"I don't think they did."

Schuyler shook his head with impatience. "Doesn't matter, Abe. If their suspect didn't do it, odds are she'll walk, right? Your man Hardy's pretty good."

"He's not my man, Bill. He's a friend of mine, that's all."

"Whatever. Doesn't change the fact. The girl's not guilty, she's off. If not…" He shrugged again. If not, Glitsky was wrong looking for another suspect in the first place and he'd be well advised to be rid of the case sooner rather than later. "The point is you take the heat off yourself right now. If Cuneo wants this collar so bad, maybe he fucked up the investigation. Not your problem,

Abe. The trial goes south, maybe you get involved again later, low-key, point out where they fucked it up. But this guy's got a hard-on for you; both of them do. They don't think you're looking for an alternate suspect; they think the real story is that you and Hardy and Kathy West are covering something up, maybe going all the way back to Gerson. That's what I read."

Glitsky simmered for a long moment. By now the room was frankly dark. "Let them look," he said. "There's nothing to find."

"Don't kid yourself." Schuyler lowered his voice. "There's always something to find, Abe. Maybe not what they started looking for, but if you let them get a foothold, start talking to the whole world, get the accountants involved, they'll find a time card you filled in wrong, or a company car you went to the beach in, or some secretary says you felt her up, something. And ifit gets to the politicos sniping at West, once they got the climate established and you're all in some conspiracy together, then the pro liars will just use what Rosen's got and make up other shit. Unless you got a righteous somebody else for the murders…?"

"No. Nobody. Not a hint."

"Then drop it."

But he hadn't dropped it.

He couldn't do that, not while he was a cop and not while he believed that Cuneo had arrested the wrong suspect. Which meant that the real killer was still on the streets, and now-if not for Glitsky-with no one in pursuit. On top of that, Glitsky wasn't about to be chased off by the fear that Cuneo would expose him in some way. Once he let that happen, he might as well resign. He would be useless. No, the most effective way to neutralize Cuneo would be to discover what he'd missed-to be more thorough, more organized, a better cop.

He realized that in fact it would not hurt at all if Cuneo and Rosen believed that he was dropping out of the case. He could use the power of his office as a cover to pursue his own leads under their noses-if he played it right, and he would, he might actually be aided in his interrogations by his witnesses' perception that the police already had a suspect in custody, so Glitsky couldn't possibly be focusing on them.

He did not want this to become a political liability for Kathy West, however. There was no point in that, so he went to her and convinced her that he had to drop the case. He had nothing going anyway, no real leads. Then he told her a little about Schuyler's theories, Cuneo and Rosen, which she'd considered ridiculous and infuriating, but in the end didn't want to pursue. Obviously, the men lived in an alternate universe, but a witch hunt with her as the central figure in an undefined conspiracy theory was something she'd prefer to avoid.

Finally, Glitsky went to Lanier and gave him the news, too, that he was off the case. It was all Cuneo's from here on out. The homicide inspector had done a good job of identifying the defendant, and Catherine Hanover's arrest took Glitsky out of the loop.

So whatever conspiracy he'd been involved in around this case became moot to both Cuneo and Rosen, and he hadn't heard another word about it since.

It was still there, though.

Now, holding Treya's hand, he scratched at the kitchen table. "Maybe I should just call back and tell Diz no."

"I don't think so, hon. This thing has been sticking in your rather well-developed craw for months. If you want to help Diz, just acknowledge what you're doing so you're ready when the shit hits the fan, which it will, I promise." She smiled in her teasing way. "For the record, I apologize for the use of profanity in front of our daughter, too." She looked down at Rachel and said, "We don't say 'shit' in this house, little girl."

Rachel returned her gaze with a questioning, open expression. "What shit?" she asked.

Glitsky hung his head and shook it from side to side.

"Wonderful."

But Treya suddenly sat up straighter. "Oh." Her hand went to her stomach and she blew out a long breath.

Glitsky squeezed her hand. "Trey?"

She held up her index finger, telling him to be patient a minute. Breathing deeply and slowly, she looked up and found the clock on the wall. "We're there," she said.

"Where we?" Rachel asked.

"We're in labor, sweetie," Treya answered gently. "You know the little brother we've been waiting for all this time? He's telling me he's on his way."

₁₆

Hardy parked under his office, in the managing partner's spot next to the elevator. His mind elsewhere, he got in the elevator and rode upward, not realizing that out of force of some long-buried habit, he'd pushed "3." Before he'd become managing partner, this was where he'd worked. Now, his partner, Wes Farrell, worked out of his old office. The elevator door opened and Hardy stepped out into the hall and stood for a minute, wondering where he was.

"Brilliant," he said to himself.

Knocking on Farrell's door and getting no answer as he passed, he descended the steps to the main lobby- Phyllis's station, the Solarium, David's old office, hermetically preserved-next to his own and then Norma, the office manager's. Off to his right ran a long hallway at the end of which was the lair of the firm's third name partner, Gina Roake. Behind the doors and their secre

taries' cubicles, the eight current associates now toiled. Hardy assumed most if not all of them were working already, although it was still a few minutes shy of eight o'clock. You didn't bill 2,200 hours a year if you didn't put in a very full day every day. Phyllis wasn't at her station yet-she came on at eight thirty-so Hardy crossed directly to his own ornate door and was surprised to see Wes Farrell, coat- and tie-less, throwing darts.

"I know what you're going to say," Farrell began.

"You do?"

"I do. You're going to say you're busy and you don't have time for any childish games. Your trial starts today."

Hardy brought a hand to his forehead. "That's today: Yikes!" He crossed around to behind his desk, lugged his triple-thick briefcase up and onto the blotter. "Actually, I knew it was today." He snapped open the clasps, started removing folders. He broke a brittle smile-not very convincing. He liked Wes a lot, but he didn't always work the way Hardy did, and sometimes his presence was more distraction than help. "So what's up, in ten words or less?"

"Today's shirt." He'd thrown the last dart of the round as Hardy had entered and had turned to follow his progress. Now, his grin on, Wes held open his unbuttoned dress shirt. Actually, this was an almost-daily ritual, and Hardy found himself breaking into a genuine smile. Wes prided himself on having one of the world's most complete, ever-growing collections of epigrammatic

T-shirts, which he wore under his lawyer's disguise. Today's shirt read: grow your own dope/plant a man.

"Sam gave it to me," he said, "and that goes a long way toward explaining why I love that woman." He was buttoning up. "Anyway, I thought you might need a little humor running around in your system before you hit the Hall."

"I might at that," Hardy conceded. "Did you drive by there on your way in?"