Treya wasn't going to be conned. "And I can't help. I haven't helped. I'm just saying maybe someone else could get somewhere."

"Not if I couldn't tell them about it. And I can't. You know I can't."

"That's what you keep saying. But there is such a thing as doctor/ patient privilege, you know. That's a real thing. They couldn't tell."

"Right, in theory. But in real life, they tell all the time. A rumor gets started, and you know cops, they ask questions. And then where are we?"

"At least you're not in pain."

"Wonderful. Except that now I'm ruined, even in jail. How does that sound? There's no statute on murder."

"It wasn't murder. It was self-defense. You keep saying it was murder, and it wasn't."

"All right, but it killed a cop. And I was a party to covering it up. Whatever happens, if that comes out, even if I never go to jail, it's the end of my career." He exhaled with some force. "I've got to live with it, that's all. It's not that bad."

But as he said it, he tightened his lips, the scar through them going white with the pressure. Treya, her own face tight with concern, laid a palm on his thigh and he covered it with his own hand, squeezing hard. When the spasm had passed, he released his grip. "Not that bad," he repeated.

He came into the bedroom and Treya put down her book. "Who was that?"

"Marcel."

She checked the bedside clock. 10:42. "This time of night?"

"I told him he could call anytime."

She smiled at him. "Of course you did." She patted the bed next to her. "Here, sit down. What did Marcel find?"

"Well, again, it's more what they didn't find. Nobody heard anything."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Marcel sent out our team to knock on every door within two blocks of the All-Day Lot. Have another go at them, catch the people who weren't home earlier. They got forty-four hits, which is the jackpot. Nobody heard a shot, not even the shoe repair folks still at work just around the corner, like fifty feet away."

"Maybe they just didn't want to say."

"Maybe. Some percentage wouldn't give away their trash to save humanity. But you've got to hope that with forty-four people, maybe a couple are good citizens. But these folks were there, admitted they were there, talked to our people. Nobody heard anything."

Treya sat up. "Is that so unusual?"

Glitsky shrugged. "You know what a nine-millimeter sounds like? Close up, a cherry bomb. A block away, you hear it and you stop a second and go, 'What was that?' "

"And nobody heard anything? Maybe he was inside a car and rolled the window down?"

"Maybe that," Glitsky said. "Or maybe he had a suppressor."

"A what?"

"A silencer. Suppressor."

"And what does that mean? Other than the shot doesn't make much noise?"

"It means he's probably a pro. In which case he's probably in another state by now. But if he was a pro, that also means somebody hired him. It's another place to look, that's all."

Hardy owned a one-quarter interest in one of San Francisco's oldest bars, the Little Shamrock, at the corner of Ninth and Lincoln, just across the street from Golden Gate Park. The majority partner was Frannie's brother, Moses McGuire, another emotional casualty of the shoot-out. By jogging just slightly from the direct route to his home from Juan Salarco's, Hardy could pass right by the place, check up on his brother-in-law, maybe have a short nightcap.

It had gotten late. After saying good night to Salarco, Hardy had gone out to his car and, with the interview still fresh in his mind, listened to the tape of it twice through again. With the sometimes lengthy time-outs he took for making notes, both as the witness talked and as ideas occurred after each listening, he worked for most of an hour that felt to him like five minutes.

The Shamrock's bar ran along one wall halfway back to where the room widened out slightly. At the front door, it was wall-to-wall people, five or six deep. His first glance told Hardy he had no chance to claim a stool anywhere near the bar itself, and even if he was successful at that, the crowd would keep Moses too busy to talk. Nights like this, Hardy would sometimes take off his jacket, grab a bar towel and help out behind the rail. He'd been a bartender once, and a good one.

But tonight he wasn't in the mood. It was too crowded, too loud, too hot. The jukebox was cranked up with some old Marshall Tucker music. Maybe he ought to go home.

He was just turning to leave when Wes Farrell and his live-in girlfriend, Sam Duncan, pushed their way in. Sam was a petite, feisty, pretty dark-haired woman, forty-ish, who ran one of the city's rape crisis counseling centers not far away on Haight Street.

"You're not leaving?" Farrell said. "Not when we're just getting here."

"It had crossed my mind. It's going to take an hour to get a drink."

"We've got that knocked," Sam said. "We know the owner. Come on."

Sam took Hardy's hand and led the way, jostling them through the crowd. Once they'd cleared the bottleneck up front, there was adequate room to stand and even move as long as nobody wanted to polka. Hardy noticed that Farrell was his out-of-the-office casual self, wearing one of his trademark T-shirts, which read "Be More or Less Specific." At Hardy's shoulder, Sam was saying that since he was buying, she'd have a Chivas rocks and Wes would have a pint of Bass Ale. Hardy could have whatever he wanted.

"Thanks," he told her. He ducked under the bar, gave McGuire a half-salute and called down that he was getting his own drinks, Moses shouldn't worry about him.

When Hardy got back with the drinks, Farrell nudged Sam and said, "Tell him."

"Tell me what?" Hardy said.

Sam sampled her Scotch, nodded appreciatively. "I don't know how it came up," she began.

"At dinner," Farrell said. "I started telling you about this situation with Amy."

"That's it." She came back to Hardy. "Well, the point is he mentioned this boy Andrew Bartlett and I said I knew a little about it. I'd been following it in the papers. I was interested because back when I was young and foolish, I used to hang out sometimes with Linda." At Hardy's uncomprehending glance, she added, "His mother."

"What do you mean, hang out?"

A shrug. "Just that. Go to bars, meet guys. This was before I met my true love here, of course. But if you wanted to pretty much guarantee you'd get lucky of a given night, you wanted to hang with Linda if you could. She could materialize men out of a vacuum. You're thinking 'so what?' Aren't you?"

In fact, that's what Hardy was thinking. Sam could make almost any story listenable. But the wild child Linda Bartlett was now the married Linda North, and other than the fact that San Francisco continued to be a small and self-referential little world, there wasn't anything particularly fascinating about the fact that she'd hung out and picked up men with Sam Duncan when both of them had been younger. But Hardy said, "Go on."

"Well, since it's the law and by definition must be endlessly enthralling, I say to my darling here, 'I'm not surprised the little kid didn't turn out right. His dad ran off and his mother didn't give him the time of day.' "

"So Andrew was around when you and Linda were hanging out?"

"He was around in the sense that he was alive. He must have been three or so about this time. But Linda would dump him with anyone at the drop of a hat. I even kept him with me for a couple of weekends when she went away with somebody. He was the cutest little guy, if you like three-year-olds, which, you know, are not generally my favorite. But even given that, this was a woman who shouldn't ever have become a mother. The boy was nothing but inconvenient to her. She was going to have her fun and all he did was get in the way."

Sam drank more of her Scotch. "Actually, that's one of the reasons I stopped hanging out with her. It just became obvious, the kind of person she was. I like to think I'm as shallow as anybody- it's why Wes loves me, after all- but she just wasn't going to be involved with her own son, and that was that. After a while it got so I couldn't stand to see it."