‘No. I was once.’

‘I don’t know if it’s better or not, having someone there. It broke me and my wife up.’

Celine didn’t say anything for a long time. The music in Sophie’s changed, or at least Hardy became aware of it -some automatic stuff that he hated. The sun was almost down, hitting the tops of the taller buildings north of Market and a few up on Nob Hill.

‘I almost wish there were somebody to break up with,’ she said at last. ‘Take it out on somebody else. But Daddy was my only family, so now what?’ She tipped her glass and found it empty. ‘Do you think I could have a drink now? Something with gin in it?’

At the bar, Hardy ordered himself a second Bushmills and Celine a Bombay on the rocks. The bartender poured a three and a half count, a solid shot, close to a double. Hardy tipped him two bucks and asked him if he could lose the noise on the speakers.

Celine sipped at the gin and made a face. ‘I haven’t had a drink in a couple of years,’ she said. ‘Daddy didn’t like me to drink too much.’

‘He didn’t too much like you to drink or he didn’t like you to drink too much?’

She smiled, small and tentative, but there it was. ‘Both, I think.’ Her eyes settled on him again. ‘Sometimes I’d get a little out of control. You couldn’t get a little out of control around Daddy.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because if the daughter of Owen Nash is not in control, that means he’s not in control of me.’ She took another sip of the gin, and this time it went down smoothly. ‘And if Owen Nash is in the picture, he’s in control.’

‘He was that way?’

‘God, what am I saying? I loved my father. I just miss him. I’m so mad at him.’

‘It’s okay,’ Hardy said. ‘It happens.’

‘He was just such a… I mean, I was his only family, too, so it made sense he wanted me to be a good reflection of him.’

‘He saw you as his reflection?’

She shook her head, putting more movement in it. ‘No, not exactly, you know what I mean.’ She put her hand over his on the small table. ‘He wanted what was best for me… always.’

‘And that got to be a burden?’

‘Sometimes,’ she admitted. She took a drink. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t get so worked up.’

Hardy found himself covering her hand now. ‘Celine, look. This is one time you should be allowed to get worked up. You can let it go once in a while or it’ll come out all at once, and you don’t want that.’

‘But it wasn’t so much of a burden. Look at all the good it’s done me. I’m serious. Stuff I never would have done without Daddy.’

‘I believe you.’

She shook her head. ‘He was just always so hard. Even when he was good, he was hard. He pushed people – I’m surprised Ken Farris didn’t tell you. I mean, look at us, we’re perfect examples. But it was worth it for what you got out of it.’

‘Which was what?’

She took her hand away and Hardy thought he’d offended her. ‘The main thing was being close to him. You got to be close to Daddy, which was the most alive you could be.’

Hardy swirled his drink in the bottom of his glass. Outside, it was full dusk. A couple more people had come into Sophie’s. ‘You know what I think?’ he said. ‘I think you’re allowed to have some mixed feelings right now. I wouldn’t worry about it.’

Celine put her hand back over Hardy’s. ‘I’m sorry, I think I feel this gin already.’

‘You want some cheap advice? Go get a bottle of it, find somebody you can talk to and drink half of it. There’s nothing more natural than being mad at somebody close when they die.’

‘I can’t talk to anybody,’ she said. ‘Not about Daddy.’

‘You’ve just been talking about him to me for a half hour.’

She tightened her hand over his one last time, then released it. ‘You’re the D.A. This isn’t personal for you. It’s not the same thing.’

‘It’s personal enough for me. This is my job, my case.’

‘But that’s what it is, a case.’

‘It’s also that, Celine. Somebody killed your father.’

‘And maybe it was me, right?’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘You’re investigating the murder, and now you get me to tell you I’m mad at him -’

‘Celine

‘Well, I was down in Santa Cruz the whole weekend. I was staying in a house with three of my friends. I couldn’t have been up here…’

Hardy stood up and moved close in to her, pulling her head tight against him. The gin was hitting her, the panic on the rise as it loosened her up. ‘Stop it,’ he whispered. ‘Stop.’

He felt her breathing slow down. A bare arm came up to his shoulder and held him, pulled him down to her. A second passed. Five. Her grip relaxed and he lifted himself away from her. Her blue-gray eyes had teared up. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m a mess.’

‘You’re okay,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ She waited meekly by the door while he grabbed his coat, then took her arm. They walked out into the warm early night.

On the way back to the Hall, she told him about Owen’s Saturday appointment on the Eloise with May Shinn.

‘I know,’ Hardy said. ‘We’re looking into that.’ He considered telling her about everything they’d found on board, but there was still police work to be done there, and all of that could wait. What Celine needed was some understanding and a little time to get used to her father having been murdered. Hardy didn’t think an update on the investigation would do a thing for her piece of mind.

They got to her car – a silver BMW 350i – and she hugged Hardy briefly, apologizing again for her ‘scene.’ She told him he was a good man, then she was in her car, leaving him with the faint scent of gin, a memory of her body against his and the feeling that, without ever meaning to, he’d done something terribly wrong.

They were having pizza in the reporters’ room on the third floor of the Hall of Justice, the same floor that contained the offices of the district attorney.

The room, befitting the esteem with which the police held the medium of print journalism, wasn’t much. There was a green blackboard that kept up a running total of murders in San Francisco thus far that year (sixty-eight). There was a bulletin board tacked three deep with Christmas cards the press guys had received from their friends in the building, as well as the jails some of them had gone to reside in. The surface area of all three desks combined did not equal the expanse of oak on Ken Farris’s desk in South San Francisco. There was also an old-fashioned school desk. Jeff Elliot sat in that one.

It wasn’t bad pizza. Anchovies, pepperoni, sausage and mushroom. Cass Weinberg, an attractive gay woman of about thirty, had ordered it. She was with the Bay Guardian and didn’t have much going on until later that Friday night, so she thought she’d bring in an extra large and schmooze with whoever might be hanging. Holding down the second ‘big’ desk was Oscar Franco from the Spanish-language La Hora. Then there was Jim Blanchard from the Oakland Tribune, who’d been worried for the past eighteen months about his job ending when the paper went bankrupt.

‘My theory,’ he was saying, ‘is that Elliot here did the guy himself. Otherwise how’s he gonna get a story this good.’

Cass picked it up. ‘You used to be a sailor, didn’t you? Didn’t you tell me that? In college?’

‘He did,’ Blanchard said. ‘At college, in Lake Superior.’

This was true. Before the multiple sclerosis had kicked in, Elliot had loved to sail, spent his summers under the canvas. He’d covered the America’s Cup for his high-school newspaper as a special project. ‘Not in Lake Superior, on Lake Superior, anchovy breath,’ he said.

‘In, on, doesn’t matter. He finds out where Nash keeps his boat, scams his way aboard and kills the guy,’

‘Then I jump overboard and hand-feed his hand to the shark.’

Blanchard popped pizza. ‘Exactly. That’s the part that took guts.’