Sam's was already a popular San Francisco lunch spot by the turn of the twentieth century, and though it had changed some, it still retained a bit of the feel of a private men's club, with a public dining area in the main room. A side room provided more privacy, with booths along both walls that could be closed off by curtains, and it was to one of these that the men repaired.

McNeil hadn't arrived yet. It was possible that he might not show up at all, although Hardy had kept his invitation vague enough to whet his client's curiosity – had Manny Gait agreed to a settlement already? McNeil had been so anxious for it that he'd called a post-dawn meeting yesterday. He would want to know right away, but he might also wonder why Hardy couldn't just leave a message. He would make the meeting if he could.

But in the meantime, there was plenty to talk about, and Hardy tried to keep the excitement out of his voice as he filled Freeman in on the unexpected appearance of Dash Logan again, this time in his murder case.

The old man, pensive, twirled the stem of his glass. 'Russian insurance fraud?' He was frowning. 'Sounds like the kind of work he'd like.'

'The guy is everywhere. I find it pretty intriguing.'

'Depressing is more like it.'

'Maybe more than that.' Hardy sipped gin, put his glass down. 'I can't shake the feeling he's going to show up around Cole Burgess.'

Freeman was shaking his head from side to side. 'I doubt it.'

'I'll give you a scenario. Logan wasn't being cooperative – the judge told me this – when Elaine came to do her special master work. Dash wouldn't show her where the files she needed were. If she wanted to pull them, she'd have to find them first.'

'Have I already called him an asshole?' Freeman muttered.

Hardy nodded. 'Several times. So Elaine just turned herself loose in his office, going through everything. And she found something she wasn't supposed to see.'

Freeman almost choked on his drink. 'You're saying you think Logan killed Elaine because of that?'

'Or one of the Russians. Or another of his clients.'

'You've been watching too many movies.'

'All I'm saying is we can make the argument and drag our friend Dash through the mud pretty good, and I know that would make some people at this table very happy.' He shrugged. 'At least it's somebody to point at, David. Something the jury might want to think about.'

Freeman wasn't convinced. 'Don't get me wrong, Diz, I love the concept,' he said, 'but it's pure speculation. Maybe she saw something and then maybe somebody killed her because of it. I don't think so. No judge would let you introduce it at trial.'

Hardy didn't pursue it further, though – his client had arrived. As McNeil slid in beside him in the booth, it was clear he was both surprised and unhappy to find another guest at the table. Freeman had no real business being there, and when McNeil realized that he wasn't one of Hardy's old friends that he'd spontaneously asked to lunch – no, he wanted to talk about McNeil's case! – he was as close to hostile as Hardy had ever seen him.

As always at Sam's, the waiter came by immediately. McNeil saw the other two glasses and ordered a martini, too, vodka. If not for that – the brief defusing hiatus -Hardy thought he might not have stayed. The pressure he'd been under recently threatened to escape in an explosion – the blood was up in his face. When he turned to Hardy, there was nothing but anger. 'You're trying to bring somebody else into my case at this stage? What kind of bullshit is this? I thought I told you it was over. We were settling. And whatever, it was all confidential.'

'It is, Rich. David knows nothing about the facts of the case itself.'

'He'd better not.'

Freeman wasn't inclined to stop himself from jumping in, and jump in he did. 'I'm here to tell you about one of my cases. Not the facts. The way it's being handled.'

'And I'm going to care?'

'Yes, sir, I believe you will.'

McNeil's florid face showed no sign of softening. He shot a glare again at Hardy, then took in Freeman with his rheumy basset eyes, his rumpled brown suit, the shaving stains on his shirt collar, the tufts of hair growing from the tops of his earlobes. 'This pisses me off,' he said. Unexpectedly, he grabbed at the curtain and violently pulled it closed. 'All right, I'm listening.'

Hardy let Freeman talk and as always he was impressed by the man's brilliance. Although Hardy had tried to leave out specific facts in his recital of McNeil's problems to David, he was sure he'd let a few slip out in the telling. By contrast, Freeman told his own client's story completely without reference to the details of the case.

It was a masterly performance. Freeman told Rich that he had a client with both civil and criminal cases pending. The leverage of one against the other. The offer to drop the criminal charges in return for a cash settlement. Finally, the name Dash Logan. The similarities in the logistics, not the facts, of his – McNeil's – case. And Hardy, by the way, would never have mentioned anything at all about Rich if Freeman hadn't first acquainted him with everything he had just recounted.

By the time the story ended, McNeil had cooled. A long silence followed, during which the waiter returned, drew back the curtain, delivered Rich's drink and took their lunch orders – sweetbreads for Freeman, sand dabs for Hardy and McNeil.

'Wine?' Freeman asked. 'ABC? Everybody OK with that?'

'Don't know it,' McNeil said.

'Anything but chardonnay,' Hardy explained.

And finally his client smiled, Hardy thinking Freeman the goddamned genius. 'Yeah,' Rich said, 'sure, sounds good.'

'Is one of you gentlemen a Mr Hardy?'

He looked up. 'Yes.' He hated this – someone tracking him down at lunch. It could only be bad news, an emergency, a disaster. And he wondered where the Beck got it.

The waiter was the soul of professional deference. 'Your office called. Do you know someone at St Mary's Hospital? They're trying to get in touch with you. You left your pager at the office, and evidently your cell phone is turned off.'

'Thanks.' He used his napkin. There was no need to panic. 'I'll be right back.'

Hardy followed the waiter through the main dining room – empty tables now for the most part – up to the bar. A large delivery truck had pulled into the alley by the front door, blocking any view, casting the room in shadow. As they handed him the phone, a large pallet of something fell outside with a tremendous crash. Even the bartender jumped.

Glitsky was dead. He knew it.

He called information for the number, let them connect it for him for an extra thirty-five cents. He didn't trust his brain to hold the number for the time it would take him to punch it in. 'You have a patient named Abraham Glitsky.'

'One moment, please. He's in the ICU. I'm not sure he'll be able to take your call. Please hold.'

His heart was clogging his throat. He cleared it. It made no difference. They were playing 'Feelings' in his ear while he was on hold. It didn't make the wait any shorter.

The operator came back on. 'I'm sorry, sir, what was the name again?'

'Dismas Hardy,' he said, tempted to add, 'What's yours, Phyllis?'

'No,' she said, 'the patient?'

'Abe Glitsky. He wasn't in the ICU last night. He had a room with another man.'

She couldn't have cared less. 'The computer has him in the ICU. It doesn't say he's left it.'

'Do you think you could maybe call the nurses' station there and check? Maybe someone would remember where they moved him if he's not still there.'

'Oh, that's a good idea,' she said brightly. 'Please hold again. Sorry.'

… feelings, oh, oh, oh…

Then, finally, a tone, a ring. Someone picking it up. 'Glitsky. Hello.'