeling surprised him, and it must have showed.

"Is Amy a friend of yours?" Treya asked.

"No," he answered, perhaps too quickly. "Just a colleague. We're in this case together, on opposite sides. Anyway, I knew she was planning to talk to Allan yesterday. When you said she found him, I thought she might have been with him when it happened."

"No," Treya said. "She was with another guy at the Greek's and they found him when they went to get their cars."

"Who was the other guy?"

"I don't know. I think just some guy. Abe's going to talk to both of them. He'll find out."

Hardy came out of the elevator into the lobby at his office. In the reception area, Phyllis, with a pinched and pained expression, her hands clasped nervously in front of her, stood up and said, "I'm sorry, sir. I told him he couldn't just walk in, but he said you wouldn't mind. If you didn't like it, he said, you could call the police."

"Who are we talking about, Phyllis?"

"Lieutenant Glitsky."

Hardy showed a bit of teeth, the ghost of a grin. "He's a deputy chief now, Phyllis. He thinks the rules don't apply to him anymore."

In the office, the deputy chief was on the couch, elbows on his knees. As soon as Hardy closed the door behind him, Glitsky started in. "Why didn't you tell me last night that Amy Wu had had a major fight with Allan Boscacci yesterday afternoon? About three hours before he died? At the Hall of Justice, which if your memory fails you is about two hundred yards from where he got shot? Did you imagine that this would not be relevant to his murder investigation? Or were you afraid that we would have sweated her on videotape last night, which we absolutely would and should have done?"

"It's good to see you, too," Hardy said. "How's your morning been?"

"Long. Already."

"You want some tea?"

"I want some answers."

"Not mutually exclusive. I'm having some coffee."

"Of course you are. Where's Wu now?"

From the counter, fiddling with his ingredients, Hardy turned. "I just this minute dropped her at the Hall. I turned her in directly to Lanier so he could get the murder collar and make you look bad, not that you seem to need much help on that score lately. Who put the bee in your bonnet about her?"