"Okay." "What?"

"I'm wondering if it means anything. Did you ask her what she was doing before that?" "Watching television."

"Wes…" Hardy's patience, sorely tried throughout the long day, was all used up.

Farrell held up a placating hand. "I'm getting there, I promise. She works in real estate, you knew that, right? And she does okay, pays the bills, goes on a vacation every couple of years. But not much extra. Anyway, the point is she was home, alone. She remembers specifically because… well, it was that day, mostly, but also because… I think you'll like this… she remembers the call from Mary."

Hardy was, in fact, glad to hear this. For Theresa to be any kind of a convincing alternate suspect-for the jury's benefit if not in actual fact-he had to be able to establish that she had found out on the same day as Catherine that Paul was going ahead with his marriage to Missy, and that he was possibly changing his will in the very near future, perhaps the next week. She had to be strongly motivated to stop him immediately, and without the phone call from Mary to spur her to act, the theory would have had no traction.

"So she was home, got the call from Mary, then what?"

"Then nothing. She and Mary talked about it for a while, and she was extremely pissed off and upset, enough so that she canceled a date for dinner."

"That night?"

Farrell nodded, pleased with Hardy's enthusiastic reception. "I know. It's almost too good to be true, but there it is. She got a stomachache."

"Who was she going out with?"

"one of her girlfriends. I've got the name and we can talk to her if we need to."

"We might. But meanwhile, Theresa's so sick she can't go out to dinner, but a couple of hours later she's at the fire?"

"Right. But I mean, remember, this is her ex-husband's house burning down, maybe with him in it. of course she's going to go."

"All right, I know. But still…"

"Still, no alibi. I get it."

Hardy scratched at his desk blotter. His partner often took a humorous and low-key approach, but he didn't miss much, which was why Hardy had thought to send him on this errand. "Anybody ever question her about it? Her alibi?"

"I didn't get that impression. Cuneo glommed onto her over Catherine, but he never thought about her as a suspect. And you're right, by the way, that they're not close, Catherine and Theresa. She should have stood up against her when Will said he was going to marry her."

"But she didn't?"

"And he's been paying for it ever since." "Did she say that?"

"More or less verbatim." Farrell paused. "If you haven't gathered by now, Diz, she doesn't particularly want to help us out on the defense. She's finally got Catherine out of the family and wants to keep it that way. Will's happier."

"Will's a jerk," Hardy said.

"Well, at least he's a happier jerk."

"Four million dollars'll do that. Did she say anything about the money?"

"I believe the subject came up." Farrell stood up and walked over to the wet bar, opened the refrigerator and took out a bottled water. "You drinking?"

"No."

"Probably smart." He closed the refrigerator and turned. "Okay, money," he said. "She seemed slightly bitter about the whole Missy thing, to put it mildly. She and Paul split up before he got super rich, and after the kids had moved out, so she fell into the crack there between alimony and child support."

"Yeah, but the community property…"

"Peace, my friend, I'm ahead of you. So she took away about three hundred grand from the marriage, grew it up to a million some, all invested in guess what?"

"I bet I can. High-tech?"

A nod. "So now it's considerably less, the exact figure not forthcoming. But the smart guess is a lot, lot less."

"So she needed the money for herself, too. Not just the grandkids."

"It wouldn't kill her. Hasn't, in fact. Each of the kids has already cut her in, again no exact figures."

Hardy whistled. "So she's made out like a bandit here."

"She's better off than she was. Let's go that far."

"And no alibi?"

Farrell nodded. "No alibi. And one other interesting tidbit."

"I'm listening."

"She bought a new car."

Hardy cocked his head to one side. "With the estate money?"

"Uh-uh, before that. Early last summer." "How did that come up?"

"I told you. She likes me. I have my ways. But the fact is, she traded in her… you're going to love this… her black C-type Mercedes…"

"… for a red Lexus convertible, and paid cash for the difference," Hardy said.

Frannie brought her wineglass to her lips. It was Wednesday-trial or no trial, the traditional Date Night- and they were at Zarzuela waiting for their paella and sharing a plate of incredible hors d'oeuvres-baby octopus and sausages, anchovies, olives and cheese. "How much are we talking about?"

"Maybe as much as forty, fifty thousand dollars."

"And this means?"

"It means she got a lot of cash from somewhere late last May or early June."

"How about from her savings?"

"Maybe. But also, maybe, from pawning a ring."

Frannie looked carefully at a baby octopus she'd picked up with her fork. She put it back down on the plate and went for an olive instead. For his part, Hardy didn't appear to see or taste any of it, which didn't mean he wasn't putting away his share.

"You're seeing how this plays for me, aren't you?" she asked.

He smiled, nodded, reached across the tiny table and touched her hand. "A little bit."

"You think she might have done it?"

"No idea. But she could get the jury thinking it might not have been Catherine. Reasonable doubt."

"But what do you really think?"

"I think she had motive to spare. She hated Paul and Missy. She has no alibi."

"What about the eyewitnesses who say it was Catherine?"

Hardy hesitated for a long moment, then broke a rueful grin. "I'm hoping they die of natural causes before they testify."

All at once the bantering quality went out of Frannie's voice. She put down her fork and looked squarely at her husband. "Let me ask you something, really," she said. "How do you handle them?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the eyewitnesses. What do you tell yourself?"

His wineglass stopped halfway to his mouth. He set it back on the table. "I think they must have made a mistake."

"All three of them? The same mistake?"

He scratched the side of his neck. "I know."

"You think they mistook Theresa for Catherine?"

"No. Though the Hanover men seem to go for the same basic physical type. But Theresa's got fifteen years or more on Catherine. I can't really see it."

"How about Missy, then?"

"That's a better call if she wasn't dead."

"Except she is."

Again. "I know."

"So who's that leave?"

One last time. He twirled the stem of his glass, met her eyes. "I know. I know."

Glitsky entered his duplex dripping. He hung his wet raincoat on the peg by the front door, then his hat over it. In the little alcove, the light was dim and the house quiet. There was a light on in the living room to his right, but assuming that everyone else was asleep-it was nearly nine o'clock-Glitsky turned left into the dark kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Nothing appealed.

He decided he'd go check in on Treya and Zachary and then come back out and fix himself something to eat when he heard a suppressed giggle from the living room. In a couple of steps, he was in the doorway, and Rachel jumped from the couch, finally yelled "Da!" and broke into a true, delighted laugh, running across the rug at him to be gathered up. But the real cause of the baby girl's hilarity and surprise was Glitsky's son orel, a sophomore now at San Jose State about fifty miles south of the city, sitting on the couch next to Treya and holding his little half brother easily in his arms. "Hey, Dad." The boy was beaming. "I'd get up, but…"