‘He was a black belt. He started it a long time ago, when we were in Korea.’

Glitsky’s brows went up. He glanced at Hardy. ‘A bone in the little finger had been broken and healed twice,’ he said.

Farris swore again, waited. Glitsky whistled soundlessly. Beep.

‘I think I’d better come up,’ Farris said.

Hardy almost forgot his appointment to apologize to the police chief, Dan Rigby. Glitsky was going down to Strout to see if he would be amenable to having Hardy around when Ken Farris arrived to inspect the hand. Frannie had called to tell him that at her next Ob/Gyn in a month they could expect to hear the new baby’s heartbeat, and would Hardy try to get the time off so he could go with her? Did he want to know if it was going to be a boy or a girl? She wasn’t so sure, herself, if she wanted to know. Also, she was so young the doctor didn’t recommend an amnio, and she hadn’t had one with Rebecca and she’d turned out fine. What did he think?

Hardy, answering her questions, enjoying her excitement, idly flipped his calendar page and saw the note: Rigby 4:00.

It was 3:55.

He got to the chiefs office on the dot and waited outside for twenty-five minutes. He didn’t want Farris to have come and gone by the time he got out, but he couldn’t really push things too much here. The sergeant/ secretary had made it clear yesterday that he was not one of Hardy’s fans and by extension neither was the chief.

The intercom finally buzzed on the sergeant’s desk. He looked over at Hardy and pointed a finger at the double doors.

Dan Rigby sat back in a leather chair, still talking on the telephone. He had a boxer’s face, red and lined, and gray hair that was nowhere longer than a quarter inch. Hardy knew he often wore a business suit, but today he was in his officer’s uniform. It was meant to be impressive.

Hardy stood on the Persian rug before his desk, trying to hit on a suitable opening. Rigby, listening into the telephone, scrutinized him as he walked in. Hardy waited another minute. Then Rigby hung up and squared his shoulders as though they caused him pain. ‘You used to be a cop, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, sir. I worked a beat about three years.’

‘Then went to the law, right?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Here it comes, Hardy thought.

Rigby relaxed his shoulders, sunk back into his chair. ‘I often wondered about going the same way, though of course it’s worked out well enough, I guess. But getting away from the police end of it – I suppose there just wasn’t enough action anywhere else.’

The law’s not so bad,‘ Hardy said.

Rigby laughed hoarsely. ‘Naw, the law’s all pleading and bullshit. The difference is most of the time we all know, we damn well know, who did it, but you gftys, you lawyers, have got to prove it. Us, we know who did it, we catch ’em, our job’s over, just about. So I figure the thing about this incident yesterday, you got your hats mixed up. You get good training as a cop here, and it sticks with you, you think like a cop. Even when you’re over on the law side. Locke’s got a hair up because I called him and he does hate to be bothered with his department. But you and I got no gripe. You get a murder out of this, or a suspect, you just do us all a favor and keep us informed. We’ll go get the collar, and then you can do your job.‘

The phone rang again. Rigby picked up the receiver and listened for a moment. ‘I don’t care what his constituency is, he does not get a police escort to…’ Rigby looked up, surprised to see Hardy still there. He waved him out of the room and went back to his call.

Ken Farris stood next to the nearly leafless ficus by the window that looked out at the parking lot, his hands crossed behind his back.

He had just come from the cold room, looking at a barely recognizable thing that had four appendages – the index finger was missing – and he went instinctively to the window, as though for air, although the window was never opened.

Farris was a broad-shouldered, slim-waisted sixty. His light brown $750 suit was perfectly tailored, lined with tiny blue and gold pin-stripes. The light yellow silk shirt was custom made; so was the tie. The alligator cowboy boots added an unnecessary two inches to his height.

Glitsky and Hardy sat on the hard yellow plastic couch in the visitor’s room of the morgue. John Strout had pulled up a folding chair and sat slouched, his long legs crossed.

Farris turned around, fighting himself, still somewhat pale. ‘Well, that was a wasted exercise.’

Strout reached into his pocket and extracted a small, plain cardboard box. ‘Maybe this will jog something.’ He held the box up and Farris came over and took it.

It was a jade ring – a snake biting its tail – with a filigreed surface. Hardy leaned forward for a better look; he’d only seen it on the hand. Farris held it awhile, then put it over the first knuckle of his ring finger.

‘This wouldn’t have fit Owen,’ he said. ‘He had bigger hands than me.’

‘The ring was on the pinky,’ Strout said.

Farris moved the ring over and slid it down onto his little finger. It was an easy fit. He removed it just as quickly. ‘Well, that still doesn’t make it Owen.’

‘No, sir, it doesn’t.’ Strout was agreeable, genial, professional. Hardy sat forward, arms resting on his knees.

Abe Glitsky sat back comfortably, watching, his legs crossed. He shifted slightly, enough to bring attention around to him. ‘You and Owen – Mr Nash – were close, is that right?’

‘Could we not say were just yet? He’s been missing before.’

‘Long enough for you to call the police?’

‘Once or twice, I suppose, but I didn’t.’

‘What made you do it this time?’

Farris shook his head. ‘I honestly don’t know. A feeling. Last time he ran off with no notice was maybe ten years ago. That much time, you figure a man’s habits have changed. I can’t fathom his just taking off anymore. Back then I could.’

‘Where did he go, that last time?’

Hardy spoke up. ‘What’s all this running away?’

Farris looked around the room, found another folding chair, and moved it over next to Strout’s. He put the ring in the box and handed it back to the coroner. Then he sat down heavily.

‘Good questions. You think he might have gone back to the same place?’ He shook his head. ‘No, no, I don’t think so. Once he went to the Mardi Gras in New Orleans. But it turns out that time he took his daughter, Celine. So they were both gone, and we figured they’d taken off somewhere together. Back then, it was in character.’

‘But not now?’ Hardy asked.

‘He’s mellowed. Or I thought he’d mellowed. You know how it is.’

Glitsky was gentle. ‘Why don’t you tell us how you mean it?’

Farris sat back. He took a deep breath and blew out a stream of air. ‘Time was, used to be every six months or so Owen would do something to make you hate him, or hate yourself. He was like this, this force, where he’d get a notion to go do something and goddamn if anything was going to stop him – not his friends, not his family, not his responsibilities.

‘He had his devils, so I never got inclined to try and stop him. His wife, Eloise, died in a fire in their house back in the fifties. He couldn’t get back in to save her, barely pulled out their child.’ Farris paused, remembering. ‘So he had this guilt over that. From time to time he didn’t feel worthy of all his success and he’d duck out from under it, leave it all for me to run.

‘Other times, just the opposite, he’d figure, “Well, goddamn, here I am, the great Owen Nash, and if I want to go to Bali for a month, let the mortals handle it. They’ll appreciate me more when I get back.” ’

But Glitsky wanted to keep to his line of questioning. ‘So he went once to New Orleans, another time to Bali…?’

‘But that’s just it. He didn’t have a favorite place, at least one that he ran to. We’ve got this place together outside Taos, no phones, no heat, that’s served us the last five or six years, but I was up there – flew up on Friday night – and he wasn’t.’