Hardy could understand that. Being tagged for three murders you didn’t commit in the first couple of days after a long term in San Quentin would make anyone feel cornered. So then you decide to break out, go after somebody, someone who represents the people who are doing this to you-in Baker’s case, Hardy. And then because you’re out of practice, you fuck up, and all the good done in nine years is wiped out, all the hope of ever having a life is over, and you try to kill yourself. It could have gone that way…

Hardy glanced at his notepad while he still had Hazenkamp on the line. At the top of the page he’d written the number 2 with an exclamation point and circled it.

“One more thing if you’ve got a second, sir. The two times Ingraham called, were they about the same thing?”

“Yeah. The first time was more general-if he ought to be worried, how Baker was doing, he’d heard about him getting paroled, like that.”

“And the other time?”

“Well, that was the one last week, where he wanted to know the specifics-what time he got released, where he was going. I figured it couldn’t hurt. He seemed pretty strung out. I tried to calm him down. Told him again -really I didn’t think Baker was going to bother him.” He sighed. “But he did.”

“Warden, by any chance do you keep a phone log? Do you have the date of Ingraham’s first call?”

“Why?”

Over the line Hardy heard paper turning. “Just filling in the blanks.”

“Okay, here it is. August twenty-sixth. Does that fill one in?”

Hardy moved things around on his desk. Blowfish, paperweight, legal pad. Slips of paper with other notes from other days. A couple of blue jays squawked on a wire outside his window. He looked at the page he’d been studying earlier and put it next to the one he was now writing on.

Ingraham’s car had been reported stolen three days after his first call to San Quentin. “It’s a possibility,” he said.

He thanked Hazenkamp and hung up. So Rusty hears from a parole-officer friend that Louis Baker is getting out of prison. About the same time, he knows he’s getting a third of an $85,000 settlement from Maxine Weir. Three days later, his car is stolen. He doesn’t rent a car against the settlement from the insurance.

Baker said Rusty picked him up and drove him to his barge the same day Rusty had so clearly for all to see taken a bus out to the Shamrock.

Hardy wondered how many cars got reported stolen that weren’t really stolen-that were ditched, hidden, trashed for any number of reasons, the most obvious of which, but certainly not the only one, being insurance. (The other reasons provided some food-hell, a whole Sunday dinner -for thought.)

The telephone, that mute uncooperative toy that had stared silently at Hardy the whole time he’d been home, now jangled shrilly, demanding attention. Hardy, a slave to it, picked it up.

Chapter Twenty-one

Abe Glitsky chewed on ice as he sat at the window at David’s on Geary. A banner on the Curran Theater across the street was advertising season tickets for the American Conservatory Theater. Abe was remembering the early years with Flo, when they’d gone to the ACT all the time, “taking advantage” of the city. Now they raised their kids and occasionally went out to dinner. They’d been to maybe three movies in the past year.

Was it them? Or was the Theater really dead? The thought brought a smile. Had the city changed? Would L.A. be any different?

He lifted a hand. Hardy was standing in the entrance to the dining room, then pulling out the chair across from him.

Glitsky had reached Hardy on his second call. He had been working on his own agenda, not interested in going back to the Hall and giving Batiste the satisfaction. Hardy had wanted to know about Baker-was he still alive? He had found out some stuff about Ingraham. This and that, none of it seemingly related, finally mentioning the gambling, which was what LaGuardia had been trying to tell him yesterday.

And Glitsky, hearing that, decided he and Hardy ought to get together and shake a tree or two. Maybe some of these people knew somebody, something else. Hardy jumped at the suggestion and here they were.

“Abraham, que tal? Como va?” Hardy in high spirits.

Abe chewed his ice. “I don’t know why we’re doing this,” he now said. Seeing his friend, in his own bleak mood, the idea for the get-together suddenly seemed amateurish, bullshit.

Hardy reached over and took half of Abe’s bagel and cream cheese and took a bite. “You done with this?”

“Yeah. Now.”

“The situation sucks,” Hardy said between bites. “Baker didn’t do it.” He held up his hand, stopping any rebuttal. “Hey, don’t forget, I wanted it to be him, but I just can’t see it.”

“You really don’t think Baker did it?”

“Neither do you or we wouldn’t be sitting here this fine afternoon.”

Glitsky got his iced tea filled. Hardy ordered a cup of coffee. “Okay, you first,” Abe said.

“He was there, right?”

“Abaloolie.” Abe grinned. “One of O.J.’s words.“

But Hardy was rolling. “If he went to Rusty’s to kill him, he would have brought a gun, right? Right. He couldn’t possibly have left it to chance that Rusty would have a gun on board that he would somehow conveniently give to him so he could get shot.”

“I’ve still got a problem with Rusty being shot,” Abe said.

“Well, hold that. ’Cause I’ve got a problem with the fact that old Louis had no clue there was a woman on board. Much less a naked one he blasted three times at point blank.”

“Yeah,” Abe said, “that doesn’t exactly fly.”

“So?” Hardy asked.

“So what?”

“So what are we left with?”

“Like who else was there?”

“Good, Abe.”

“LaGuardia was there.”

“Why was he there?”

“To collect Rusty’s vig. But he says the girl, at least, was already dead when he got there. And Diz, look, there is no way Johnny LaGuardia shoots anybody with a twenty-two.”

“Ray Weir’s gun.”

“Right.”

“So was Ray there?”

“Would Ray know about Armor All?” Glitsky explained the connection.

“But was he there? We don’t know where he was, do we? We just know he wasn’t at home, where he says he was.”

“How do we know that?” Abe asked.

Hardy described Warren’s night, waiting on the steps with a six-pack. Waiting for his friend Ray to get home so they could have a few and get this Maxine melancholia out of the way.

Abe tipped his glass up, flicking at it with his finger until the last of the ice fell into his mouth.

“Is that what we call the break in the case?” he asked.

Ray Weir’s eyes in the bathroom mirror were a new shade of red.

It was probably the combination of the crying and the dope, but how could he face anybody this way? Especially the cops.

Out on the steps. Waiting.

He’d told them he’d be a minute. Visine in the eyes. Listerine. He opened the shade to bright afternoon sun. Already afternoon. Threw the window up. Some of the smoke wafted out.

Another knock.

“Come on, Ray, open up.”

Suddenly just sitting on the floor. Half the pictures of Maxine torn from the wall, lying scattered around him. “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t.”

“What?” Through the door.

“I just can’t.”

Some mumbling. Another pound… “now or we’ll break it down.”

“Leave me alone,” he yelled, collapsing onto his face, the bright sun going out, arms over his head. “Please, please, leave me alone.”

“What’s he doing?” Hardy asked.

Glitsky shrugged.

The landing where Warren had allegedly sat with his beer, where Courtenay had hit on Hardy, was windowless. The downstairs entranceway provided some reflected light, and there was a slit under the door like a ribbon of brightness. Carpeted steps led to the hardwood landing, all of it heavy with mustiness and the smell of marijuana.