He slammed the ball, barely hearing its boom against the backboard or its echo against the project houses down the hill.

Hardy’s face, smiling at him, taunting. He threw again and again until he was covered with sweat. He was in the courtroom, struggling to get at Hardy, fighting against the restraints of the guards, then later against the bars, until his arms hung down heavy as lead, useless.

He stood in the pool of artificial light, unable to lift the ball anymore, Hardy’s face still up there, smiling down at him.

Chapter Eight

Fred Treadwell had his broken ankle propped up on his coffee table. He was listening to some old Lou Reed and feeding Poppy, next to him on the couch, bits of the paté and crackers he was munching with his Chardonnay. Poppy ate almost everything he did. A dainty eater, hardly spilling any crumbs from the crackers. And he waited until Fred put the morsel right up to his mouth, then slowly took it right from his fingers. A poodle was the pet to have-neat, well-trained, smart.

Fred scratched at Poppy’s head behind the ears and was rewarded with a sweet dry lick at his clipped mustache. He kissed the dog back lightly.

Fred Treadwell was beginning to realize that he was going to walk on the murder charge and it made him very happy. Not many people could kill their ex-lover and his new boyfriend and get away with it, but Fred knew that he was going to pull it off. He had already pretty well pulled it off.

Whoever had said the best defense was a good offense was certainly right. These straights-especially the good cops Valenti and Raines-just didn’t understand the city’s politics the way he did. Or the way his attorney did. His attorney, Manny Gubicza, was the best.

Brian had told him he just needed to get some space, to think things over. He hadn’t said he had someone else, so when Fred had caught them both there together, in the act, he had just lost his head. Brian couldn’t do that to him. Brian had been nothing, a mailroom clerk, where he was division manager. He had brought Brian up, finally made him his assistant, and then Brian hadn’t needed him anymore.

Well, no, it didn’t work that way.

Fred had known where Brian kept his 9 mm Beretta and had gone to that drawer while they fumbled and fussed, and shot them both. Wham bam.

But then Valenti and Raines kept coming around with questions, and finally with a warrant. There had been that moment of panic, especially when he hit the ground after jumping out the window and the ankle had broken. But not five minutes after showing up at Gubicza’s office, it had all turned around.

Two weeks before, he had been the subject of an investigation for a second-degree murder he had righteously committed. Now that investigation had gone south and his accusers were themselves the accused. It was beautiful. Gubicza was a genius.

The doorbell rang, Poppy yipped the way he did, and Treadwell slowly put the stemmed glass down on the table, grabbed his crutches, and moved to the door.

“Yes?” Through the wood.

“Mr Treadwell, please.”

“Who is it?” You couldn’t be too careful, especially lately.

“My name is Hector Medina.” A pause. “I represent Clarence Raines.

“I represent Clarence Raines.” Which wasn’t strictly true -he hadn’t been retained or anything. But let Treadwell think he was an attorney if he wanted. Attorneys were no threat. He’d get inside if he was an attorney. “I’d like a few words with you if you would open the door.”

He waited, heard “Just a moment,” then some movement inside, a drawer sliding open and closed. After a moment the door opened.

Treadwell was tall, thin, but not skinny. He looked like he had spent a lot of time working out when he was younger. Now Hector’s age, give or take five, he had a full head of black hair and a trim and solid physique, shown off well in a pair of shorts and a Gold’s Gym tank top. A goddamn little poodle yipped continually up at Hector.

“Poppy, be quiet.”

Hector looked around the apartment. White on white. Animal heads looking like they’d been bought at Cost Plus on the walls. A couple of paintings of pretty obvious phallic imagery. Some kind of music-he didn’t know how to describe it-playing softly in the background. Leather and chrome, white tile, high tech.

The dog stopped barking. Hector stuck out his hand and Treadwell took it, his grip firm and dry.

“Can I offer you something? Some wine. Stag’s Leap Chardonnay. Quite nice, the eighty-three.”

“Sure.”

Maybe the guy was nervous, the way he babbled getting a glass out of the cabinet across the room by the kitchen. Under the cabinet was a counter, some drawers, one of which Treadwell opened, then quickly closed. He opened the one next to it, searched a moment, came out with a coaster. Nervous would be good. Hector thought. It sounded right.

“I can’t understand people who say you shouldn’t age your whites. Or that vintage is irrelevant in California wines. Especially the Cabernets and Chardonnays. It’s just reverse snobbery, really, if you ask me. An older Chardonnay, like this one, simply overwhelms its younger siblings…”

Definitely nervous, Hector thought. But he took the wine and sat down on one of the white leather chairs, the coffee table in front of him.

The wineglass was tinted smoky gray and was top heavy, the stem no thicker than a pipe cleaner. Hector thought it might snap off between his fingers, so he cupped his hand under the bowl and drank a little. It tasted like wine, all right.

Treadwell made his way around and settled onto the couch, the coffee table between them. The poodle jumped up on his lap, and he petted it while he sipped. “Help yourself to the paté,” he said.

“Actually”-Medina leaned forward-“I’m here to talk about Clarence Raines.” Clarence had not really sent him, of course. Clarence was a good guy who played by the rules, and he was going to lose, maybe had already lost, because of it. Clarence had a wife and two children. He was going to get himself an attorney to defend this bullshit charge and maybe even beat it, as Hector had done seven years before.

And lost for winning. You beat it and you still lost. You became a security cop or worse. You no longer hung out with people who cared about what they did. Everything became gray. At least it had for Hector.

Until Clarence had come by for his advice. That had, for the first time in years, gotten him going again. Remembering what Ingraham had done to him. Ingraham.

Then that guy this morning, Hardy, poking around. Funny how things just didn’t die sometimes until you put them to sleep yourself. Made sure.

So that’s why he was here now. Increase the odds. Make sure. Suddenly the gray, like some internal fog, had lifted. He saw that he could do something. Clarence hadn’t hired him, but he sure as hell was representing him, his best interests.

Treadwell sipped at his balloon glass. “I don’t know if I should say something about Mr Raines. There’ll be a trial, I presume, and-”

“You’re a fucking liar.” Treadwell reacted as though he’d been slapped, so Hector kept up the press. “You know good and well that nothing you said about these two guys is true.”

Treadwell recovered. “Are these insults part of your legal repertoire? I can’t see them doing much good with a jury.”

“I’m talking to you one on one.”

“And calling me a liar. A fucking liar, actually.”

Hector took a second, put his glass down, pulled himself back together a little. “Look, Mr Treadwell. Clarence Raines has been a good cop for fifteen years. He’s got a wife and family and pension to consider.”

“He should have thought of those things when he attacked me. Is he asking to settle?”

“No. I’m asking. I want you to drop the charges.”