The lieutenant nodded ambiguously. Hardy could hear Glitsky's heavy, nearly labored breathing and suddenly he needed to stand up. Walking over to his dartboard, he pulled the three customs from it, walked to the tape line on the floor, and threw them back where they'd been. Sliding a haunch back onto his desk, he looked across at his friend. 'Somebody hit her.'

Abe's eyes met Hardy's. 'Cole Burgess.'

'Really?'

Glitsky raised his eyes, let out a long breath. 'The confession's bad, that's all. Ridley got a little too enthusiastic sweating him. It was my fault. I gave him the message.'

Hardy's mind raced over the variables in the situation. It was ugly from any angle. If Pratt hadn't already formally charged Cole with special circumstances murder – and it wouldn't surprise him to learn that she'd rushed the paperwork through – she'd at least gone public with her position. More, she'd made it the centerpiece of her new campaign. In the city's reality, there was no chance that she would be flexible.

This meant that the progress of Cole's prosecution was no longer in Abe's jurisdiction. The police had done their job, arresting a guilty suspect. If now the department hesitated even slightly after Cole had already confessed, there would be no end to the political ramifications.

Hardy wanted to offer some solace, but the pickings were slim. As the head of homicide, Glitsky had overreacted, leading his troops into unsafe and even forbidden territory. As a result, a man was looking at the death penalty and some of the evidence might be tainted. And nobody could afford to question it in public.

Glitsky got up. He walked over to the window.and stood looking down into the darkened street.

'You all right, Abe?'

'The confession can't be part of it.'

'It might be more than that.'

Glitsky knew what Hardy was implying, but he shook his head no. 'Don't kid yourself, Diz. It's Burgess all right. And now I've jeopardized taking him down.' When he spoke again, it was all but to himself. 'I'm too close. I can't be in this.'

'What do you mean?' Hardy asked.

Glitsky turned to him. 'I mean why Elaine? That's what I keep thinking about. Why Elaine?' Hardy couldn't remember ever seeing Abe so distraught, so downright human. Even while his wife was dying, he had kept his public facade in place. And now he was in visible pain.

His wife's theory on the nature of Glitsky's true involvement with Elaine Wager teased at Hardy. 'I didn't realize you two were that close.'

Glitsky's head went down. He parted the blinds with his fingers, let them go. When he raised his head again, he was biting at his lip. He stared ahead into nothing. 'All right,' he said at last.

And told him.

Frannie wore a basic black cocktail dress. Pearls. Spaghetti straps over her lovely shoulders, which were often lightly freckled during the summer, but now – mid-winter – the color of cream. Her bright red hair was severely pulled back, held with a thick gold ribbon. She was waiting at the bar, one knee crossed over the other, a lot of fine leg showing.

The enormous, high-ceilinged Redwood Room, paneled with an entire tree's worth of wood – hence its name – is one of the more elegant and festive locations in a city that is packed with them. Standing in the room's doorway, catching sight of his beautiful wife, listening to the first-rate piano music, Hardy could almost for a moment forget the case that, now that he'd seen the 'confession', promised to dominate his life for at least the near future.

He fancied that this was the way San Francisco used to be. Or, if not that, surely how it liked to remember itself. Hardy wore jeans and corduroys with his sweatshirts around the house, but he gloried in the fact that he lived among people who sometimes dressed for dinner, who lived a bit on the large side of life, celebrating the good things in it. Thank God.

But it wasn't just the physical confidence on display wherever he looked. This room was an oasis in the vast desert of cultural vulgarity. It fairly buzzed with energy and optimism, sure, but that was because there wasn't one television set to assault your peace and insult your intelligence. No advertising posters desecrated the walls. He loved the place. He loved his wife for thinking to meet here, for the reservations she'd made to wherever the great new place might turn out to be.

Unconsciously, he straightened his tie, checked himself in the mirror, thinking that it was just plain neat to be a part of this, San Francisco at the turn of the new millennium. He crossed to his wife, kissed her and got kissed back, pulled a seat at the bar, gave a last expansive glance around at the glorious room. 'This is the way the world should be, you know that?'

The new place was called Charles Nob Hill.

Hardy gave it a ten.

They sat at a table for two in an alcove of their own. The waiter won their hearts by having the same name, Vincent, as their son. Young, knowledgeable, not too funny, he had mastered the art of appearing when needed, and otherwise being invisible. The restaurant's walls were soft to the touch, upholstered. With the candlelight and muted golden color scheme, a burnished glow filled the room. Hardy had eaten foie gras on port-poached figs, then slices of rare duck breast over some ambrosial vegetables, Frannie her raw oysters and salmon. Now they were holding hands over the table, splitting a decadent chocolate torte while they savored the last sips of their excellent Pinot Noir.

'I still can't get over it,' Frannie said. 'Or why he didn't tell us.'

'He never even told her, Frannie.'

She was shaking her head. 'But I really don't understand that. How could he not tell his own daughter?'

'Maybe he thought it wouldn't help her to know.' Hardy sipped his wine. 'He didn't know himself until a few years ago. He didn't want to intrude.'

But his wife had no doubt. 'She would have wanted to know. She would have dealt with it somehow. And Abe and Loretta Wager? The senator?'

'There's that, too. The political side. Not exactly Abe's long suit, I think you'd agree.'

'Although he now seems to be in it up to his neck.'

Hardy nodded. 'At least that far. Maybe even over his head.'

'Where he can't breathe.'

'I hope not.'

They fiddled with the dessert crumbs. Frannie sighed. 'So what is he going to do now?'

'Follow up. Try to get Pratt not to use the confession. And that isn't going to happen.'

'Then what?'

'I don't know. Resign, maybe.'

'Abe won't resign. The job's his life.'

'He talked about it. It would be a stand against Pratt.'

'I don't see that. What I see is that she'd love the brutal cops manhandling the poor but guilty suspect. She'd play it both ways.' Suddenly, she put down her fork and stared across the table at her husband. 'Dismas, she might even prosecute him.'

'He'll be OK, Fran. He's a survivor.'

But she was shaking her head again. 'I'm not worried about him surviving. It's how he's going to live. He's not exactly Mr Cheerful on his best day. Now, without a job, without something to do…' Her voice faded away. 'And I suppose if Pratt goes ahead, you will too.'

He nodded. 'I already called Dorothy and Jeff. At least I've got to do the arraignment.'

'And when is that?'

'That would be tomorrow morning.' He made a face. 'I can't let Pratt hang this kid on bad evidence.'

'And of course that means your claim will have to be that somebody else killed Elaine?'

'Looks like.'

'So you and Abe…' She gathered herself, drank off the last drops in her wine glass. 'Well, maybe you both can try taking care of each other.'

But he shook his head, making light of her worries. 'It won't come to that. Abe and I-'