He hadn’t even gotten to talk about the Cruz angle, if it was an angle. He almost stopped on his way out of the office, but then figured Abe would only cut him off, and Abe was probably right. It wouldn’t do to forget that Abe had a bona fide murder and suspect in this affair, and anything else Hardy might find might be interesting and all that but wouldn’t have shit-all to do with Glitsky’s investigation.

So the afternoon gaped open before him. He stopped by the audio lab with the requisition slip Glitsky had signed and got the lady there to give him a copy of the 911 tape. He’d listen to it at home.

While waiting for it to be copied he glanced through the Chronicle. There was a story about Linda’s murder (no mention of any connection to Eddie), along with the picture of Alphonse. Hardy read it over and learned nothing new.

Tape in pocket, he stopped at the concession stand for a candy bar, then walked across the tiles in front of the wall with the names of policemen killed in the line of duty. Sixteen this year so far.

Andy Fowler was presiding in Courtroom B. When Hardy entered, the judge had his glasses on and appeared to be reading something at the bench. The prosecuting attorney, whom Hardy didn’t know, was whispering to someone by his side. The defense attorney was on her feet, pointing out something that the judge should note on whatever he was reading. Hardy walked up and sat in the second row on the aisle.

The judge finished reading, raised his eyes to the gallery, looked from one attorney to another and called a recess. He spoke to the bailiff on his way to chambers, and the man walked across to Hardy and said His Honor would see him.

When he got into the book-lined chambers, Hardy closed the door behind him. “That’s what I call service,” he said.

Andy shrugged out of his robes and motioned to the wing chairs in front of his desk, a little tray table between them. “So you seeing Jane again?” he asked.

“I hate it the way you fiddle-faddle around.” Hardy let Andy pour some coffee. “We’re trying, to see each other I mean.”

“You got plans?”

“Well, if it works out I’ll probably try to see her again.”

“About that far, huh?”

“That’s a hell of a lot farther than it’s been.”

Andy put a hand on Hardy’s knee. “No push from here, I mean it. I’m just interested.” He sat back.

“What I came by for,” Hardy said, “I met your friend Brody this morning. I just wanted to say thanks.”

“Was he any help?”

Hardy outlined it for him. Cruz, Ed, Linda, Alphonse, and now the latest with Polk. Andy sat back, interested, listening, sipping occasionally at his coffee.

“But you have a thread through this Polk structure.”

Hardy nodded. “Oh yeah, everybody-all the dead people anyway-they’re all connected to Polk one way or the other.”

“So what’s your problem? You got a suspect, you got motive, you got opportunity.”

“True, but I’ve got one apparent suicide by gunshot, one murder by knife, and one accidental death. I’m not sure I see the same guiding hand over it all.”

“This guy Alphonse, isn’t he pretty likely?”

“He’s pretty likely, I guess, given everything. I mean, a lot seems to have gone on in his neighborhood.” Hardy leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I guess what bothers me is Cruz. If he’s no part of this at all. You know, there’s a whole other scenario here between Eddie and Cruz, and I mean it leaves Polk out entirely, and the damn thing is, it works.”

“You want it all tied up neat, huh?” The judge chuckled. “You’re in the wrong business, Diz.”

“Okay, I acknowledge that.”

The two men laughed. It was an old joke from when Jane had been thinking about going to EST. Hardy and Andy had acknowledged her into submission and she’d eventually given up the idea.

“You really think Ed was blackmailing Cruz?”

“That’s what doesn’t work. No way was he that kind of guy.”

“Then why do you think it?”

“ ’Cause he could’ve been, I guess. It would have given Cruz a reason to lie to me.”

The judge stood up. “You gotta cut the deadwood, Diz.” He held up a hand. “I’m not saying it couldn’t have happened. Do you know where Cruz was that night? Didn’t you tell me the report says he was home by nine? That should finish it right there. Look, you just told me that if it comes out he’s gay, it’s bad news for him. So suppose he had a date. He’d cover that, wouldn’t he? He’d lie to cover it, sure he would, and that’s got nothing to do with Ed.”

Hardy hung on that for a beat. “You’re right, I guess.”

“Damn straight. You want my opinion, see where Alphonse leads. At least you’ve got a good idea he’s murdered someone. That makes him a killer. Whether it’s a knife or a gun might not matter. Some of these guys get creative. Anyway, I’d check him out first. All this other stuff”-he shrugged-“more than likely it’s deadwood, and if it is you gotta cut it.”

“Well, I guess that’s why I came to talk to you. I just couldn’t see it.”

“You ever work on a case didn’t have half a dozen plausible wrong turns?”

Hardy stood up.

“Goes against the grain just to follow the little arrows, doesn’t it?”

“A little. That’s probably it.”

The judge looked at his watch, seemed to decide something. “You know, I’m not saying just drop it to make your life easy. If it’s bothering you, find out what he was doing. But it’s probably a wild hair.”

Hardy smiled. “Probably,” he admitted.

EDDIE COCHRAN’S car was still at the police lot-when Frannie had called that morning from her first day back at work, they had told her it was being held now as part of another investigation.

She was stunned to hear that Linda Polk had been killed, but what did Eddie-what did their car-have to do with that? She asked if they were saying that Eddie had been murdered. No, they were not saying that. Not yet.

Still very weary of everything to do with Eddie’s being gone, shaking off some morning sickness, she hadn’t pursued it with them. She did take out Dismas Hardy’s card and left a message for him to call her when he got home.

Then she worked most of a whole day without taking a break or lunch or even thinking about it. The paperwork, after a week off, had piled up, which had taken most of the morning, what with everybody coming by and wanting to know if she was okay.

Well, no, she wasn’t okay. But it wouldn’t do to say it. She still hadn’t put it anyplace where she could accept it. She still expected to get home and then be making dinner and hear the door slam and Eddie’s cheerful voice doing the “Honey, I’m home” Ricky Ricardo impression he’d picked up the last month or so.

But she just nodded, trying to be polite with all the questions, saying she was fine.

It was odd. Until the seed had been planted today that Eddie might have been murdered, Frannie had slowly been letting herself get convinced that her husband had in fact killed himself. And each time that supposed reality struck home, it cut deeper. If Eddie killed himself, it meant he hadn’t loved her the way he’d said he did, the way she felt he had.

But you couldn’t argue with facts. If he probably had killed himself, and the police had investigated and said he had, then whatever she had thought they had together hadn’t been true. And what did that make the baby she was carrying?

She worked it around and around, coming back to it like a tongue to a hole in a tooth, forcing herself to feel the pain so that maybe she could get used to it. Eddie had rejected her. Eddie hadn’t loved her like she’d thought.

But then, this morning, as soon as she’d heard some official doubt, it was like a fresh wind clearing the rooms of her mind. If the police weren’t even sure, then she wasn’t a fool to believe it wasn’t true. She never should have stopped listening to her heart.