'They're going to claim it's political.'

Glitsky snorted. 'They don't support much of what I do, but I've got to believe they won't step on me for this. There's probable cause here in spades. In fact, I'm going to put somebody on a warrant for the Glock tomorrow. See if it's where he said it was, what it might tell us...' He indicated the cars before them. 'Maybe that Glock has spent some time in one of these, and picked up something for its troubles.'

They'd come up to Canetta's car, on their left. Glitsky pulled some latex gloves from his jacket pocket, handed a couple to Hardy, pulled his on, and stood over the yawning trunk.

'What are we looking for?' Hardy came up beside him.

'There shouldn't be anything,' Glitsky responded. 'The theory is it's all bagged and labeled at the lab, or if they're done boxed up in the locker.' And in fact, the trunk looked pretty well cleaned out. Still, they checked the wheel wells, under the rug, under the speakers - everywhere.

Hardy went up the pa.s.senger side, Glitsky the driver's. The front seat had been removed, although there was still fresh evidence of the blood Canetta had spilled on the rug. The visors had nothing stuck under or in them. The glove compartment was empty. In the back, it was the same story.

Glitsky wasn't saying a word and though Hardy still wasn't sure why they were doing this, he was along for the duration. Over at Griffin's car, as with Canetta's, they started at the trunk. There was a little more evidence that Carl had lived and worked in his vehicle - beverage stains, tobacco burns - but it had evidently been sanitized by a team of professionals.

At least, until they came to the back doors. The back seat and the rug in front of it contained the usual, by now, stains and odors, and Hardy was about to stand up when Glitsky made a sign. 'Last one,' he said. And they lifted the back seat up.

Hardy whistled.

Glitsky looked for a moment, his expression fixed. 'Don't touch,' he said. 'Let's go.'

They crossed back to the guard's booth, and Glitsky picked up the telephone and punched in some numbers. 'Get me operations,' he told the dispatcher. 'Is Leon Timms on call? Good. Page him. Yes, ma'am, right now. Have him call me.'

Glitsky gave his number and they waited two minutes or less. The phone rang.

'Leon, Abe. I'm down here at the garage and just had occasion to lift the back seat of Carl Griffin's car. Yeah. Uh huh. Well, they missed this. Uh huh. I know. I am, too.'

He rolled his eyes at Hardy. 'Well, listen, the point is that we're behind the curve on this investigation, you might have noticed. Right. Leon, listen up. Just so we're clear, I expect all that waste paper, Kleenex, French fries, sugar cones, condoms, coins, bullets, shoelaces, boxtops, coupons, lottery tickets - everything - to be checked out, bagged, and catalogued, and up at the lab by the morning. Starting now. Uh huh. That's right, it is. I know. I don't care.'

Hardy had no confidence that he'd be able to stay awake on the ride across town to Erin's. Freeman's building was closer, and there were still things to do there.

Now, on his couch back in his office, he fought to keep his eyes open. He had his legal pad beside him and had drafted the motion he'd submit to the court - to Marian Braun in fact - on vacating Frannie's contempt citation. He checked his watch - nearly one o'clock.

He read another line, nearly dozed, and started awake.

There on the low table in front of him, weighted down by his gun, was every sc.r.a.p of paper he'd acc.u.mulated over the past four days. He was going to read them thoroughly when he finished his motion. He started to fade again.

The gun. He'd berated himself recently for allowing himself to fall asleep with the gun in plain view next to him, and this time he wasn't going to do that.

His legs didn't want to answer him, his shoulder throbbed, and his mouth was dust, but he made himself walk to his desk, open the drawer, put the gun in, and lock it.

It seemed a long uphill mile all the way over to the light switch by the door and then back to the couch, but he finally made it, pulled his jacket over him, and fell to the side, asleep before he knew what had hit him.

29.

It was nominally a breakfast meeting in the mayor's private suite at City Hall, but none of the partic.i.p.ants, except one, seemed to have much of an appet.i.te. The plate of sweet rolls sat unmolested in the center of the long, rectangular table.

By ten minutes past seven the mayor himself - Richard Washington - hadn't made his appearance. But everyone else had a.s.sembled and gotten their coffee poured by seven a.m., the hour his honor had appointed for this emergency session.

It was the first time Scott Randall had ever been inside the mayor's offices and typically, although by a wide margin the youngest person in the room, he was unimpressed. Someday, he thought it was entirely possible he might wind up here himself. He'd do the walls a different color - something that said power a little more distinctly, though still subtly. Maroon, perhaps.

He stood off by himself beside the vast sideboard under an ornately framed mirror at the far end of the room. He was on his second Danish - he'd wolfed the first - and now sipped at his coffee as he surveyed the other guests. Sharron Pratt, his boss, was in an intense discussion with Dan Rigby, the chief of police, and Peter Struler - Randall's own DA investigator.

The attendance of Marian Braun was a surprise to Randall - Superior Court judges often liked to pretend they were above the political fray. But she had obviously come at the mayor's bidding, although she was fastidiously ignoring everyone, and obviously unhappy. Pencil in hand, ostentatiously making notes on some thick doc.u.ment in a three-ring black binder, she'd already been sitting at the table when Randall had arrived.

The mayor's major domo was unfortunately named Richard, too. Scott Randall suppressed a smile recalling that the common name led to the inevitable sobriquets of 'Big d.i.c.k' and 'Little d.i.c.k' for the mayor and his a.s.sistant. Little d.i.c.k was chatting with a couple of staff members that Randall recognized, although their names escaped him.

Finally - Randall checked his watch: seven thirteen - Mayor Washington burst into the room. Purposeful, overworked, impatient, he was talking at high volume to a middle-aged woman who trailed behind him scribbling non-stop in a steno pad. Washington wore a camel's hair coat over his suit. He was reasonably tall and nearly burly. Broken nose, veins in the face, a lot of unkempt gray hair. Walking fast as he came through the door, he kept coming until he got to his seat at the head of the table, when he stopped almost as though surprised at where he'd come to rest.

'All right.' He nearly bellowed, eyes all over the room. 'Everybody here? Let's get going.'

Little d.i.c.k had appeared behind him and helped him out of the overcoat, an automatic operation the mayor did not acknowledge in any way. By the time Washington was down in his chair, the woman had poured and flavored his coffee - three sugars and cream, Randall noticed - and had disappeared.

The mayor slurped from the cup, swallowed, and waited an instant for one of the staffers to stop fidgeting in her seat. After another moment, Marian Braun looked up, put her pencil down, and closed her binder.

Washington nodded at her and looked around the table, coming to rest on the young man near the far end. 'You're Randall,' he said, pointing a thick finger.

'Yes, sir.'

'How old are you, son?'

Randall bridled slightly at the condescension, but what could he do? 'Thirty-three, sir.'

'You married? Children?'

'No. Neither.'

Washington had him on the hot seat and seemed content to let him cook a minute. He slurped some more coffee. 'Somebody pa.s.s those rolls down here, will you? Thanks.' He randomly grabbed from the pile, took a bite, and chewed. 'You know why we're all here.' He wasn't asking.

Randall swallowed drily. 'The Frannie Hardy matter, I believe.'

'That's correct.'

At this formal corroboration of the reason that this meeting had been called, Marian Braun spoke up. 'Excuse me, Richard, but that being the case I can't be here. I can't discuss a case that's before my court.' She was already starting to get up.

But the mayor wasn't impressed. 'Why don't you stick around anyway, Marian, in case the second half of this conversation concerns the court budget for next year. Maybe that will be worthy of your attention.' He directed a fierce glare at her, and eventually, she yielded to it and settled herself back in her chair.

Richard Washington took another deep draught of coffee, and carefully replaced the cup in its china saucer. The silence was perfect.

The rage came from nowhere, which made it all the more effective. Suddenly the mayor slapped the flat of his palm on the table with enormous force. China rattled and some coffee spilled. Everyone jumped. 'Do you have any idea the amount of trouble you've caused with this, Mr Randall?' he exploded. 'Any idea?'

It took a split second even for the quick-witted Randall to recover. 'It was part of my investigation into-'

Washington interrupted again. 'You think we're all operating in a vacuum? Well, let me help you out...'

Pratt interrupted. 'With respect, sir...'

The mayor didn't seem any too happy with the DA, either. He faced her and snapped. 'What, Sharron?'

'The issue isn't that it's caused some political trouble. The issue is legal. Mr Randall did the right thing.'

Washington conjured with that for a moment. His voice with its normal inflection was almost more frightening. 'I absolutely reject that,' he said. 'What he did - what Marian did, too, for that matter - might not be illegal, but I wouldn't go so far as to say it was right.'

Pratt retained the serenity that only knowing that you are right can provide. 'The woman refused to cooperate with the grand jury, Richard. She was belligerent and disrespectful.'

'She was a housewife worried about picking up her children. That's what the media seems to have settled on, that's what Jeff Elliot wrote about yesterday. And now her house has been burned. Did any of you happen to notice that?'

'That's irrelevant,' Pratt responded. 'What's your point, Richard?'

'My point is that I'm taking a tremendous amount of flack for allowing this travesty to continue in my city. Mr Randall, in his inexperience, over-reacted. Folks, I want the woman released. Today.'

A collective gasp, then silence fell around the table.

'I can't do that, Richard.' Braun was firm. 'The first contempt citation expires tonight, and she has to serve that out. Mr Randall here can call her before the grand jury first thing tomorrow morning, at which point her continued incarceration will be up to her if she decides to talk or Mr Randall if she decides not to.'

The mayor made no effort to hide his sarcasm. 'Thank you, your honor, but I want it clear that holding innocent citizens in jail out of personal pique doesn't sit well with me.'

Randall finally found his voice again. 'The woman is not innocent, your honor. She knows something.'

'She knows something.' Washington nodded, his mouth twitching at the corners. 'I'm glad you brought that up, Mr Randall. Chief Rigby,' he whirled, 'has anyone been charged or indicted in the murder of Bree Beaumont to date?'

'No, sir.'

'So this Hardy woman knows something about somebody, but we don't know what and we don't know if it's got anything to do with that murder?'

No one answered. Washington glared around the table. 'And yet she sits in jail.' He shook his mane of hair in disgust. 'I called this meeting to acquaint all of you with my very strong feelings about this matter. I'm going to air those feelings at this morning's press conference, and I wanted to do all of you the courtesy of a heads up. No one has more respect than I do, Marian - and you, too, Sharron - for the judicial process. But I'm hard pressed to believe that this woman knowingly holds the key to a murder. So this is mere pettiness.' He pointed again at Randall. 'And, son, for you, this is what we call overweening ambition. It's not an admirable quality. If you hadn't tried to end-run the police department, we wouldn't be here now. Chief Rigby?'

'Yes, sir.' From his expression, he knew what was coming. The chief of police was the p.a.w.n of the mayor, appointed by him, accountable to him. And Rigby had just found himself on the wrong side of the fence.

'Apparently you've been trying to make kissy-face with Ms Pratt so that her fear and loathing of the police would not too greatly interfere with the day-to-day workings of the department. I even applaud your intentions. But we've got a homicide department and it's not run by Mr Struler here, or by Ms Pratt. If you don't like Glitsky, get a new head of homicide. But the police department investigates murders and you back up your people. Clear?'

It was to Rigby. But Washington wasn't through yet. 'Sharron, Marian. You're both elected officials. I'm just a layman in matters of the law, but this comes across as serious arrogance and the public seems to have a bad reaction to that particular trait. You might want to think about that.'

Hardy opened his eyes and for the second time in as many days had to take a minute to figure out where he was.

Down a floor, in the lobby of the Freeman Building, he put on a pot of coffee, then went in for a shower. In ten minutes, he was back in his office, dressed in his smoky clothes and drinking coffee from an oversized mug.

The fog remained. He put in a call to Erin, told her where he was, and spoke to the kids, who were polite and even solicitous. Was he all right? They missed him. He and Mom were coming to stay with them so they'd all be together at Grandma and Grandpa's in two days, right? They really, really, really missed him and Frannie.

He believed them.

After he hung up, he went back to the couch and sat. His brief from the night before was ready to submit for typing downstairs, and he left it with the early morning staff at word processing, then took the stairs two at a time back to the work that waited for him.

The xeroxed pages of Griffin's notebook.

Griffin had been working on a number of homicides at the time of his death. s.n.a.t.c.hes from each of them were scattered on each page - names, dates, addresses. Arrows for connections. Exclamation points. Phone numbers.

In his previous pa.s.ses through the pages, whenever Hardy had run across a name that didn't appear elsewhere in some other file on Bree Beaumont, he'd a.s.sumed it was from one of the other cases. It was tedious and inexact, but he had to eliminate on some criterion, and this had seemed as reasonable as any.

This morning, though, he resolved to read it all through again. Things had changed. And if Damon Kerry had a connection to Baxter Thorne that Griffin had been aware of, he wanted to know about it. Hardy hadn't even heard of Thorne or FMC the last time he'd read the pages. Nor a lot else.

Carl had been shot on Monday, 5 October. Bree had died on the previous Tuesday, 29 September, so he started there. At least Carl tended to enter dates with some regularity.

It appeared that on day three of his investigation, 10 01, he'd slogged through the usual opening gambit of talking to people who lived in the deceased building. Suddenly the name O. or D. Chinn (or something in a smeared scrawl very much like it) popped up at him.

Hardy had a.s.sumed this was an Asian witness from one of Griffin's other cases and hadn't considered it at all, but now, suddenly, he remembered the superintendent in Bree's building and consulted his own notes on his yellow pad. David Glenn. D. Chinn. Close enough.

But there wasn't much Hardy recognized written under it. There was either a B or an R, then 805. A time? 'NCD!!!'

Then, a new line. 'Herit., TTH. !!!' And a phone number.

Those d.a.m.n three exclamation points - they clearly meant something significant, but Hardy for the life of him couldn't figure out what NCD was. TTH could only mean Tuesday Thursday, but what, in turn, was that about?

Hardy checked his watch. Still too early, before eight o'clock, but he went to his desk and called the number next to 'Herit. TTH !!!' anyway.

It was a woman's voice in a heavy Asian accent and Hardy nearly hung up, frustrated for even wasting this much time. This note must have referred to one of Griffin's other cases after all. But Hardy heard out the recording. 'Many thank you for calling Heritage Cleaning. Office hours are Monday to Friday, eight thirty to six. Please leave message and call back.'

'And the case breaks wide open,' Hardy muttered to himself as he hung up. 'Now we know where Griffin did his laundry.' He went back to the couch, to the notebook.

Still on 10 01, the inspector evidently spent part of the day talking to the crime scene and forensics people downtown. There were scribblings Hardy took to be about Strout, Timms, Glitsky. Then, further down, another maddening three exclamation points - 'fab. wash,' 'r. stains!!!'

He shook his head, nearly getting all the way to amused at the prosaic truth. More laundry.

By Friday, Griffin was checking alibis. Apparently he had spoken to Pierce, JP, and perhaps his wife, CP. 'Time checks?' Evidently referring to Pierce's alibi.

The weekend intervened.

Then on Monday, more alibi checking, this time with Kerry. And here Hardy consulted his own notes for corroboration. 'SWA 1140, SD.' Southwest Airlines to San Diego around noon. That checked. But what had Kerry done before being picked up to go to the airport? Griffin's notes didn't give a clue.

A few lines down the page, and apparently still under Kerry, there was another number: 902. If it were a date, it was over a month out of synch, so Hardy a.s.sumed it must be a time. And if it were a time, it would comport very closely with the hour of Bree's death.

So what had Griffin discovered about Kerry's whereabouts at nine o'clock? And why so precisely?

It had to be a phone call, Hardy reasoned, but where were the phone records? He flipped quickly through the few pages, but was sure he would have noticed them sooner if they'd been there, and sure enough, they weren't.

He chewed on possibilities for a couple of minutes, then got up again, went to his desk, and picked up the phone.

'Glitsky, homicide.'

'Hardy, bon vivant, scholar, champion of the oppresse-'

'What?' Glitsky growled.