Jane was in a banquette in the dining area behind the bar. There was a tulip glass of champagne on the table in front of her. She had cut her dark hair very short, but Jane always managed to look good. As a buyer for I. Magnin, she always hovered at or near the top of haute couture, six weeks ahead of everybody else. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

‘Ivoire de Balmain,’ he said. It was the perfume he’d always bought her on Christmas. He didn’t think it was a coincidence she was wearing it now.

‘You have a good nose.’ She kissed him again, quickly, on the lips. ‘It’s good to see you.’

‘It is,’ he admitted.

He ordered a club soda and found out Jane was seeing a younger man, an architect named Chuck.

‘Chuck, Chuck, bo-buck, bo-nano-bano, bo-fu…’

‘Dismas.’ She put a shushing finger to his lips.

‘I’ve always wanted to do that,’ he said.

‘I’m sure you have.’ She gave him an amused look. ‘He’s a wonderful guy.’

‘I’m sure he is. It’s a wonderful song, too. You can’t do it to Dismas, you know. Dismas, Dismas, bo-bismas… it just doesn’t scan,’ The club soda arrived.

‘Club soda is a change,’ Jane said.

Hardy sipped. ‘Change is my life right now. If I have my old usual couple of beers for lunch, you can forget about the afternoon. I tried it a few times. Bad idea.’

She sipped her champagne. ‘So you’re really back at prosecuting?’

‘I am.’

‘And you like it?’

He lifted his shoulders. ‘Sometimes. It’s more b.s. than I remember, but it’s all right.’

They waded through another five minutes of small talk before they ordered – calamari for Hardy, quattro formaggio calzone for Jane. Hardy broke down and decided to have some wine, so he and Jane ordered a half bottle of Pinot Grigio.

When the waiter had gone, Hardy said, ‘So you’ve seen your dad?’

She nodded. ‘You were right. There’s definitely something.’

‘That’s what I thought. Frannie says it’s a woman.’

Jane took that in, sipped at her champagne. ‘Why did she say that?’

Hardy told Jane about the jade paperweight, how Andy had demanded he take it. ‘Frannie said seeing it every day reminded him of his broken heart, so he had to give it away.’ He held up a hand. ‘Her words – she’s more melodramatic than I am.’

‘I also think she’s right.’

‘Did he say that?’

‘He didn’t deny it. I asked him point blank if he was all right, if something was bothering him.’

‘And what’d he say?’

‘He said he’d just become more aware of mortality lately, that nothing lasts forever.’

‘This is not exactly headline stuff, Jane.’

‘I know. It just seemed evasive, the way Daddy’s always been about his personal life. So I asked if something specific had triggered all those feelings, you know. He said a friend of his had died and he just had to accept it. I asked who, and he said I didn’t know him, it didn’t matter.’

‘He said you didn’t know him?’

She shook her head. ‘But I don’t think he meant that, meant it was a man.’

It occurred to Hardy that, impossible as it might seem, Andy Fowler could be gay. In San Francisco, you never knew. ‘But if that’s what he said…?’

‘No. There was a pause before he said that. Something, anyway. Then he patted my hand and thanked me for being concerned, but that he could work all this out himself, he was a big boy.’

The food came, the wine ritual. Hardy dipped some fresh bread in a little bowl of olive oil on the table. Jane cut into her calzone and let the steam escape.

‘What I think,’ she said, ‘is it might have been someone he’s ashamed of being involved with, maybe the wife of one of his friends, something like that.’

‘And she broke it off?’

‘Either that, or he couldn’t go on with it anymore. Can’t you just hear one of them saying it? “We’ll just pretend the other one died.” I can imagine Daddy taking that tack.’

‘Yeah, that flies.’

‘It’s a problem when you’ve always been perfect. You can’t even let your daughter see anything else. Even when I told him that whatever it was, I’d still love him.’

‘You told him that?’

‘Of course. I would.’

‘No, not that you would. You told him you suspected it was something he might be ashamed of?’

‘Not in so many words.’

Hardy was thinking Andy Fowler didn’t need so many words. He was a subtle and intelligent man, accustomed to dealing with nuance every day on the bench. He could imagine Jane’s forthright approach scaring him off, driving him back further within himself, if that’s where he was.

Hardy chewed on the delicious bread, filled his mouth with wine and sloshed it around. ‘Well, whatever it is, you think we can do anything to help him out? He talked about a vacation.’

Jane half smiled. ‘Sure. Daddy’s idea of a vacation is not bringing work home for the weekend. You know any women he might like?’ But she tossed the idea away. ‘No. I can hardly see Daddy allowing himself to be set up.’

‘Maybe it’s what he says – awareness of mortality. That can stop you.’

Jane scratched at the tablecloth with a perfect coral fingernail. She and Hardy didn’t need reminders of the lessons of mortality. Every time she thought of their son, Michael, who’d died in a crib accident ten years before, it stopped her again, as it had stopped her life, and Hardy’s, back then. A tear came from one eye and she turned away.

Seeing it, or simply knowing, he reached over and covered her hand. ‘Let’s leave it for now, Jane. Come back to it later,’ he said. ‘We’ll think of something.’

He missed the stud the first time and figured it must have been the wine.

After lunch, he’d stopped at a sporting goods store on Market and picked up the dart board he’d promised himself. Back at his office, he’d banged on the wall opposite his desk, listening for the hollow sound to give way to solid wood, locating the stud, or thinking he had.

The first stroke of the hammer drove the nail through drywall clear up to its head. Hardy was a good carpenter. Wood was one of his hobbies. It wasn’t like him to miss a stud. He banged on the wall, thought he’d found the stud again, and this time was right.

Measuring off eight feet with a ruler from his desk, he put some tape down on the floor just under where his chair would normally be. Then he moved the chair back up, took out his leather case and fitted the blue flights onto the shafts of his darts. He stood up at his tape line and threw two bull’s-eyes and a 20. Leaving the darts in place, he picked up his phone.

Judge Fowler had called in sick. That was odd. Judges never called in sick – their dockets were too full. A sick day inconvenienced too many people. Hardy tried his home, but no one was there either, not even an answering machine. He was tempted to call Jane again but why worry her?

Maybe Andy was simply taking a mental-health day. God knew, he worked hard enough to deserve it. Maybe after seeing Jane last night, he’d gotten drunk again and was hung over. In any case, if Andy Fowler wanted to take a day off, Hardy would not disturb him.

He looked at the still-large pile of case folders on the corner of his desk, wondering what unknown thrills lay in store for him in that mountain of paper. He considered going around to his darts and throwing a solo game of 301 to keep his eye up. He wondered if Jeff Elliot was back from the Marina or wherever he’d gone. He should call Frannie and see how Rebecca was doing.

Anything, he thought, but…

It wasn’t a big enough room to pace in. He pulled his chair up to the desk and sat down, feeling lethargic and heavy. The wine. Blame it on the wine.

Elizabeth Pullios was still wearing the gold chain with the ruby, but that was all she was wearing. Christopher Locke, the district attorney, was lying with his hands crossed behind his head. He had a barrel chest covered with curls of black hair. His stomach was beginning to bulge, but it was a hard bulge. He had a pretty good body for an older guy, she thought. And as long as he let her be on top, his mobility wasn’t much of an issue – she could control things, which was how she liked it.