Reverend Mooney lent Hardy the telephone in his office- another room of sepia tones- and he called information to get the number of the law firm Blalock, Hewitt and Chance, and/or the attorney, Michelle Ossley, who had evidently handled both sides of Mike's uncontested divorce from his first wife, Terri. Neither were listed in San Mateo, Santa Clara or San Francisco counties, so Hardy placed another call to his office and asked Phyllis to please check Martindale-Hubbell- a directory of attorneys- and have either Blalock, Hewitt, Chance or Ossley call him on his cellphone, if she could find them.

He had better luck with Catherine's attorney, from the second divorce- the spouses had used different lawyers this time. His name was Everett Washburn, a sole practitioner who practiced out of Redwood City, another fifteen miles south. His secretary informed Hardy that Mr. Washburn was expected to be in court until four or four-thirty, after which he would probably go out to the Broadway Tobacconists for drinks and a cigar, his invariable ritual after a court date, if he wasn't going out with the client. Could she take his name and have Mr. Washburn get back to him tomorrow?

"I'm in a bit more of a hurry than that, I'm afraid. I'm trying to find a witness for a murder hearing that's in progress right now and I think she may have once been one of Mr. Washburn's clients. Does he have a pager number?"

"Yes, but he turns it off in court, and then leaves it off if it's after five or if he's out with clients. He thinks it's rude to let cellphones interrupt important conversations. Also, he had a heart attack a year ago and won't work anymore except during business hours."

Hardy was happy for him, but this wasn't any help. "Maybe I could try it anyway?"

"Certainly." She also took his name and all of his phone numbers and would tell Mr. Washburn if he called, which was doubtful, that it was rather urgent. Hardy thanked her and sat at Reverend Mooney's desk, staring at the motes flickering in the thin shafts of sunlight that penetrated the window slats. After a moment, and before he forgot to do it, he punched in the numbers for Washburn's pager, left his own cell number as a callback.

His watch said 3:40 as he swung onto 101 South, heading for the courthouse in Redwood City. Traffic was heavy, but the time passed quickly enough as he took phone calls from both Messrs. Blalock and Chance. Ten years ago, their firm had broken up after Hewitt had died, and though both remembered Michelle Ossley, neither of them had kept up with her. Chance thought he'd heard she left the law biz and moved to Florida to work with her new husband in a travel agency, but he wasn't sure. Neither of them had ever heard of Ossley's divorce clients, Mike and Terri Mooney.

Hardy paid five dollars to park in the Redwood City Courthouse lot, only to discover that here at four-thirty, all the courtrooms were deserted and locked up. On the front steps, he saw two middle-aged black men in business suits talking together. Both of them had thick briefcases at their feet; both projected an air of solidity.

Hardy strolled over and excused then introduced himself. "Would either of you gentlemen know where I would find an Everett Washburn?" he said.

Washburn was a different suit of clothes than Hardy's friend and mentor David Freeman, but he was cut from the same cloth. No doubt pushing seventy, Washburn wore suspenders and seersucker rather than Freeman's rack brown suit, but neither believed in shining their shoes, neither shaved with particular care (and Washburn sported an impressive gray walrus mustache), and both seemed to believe that the smoking of daily cigars with some kind of strong alcohol was the key to longevity, to say nothing of sex appeal.

When Hardy found Washburn in the backroom of the Broadway Tobacconists- private humidified cigar vaults, bottles of single malts and rare cognacs on the low tables- he was holding court with a few well-dressed younger people of either sex. Next to him, an elegant and statuesque middle-aged black woman in a bright red dress smoked a cheroot and kept her free hand protectively on Washburn's forearm.

Reluctant to interrupt, Hardy watched and listened to him for a while through the thick, blue, fragrant smoke. Finally, and again Freeman-like, Washburn called the shot himself. Smiling around at the gathered group, whispering something to his attractive companion, he rose and walked directly up to Hardy. "If you're looking for Everett Washburn, son, and by the way you're standing here I gather you are, then you've found him." He had a large watch on a fob chain that he consulted. "There's barely five minutes left in the business day, and even if I didn't have a beautiful woman waiting for me when I get free, I don't work after that, so you'd better talk fast."

"I'm trying to locate Catherine Mooney. You represented her sixteen years ago in a divorce proceeding against her husband, Mike, who was killed a few months ago in San Francisco. I'm representing the suspect in that homicide, and Catherine may have some crucial information that could free my client." This was a stretch, but Hardy didn't care. "I have to talk to her as soon as I can."

Washburn's expression showed nothing. He brought his cigar to his lips, squinted his eyes against the smoke. "You got a card with your cell number? You got your phone on you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let's have 'em both."

Hardy dug out his wallet, extracted his business card, gave the man his cellphone.

"Let's go find ourselves a little more light." He led the way out of the room, out of the store, stopped on the sidewalk outside and turned around to face Hardy. "You wait here." He walked off ten or fifteen steps and Hardy watched as he first punched some numbers, then talked into the phone, then read from Hardy's card, and finally closed the phone up. When he came back, he handed the phone back to him, pocketed the card in his shirt. "I like the dart on the card," he said. "Nice touch."

"Thank you."

"If she wants to talk to you, she'll call you. That's how I left it."

Hardy knew that that was all he was going to get, and damned lucky at that. If Catherine Mooney had remarried and changed her name, which was not unlikely, Washburn wasn't about to give it to him. Without the call, Hardy might never find her. "I appreciate it," he said.

Washburn waved the thanks away with his cigar. "Professional courtesy, Mr. Hardy. I'm sure you'd do the same for me."

"Could I ask you one more question?"

A quick smile washed away the merest flash of impatience. "Certainly."

"In case I need to see her in person, would you recommend that I stay in the area, or go back up to the city?"

"And which city would that be? Pace," he said. "A joke. I'd stay nearby."

"Good. Thank you."

Washburn checked his pocket watch again, nodded with satisfaction. "And with twenty seconds to spare, too. If I would have gone over, it would have cost you."

Now it was after six o'clock and Hardy brought his cup of espresso to the pay phone by the kitchen at Vino Santo Restaurant on Broadway, across the street from the tobacconists, about five blocks from the courthouse. He had his cellphone with him, of course, but he didn't want to use it and risk missing Catherine if she called.

"Hello," Frannie said.

"I'm assuming the kids must have put the phone in your bed, right? Which is how you're able to answer it."

"Dismas, I'm fine."

"In other words, not in bed as the doctor- no, scratch that, two doctors have ordered."

He heard her sigh. "Did you call to yell at me? Because if you did, you can just call back in a minute and leave it on the machine."

"I'm not going to yell at you. I'm calling to say I'm probably not getting home anytime soon. I'm down in Redwood City, hoping to talk to a witness for Andrew Bartlett. Are you making dinner?"