12

Taking the back steps, Hardy made it unmolested up to the fourth floor, down the long hallway, into the homicide detail. Four inspectors looked up from their paperwork, but none of them ventured any kind of greeting. Glitsky's still-pristine white door was closed again, but this time there was light behind the shade. 'Somebody in with the lieutenant?' Hardy asked the room.

A mute chorus of shrugs, so he knocked.

'It's open.'

He turned the knob and stuck his head in. 'Actually,' he said, 'it was closed.'

Glitsky had his feet on his desk, his fingers tented over his mouth. 'Why don't you make it that way again?'

'I could do that.' Hardy did, then reached across the desk, opened one of the drawers and withdrew a handful of peanuts. 'I must say, though, that the old open-door policy you used to take such pride in seems to be in jeopardy and this, in turn, might precipitate a drop in your tremendous popularity with your troops, which I'd hate to see.'

It might have been in spite of himself, but Glitsky's face softened – all the way, say, from diamond to granite. 'I wish I was Irish and liked to hear myself talk as much as you do.'

'Were,' Hardy replied.

'Were what?'

'You said "was". I wish I was Irish. But it's "were". Present conditional contrary to fact takes the subjunctive. I wish I were Irish. People don't seem to know that anymore.'

Glitsky shook his head, pulled his feet off the desk.

'That's exactly what I mean. Twenty words when five will do.'

'Five can be good,' Hardy replied. 'Brevity and all that. But it's not all it's cracked up to be. Twenty words, if they're the right ones – and that, my friend, is the key – can be downright sublime. And, of course, though few acknowledge it anymore in our jaded age, proper use of the subjunctive is the hallmark of a civilized man.'

Worn down, Glitsky finally came all the way to a smile. 'Were I to care, I would make a note of it.' He popped a peanut of his own. 'So how'd it go downstairs?'

Hardy sat back. 'I somehow escaped contempt of court, but I don't think by much.' He briefly outlined the highlights of the arraignment, concluding with his surprise that Glitsky had not been in attendance. He indicated the empty desktop. 'But then, seeing the piles of work you're wading through…'

A silence settled.

Hardy continued. 'Afterwards I had another nice chat with my client. It didn't exactly perk me up. He doesn't remember anything. The night's a complete blank, which is more drunk than I've ever been.'

'And you've pushed the envelope a few times if I remember, which you don't.'

'From time to time in my youth. For research purposes only. Anyway, I like to consider myself an aficionado on the subject, and I've never had the kind of blackout Cole is describing, which makes me have doubts.'

But Glitsky was shaking his head. 'There's all kinds of new pills nowadays, Diz. The date rape drug. Also, more easily available, Halcion could do it.'

'Halcion?'

'The sleeping pill. When you were doing your drink research, didn't you ever take Halcion before tying one on?'

'I don't remember, really. It's all a blank.' But he broke a smile. 'Just kidding. Is that what happens?'

'That's the word. Complete blackout.' Glitsky glanced at the closed door. He lowered his voice anyway. 'I had a meeting of my own this morning. Batiste, Ridley Banks, Strout, the guys at the scene. I wanted to talk about the problems in the tape.'

'Banks was downstairs in court.'

'Yeah, I figured he would be. I told him we ought to back off from the confession.'

'You suggested that?' This was further than Hardy thought Abe would have taken it. 'Out loud?'

'Yeah, but Ridley was a little sensitive to the idea that the confession was bogus. Seemed to think it would reflect on the way he conducted it.'

'And he wouldn't be all wrong.'

'And he knows that, too.' The lieutenant blew out wearily. 'It's tricky, Diz. These are my guys. They gave me what I asked for. I don't blame them for being ticked off.'

'I don't either, but ticked off is one thing, letting a guy go down on bad evidence is another.'

'Well, there you go. Anyway, my colleagues and superiors were of a like mind. There was plenty to arrest Burgess, still is. He gave us more when we talked to him. Now he goes to trial. It's not our job anymore. End of story.'

It was Hardy's turn to sigh. 'But it's not, Abe. You know it's not.'

'Don't give me that, Diz. It might be. And don't confuse bad evidence with not guilty. Your boy killed Elaine all right. It's all about how we prove it. I want a clean case, that's all.'

'I think you want more than that.'

Glitsky cracked a peanut shell. 'I'm trying to figure out how to conduct an investigation and get more evidence when we've got a suspect already in jail and presumably going to trial.'

'Carefuully.' Pointing a finger, Hardy stopped his friend's response. 'See? I can be brief. Pithy, even.'

Glitsky was about to reply again, and again was interrupted, this time by a knock at the door. 'It's open.'

Hardy clucked disapprovingly. 'You keep saying that.'

But in an instant it was true. Standing in the doorway was Chief of Police Dan Rigby himself, accompanied by Sharron Pratt and Gabriel Torrey. An uncomfortable Frank Batiste. Behind them was an amorphous assemblage of humanity – workers from the DA's office, uniformed cops, a couple of reporters, perhaps the random passer-by. Hardy could see the homicide inspectors from the detail gathered around at the outer fringes.

'Well, well, well,' Torrey said over Rigby's shoulders. 'Isn't this cozy?'

There wasn't room for a private party in Glitsky's office, so at Rigby's command the players trooped across the homicide main room and poured themselves into one of the interrogation areas – in fact, the very one in which Cole Burgess had spent his sweat time.

Airless and without windows, with a small table now pushed against one wall and three chairs, the interrogation room probably wasn't a brilliant choice for a meeting either, but the mood was somehow, suddenly, urgent.

Torrey, in a kind of triumphant rage, kept repeating, 'I knew this. I knew it,' to whomever would listen. Rigby, torn between the urge to protect one of his men and the need to contain any possible scandal on the force, wanted a door he could close with all the principals behind it, and he wanted it now.

'We don't need Mr Hardy sitting in on this, Chief,' said Pratt.

Rigby ignored her. He wasted no time on preamble, but turned to his homicide lieutenant and let fly. 'Mr Torrey tells me that this morning, Mr Hardy here referred to a videotape at the arraignment on Burgess. How'd he get to see it?'

'We're nowhere near releasing discovery yet,' Pratt butted in pointlessly. 'He didn't get it from our office.'

Everyone already knew that. Rigby kept his eyes on Glitsky. 'Abe?'

But Hardy, whose slip in the courtroom had put Glitsky on this hot seat, wasn't going to let his friend burn. 'I never said I saw a tape,' he said. 'Cole told me they'd videotaped him.'

'How did he know?' Banks interjected.

'Come on. He assumed,' Hardy shot back. 'It's not like this is some secret procedure. Everybody gets taped.'

But Torrey was ready for this denial. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, directed his gaze to Rigby. 'Here's what Mr Hardy said exactly. I took the liberty of having the court reporter type it up for me.' He read. '"He was drunk and barely coherent, your honor! The tape of his interrogation shows it clearly." Sounds to me like he saw it.'

Hardy wasn't backing down. 'Doesn't prove a damn-'

But Glitsky put a hand on his arm. 'It's OK, Diz.' He turned to Rigby. 'I played it for him.'