Jon Ingalls was going to find both Visser and Logan and serve subpoenas on them so that they would be in the courtroom if Hardy got to where he needed to call them. Then, accompanied by Treya and maybe Glitsky after he finished some phone calls, Ingalls was going to check with more restaurants and hotels. Glitsky was convinced that somebody must have seen Elaine that night. He didn't believe she'd been walking alone through a deserted downtown at 1 a.m. She'd been walking with her killer.

But Glitsky, Hardy and Freeman were all in accord that their best shot, not only of finding any evidence, but of introducing this entire line of inquiry at the hearing, lay in the Cullen Alsop/Ridley Banks/Gene Visser/Jan Falk connection, whatever that might be. Falk was going over to court with Hardy and Freeman, a critical link should they need him. He hated Torrey and the whole DA apparatus and was on their side, an invaluable police witness who was hostile to the prosecution.

But hating wasn't going to be enough, and Glitsky was on the phone to Paul Thieu now, pitching his idea. Copies of the lab and crime scene reports on Cullen Alsop that Thieu had managed to get were in front of him. 'Right,' he was saying. 'I' know that. But the lab wasn't looking for any specific print, were they?'

'Abe.' Thieu kept his tone reasonable. He wanted to help because he liked and respected Glitsky, but he had to keep an extremely low profile or his own position would be threatened. And going to the lab on a murder case to which he was not assigned and asking for a rush re-analysis of their data wasn't low profile. It would get around the building. 'What am I supposed to ask them? It was a room in a flophouse. I read the report, too. They didn't clean the place too often. There were dozens of good prints. The maids, past tenants, you name it. They're not going to run every print in the room.'

'But on the bag itself? Paul, I'm reading it right in front of me. There was another print that wasn't Cullen's. One.'

Thieu's frustration came through the wires. 'It wasn't computer quality, Abe, and it didn't match anybody who was around or lived nearby when the police arrived. No match.'

'I know. But if a print was clear enough, it could be run against the database.' This was the state computer file of people with criminal records, against which the lab compared crime scene fingerprints. It was a useful database that could produce matches quickly and cheaply. But you needed a nice, clean print. The print on the bag was partial and blurry. Enough for a skilled and trained human to compare, but not for the computer.'

'You're telling me you want to do a hand search with this? It'll take a month and-'

'No. A single comparison. Visser. That's all.'

This wasn't that difficult a request. Visser was a private investigator and a former policeman. His fingerprints would be on file. Thieu was sure he could find a set of them somewhere, possibly even in the homicide detail itself, and run them to the lab for comparison within a half hour, although how long they'd take to get to it…

'Don't ask,' Glitsky commanded. Tell.'

In the courtroom, Hardy was taking all the time he could with the death of Cullen Alsop. On the stand was Saul Westbrook, the young public defender.

'So Mr Alsop was in jail for six days before he informed you that he'd struck a deal with the District Attorney with regard to this information about the murder weapon. Is that right?'

'Yes.'

'And during those six days, did you have an opportunity to meet with him?'

Westbrook looked into his lap and consulted some notes he'd brought with him. 'I met with him twice, once here in the Hall of Justice, and then again the next day, in the afternoon, at the jail.'

'And were these long discussions?'

'The first one, here at court, wasn't too long. We talked about his plea, his parole situation, logistics.'

'And how about the second one, at the jail? Was that longer?'

Again, the young man consulted his notes. 'Yes. We talked for a little under an hour.'

'And during that discussion, did the name of the defendant in this case, Cole Burgess, come up?'

'Yes it did. The two men were acquaintances. Cullen heard he'd been arrested for murder and wanted to know if I knew anything about it.'

'And what did you tell him?'

'Only what I'd read. That it didn't look too good for him.'

'Did he mention a gun at all?'

'No.'

'And yet, Mr Westbrook, just four days later, you met Mr Alsop again after his plea bargaining arrangement with the District Attorney's office. At that time, did you mention this oversight to him? That he hadn't mentioned the gun to you before?'

'Yes I did.'

'And what was his response?'

'He said that he thought it might be incriminating if he told me he'd ever had the gun. He didn't want to get involved with a murder charge.'

'But obviously, sometime in the intervening four days, he decided that it would be all right to disclose this information after all, is that true?'

'Well, apparently that was what he decided.'

'But he never discussed this legal matter with you, his own attorney?'

'No, he did not.'

Hardy walked back to his table and got himself a sip of water. This wasn't going anywhere. He'd been hoping something would occur to Westbrook on the stand that would shake things up a little, but he'd gotten to here and the well was dry. Hardy caught Freeman's eye and after only the slightest hesitation, David nodded. Hardy turned back to the bench. 'Your honor, my associate has a question or two for this witness if it please the court.'

Hill didn't like it, but then again, he didn't like anything. 'Mr Hardy, you know the rules – one witness, one lawyer. And this is your witness.'

'Yes, your honor. And if you wish I'll have Mr Freeman write his questions out for me to ask Mr Westbrook, but in the interests of time…'

Exasperation was Hill's middle name. 'Once, Mr Hardy,' he said wearily. 'Just once, only once, as in never again once. Mr Freeman, you may proceed.'

Freeman stood at the defense table. He spoke with an exaggerated calm. 'Mr Westbrook. You've just testified that Mr Alsop never discussed this rather significant legal matter with you, is that right?'

'Yes, sir.'

And suddenly Freeman's head came up and he exploded. 'WELL WHY NOT?' He came around the table, charging. 'Did you ever ask your client who he talked to about this urgent matter? Weren't you concerned that he just decided on his own to subject himself to the possibility of being charged with murder?'

'Objection!' The attack had come out of nowhere and caught Torrey flat-footed, so it took him a moment to respond, and now he stammered out, 'Hearsay and speculation.'

But Freeman was on his horse, galloping. His voice still boomed. 'Everything about Cullen Alsop's deal with the District Attorney, his release from jail and his death is supremely relevant.'

The courtroom hung in silence. Freeman had his hands on his hips facing the judge. He was completely out of line and totally confident, and Hill bought it. 'Objection overruled,' he said.

Freeman bobbed his head curtly, thanked the judge, then turned and pointed to the naive, sweet, stunned Westbrook. 'You met your client after he made his deal, did you not?'

'Yes, sir, I did.'

Freeman moved up close to the witness box, and pressed his attack. 'Why didn't you ask him about it?'

'I don't know.'

'You don't? I think you do, sir.' The words flew out staccato fashion. 'You knew that this deal stunk, didn't you? That it would come back and bite him. Didn't you?'

Flustered, unsure of exactly what the question meant, Westbrook stammered. 'Well…'

Torrey was up, yelling, 'Objection!'

As though he'd proved an important point, Freeman spread his arms in triumph. 'Yes,' he said. 'And now it has. No further questions.'