Drysdale shrugged. ‘He’s a judge, Chris. He’s in for the duration, I’m afraid.’

Locke was moving around his desk, straightening his tie. ‘I’d like to get a crack at him, I’ll tell you that. Son of a bitch could ruin my career.’

Drysdale, who’d been around and seen it all, was about to tell his boss that Andy Fowler was an okay guy, good on a lot of other issues. It was just his interpretation of the law, nothing personal. But he bit his tongue – he knew better.

It was personal. If it didn’t start personal, it got that way in a hurry. To the people who practiced it – even a seasoned veteran like Art Drysdale – everything about the law was personal. There were egos, careers, and lives wrapped up in every yea or nay, every objection sustained or overruled, every conviction, every reversal. If you didn’t take it personally you didn’t belong there.

Andy Fowler wasn’t just interpreting the law. He was stepping on toes, big toes. Although he was loyal to Locke, Drysdale had always gotten along well with Fowler, and he hoped like hell the judge knew what he was doing. If he slipped up, he was going to get squished.

‘You love this, don’t you?’ Frannie asked.

Hardy hadn’t stopped grinning since he’d told the cops in the elevator to rebook Rane Brown. He had just told his wife the story. ‘It has its moments, I must admit.’

‘So who are you nailing this afternoon?’

Hardy looked at the folders on his desk, still a formidable pile. ‘The afternoon looms large before me,’ he said. He noticed Andy Fowler’s jade paperweight and picked it up, cool and heavy in his hand. ‘Maybe I’ll shoot some darts, eat lunch…’ His feet were up on his desk, his tie loosened. Abe Glitsky appeared in his doorway, knocked once and sat down across the desk from him. ‘On the other hand, I’m sure Abe says hi. He just walked in.

‘I’ll let you go then.’

‘Okay, but guess what?’

‘I know. Me, too.’

‘Okay.’ Saying they loved each other in code.

Glitsky had come directly to Hardy’s office from the evidence-locker room. The telephone receiver wasn’t out of Hardy’s hand yet when Glitsky said, ‘As you astutely predicted, Diz, the Eloise was clean.’

Hardy was tossing the jade from hand to hand. ‘Well, I didn’t think -’

‘Except for a gun, a slug, a bunch of blood, some other stuff.’

Hardy put the jade down, swinging his feet to the floor. ‘I’m listening.’

Glitsky filled him in. He had bagged the Beretta for evidence. You could still smell the cordite. He would bet a lot it was the murder weapon, although Ballistics would tell them for sure by Monday. On deck, they had found what looked like blood on the railing where Nash might have gone overboard. ‘Whoever shot him, whoever brought the boat back in, must have washed down the deck, but they missed the rail.’

‘The gun registered?’

‘I’m running it now. We’ll know by tonight.’

‘Any word on May Shinn?’

‘I was thinking you might have something there. Maybe Farris?’

Hardy shook his head, told him a little about how he’d spent his morning, about Rane Brown. Glitsky nodded. ‘You ever notice how just plain dumb these guys are?’

It had crossed Hardy’s mind. ‘So what’s my excuse to talk to Farris again? Maybe you want to talk to him. Till you give me a suspect, I’m not really in it.’

Glitsky was firm. ‘You’re in it, Diz. You already know the guy. Tell him we need Mr Silicon and we haven’t located Shinn. See what he’ll tell you. He’s probably handling disposition of the body, too. Although maybe the daughter… no, probably him.’

‘I’m on it,’ Hardy said.

Hardy passed on his lunch. It was too nice a day to stay cooped up, so Hardy called, got directions and made an appointment, then drove with the top off his Samurai around the Army Street curve down 101. He got his first view of the Bay as he passed Candlestick Park – remarkably blue, clear all the way down to San Jose, dotted with a few sailboats, some tankers. The Bay Bridge glittered silver a little behind him and the pencil line of the San Mateo Bridge ran over to Hay ward. You could see it every day, Hardy thought, and the beauty still got to you.

He exited the freeway at South San Francisco and drove north and west through the industrial section. Owen Industries spread itself over nearly two acres of land at the foot of the San Bruno mountains, a bunch of white and green structures that looked like army barracks. Hardy was issued a guest pass at the guard station after he’d had his appointment confirmed. These folks were into security.

He drove a hundred yards between two rows of the low buildings, then turned left as instructed and came upon the corporate offices, which showed signs of an architect’s hand. A well-kept lawn, a cobbled walkway bounded by a low hedge, a few mature pines, relieved the drab institutional feel of the rest of the place. A flag flew at half-mast. The corporate office building itself was fronted in brick and glass. It, like the surrounding compound, squatted at one story.

Inside, red-tiled floors, potted trees, wide halls with modern art tastefully framed, gave the place an air of muted elegance. An attractive young receptionist took Hardy back to Farris’s office and explained that he would be back in a moment and in the meantime Hardy could wait here.

The door closed behind him and for a moment after turning around, Hardy was struck by an intimate familiarity.

The walls were painted lighter and the view outside the window was certainly different, but otherwise Farris’s office was strikingly like Hardy’s own at his house. There was a fireplace with its mantel, the seagoing knickknacks, even a blowfish on the green blotter that covered the desk. There was no green-shaded banker’s lamp, but the file cabinets were wooden, the bookshelves contained business stuff but also some popular books. Finally, there was a dart board studded with two sets of what Hardy recognized as high-quality custom darts.

There were differences, of course. This room was twice the size and altogether brighter than Hardy’s. The floor was of the same red tile that had been in the lobby, partially covered by three Navajo throw rugs and a couch.

Hardy walked to the desk, felt the grain of the wood, moved to the bookshelves, then to the dartboard. He removed three of the darts and stepped back to the corner of the desk.

After throwing all six darts, Hardy sat on one of the stiff-back wooden chairs, crossed one knee over the other and waited. In under a minute the door opened.

‘Hardy. Dismas, how are you? Sorry to keep you waiting. Something came up.’ A somewhat forced smile in the handsome face. Again, impeccable clothes – a charcoal business suit – with the personal touch of cowboy boots. Hardy thought he looked exhausted. He went around his desk, arranged some papers and sat down. His eyes went around the room. ‘You’ve thrown my darts.’

‘That’s an impressive bit of observation.’

Farris brushed it off. ‘Party trick,’ he said, ‘like Owen breaking boards.’ He explained. ‘You’re around Owen, you better have something you can do better than he can. I got good at details.’ He seemed to slump, remembering something.

‘You all right?’ Hardy asked.

‘Yeah, I’ll live. This is a bitch of a blow, though. I’m not much good at pretending it isn’t.’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘With you, okay. But out there’ – he motioned toward the door he’d just come through – ‘I set the tone. People out there see me panic, then it starts to spread, right? I just put the word out we’re closing up for today. Maybe things’ll look better on Monday.’

Hardy gave it a minute, then thought he might as well get down to it. He briefed him on Glitsky’s discoveries on the Eloise, which Farris took in without comment. Then he got the name, address and phone number of Mr Silicon – Austin Brucker in Los Altos Hills. Finally he got around to May Shinn.