25

A decent legal mind?' Frannie whistled, impressed. 'David actually said those words?'

'Every one of them, in that order.'

Behind the bar of the Shamrock, Moses McGuire slid a black and tan – half Bass ale, half Guinness stout – across to his brother-in-law. 'He's buttering you up,' he said. 'I'll bet he raises your rent in the next few weeks. You watch.'

But Hardy was shaking his head. 'It was a sincere compliment. You had to be there. I doubt if he even realized he said it.'

'We're talking David Freeman?' Frannie said flatly. 'If he said it, he realized it.'

'Shameless flattery,' Moses said. 'And not much of it at that.'

Hardy sipped at his brew. 'Mose, I once heard Freeman say he thought Oliver Wendell Holmes wasn't too stupid. If the greatest jurist our country has produced is not too stupid and I've got a decent legal mind, you see where that puts me.'

'At least in line for the Supreme Court,' Frannie said. 'I can't wait.'

'In line for a rent increase, is more like it.' Moses wasn't to be persuaded. 'I wouldn't go anyplace expensive for dinner tonight. You're going to need the money.'

It was date night. Normally they didn't do the Redwood Room at the Clift followed by Charles Nob Hill. On a typical Wednesday, they would meet – Hardy from downtown and Frannie from their house out on 34th Ave. – at the Little Shamrock midway between them at 9th and Lincoln. They would have one drink, usually at the bar with Moses behind it, and then repair to dinner wherever the mood took them.

A young couple had seated themselves at the bar by the front window and Moses walked down to wait on them. Hardy covered Frannie's hand with his own, gave it a gentle squeeze, put on an apologetic face and reached for the beeper on his belt. 'Sorry. I meant to leave it in the car.'

'Now, though, since you didn't…' But she was used to it – the constant interruptions were always unwelcome, but they had ceased to be an issue. When they got to wherever they were going for dinner, she would remember to have him take the beeper off his belt, leave it in the glove compartment. She put her hand over his now, kissed him lightly on the cheek. 'It's OK, go ahead.'

He used the phone behind the bar, which he figured was the last working rotary in California. The callback number wasn't immediately familiar to him, and this was in itself a bit unusual – Hardy's legal mind might only be decent, but he had almost an idiot savant's knack for remembering telephone numbers, and this one seemed new to him.

'Banks,' he heard. 'Homicide.'

'Inspector. This is Dismas Hardy. Thanks for getting back to me.'

The voice wasn't enthusiastic. 'Sure. I try to return calls. What can I do for you? You said the lieutenant…' He didn't finish the sentence.

'I talked to Abe this afternoon. He said maybe this Cullen Alsop thing is related to Elaine. To Cole Burgess.'

'Maybe.' The voice wasn't any more inviting.

'I understand the gun story felt a little funny to you. And now the overdose the day he gets out…?' At some point, Hardy hoped Banks was going to catch up and run with it, but he also knew the cause of the reluctance, and respected it. 'Somebody might have wanted to shut him up.'

'Possible.' Banks was noncommittal. 'Strout's leaning toward calling it an accident.'

'What do you think?' Hardy let a silence develop. This wasn't working. He wasn't getting through to the young man. Professionally, they were still on opposite sides. He had to find a way to bridge the gap.

Banks said, 'Well…' About to end the call.

Hardy cut him off. 'Remember the other day at the funeral, Inspector? Asking Abe if there was anything you could do?'

No response.

'This might be it. All I'm asking is give me a half-hour.'

Another long pause. Then the voice more matter-of-fact, a decision reached. 'I got an appointment coming up I've got to make. It's on this. After that I thought I'd go down and see the lieutenant around the end of visiting hours, maybe nine, nine thirty.'

'As it happens, I was going to stop by and see him after dinner myself.'

It was a way for Ridley to justify what he was about to do. That appeared to be what he needed. 'So it would just be a coincidence if we both got there around the same time?'

The weather had cleared and warmed up slightly. Not that it was balmy by any stretch, but the biting damp wind of the past week or so had abated, and now the air was calm, the stars bright overhead.

Hardy and Frannie had miraculously gotten a table without advance reservations at Pan Y Vino, a long-time favorite Italian place just up from the Marina, and when they finished, they decided to take a walk. They'd already discussed what seemed to be every possible permutation in the lives of their children, Frannie's progress with her school applications – she'd gotten them all off – the terrific food they were eating, Moses, Abe, his health and his children. Even Treya Ghent. And what had that been about, the degree of personal involvement in her showing up at the hospital?

This was what date night was for – to catch up, to stay in touch. Personal lives.

They were holding hands, strolling with the mass of other pedestrians up Union Street. It wasn't yet eight thirty. Occasionally, they would stop and look in a window at something. Eventually, Frannie squeezed her husband's hand. Smiling, she looked over at him.

'I'm sorry? What?' he asked.

'I was saying, "… and then my grandmother died". I think that must have been what you heard, that woke you up.'

'Sorry,' he said again. 'I guess I'm a little distracted.'

But she didn't want to criticize him. 'All right,' she said, 'you've been the soul of patience. We can declare the date over if you want, talk about whatever it is.'

Out of the topics they could talk about, in the first years of date night, one had come to predominate – Hardy's work. From time to time, he would become so involved in his cases that he would suggest they drive together to crime scenes, or maybe stop by the jail to interview his client. They would theorize cases to death over meals that neither of them tasted.

Finally, they had outlawed discussing his cases during date night. It still did creep in but generally the law was respected and, in fact, treasured.

But she was right. Tonight Hardy's input to the various family and personal discussions was minimal at best. Distracted was hardly the word. She already knew that he and Freeman had made some crucial strides on one of his cases at lunch. There was some inkling that much of his involvement in several cases might be related somehow. He would be seeing Glitsky within the hour, getting new information from Ridley Banks. The connection between the relationships might become clear. It was all he could think about.

'I just don't want to waste Ridley's time with stupid questions,' he said by way of explanation. 'He's not going to want to help me without Abe anyway. I don't want to wind up threatening him, getting him all defensive, scaring him away.'

'How would you do that?'

'I start talking about the videotape on Cole, the confession, and he's gone.'

'Why?'

'Because Ridley's the one who got it. He's still standing by it, but this new overdose makes it a little funky. He doesn't really know why and neither do I, but it's there. And also, Abe's lost his job over it and then nearly died. All that may or may not be related, but either way, Ridley's conflicted.'

'And you hope to straighten him out?'

Hardy nodded. 'With my decent legal mind, at least identify the issues. Maybe.'

'Which are?'

He stopped walking and stepped out of the stream of foot traffic. It was still chilly enough that his sigh produced a visible plume of vapor. 'That's the problem. I don't know, Fran. I've been wracking my brain all day, especially since I ran into Dash Logan connected with Elaine, which of course is Cole's case. But I'm not convinced he's killed anybody. And I really don't see any connection between Elaine and Rich McNeil. None of it makes any sense. None of it relates except for Logan, who seems to be in the middle of all of it.'