"I'm not, either, Reverend, though it might help you to know that what I'm most interested in is no different from the police. I want to identify your son's killer. I don't believe that's my client."

"You don't? Why not? From what I understand, the case against him is very strong."

"Actually, there are any number of problems with it, not the least of which is that there's no physical evidence tying him to the murder weapon, no evidence that he fired a gun at all that night. And they have to prove he did. Andrew doesn't have to prove he didn't."

Mooney rubbed his weary eyes. "And they don't have that?"

"No, sir."

"What about all the yelling? Didn't the man upstairs say they'd been fighting all night?"

Hardy leaned in closer. "I talked about this with Andrew just this morning. Do you know what play they were practicing?"

"Yes. I think it was Who's Afraid of…" He stopped. "Where the characters are yelling at each other for half the play, aren't they?"

"Yes, sir." He paused. "They weren't fighting. They were rehearsing."

Mooney eased himself all the way back into his chair, slumped low. Eyes closed, he templed his hands over his mouth and blew into them. Finally, he opened his eyes again. "It doesn't really matter," he said. "It won't bring him back."

"No. But the wrong man shouldn't be punished. Would your son have wanted that? Would you?"

He sat low in the chair, nearly horizontal. "I've spent all of my life in the service of God, Mr. Hardy. I don't understand how He could have done this to me. After He took Margaret, Michael was all I had left." The man's sincerity was heartrending. "He was my pride and joy." He pointed with an unsteady hand. "You see that piano over there? You should have heard Michael on it, playing like an angel and singing along, ever since he was child. He just had an immense and God-given talent. He was such a wonderful boy. Then those tapes. Do you see them? That whole second shelf? Those are the acting jobs, the television, even parts in some movies. I tell myself that someone born with that much, God only lets us keep them a short while before He wants them back. I tell myself…"

Hardy understood what he was saying. He'd lost an infant son over thirty years before- also named Michael, he suddenly realized, but he wasn't going to let himself get sidetracked down that path now. He was here for his client.

"Reverend Mooney." His voice barely intruded on the room's stillness. "Aside from his performing, what was his life like? I'm trying to get a sense of if there might have been someone who would have a reason to want to hurt him."

The old man shook his head. "He didn't have any enemies. Everybody loved him."

"Do you know if he'd had a run-in with one of his students? Maybe gave somebody a poor grade?"

"You really didn't know him, did you? He was the softest grader in the school. I'd ask him sometimes if he shouldn't be harder on the kids, if he wasn't doing them some kind of disservice, being so easy. He wasn't preparing them for real life. But he always said I didn't understand the importance of grades nowadays. You get one 'B,' half your college options disappear. He wasn't going to do that."

"So you saw him a lot, still?"

"Once a week, at least. He'd come for Sunday service and stay for lunch. Every week. We were very, very close."

"So you'd know about his social life. Did he talk about that? I know he lived alone…"

Mooney dragged himself back to upright, eager to talk about Michael in spite of himself. "He'd pretty much given up on dating. He was married twice, you know, and neither one worked out. I think this was the biggest disappointment in his life, especially after the wonderful life we all had while he was growing up. Me and Margaret, our marriage, was his model I'm sure. When he didn't succeed in either of his, I think… This sounds a little strange, but I think it broke him in some way. Anyway, after the second marriage ended, he just kind of gave up on the idea of having his own family. Said if it was meant to happen, God would take care of it."

"How long ago were these marriages?"

"Both when he was in his twenties. Both lasted a couple of years. And two fine women, too. Terri and Catherine. It seems they all just wanted different things. And of course, the artist's life is never easy. He wasn't making much money…" He sighed. "I think those failures, and the constant worrying about money, that's a big part of what made him turn to teaching, which finally made him happy. I know he loved his work- the kids, the plays, all of it. It was his life now, maybe not the one he'd chosen when he was young, but the one God had chosen for him. It was good."

Hardy took a last look around the dim, ordered, cultured room. If there was anything in Mike Mooney's life that had played a role in his death, Hardy was certain that Mooney's father knew nothing about it.

Driving up the freeway with the top down, listening to the news to check for traffic problems and determine whether he should take the 101 or the 280 back home, Hardy suddenly leaned forward and turned up the volume.

"Police in San Francisco tonight are looking into two separate shootings that occurred within fifteen minutes of each other earlier tonight in the Twin Peaks District. Both victims were shot in their homes, apparently at close range, and both died at the scenes. Police are unaware of any immediate connection between the victims, a middle-aged man and an elderly woman, but have not ruled out the possibility that both shootings may have been the work of one gunman. Neither shooting appears to have been gang-related. Police are advising residents in the area to be especially cautious opening their doors to strangers. So far, no witnesses have come forth with even a tentative description of the suspect in either shooting."

Hardy pushed the button on his dash and flipped over into CD mode. In a minute, he was listening to Nickel Creek again, the haunting and beautiful "Lighthouse's Tale." He was tired of hearing about murders in the city, although vaguely aware that it seemed to be turning into an unusually bloody month. As it was, he had his work cut out for him with Andrew, and for the moment he was out of ideas.

Wu didn't go home.

She'd missed eight hours of billing the day before, and after Brandt dropped her off, she went to her office, and closed the door behind her. By six, she'd drafted the sixteen-page memo of points and authorities that Farrell had requested on the "notice rule," a question of whether or not the statute of limitations had run on a client's malpractice claims against his wife's doctor, who in spite of several physical examinations had failed to properly diagnose her breast cancer until it had been too late. Wu got into it- it was a fairly sensitive analysis of when the statute began to run, at the time of the original non-diagnosis, or when the damage had been "noticed." Plus, Farrell had given her twenty billable hours, and for a change, she thought, she could be efficient.

Sometime afterward, they delivered her order of takeout Chinese and she ate her carton of lo mein at her desk while she studied the files of two conflicts cases she'd picked up- one computer identity theft and one meth sales, complicated by a concealed weapons charge- that were coming up for prelim. In neither of these cases did she entertain the slightest doubt that her clients had done what they'd been accused of.

Nor did either of them deny it. She hadn't even asked them yet- it would be unnecessary and even a little rude before the prelim to press them too hard about what had happened. Better they should hear the evidence and then decide what their respective stories would be. Her meth guy was looking at a third strike if he was convicted, and life in prison, so he had nothing to lose. The computer geek didn't think the rules actually applied to him. He was tedious and whiny and kept complaining about how his court appearances were inconvenient, and why hadn't Wu gotten the charges dismissed yet? He was a long way from being ready to face the music.