'I'm guessing Kerry called Bree or vice versa on the morning she was killed.'

'Great minds.'

'What do you mean?'

'Kerry's got both a residence and a cell phone. I checked already. I got a rush call in on both phone records this morning, to see if maybe he didn't sleep in late like he said he did. I'm waiting for the fax.'

'So what about Griffin? Did any phone records turn up under that back seat?'

'Not yet. I stopped by the garage again coming in. They'd barely got it cleaned out, much less catalogued.'

'But Griffin must have gotten the phone records, right? Don't you guys do that?'

'I would hope so,' Glitsky said, 'though I wouldn't bet the ranch on it.'

'So where are they?'

'They'd be with the stuff you have if he'd filed them.'

'Uh huh. See if you can guess whether they are.'

Glitsky sighed. 'His desk is cleaned out, Diz. It's all somewhere. Stuff related to his cases supposedly got forwarded to the new teams.'

'Maybe they were in one of the bags in the trunk, tagged already?'

'Then they'd be downstairs in the evidence lockup'. Another sigh. 'You think there's some possible phone connection to Kerry?'

'It'd be sweet if there was.' Hardy hesitated. 'I'm really starting to like the good candidate.'

'I told you last night, I might even vote for him.'

'That's not how I meant "like." '

'No,' Glitsky said. 'I know what you meant.'

After he hung up, Hardy went back to his couch and his notes. He had come now to the last full day of Griffin's life, and under Sunday found what he'd been hoping for: 'Box T, Embarc.2, 10/5, 830. Burn, or Bwn. $!! - ??'

He had earlier a.s.sumed that this might be a reference to a post-office box in one of the highrises along the Embarcadero. Now he saw it in a different light. It wasn't Box T. It was Bax T.

Baxter Thorne. As he read it now, Hardy realized that the note referred to an eight thirty a.m. meeting at Thorne's Embarcadero office.

Hardy stared at the cryptic note. Here, finally, was Thorne connected to Bree in Griffin's investigation. Had the inspector in fact gone to question Thorne on the morning of his death? Had they then taken a little drive?

Suddenly a detail kicked in. He bolted upright and checked his watch. It had at last gotten to eight o'clock, a little after. Jeff Elliot had told him he was setting a meeting with Thorne first thing this morning, and at it he planned to bait and switch him into a corner.

Half joking, Hardy had warned Jeff to make sure he didn't go alone. Now there was no joke about it.

He called Jeff's home and got no response. At the reporter's personal number at the Chronicle, he left a message, then checked the general switchboard. No. Mr Elliot hadn't come in yet. Would he care to leave a message?

In a flash, Hardy was grabbing his jacket. At the office door, he stopped still, then turned and went back to his desk.

In thirty seconds, armed, he was flying down the stairs, pausing for a second at the reception desk. 'Is David in yet?'

Phyllis replied in her usual icy fashion. 'Not as yet. I haven't heard from him at all this morning.'

'Is he at court?'

The gimlet eyes fixed on him. 'I wouldn't know, Mr Hardy. I haven't heard from him.'

'Oh, that's right.' Hardy thought it was kind of sad that someday he knew he was going to kill Phyllis. 'I think you said that.'

'Twice.'

'Right.' He couldn't help himself. 'So I guess he's not in?'

Although it was fifteen or twenty blocks from his office to the Embarcadero, there was no point in trying to drive. Between the morning traffic and parking when he arrived, it would take longer than walking.

So Hardy was breathing hard from the forced march. In spite of that, he was also chilled from the fog and painfully aware of a gnawing in his stomach - he hadn't eaten since mid-afternoon yesterday, those tasty few bites of lukewarm tortilla pie at Glitsky's.

The directory listed the Fuels Management Consortium on the twenty-second floor and the elevator had him there in seconds. The office was anything but threatening. Lots of gla.s.s - they were floating in the clouds up here. Modern furniture, part.i.tioned workstations, piped new-age music. The hum and bustle of a busy workplace.

'Can I help you?'The receptionist was a very young woman, perhaps even a teenager, with a warm smile.

Hardy returned it, fantasizing briefly about what it would be like to have a cheerful presence to greet people in place of Phyllis. 'Is Mr Thorne available?'

'I'm sorry, he's in a meeting right now. I can take your name, though. Did you have an appointment?'

'No, no appointment. Can you tell me, is he by any chance with Jeff Elliot? A Chronicle reporter?'

She looked down, biting her lip, clearly wanting to do the right thing, not knowing if she should give out this information. Hardy smiled at her, told her his name, and spelled it out. 'I'm a friend of Mr Elliot's. I'm sure he'd like to know I'm here.'

The streets on the walk over had been cold with the fog-laden wind, but Baxter Thorne's large, corner office was positively Arctic. The executive director of FMC wasn't a big man by any means, and seemed a shrunken, pugnacious, malevolent gnome behind the cluttered expanse of his desk.

In his wheelchair, Jeff Elliot simply turned his head when Hardy was announced. Thorne nodded at the nice receptionist and she withdrew silently, closing the door behind her. No pleasantries of any kind were exchanged.

From the feel of things, the bait had been taken and the switch had just begun. 'As a courtesy, Mr Elliot, although I'm beginning to wonder why I would want to extend one, I've admitted your acquaintance. Now what?'

'You don't know Mr Hardy?'

Thorne threw a glance Hardy's way, than came back to Elliot. 'I've never seen him in my life.' Hardy was taken aback by the voice - deep, quiet, cultured.

Elliot was shaking his head. 'That's not what I asked. I asked if you knew Mr Hardy.'

'Should I?'

'You seem unable to answer the question, Mr Thorne. I wonder why that is?'

Hardy, believing in his heart that Thorne was in some way behind the arson of his home, had to fight the urge to withdraw his weapon and end the cat and mouse right here. But he thought he'd let Jeff play the hand a while first. At the very least, he already seemed to have gotten under Thorne's skin.

The gnome cast a gaze out toward the side window, where the fog was swirling past. To Hardy, it felt for a moment as though they were in an airplane. The wind moaned - keened really - just at the threshold of sound.

Thorne looked back at Elliot. 'I don't know Mr Hardy.'

'Are you familiar with the name?'

'I don't know. It's common enough. I may have heard it.'

Elliot seemed to be watching for some giveaway reaction, but if there was one, Hardy didn't see it. 'His wife is in jail now for refusing to testify before the grand jury about the death of Bree Beaumont. Have you heard of her? Bree Beaumont?'

Thorne's face put his impatience on display. 'What is this? Twenty questions? Who do I know? You've asked me about press releases on the Pulgas water poisoning. I've told you that you may check with my staff. The releases were not ours. They were not prepared here.'

'One of my colleagues found them outside in the hallway on Sat.u.r.day, bound for distribution.'

Thorne shrugged. 'So what? I didn't write them. I didn't put them there. Obviously, someone is trying to make us look bad, connected to these people, as they tried with Mr Kerry over the weekend. There's a pattern here, all right, but it's not of my making.' Disappointed in humanity, he shook his head. 'If this is your smoking gun, Mr Elliot... well, there's no story here.'

Spreading his hands, he a.s.sayed a cold smile. 'My clients are good people, Mr Elliot. They're not terrorists. They're concerned with exposing the endless lies that the oil companies have foisted upon an ignorant public, lies that polluted our air for years and now threaten-'

'How about Ellis Jackson? What's your relationship with him?'

Having established what he thought was a plausible deniability, Thorne softened slightly, the voice become nearly avuncular. 'What about him?'

'Is he your client?'

A sad shake of the head. 'I've told you I'm not at liberty to disclose the ident.i.ties of my clients. I of course knew Ellis Jackson when I worked for SKO.' Another reasonable smile. The last time I checked, there was no crime in that. He's a great man. Now, if you're...'

'Not quite.' Hardy spoke up for the first time. 'You never answered Jeff's question about knowing Bree Beaumont. Did you talk with a Sergeant Griffin about her death?'

'Yes, I believe that was his name.'

'Then how could you not have heard of her?'

'I never said I hadn't heard of her. Of course I know who she was. She's been one of the most vocal and recognizable names in the field over the last decade. She was extremely courageous to change sides and go up against Goliath as she did.' He paused for emphasis, adding matter of factly, 'And of course they killed her for it.'

'The oil companies?'

'Can you doubt it?'

Hardy snorted in exasperation. 'I don't think so.'

But Thorne remained infuriatingly unruffled. 'I can't really tell you what to think, Mr Hardy. But if you think people, individuals, don't die over Big Oil, don't get killed, I recommend that you catch up on your research. Have you been following events in Nigeria recently? There are literally millions of other examples. And that's leaving out most of our wars from Kuwait going all the way back to World War Two. Oil and market share.'

The small, quiet, powerful man stood behind his desk. 'Now, really, I'm afraid that's all I have time for. I think you'll be able to find your way out. Oh, and Mr Elliot,' - a rictus smile - 'the libel laws in this state are quite severe, as I'm sure you know. It's one way my clients can combat an unscrupulous enemy. They have been quite aggressive in pursuing legal redress for unsubstantiated news stories.'

On the way out, Hardy pushing Jeff's wheelchair, the sweet young thing at the reception desk wished them a good morning, and gave Hardy a little wave.

30.

Frannie sat on the table in the attorney's room at the jail, swinging her legs. She looked like a schoolgirl, the impression reinforced by the fact that she'd put her hair into pigtails. To Hardy, the jail's jumpsuit was still jarring to see on her. But after yesterday's two visits up in the homicide detail, he found the jail garb easier to accept. Soon, he told himself, it would all be behind them. Today was the last day. He prayed.

As soon as they got Ron's note out of the way. But like everything else, this wasn't going smoothly. 'What do you mean?' he asked. 'You're not sure you're going to be OK with this? With telling about Ron?'

Her face took on a stubborn set that Hardy didn't like to see. He forced himself to speak in a calm tone.

'Frannie, listen. By the time it gets to the grand jury again, if it does, it won't matter. He'll be gone, if he isn't already.'

'No.' She shook her head. 'I don't think so. He doesn't want to move the kids, start over someplace else. He'll wait. Just like he said he would.'

'But either way, he's released you from the confidence.' Hardy didn't want to push too hard trying to convince her, but he felt he had to nail this down. If it came to it, tomorrow Frannie would have to disclose Ron's secret.

It wasn't sitting at all well with her. But she nodded. 'I hate to give that creep Scott Randall the satisfaction. Besides, from all you've told me, it sounds like Ron isn't anywhere near the best suspect anymore.'

'No, I don't think he is,' Hardy admitted. 'But until they have another one dumped in their laps, they're going to pretend.'

'But really, it still comes down to me, doesn't it?'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, you're close. Abe's close. Maybe it'll only be another day...' The legs had stopped swinging. Her hands were folded in front of her now, her eyes cast downward. 'What I'm saying is that if I still don't tell, maybe Ron gets some more breathing room.'

Hardy was sitting casually on one of the wooden chairs that surrounded the table. It was all he could do to remain in that posture. He felt the blood racing in his temples, and willed himself to keep his voice even. 'Ron doesn't want to you do that, Frannie. I can't imagine why you'd want to do that.'

She raised her agonized eyes. 'It's not a matter of wanting, Dismas. It's the last thing in the world I want to do. But I know what Max and Ca.s.sandra have already gone through, and as soon as I open my mouth, their world is over - don't you see that? If I can give you or Abe more time to save them...'

But Hardy was shaking his head. 'That's not what's going to happen, Frannie. What's going to happen is even if you don't talk on Tuesday, your friend Mr Randall is going to get his indictment on Ron.'

'But why? There's still no evidence, is there? More than there was last week?'

Hardy agreed. 'Very little. But that doesn't matter. There's probably enough for a grand jury. Ron's flight alone, if it comes to it. Phony credit cards, fake IDs, consciousness of guilt. And as soon as Ron is indicted, it's over for him and the kids. He'll be in the system and from there that's what will take over - the system. Regardless of what you do. That's the good news, Frannie. It's out of your hands.'

'So you're saying I have to tell.'

'I'm saying it wouldn't do any good not to.' Suddenly his temper flared. 'Jesus Christ, Frannie! It gets you out of here. What do you want?'

'What I want,' she yelled back at him, 'is to go to our home which isn't there anymore.' She angrily shook away the beginning of tears. 'And be able to hug our children.'

Hardy longed to reach for her, to tell her it was OK, that they were still all right. But he wasn't sure they were all right. He didn't miss the omission of himself as among those she wanted to hug. 'You can do that, Frannie,' he said evenly. 'At Erin's. We can all be there. Rebuild.' He added hesitantly. 'The house and us.'

She shook her head. 'No.'

His stomach clutched at him, but he had to ask. 'No what?'