"I mean, she had a different walk. I think it's rather clear. She didn't walk the same."

"So you'd studied Ms. D'Amiens's walk?"

This brought another rolling round of laughter to the gallery, and Willis glared out at it with nearly the same intensity as Braun.

"I noticed it. As one notices things. I didn't study it."

"All right, then. So this evening you simply noticed Ms. D'Amiens's walk?"

"Yes."

Hardy heard a sound behind him, a dull thud. He guessed it was Rosen letting his hand fall in frustration to the table, but he didn't dare slow down enough to turn and look. He didn't know ifWillis realized what he'd just said, but he was certain some members of the jury had.

"All right," he said. "But let me ask you this. If you were looking at Ms. D'Amiens's walk, how did you see her face?"

"I just," he stammered. "I just saw it."

"As she came abreast of where you stood in your bay window?"

"Yes."

"Directly across the street?"

"Yes."

"So you only saw her in profile?" This stopped Willis for an instant. "Yes," he said with a resurging bravado. "Yes, I guess I must have, mustn't I?"

"I believe so," said Hardy. He wasn't going to push on Willis any harder now. He'd already wounded him badly and the jury would resent him for it. Instead, he took a beat, a breath, then asked quietly. "Mr. Willis, your bay window is on Steiner Street, facing due west, is that true?"

"Yes."

"So it faces the sun as it sets, right?"

"Yes."

"And the sun was out on the day of the fire, correct?"

"Yes."

"Low in the sky, since it must have been at least seven fifteen and possibly as late as seven forty-five when the woman came out of Hanover's house? Mr. Willis," Hardy continued, "to review for the jury, you saw a woman whom you initially took to be Missy D'Amiens leave the Hanover home at around seven thirty. You saw her again in profile only across the street from your bay window, looking directly into a setting sun, in the course of which you were in the middle of an alcoholic beverage made with two shots of spirits and one of fortified wine. Is all of this correct?"

"Yes," Willis said. "As far as it goes."

"I think it goes pretty far, sir," Hardy said. He turned and walked back to his table and sat down next to Catherine, who reached over and gripped his arm.

"Redirect, Mr. Rosen," Braun intoned. "No? All right, Mr. Willis, you're excused."

In Farrell's office, Hardy was prepared to beg if need be. "Wes, I need this."

"You needed her missing alibi, too, Diz. Which I dutifully provided, if you recall. But even assuming the lovely Theresa Hanover would see me again…"

"I thought she had a crush on you."

"I may have overstated that slightly. But as I say, even if she would see me again, Sam and I have a date tonight."

"You have no children. You can have dates every night."

"We do, in fact. And every one a treasure. But this one is actually planned. We've got reservations with some pals at Farallon."

Hardy grimaced. And Farrell, horizontal with a legal brief open on his chest up until now, straightened up on the couch with a deep, theatrical sigh. "For informational purposes only, what do you want to know this time?"

"How much she knew about Missy D'Amiens. If she ever dug to find any dirt on her. If she might have been blackmailing her."

Farrell nodded. "Just the kind of stuff I might easily work into a casual conversation. You realize she'll understand pretty quick what's going on? Didn't the cops ask her any of this?"

"Cuneo didn't, no."

"And you expect me to find this out in a couple of hours?"

"Sooner if you want to make your dinner."

"How do I do that?"

"Your usual, Wes. Charm, brains, psychology. Whatever it takes."

"You really think she did this?"

"I really think it's not impossible. I'd like to have some kind of song I can get the jury to dance to."

Farrell threw his abandoned brief down onto the floor at his feet. He swore in resignation, then looked up at Hardy. "All right, I'll give her a call."

"Thank you. And do me one other favor, would you?"

"Of course. It goes without saying. I live to perform favors for all and sundry. What is it?" "Be careful."

₂₉

The money got Glitsky nowhere. The Social Security number, or SSN, turned out to be valid, although inactive because of the death of the person to whom it was issued.

He'd spent three hours with Lisa Ravel and learned that Missy D'Amiens was a careful and perhaps sophisticated money mover-over a twenty-odd-month period, and with the exception of the straight pass-throughs of large sums to Leymar Construction, she had never moved a sum of money, either to cash or to another account, greater than ten thousand dollars. Occasionally, when the balance in her checking account wouldn't be completely depleted before the next deposit was due, she would withdraw all the cash down to a few hundred dollars, and sometimes this would be as much as four thousand more dollars destined for her safe-deposit box. In all, Glitsky's rudimentary math revealed that she might have squirreled away nearly four hundred thousand dollars.

And that meant that, for at least a few days before she died, she'd had access to that much money in cash. Maybe she'd even carried it with her, on her person, somewhere-in a backpack, a briefcase, a shopping bag. If the wrong person even caught a glimpse, then this, Glitsky knew, was plenty to get yourself killed over. What he didn't know and couldn't figure out was why, other than Hardy's theory that she had been planning to leave Paul Hanover, she'd withdrawn it just when she had. He was beginning to think it had to be some sort of blackmail. A payoff had gone wrong in the Hanover home, and the witnesses/victims hadn't survived.

Coincidence, he believed, was not an option.

But there was something he'd clearly overlooked and that now beckoned as the next, maybe the only, logical step left for him to take, although the specific destination remained murky. Why did he care so much about Missy D'Amiens? Was it just a desire to prove that Cuneo had been wrong all along? Or was it that his gene for justice wasn't being served? He kept discovering more facts about her, only to learn that in some ways he seemed to know less. But he couldn't stop himself. All of this money, her sophistication, the duplicity about where and whether she worked, her exotic and unknown background-all of these factors contributed to the fascination. She was the key to something significant; he was certain of that. Maybe it wasn't the key to her own murder as well, but her story begged for a resolution, and Glitsky felt that if he could provide one, it might help to close a circle for him as well.

And, not incidentally, though he couldn't predict exactly how, he believed it might have an impact on Hardy's trial.

He called Paganucci while he waited for Lisa Ravel to finish her xeroxing, then thanked her for her time and expertise. When he exited the building, his driver was waiting on the Kearny Street side, heading downtown. Even with the late-afternoon rush hour, it didn't take them fifteen minutes to get back to the Tow/Hold headquarters a few blocks south of the Hall of Justice on Townshend.

A large brownish brick warehouse that now screamed desertion-from the street the place looked as though it hadn't seen any sign of life in a decade. The large auto bay doors were closed at both the front and sides. Several windows, high up, on all three visible sides, were broken black, jagged holes, and the others, covered with cobwebs, dust and soot, were opaque. Paganucci pulled up in front of the entrance with its peeling white paint and faded logo and lettering. He put the car in park, turned it off, got out and opened Glitsky's door to the gritty and wet wind.