'If you're here to see the lieutenant, maybe you want to come back another day.'

'Less than his usual bubbly self, is he?'

She just shook her head, said, 'Good luck. I warned you,' and pushed by him into the elevator.

So he was wondering as he walked the long hallway down to the homicide detail. This was a spacious, open area with grimy windows all along the back wall. The twelve inspectors in the unit had their desks here, most of them face to face with those of their partners. The usual bureaucratic detritus cluttered up the workspace – green and gray metal files, a water cooler, a coffee machine that from the look of it might have been Joe DiMaggio's original Mr Coffee. There was also the working stoplight, which added a certain tone.

To Hardy's right as he entered the detail were three doors. The two on either end led to interrogation rooms; the one in the middle to the audio-visual controls room. To his left, the lieutenant's office was a hundred square foot rectangle that some architectural wizard had carved out as an obvious afterthought. Glitsky's door stopped him dead.

For many years, there had been no door to Glitsky's office. Finally, three years back, after months of trying to cajole the bureaucracy into buying a door, Glitsky had had enough. He came in himself on a weekend and hung one he'd bought with his own money.

Thereby admitting that he cared about it.

Big mistake.

Immediately Glitsky's prize door became an untapped bonanza for any psychologist who might want to study the effects of stress on otherwise normal people whose job it became to investigate murders. After the first impressive flurry of graffiti and property damage in the weekend after he'd hung it, Glitsky had made it a point of honor to refrain from comment or reaction no matter what his people did to it. And they did plenty.

Eventually the door had become a living testament to something profound and not particularly flattering about San Francisco's homicide detail. A large poster of Bozo the Clown with the international 'NO' symbol commanded the center of it, but that was among the first, and the mildest, of desecrations. By the last time Hardy had come up here a few weeks before, there hadn't been a pristine inch left. Burn marks, spitballs, chewed gum, three bullet holes, assorted bumper stickers, picture ads for prostitutes, photos of murder suspects from ancient cases.

The homicide inspectors thought it was a funny, running gag. Glitsky didn't see it that way, but he wasn't going to whine about it. There were other approaches.

One night he had come down to the Hall on a late call and happened to arrive as one of his inspectors, Carl Griffin – now deceased – was adding some graphic flourishes to a wanted poster someone else had tacked to the door. Griffin had been engaged in his artwork and hadn't heard Glitsky come up behind him, didn't hear a thing even as Glitsky whacked him on the head with his sap, knocking him senseless for several minutes.

Glitsky thought that was funny.

Even funnier because Griffin could never say anything about it without appearing to be an idiot. But somehow the word had gotten out. And the stakes had been raised.

Now Hardy stared. The door was flat white. He could still smell the paint. And it was closed – a rarity during the working day. Struck by the stunning blankness, Hardy whistled softly and looked out over the open room. At least casually acquainted with most of the homicide inspectors, he recognized Marcel Lanier, who was seated at his desk, a pencil poised over some paper.

The inspector was looking back at him. He shook his head and spoke with a quiet authority. 'I wouldn't.'

'Somebody with him?'

'No.'

'When did this happen?' The door.

A shrug. 'He came in after lunch with a bucket and a roller. Took him ten minutes.'

'Is he all right?'

A shrug. It wasn't for a sergeant to say.

Hardy thought about it. Two warnings from two solid professionals. The smart move would be perhaps to skip it for now, pick a better time.

But he'd just driven down from his office, paid to park, come all the way up for this personal visit with his best friend. It was the end of the day, anyway. Whatever it was, Abe would deal with it. Maybe Hardy could even help. Besides, he was tired of well-meaning gatekeepers trying to keep him from people he needed to see. First Phyllis with David Freeman. Now Sarah Evans and Marcel Lanier with Glitsky.

'I think I'll just see how he's doing,' he said. 'No guts, no glory.'

He knocked on the post next to the shocking white door and heard the familiar growl of a response. 'It's open.' Inside, Hardy's first reaction was to reach for the light switch, but Glitsky spoke again. 'Leave it.' The room wasn't exactly dark, but with the overheads off and the shades drawn on both windows, it wasn't exactly light either. 'You want to get the door.'

Hardy did as instructed. 'I couldn't read a damn thing in this light. I don't know how you do it. It's got to be tough on the eyes.'

'What do you want, Diz?'

Hardy found the wooden chair opposite the desk and lowered himself into it. 'Nice door. I love the color.'

No answer.

'What's going on, Abe?'

'Nothing.'

'You all right?' After a lengthy silence, Hardy said, 'You want to talk about it?'

'There's nothing to talk about.' Glitsky's chair scraped. He pushed himself back from his desk and leaned into the wall behind him on the chair's back legs.

Hardy's eyes were adjusting. He gave it another try. 'It's after five o'clock. You feel like a drink?'

'I don't drink.'

'Really? Since when?' Hardy had only been Glitsky's pal for twenty-five years. 'Sometimes it's not the worst idea in the world.'

Glitsky came forward in his chair, clasped his hands on the desk before him. When he spoke, his voice had softened. 'I'm trying to work something out, all right? Meanwhile, what can I help you with?'

There was nothing to be gained from pushing Glitsky's issue, whatever it was, so Hardy drew a breath and started. 'You've got a guy across the way there, Cole Burgess-'

'Yeah. Elaine Wager's killer.'

'Alleged killer, as we say in the defense biz.'

'Are you defending him?'

'No.'

'I hope not.'

'And I'm not here to spring her killer.'

'OK. Then what's this about?'

Hardy calmly and briefly stated the reason for his visit, his connection to Cole's sister Dorothy, the rest of it. 'His sister's worried that he slipped through the cracks when they brought him in and the paramedics never got around to diagnosing him as a heroin user. Anyway, the point is he's got to get into detox pronto or he's going to have a bad week.'

'Really? That would be sad.'

'Well, anyway-'

'He was drunk, Diz. We've had him up here since last night, mostly puking his guts. We're still talking to him.'

'Yeah, but now it's been what? Eighteen hours? He might still be hungover, but he's dry. All I'm saying is we know he's a junkie. He's got to get in a program.'

But Glitsky was shaking his head. 'No. I'm not buying into that scam.'

'What scam?'

'Couple of days on the county in a nice soft hospital bed. That's not happening. He was drunk, that's all.'

This was not the response Hardy expected. Abe was a due process freak – he played by the rules. Maybe, Hardy thought, it was the other thing, the dark room, whatever else was eating him. He started to debate. 'C'mon, Abe, how can you know?'

Glitsky slammed his palm flat on his desk, raised his voice. 'He was drunk! That's all he was, all right? We Mirandized him, he's talking, we'll book him when we're through. You hear me? Just leave this one.'

Stupefied, Hardy sat back in his chair. 'What's going on, Abe?' he asked quietly. 'I can't just leave it. You know that.'