Strout's initial reaction, covered quickly, was a twinkle in those pale eyes. He knew Hardy well, and the question was so stupid on its face that he almost didn't know how to respond except with sarcasm. But it stirred him from his complacent lethargy. He uncrossed his legs and pulled himself up straight. "In my opinion"-"In ma 'pinion"-"it would have been well nigh impossible to inflict this wound on herself."

"Im-possible, you say?"

"That's right."

"All right. And turning now to Mr. Hanover's wound. Same question."

"Could he have shot himself there, over his right ear?"

"Right," Hardy said.

"Well, no. I don't rightly think so."

"But unlike the case with Missy D'Amiens, it might not have been impossible?"

"Well, no. If he'd used his left hand, but even so, the trajectory…" He stopped, shook his head with some decision. "I'd have to say no. No."

"No, Doctor? And why is that?"

"Because he had polio when he'd been younger, and his right arm was useless."

Hardy nodded at this fascinating discovery, brought in the jury with his eyes. "So he couldn't have lifted the gun with his right hand to where it needed to be to have fired the shot that killed him? Is that your testimony?"

Strout's eyes were narrowed down now to slits. He famously did not like his medical opinions challenged, either in or out of court. "That's my understanding. Correct."

"Your understanding, Doctor? I take it then that you did not have a chance to examine Mr. Hanover while he was alive, did you?"

"No. Of course not."

"No. Well, then, in your examination of the body after his death, did you find the muscles in Mr. Hanover's right arm to be atrophied or useless?"

"No, I did not."

"No? Why not?"

"Because there was essentially nothing left of the right arm. It had cooked away."

This macabre recital brought a hum to the gallery that made Braun lift her gavel, but it died away before she could bring it down.

"So, Doctor," Hardy continued, "there is nothing about your examination that precludes the possibility that Mr. Hanover shot Ms. D'Amiens and then himself. Is that correct?"

A glint of humor showed again in Strout's eyes. So this was where the apparently stupid questions were leading. He nodded. "That's right."

"In other words, according to your personal examination of Mr. Hanover after his death, you found nothing that would rule out the possibility of a self-inflicted wound?"

"Correct."

"And of course, Mr. Hanover, before he took his own life, could have shot Ms. D'Amiens. Isn't that true?" "Yes," Strout replied.

"Thank you, Doctor," Hardy said. "No further questions."

As soon as Braun called the lunch recess, Hardy gave his client a small pat on the hand before she was led away to her holding cell just behind the courtroom for her own jail-time meal. Most days, Hardy would probably be back there with her, going over issues with sandwiches or sometimes with food phoned in by Phyllis from any one of a number of terrific local eateries. But today-and Hardy had told Catherine beforehand-he had a point to make.

So he gathered his notes and binders into a neat pile in front of his place, then got up and pushed his way through the swinging gate to the gallery. Frannie stood waiting for him, and he slung an arm around her shoulders, drew her to him, kissed the top of her head-the picture of a happily married man casually meeting up with his spouse. He then leaned over to say hi to Jeff Elliot, who'd wheeled himself up next to Frannie before the proceedings began. "I love this woman," he said, "and you can quote me." Then, sotto voce, he added, "In fact, I wish you would."

"It's not exactly news," Elliot said. "Man loves wife. You know what I mean?" He knew what Hardy was talking about, however, and said, "But I'll see what I can do."

The three of them stood chatting in the press of people as the courtroom slowly emptied, the jury first. Hardy noticed Cuneo, who'd nearly bolted from the prosecution table, drumming the back of a chair in front of him. His face was a black mask as he tried to keep his cool, or rather not to show his self-evident fury, as the other people in his row (four rows away from Hardy) patiently awaited their turn to file out. There was only the one center aisle in Department 21, so exiting this courtroom was always a bit like leaving an airplane-slow, slow, slow-While the people in front of you struggled to get their luggage out of the overhead bins, or helped their children or older parents, or just talked and talked and talked, unaware that they needed to keep the goddamn line moving.

And then at last Cuneo was on his way up the aisle, his back to them after a few furtive and angry glances. When Elliot, Hardy and Frannie at last got out into the hallway, there was Cuneo again, in a heated discussion with Rosen. And again, as he saw Hardy, a flash of pure hatred.

"Who's that?" Even through the milling crowd, breaking up in various permutations as people went to lunch, Frannie noticed the directed glare.

Hardy still had his arm over her shoulder, and turned her away. "Cuneo."

"That would be Inspector Cuneo to you." Elliot was wheeling himself along next to them. "He seems a little perturbed."

Frannie turned for another look back. "I'd say scary." "He's just a cop," Hardy said dismissively, "and not a particularly good one." They were waiting with several other citizens for the elevator on the second floor to open. "And speaking of cops, did either of you see Abe around this morning before my brilliant opening?"

"You had a flash of brilliance? When was that?" Elliot asked. "Darn, I must have missed it."

"Come on, Jeff," Frannie said. "He was." She looked up at him, amusement in her eyes. "Or at least, as David used to say, he was 'fairly competent.' "

"You're both too kind, really," Hardy said. "But

Abe?"

Frannie shook her head no. So did JeffElliot. "Haven't seen him."

John Strout shambled over while the three of them were eating their lunch at Lou the Greek's. The medical examiner hovered over the table like a smiling ghost. "Y'all havin' the Special?" An unnecessary question, since Lou's only served one meal every day-the Special-always some more or less bizarre commingling of Asian and Greek foodstuffs. Today the Special came under less bizarre, although still passing strange-a "lamburger," with a bright red sweet-and-sour pineapple sauce over rice.

Strout peered down at the plates through his bifocals. "As a medical man, I'd recommend caution. You mind, Jeff?" He slid into the booth next to Elliot, shot an appreciative glance at Frannie, then held out his hand. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

In the middle of a bite, Hardy swallowed. "I'm sorry. John, my wife, Frannie. Frannie, John Strout, who gave such a fine performance this morning."

"Thank you," he said. But the smile faded. "Though I must tell you, Diz, that little primrose path you led me down in there don't lead nowhere."

Hardy put down his fork. "Never said it did, John. But now Mr. Rosen is going to have to talk about it. Might put him off his feed, that's all."

"My husband has a cruel streak," Frannie said. "It's well documented."

"I've seen it in action myself." Strout was all amiability. "You going after my forensic colleagues, too?"

"And who would they be?" Hardy asked.

"You know, the teeth people."

"Whoever's up next, John. I'm equal opportunity at skewering prosecution witnesses. But I'm saving the big show for later."

"Who's that?"

Hardy smiled. "You'll have to wait around and find out. Maybe I can get you a special pass to let you back in the courtroom."

"Put me on your witness list."

"That might do it." Hardy's fork had stopped in midair. He chewed thoughtfully for a second or two.