Still, Glitsky had discovered something they hadn't known before yesterday, and after all the time he'd spent on the investigation so far, that was provocative in its own right. He could follow it up in five minutes and get the last niggling tidbit off his plate, at least to his own satisfaction. God knew, he'd worked every other angle of this case trying to break Cuneo's lock on the apparent facts and he'd come up empty. A quick phone call or two would close the circle on D'Amiens, and then at least he would have been thorough, even if, as Hardy said and Glitsky believed, it was probably unimportant.

So he sat on the couch, picked up the phone and punched up information. Not identifying himself as a police officer, he finally got to the human resources office at the housing goods warehouse store and said he was an employer checking the reference of a woman who'd applied to work for him.

Replying that she was only allowed to verify the dates of employment, the woman went on to explain that she wasn't allowed to comment on the quality of the previous employee's work, or attendance, or anything else. "We have to be very aware of the potential for lawsuits," she said. "If we say anything, you wouldn't believe, it comes back to bite us."

"That's all right," Glitsky said. "I understand that. I'm just verifying the dates of employment."

"All right. The name please."

"Michelle D'Amiens. It says on her resume that she calls herself Missy."

There was a short silence; then the woman spoke again. "Did she say she worked at this store? This location?"

"Yes." Glitsky read off the address. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I have personally approved the hiring of everybody who's worked here for the past six years, and I don't recognize that name. I'll check my files, of course, if you'll hold on. But does she say she worked here for a long while?"

Glitsky knew roughly when she'd moved into Ruth Guthrie's duplex, and he took a stab. "A couple of years, starting three years ago."

"So she just left, like a year ago?" Now the officious voice reeked with skepticism. "Just one moment please."

"Yes."

A minute later she was back. "I'm afraid it's not good news," she said. "Nobody by the name of Michelle or Missy D'Amiens has ever worked here."

Some part of Hardy thought it was the stuff of comedy-Podesta's notion that asking someone to live without a television for a few days was cruel and unusual punishment would stick with him for a while-but somehow he failed to find any of it amusing. Too much was at stake. He had too little time.

Abandoning Catherine to the holding cell and another jailhouse lunch, he ducked out the back door of the Hall and took a cab to his office on Sutter Street. On the ride over, he'd considered calling Glitsky-he'd even punched in the first few numbers of his pager-but then stopped when he remembered that his friend was bringing his son in to the doctor for tests today. He wasn't going to be available to do legwork, and legwork was what Hardy needed.

He got out of the cab in front of his office, stood still a moment, then abruptly turned and entered the garage. Next to the managing partner's spot, the elevator allowed him to bypass the main lobby. And Phyllis. And

Norma, his office manager. And any and everyone else who would clamor for his attention or, in the wake of the article, for simple news of what was going on. Instead, he could ride straight to the third floor, where his partner Wes Farrell had his office.

"I'm afraid I can't, Diz. I'm busy, I really am."

Farrell didn't look busy. When Hardy had barged into his office after a perfunctory single knock at the door, Wes was in one of his milder trademark T-shirts-"Don't Use No Negatives"-and shooting a yellow Nerf ball at the basket he'd mounted on his wall.

"What are you busy doing? That's a fair question under the circumstances."

"Some people shoot darts to meditate. Your humble servant here shoots hoops."

"You're meditating?"

"Fiercely. I'm surprised you have to ask."

"Wes, listen to me." Hardy sat down on the overstuffed sofa. "I need to know what Catherine Hanover's mother-in-law-her name's Theresa-was doing on the day and night Paul got killed."

"Why don't you just call and ask her?"

"I don't want anybody to ask her directly. I'd prefer she didn't know I was interested in that. She's a prosecution witness and…"

"Wait a minute-your client's mother-in-law is testifying for the prosecution?"

Hardy nodded. "Sweet, isn't it? I don't know if Rosen actually plans to call her, but she's on his list."

"Against somebody in her own family?"

"Just the hated daughter-in-law."

"Jesus. And I thought my mother-in-law was bad."

"You don't have a mother-in-law, Wes. You and Sam aren't married."

"No, my first one. We weren't exactly close, but even so, I don't think she would have testified against me to put me in the slammer for life. What's she going to say, this Theresa?"

"Well, that's the thing. I haven't talked to her personally. When I saw her name on the list, I asked Catherine and she said Theresa and she just never got along about anything. She wasn't good enough for Will. She ought to get a job and help support the family. She was too strict with the kids. You name it."

"Wait a minute. Whose kids are we talking about?"

"Catherine's. Her own kids."

"What did Theresa have to do with them?"

"Evidently a lot. She expected to be a hands-on grandma. If you can believe it, she came close to suing them over grandparents' visitation rights."

"One of those, huh?"

"At least. The woman's a piece of work. And of course she's pretending to be a reluctant witness. Rosen or Cuneo just happened to ask her if she'd ever heard Catherine threaten Missy or Paul, and it just so happened she did. It was the truth. So what could she say? If they called her as a witness, she had to tell the truth, didn't she?"

"It's a sacred thing," Wes said.

"I couldn't agree more," Hardy replied. "But the real truth is that Theresa wants Catherine out of her life, out of her son's life, out of her grandkids' lives. And if a few words about Catherine's motive in front of a jury can help get that done, she's on board for it."

Farrell plopped into one of his stuffed chairs. "Okay, where would I come in? If I did, not saying I will."

"You make an appointment to see her as my representative. You're helping me out with the trial and wanted to get some sense of her testimony before she got to the stand."

"I thought you said you knew what she was going to say."

"I do. But tell her you want to hear it from her, and maybe coach her a little. Maybe we can throw the prosecution a curve ball. You know that she needs to tell the truth, of course, but if there's any way she can somehow help Catherine's defense, she'd want to do that, too, wouldn't she?"

"And why exactly, when she asks, didn't you get around to talking to her before this?"

"Tell her I really didn't think she'd get called. And still don't, but Rosen had talked about some motive witnesses, and I thought just to be safe… you get the idea."

"So what are you really trying to get at?" Hardy broke a grin. "I thought you'd never ask."