Frannie had made him every meal at her house.

At the kitchen table, bottle of beer in hand, he read the back of the postcard. Where was he? Would he be home to get this? Well, she guessed she’d find out next week. It wasn’t exactly a game, but neither was it very serious.

That was Jane. Maybe it was serious, but she just wouldn’t acknowledge that anymore. Maybe, with her marriage to him and then the second one-the rebound-that had lasted less than two months, she could only let things get so serious and then pull back. When their son, Michael, had died, he had to remember, she’d gone through it too.

Sometimes it felt like it had only been him, but that hadn’t been because Jane wasn’t there. It was because he was blind to anything else.

Give her a break, Diz.

He was starting to smell the food. He got up and made sure it wasn’t burning, sticking on the bottom, and turned down the heat a little. He opened another beer.

Well, what was there to be so serious about, anyway? She was good at her job and liked it. She liked him, too. At least that. She knew who she was. He thought, with a pang, and though it had never come up, that she was still faithful to him.

It wasn’t just that he’d slept with Frannie. Frannie had told him tonight, before and after they’d made love, that she needed, she felt they both needed, more time. He ought to go home.

And he’d wanted to go home. Not to get away from Frannie. Not to figure anything out. Just to be home. What the hell did that mean? That he didn’t love Frannie? Or Jane?

The difference with Frannie was that she let him see she needed him. Maybe not for everything, maybe now only for some physical comfort, some familiar warmth, but the door was open. Jane might love him, but he didn’t feel like she needed anybody anymore.

So what was it with the Hardy monster? Did he just need to be needed? Well, if there wasn’t some need, how real could it be? Okay, but how badly would Frannie just need a father for her baby, not necessarily Dismas Hardy? It would be bad luck to get that part confused.

And when he and Jane had first gotten back together, there had been some serious voltage. Okay, there had always been the attraction-that was still there-but maybe Jane’s need at that time was to lay to rest the ghosts of their failed marriage, to prove that it really had been their son Michael’s death that had destroyed her man, Dismas, and not some failing in her.

Now, that done, the point made, it was time to coast.

The problem was that until a few months ago, until he’d gotten back with Jane, Hardy had coasted for the better part of a decade. He was coasted out. Now he was in gear, ready to roll.

He thought about having a third beer, decided what the hell, and filled a plate with the Chicken McHardy. It tasted great.

Frank Batiste had the only real office, with a door, in Homicide. Now he sat at his desk, the door open a crack, and for the first time in what seemed months felt some measure of satisfaction in his position, in the department, in the way things were shaking down. For once, he thought, the good guys might be getting a break.

The word on the dropped charges in the Valenti and Raines investigation had spread through the ranks-guys calling each other at home. Frank had personally called both men to tell them they were reinstated with back pay effective immediately.

At Clarence Raines’s suggestion he did something else that was as much the source of his satisfaction as anything else. He’d gone down to Judge Lyons and explained the mutual exclusivity of the Raines/Valenti and Treadwell investigations and requested a warrant right now on Treadwell.

Which he got and served as Treadwell sat flush-faced and shaken in Art Drysdale’s office. Treadwell’s lawyer had had a shit-fit, which did Batiste’s soul some good, and the bare fact was that now, at 9:30 P.M., Fred Treadwell was in the can on his double-murder rap, at least until the morning when bail would probably be set.

Batiste’s prompt move on Treadwell had also gotten out to his squad, and they had been returning to the office in dribs and drabs, catching up on things, getting the further notice that Batiste was personally okaying the overtime they needed to serve subpoenas, write their reports, do their work. If he lost his job over that, so be it. You couldn’t run this bunch of guys like a kindergarten without the risk of losing them. And if he lost these handpicked pros, then his own numbers, and eventually his job, would also go to hell.

So he sat enjoying the hum of men working-day guys in at night, bullshitting, getting coffee, picking up mail and paperwork. He was soaring on adrenaline-getting the warrant and arresting Treadwell, making some real management decisions-and was taking the opportunity to write it up for Chief Rigby. Sometime in the next week, he was confident the City and County would find some way to clear the money for the overtime. Or they wouldn’t find it in the budget and they’d have to borrow from another pot. Batiste thought even the most fuzzy-headed bleeding hearts among the supervisors might realize that taking killers off the street should be a priority item for a police department.

Still, homicide inspector wasn’t a punch-in job and it was plain stupid to act like it could be. Of course, the powers that be in this loony-tune city might still kick his ass over it.

“Fuck it,” he said.

“Fuck what?”

Abe Glitsky was back, standing in the doorway, not looking very sick. Batiste had no intention of mentioning it. “Oh, I don’t know, take your pick. The supervisors, Rigby and his chicken patrol.” He put the tip of his pen in his mouth. “Come to think of it, I ought to mention that. They got money for that, they can pay some overtime.”

“Right on,” Abe said, pulling a chair out from the wall. “Listen, Frank, I want you to know, I’ve sent in that application to L.A.”

The lieutenant put his pen down. “Don’t do that.”

Glitsky shifted in the chair. “It’s already done.”

“Well, I mean don’t go. What’re you gonna do there in L.A.?”

“What am I doing here?”

“You know what you’re doing here. We need you here.”

Glitsky smiled, the scar a tight white line through his lips. Batiste held up a hand. “That’s not b.s., Abe. I don’t spout the line, you know that. And I need you here.”

“Thanks, Frank, that’s nice to hear. But if you get a call for a reference, give them some kind words, would you?”

He nodded. “Of course I’ll do that. But look, why don’t you take a few days off, think about it. Maybe you’re just having a little burnout. Take a vacation.”

“I took today off and thought about it, Frank. I’m not burned out. I still want to be a cop. Worse, I suppose, I am a cop, like it or not. I just want to be able to do my job.”

Batiste ran down the day’s improvements.

“Yeah, I heard. That’s great, but it’s like a Band-Aid.”

“Come on. It’s not all that bad here. It’s just bureaucracy, and that’s everywhere. You think L.A. will be better? It’s so much bigger, it’s got to be worse.”

“I can’t see the chief in L.A. pulling lab time over homicides ’cause some guys do a bullshit prank.”

“Chicken shit,” Frank corrected him, and Abe had to smile. “There’s rot from the top, Frank, and I’m not sure it’s just bureaucracy.”

“What it is, is over.” Batiste got up from behind his desk, went and opened the door. “Forget the past week and look out there. Business as usual.”

Abe half turned to look. “It’s like your wife has an affair that’s ended and you’re supposed to pretend it didn’t happen?”

“Sometimes, maybe, yeah.” He closed the door all the way. “But you didn’t come in here to ask for a reference. I mean, you were already in on something else.”

“You ought to be an investigator, Frank. Figuring out shit like that.”

Batiste was back in his seat behind the desk. He unwrapped a hard candy from his top drawer and popped it into his mouth. “So you were working.” Said with satisfaction.