‘OK, and what were they arguing about? Politics? Money?’

But Frannie surprised him. ‘No, nothing like that. It was the kids. Ron’s kids. Max and Cassandra.’

‘They weren’t her kids?’

‘No. Ron was already divorced once. They’re his from that time.’

‘OK. And?’

‘And what?’

‘How was this new job going to affect the kids?’ Suddenly Hardy remembered the discussion he’d had with Erin and Moses last night. ‘Is this the custody thing you mentioned to Erin?’

A look of chagrin, her own carelessness coming back to hurt her. ‘How did Erin connect that with Ron? I never mentioned him.’

She didn’t even mention him to Erin? This news – more secrets – didn’t make his heart sing. But Hardy had a craggy smile he could trot out for juries, and he employed it now, a deflection when something really bothered him and he didn’t dare show it. ‘I think some crafty lawyer might have helped her. But I’m missing the connection here. Job and fights, OK, but how does that relate to custody?’

Frannie wasn’t ready to say exactly, not just yet. ‘Ron thought she was sacrificing the safety of his children for some vague notion of all future children.’ At Hardy’s uncomprehending gaze, she pressed on. ‘She had come to believe that these gas additives were ruining the water supply. She was all worried about cancer clusters and deformed babies.’

‘And St Ron didn’t want her to expose all of this? Why not?’

She frowned. They were getting to the crux of it. ‘Because the more Bree became a public figure, the better the odds that Ron’s ex-wife found out where he was.’

‘And why would that be a problem? For the children, I mean? Was she a stalker, something like that?’

‘Not exactly.’

He waited, then had to prompt her. ‘Frannie.’

It sounded to Hardy as though she were trying the words out for the first time, to see how they flew. ‘She was abusive.’

‘Who? The ex-wife?’

A nod. ‘Dawn. Her name was Dawn. She was’ – Frannie seemed to be stumbling over the words - ’uh, she was starting to try to make money off the kids. Ron found some pictures.‘

‘Are we talking kiddie porn here?’

Frannie nodded.

Hardy blew out a long breath. ‘Jesus.’

‘So he filed for divorce, but even before it got to court, she started accusing him, saying he took the pictures. And the judge believed her and she got custody.’

‘But he’s got them now.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘He had to take them back.’

‘What do you mean take them back?’ It took a beat for the meaning of it to sink in. ‘Are you saying he kidnapped his own children?’

Frannie didn’t like that terminology. ‘Maybe technically, but that wasn’t what it was. He was saving them. And then, after he’d gone through all that, Bree was going to threaten the whole-’

He held up a hand. ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute! Forget about Bree. You’re telling me Ron lost the custody battle in court and then he took the kids? When was this?’

‘About eight years ago.’

Hardy sat riveted to his chair, barely hearing her.

She continued. ‘He managed to get set up out here, change his name, get together with Bree. And everything was going along fine until she got involved with this Kerry…’ She stopped.

Hardy couldn’t hold back the sarcasm. ‘Everything was going along fine except that he was wanted for kidnapping?’

‘But that wasn’t a real problem-’

‘Yes it was, Frannie. I don’t care what he told you.’

But she was shaking her head. ‘No. That was over. Nobody was looking for him anymore. There wasn’t a problem until he and Bree started fighting, and he thought even that would blow over until-’

Hardy cut her off again. His earlier, patient, and understanding persona was taking a beating. ‘Until she had the bad grace to get herself killed.’ He dragged his palm across his forehead. ‘So where is he now?’

‘I don’t know.’

He tried to keep his voice modulated, but wasn’t entirely successful. ‘You realize of course that if the police get anywhere on this, they’re going to come to the conclusion that he killed her. The truth is, I think he killed her.’

‘He didn’t kill her, Dismas. He’s desperate. He’s trying to save his children.’

‘He kidnapped his children to save them. Maybe he killed his wife to save her. Or here’s a thought – maybe he killed his wife to save the kids again. Maybe he’ll kill you next.’

‘He didn’t kill anybody. He’s not going to kill anybody.’

Hardy would have said that he was at the end of his tether when he’d arrived at the jail. Now there was no doubt about it – he was completely wrung out. Frannie’s hollow denial gonged in his ears, but he knew he was powerless to convince her of anything but what she already thought. Not today in any case, not now.

He consciously reined himself in, sought a different path. ‘So Ron’s gone and you’re here. Telling the grand jury what you know can’t make any difference now to him.’

‘Of course it can. If they search for him and find him, they’ll take his kids. But they’re not even trying to locate him yet – you told me that.’

‘They will be, Frannie. He’s going to be their prime suspect as soon as he’s officially missing, which is going to happen like two minutes after Abe starts looking for him. By Tuesday morning when it meets again, the grand jury’s going to indict him for Bree’s murder, you wait and see.’

This hard fact – and Hardy believed it was the whole truth – finally seemed to get through to her. She slumped back in her chair, hugging his jacket around her. When she looked up at him, the fight had gone out of her. Still, she wasn’t backing down. She said it flatly. ‘He didn’t kill her, Dismas.’

He sighed. ‘All right, let’s go with that. Either way, what do you want me to do now?’

8

Lou the Greek’s was a dark bar/restaurant in the basement of a bail bondsman’s building across the street from the Hall of Justice. When Hardy was at court, he’d often stop into the place for some kind of lunch or a drink at the end of the day. Lou the Greek had married a Chinese woman and every day she would put together her own version of California-Asian cuisine.

All over the city, celebrity chefs were making their reputations and fortunes by marrying the finest ingredients from the Pacific Rim and creating stunning masterpieces – lobster ravioli in a lemon-grass-infused beurre blanc, tuna sashimi over tuscan white beans with thyme and wasabi mustard. Here at Lou’s you’d get stuffed grape leaves with sweet-and-sour sauce, fried squid floating in a bowl of dip made from garlic, cucumbers, and yoghurt. Surprisingly, most of Lou’s wife’s stuff tasted pretty good even if the architecture of the plate, as they called it, left a little something to be desired.

But it was still hours from lunchtime, and Hardy wasn’t there to eat anyway. He was tucked into a corner booth around a mug of coffee, waiting for David Freeman.

After leaving Frannie, he’d gone by Glitsky’s empty office, leaving a note about Ron’s disappearance, then went down to the third floor to confront Scott Randall personally – physically wasn’t even out of the question.

Even though it was well past eight o’clock, there wasn’t a soul in the entire DA’s wing. And they wondered why their conviction rates were in the toilet. Convictions, hell – they didn’t even charge crimes in San Francisco at the same rate as in other counties.

So Hardy went to Lou’s to wait, perhaps to try and think. He’d all but forgotten about the existence of the drinking breakfast crowd – guys and girls who were here when the door opened at six a.m. and had a couple of beers or a Bloody Mary. He recognized half-a-dozen fringe players from around the Hall and wondered how many of them recognized their need for a morning pick-me-up as any kind of danger sign.

But being a supercilious bastard was an easy game to play. At the moment, he didn’t feel he had much of a leg up on any of them. His wife was still in jail and all of his training, discipline, sobriety, and connections weren’t doing her any good at all.