Feeney nodded.

“So I thought I’d start over at the beginning. You’d said there was a woman involved-with Ingraham there always was…”

“Right.”

“And there was Maxine Weir dead on his barge.”

“From what you’ve told me, I’d start with her.”

“Her husband, you mean?”

Feeney nodded. “The stats don’t lie. Look to the spouse. Especially this case. Money, jealousy, the works. Why didn’t Glitsky take him in?”

“Well, he may have had an alibi-I’m not sure if he mentioned it to Abe-but they also had Baker.”

“Ah, yes, the convenient Baker.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Baker solves two outstanding homicides -three if you include Ingraham- and that’s good for the department’s numbers.” He ran a finger through his thick hair. “It might not be laziness. On paper, Baker’s a righteous suspect.”

“But you don’t think he’s guilty?”

Feeney held up a hand. “I’m just playing devil’s advocate. You can’t have it both ways. If Ingraham’s dead-and I’m not saying he’s not-then Baker’s a good bet. So is Maxine’s husband. But if Ingraham’s not dead, it opens a few other cans of worms.”

“I’m sure he’s dead. Maybe Baker did him, maybe Weir.”

“You said Weir had an alibi.”

“Maybe an alibi.”

“So find out. Why waste your time with Karen Moore?”

“Maybe it goes all the way back to Medina. Why is he part of the action again just at this time?” Hardy saw the skeptical look, but pushed on. “Look, whatever’s going on here began with Ingraham. He’s the reason I’m in it. Medina, Baker, Ingraham, me. Something started nine years ago. If it leads me back to Maxine Weir, I’ll get back to Ray’s alibi.”

“And you think Karen Moore may know something?”

Hardy shook his head. “I don’t know. She might not know what she knows.”

Karen Moore was an investigator for the district attorney’s office, a jurisdiction separate from the regular police department. One of her colleagues told Hardy that she was down at Hunter’s Point trying to bring in a juvenile witness. She would be back sometime that afternoon, but he couldn’t say when.

He was back in the corridor now, just after lunch, and people were reentering courtrooms after the recess. The halls were crowded. Hardy walked to a phone booth and called Frannie at work.

“Are you still mad at me?” she asked.

“I wasn’t. I just had to go out.”

“Eddie said that before he went out. He got killed.”

“I’m not Eddie, Frannie. And I didn’t get killed.”

“And you’re still out.”

“I am.”

She was silent. “Are you going back to your house?”

“Eventually, I suppose.”

“Tonight?”

Hardy thought about it. “I don’t know. What would you like? I don’t want to fight you about every time I walk out the door.”

“I’d like you to come back tonight.”

“You know I’ve got to keep doing this until it’s figured out?”

“Okay, I know that. Don’t get hurt, will you?”

Hardy smiled. “Hurt’s not in the game plan.”

He got the log-on from Lanier, who had been writing up a report in the otherwise deserted Homicide room, where he had gone to see if Abe had had a change of heart and come to work. No, in fact Abe had called in sick.

Hardy, saying he was referred by Tony Feeney, left a message where he’d be for Karen Moore when she got back, got himself a Diet Coke and found the room-a regular office with a solitary terminal on a pitted desk.

This was San Francisco’s incident report-suspect computer. One terminal, no full-time operators. Random, unsupervised log-ons. They had not had anything when Hardy worked here, so he supposed this was an improvement, but it was still far from the state of the art.

He did not feel he was looking for anything, just killing time, but sometimes killing a few minutes could be productive. He typed in Louis Baker’s name.

It was an interesting screen. According to the computer, Louis Baker-alias Lou Brock, Louis Clark, Lou Rawls (the guy had a sense of humor, all right), street name Puffer (whatever that meant)-was still doing his time in San Quentin.

Hardy wondered how far behind the computer’s records were. He punched in Hector Medina, whose name did not appear at all. Well, that made some sense-he’d been cleared twice.

Ray Weir was in the database, though. Nine years ago -there it was again- he had been arrested for brawling at a Forty-Niners game. The arresting officer was not Medina. There was no record if Ingraham had been involved- he had pleaded nolo contendere and gotten off with a two-hundred-dollar fine. In ’85 he got busted for misdemeanor marijuana possession-another hundred-dollar fine. He had an outstanding warrant on an unpaid parking ticket.

Hardy drank some Coke. So Ray was a brawler too, or had been. And, as Hardy already knew, a heavy user of marijuana, maybe other drugs. Emotional enough to cry in front of other people over his lost love. How emotionally unstable was he? What if he was on dope, strung out, violence prone, and had gone out, as Warren had at first suggested, to ‘settle things’ with Maxine? Ray’s alibi, Hardy was thinking, had better be verifiable. He took down a few particulars from the screen on his yellow pad.

Rusty Ingraham’s car-a blue ’87 Volkswagen Jetta-had indeed been reported stolen on August 29. But that was all the computer had on Rusty. So the database wasn’t more than about three weeks behind, which Hardy figured wasn’t so bad. He was starting to take down the information on the car when there was a knock.

“Mr Hardy?”

Hardy stood up. “Sergeant Moore.”

She laughed, perfect white teeth in a model’s face. “Karen, please. Tony Feeney beckons, I jump. How can I help you?”

She boosted herself up like a schoolgirl on the edge of the desk. She was dressed in what looked like some kind of uniform, though it wasn’t a set of patrolman’s blues. The pants were baggy and a leather jacket with her sergeant’s stripes covered her blouse. She looked bulky, which Hardy guessed was a good cover. Any kind of close look revealed a toned body on a short frame. If she wore any makeup she’d stop traffic. But she didn’t, and with nothing to set off the high cheekbones, the deep-set black eyes, the wide sensuous mouth, she was only pretty. Very.

“I don’t know if you can. I’m looking into something that happened a long time ago.”

“For Tony? Is this an active case?”

“No, not strictly for Tony. He gave me your name.”

She waited.

“It’s a little personal,” Hardy said. “Rusty Ingraham.”

Warily. “Rusty Ingraham. There’s a blast from the past. How is Rusty?”

“Actually, Rusty’s dead, or appears to be.” He explained the ambiguity.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” she said when he had finished.

“Are you?”

“Rusty and I were old news. We split up amicably enough.”

“Tony Feeney acted like he’d just won the Lottery when he heard.”

She nodded. “I’d believe that. Tony hated Rusty. A lot of people hated Rusty. I didn’t. I felt sorry for him, finally.”

“Finally?”

“Well, at first I was attracted to him. You knew him?”

Hardy nodded.

“Then you know. He was pretty charismatic. Very charismatic. Never lost a case, star of the show. That was Rusty. And I was this black single mother of a ten-year-old daughter and-”

“Excuse me, when was this?”

“We’re talking I guess nine or ten years ago.”

“And you had a ten-year-old then?” Hardy had been figuring her for her late twenties.

Karen laughed, acknowledging the compliment. “I’m thirty-six, Mr Hardy. And I’m also a grandmother, but thank you.”

“You don’t look like a grandmother.”

“No, I know. I work at it, too. I like to think on a good day I can give my daughter a run.”

“I’d bet on you. So back when she was ten you had this thing with Rusty.”

“I was flattered. It was also the first white man I’d gone out with”-Hardy noted the “first”-“and at the time I saw it as a bit of a coup, you know. I didn’t realize Rusty saw me -foxy young black chick-the same way. A conquest. Another victory.”