"All right, but if you don't file a complaint, then officially nothing happened," Glitsky said. "That'll be the story."

"But nothing really did happen." "He didn't touch you?" "Yes. I already said that."

"Well, that's something. It's grounds for a complaint." He wanted to add that if she wanted to know what he'd do if he were in a similar position, he would file immediately. But he couldn't say that. It was completely her decision, and couldn't be any of his.

"Well, maybe, but even so… I'll think about it."

₇

Hardy and Glitsky were at the counter of the Swan Oyster Depot on Polk Street, way in the back, eating fried oysters and iceberg lettuce salad with Louie dressing. Hardy nursed a beer while Glitsky, incognito without his hat on and with his old flight jacket covering the uniform, stuck with his standard iced tea. "And of course," Hardy was saying, "if you get the message through to him in any official way at all, he'll either accuse her of lying or you of making it up." He sipped his beer. "It just gets better and better, doesn't it?"

"I've got to tell him. I can't not tell him."

"I thought that was why you needed to see me so urgently. So I could advise you how not to do just that."

"But I've got to."

"Okay, then. Now maybe we can enjoy this fine lunch." "If she-Hanover, I mean-doesn't file a complaint, it didn't happen."

"I thought we were done with the discussion."

"So it's really not a department matter."

"If you say so. On-duty cop hits on pretty witness- I'm assuming she's pretty…"

"I haven't seen her, but it doesn't matter."

"Of course not. I jest. But pretty or not, witness gets hit on…"

"Possible suspect gets hit on."

"That, too. But whatever, she gets hit on, maybe even assaulted, depending on your definition of the term, by an on-duty officer. You're saying that it's not a department matter?"

Glitsky chewed ice from his tea.

"I'm hoping you've already written a memo to file, at least." Reading Glitsky's face, he went on. "Okay, and this is your legal adviser talking, do that first, as soon as you get back to your office. Then at least you're covered if it gets bigger or, God forbid, Cuneo rapes her or kills her or something." He wiped some dressing around the plate with a crust of sourdough. "It's got to get official in some way. Don't tell Cuneo directly. Take it to Batiste, man to man. He'll support you."

"Maybe not. He's none too pleased with me at this exact moment-the Chronicle picture. Besides which, he won't want to be bothered. It's my problem."

"No. Your problem is that you think it's your problem. We've already determined by the process of rigorous debate that this is a police department matter, and

Frank's the chief of police. So it's his problem more than yours. He'll probably fire Cuneo, in fact."

"Not without a complaint he won't."

"Call Hanover back. Convince her to file one."

"Good idea. Except what if she's the killer?"

"That would be bad luck, I admit."

"More than that."

"And how likely is that anyway? That she's the killer?"

"I don't have any idea. I'm completely out of the loop on Cuneo's suspects or anything else, for that matter. She sang me a long song about money that gives her plenty of motive, but it sounded like everybody else in the family knew the same tune. And you know a guy like Paul Hanover always had some deals going on. You see the profile on him Channel Four did last night? He had his hands in a dozen pots, and not just here in the city. Or Missy. Nobody knows squat about her either, except that she spent a lot of money on the house."

"Well, there you go."

"What?"

"Who'd she spend the money with?"

"I don't know. The contractor, I'd guess." He put down his tea, wrote a note to himself on his memo pad. "But that's not your worst idea."

"Thank you. But back to Cuneo…"

"Always back to Cuneo."

"Well, yeah. You blame me?"

Glitsky considered the question for a long minute.

"No," he said at last. He chewed more ice. "I could just finesse it."

"How could you do that?"

"I just block his access to her. He's on nights, right? I make it a point to take her statements during the days. He doesn't have a reason to see her again."

"Maybe he doesn't need one."

But Glitsky shook his head. "No, he won't take it further if he doesn't see her on duty."

"You know this for a fact?"

"I've heard rumors. It's a pattern."

"So he's done this kind of thing before?"

A shrug, then a nod. "And they don't all resent it, either. The magic of the uniform, even if he doesn't wear one. Marcel told me he had a thing with his shrink after she stopped seeing him professionally."

"You're shitting me."

"Would that I were. Apparently he thinks there's no harm in asking, or letting a witness know you think she's hot."

"Any of these documented?"

"You mean as assault or harassment? Nope. They said yes."

"So he's just a dick? Pardon the pun." "At least that."

The two men took a break to eat. Glitsky finished first and was chewing ice again when he said, "I'm going right to him, cop to cop. Tell him what she said, say he might want to be a little discreet."

"Be his friend."

"Exactly. Keep him close."

Hardy swallowed his last oyster, tipped his beer up. "I've heard worse plans," he said. "But do yourself a favor first."

"What's that?"

"Memo to file."

Two o'clock, and Cuneo was blasting away with the Beach Boys. Not that Dennis Wilson was a rock drummer in the league of, say, Charlie Watts of the Stones, or any of the big band guys, but he beat the living hell out of his skins, and sometimes Cuneo just wanted to play loud and hard, not good. He was letting the cymbals ring at the end of "Help Me, Rhonda" when he heard the knock on his front door.

"Hold on!" Barefoot, drenched with sweat, he was wearing a tank top over a pair of lime green swim trunks. Because of his location he didn't get a lot of action at his front door, so the knock was a little unusual in itself. And he'd been a cop long enough-thirteen years-that he carried the standard load of paranoia around with him wherever he went. His gun and shoulder holster hung from the back of one of the chairs in his kitchen, and he skipped the three steps over to it and had the weapon in his hand within about two seconds. "Just a sec," he said. "Coming."

But first he parted the gauzy white living room drapes and looked out. On the concrete apron that comprised his front yard was a city-issue car with a uniformed driver behind the wheel. Pulling the curtains further apart, he put his eye against the window and saw Glitsky standing at ease on his stoop, so he set the gun on top of his television set, went to the door and opened it.

Glitsky began in an amiable way, with a grotesque but perhaps sincere attempt at a smile. "Sorry to bother you, Inspector, but I didn't know if my messages were getting through, and we need to get on the same page with this Hanover thing. It's heating up pretty fast. You mind?"

"No. Sure. Good idea." Cuneo, thrown off-balance, half turned back to his room. "I was just doing my workout. I haven't got to my messages yet. I think we must have just missed each other last night. I stopped by your office."

"That's all right. I was in and out." Glitsky cast a quick glance over Cuneo's shoulder. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I? You got company?"

"No. Just me." Cuneo backed up a bit and said, "You want to come in? We can sit."

"Thanks." A step into the room, Glitsky stopped. "Cool place, great location." He pointed at the drums. "How long have you been playing?"

"A couple of years now. It blows off energy."