'Well, see,' Hardy said. 'At least he had a good reason.'

But he was shaking his head and clucked in disapproval. 'That's a pretty appalling story.'

Freeman was breathing heavily. He went back to his desk and put himself on the outside of another inch of his wine, then poured some more. 'He's an appalling-'

On the old man's desk, the telephone buzzed. He reached over and picked it up, listened, held it out to Hardy. 'It's Phyllis, she says there's a woman out in the lobby asking to see you.'

'She's lying. I don't have any appointments. She's just trying to figure out a way to get me out of here, return you to your blessed solitude. I wonder, does this guy Dash Logan need a receptionist?'

Freeman held up a finger, listened some more. 'Dorothy Elliot? Jeff's wife?'

Leaving his superb wine in its glass on the coffee table, untouched except for that first sip, Hardy rocketed to his feet on his way to the door. Behind him, he heard Freeman telling Phyllis, 'He's on his way out right now.'

Dorothy greeted him with a nod, an apologetic smile, a few quiet words. It was immediately obvious that something was terribly wrong – her trademark cheerful spark was gone. It was equally clear that she didn't want to discuss any part of whatever it was in the lobby. The staircase was not wide and he let her lead the way.

Following her, he was struck by the stiffness of her carriage, her wide shoulders back, her arms hanging straight down at her sides. One step at a time, she was hiking a steep grade with a heavy pack at altitude. It occurred to him that her husband Jeff, one of his friends and a Chronicle columnist who suffered from multiple sclerosis, might suddenly have died.

At the landing, she stopped and he came up behind her, put an arm on her shoulder. She leaned into him for a second. Then he opened the door and they were in his office.

As he was closing the door, she found her voice. 'I'm so sorry to come barging in on you like this, Dismas. I didn't know…' She lifted her hands, dropped them. Her lip quivered – sorrow? Or rage? She set her jaw, began again. 'I don't know…'

'It's all right.' He gave her a chance to continue, and when it didn't seem she could, he asked softly, 'What don't you know? Is it Jeff?'

She shook her head. 'No, Jeff's all right. Jeff's fine.' She blew out heavily.

Hardy pulled a chair around and Dorothy stared at it for a minute as though she'd never seen one before. Finally, with an air of gratitude, she sat. 'Thank you.' She shook her head wearily. 'I don't seem to know what to do. I started to go by Jeff's office but then I didn't want to interrupt him – he's on deadline. So I just found myself walking downtown and thought of you, that you worked here. Actually, I thought of you before.'

'Before? When before?'

'When I was at the homicide detail.'

Hardy found his desk and pushed himself back up onto it. With a bedside manner smile, he spoke quietly. 'I don't think I've heard the homicide part yet, Dorothy. Maybe we want to start there. Why were you at the Hall?'

'My brother. Did you hear about Elaine Wager being killed?'

Hardy said he did. The news had depressed him. Not that he'd been that close to Elaine, but he had known her, had considered her one of the good guys.

'They have arrested my brother for it.'

Hardy shook his head. 'That can't be right, Dorothy. I heard they pulled in some bum.'

Dorothy's lips were pressed tightly together. She nodded. 'He's a heroin junkie. My brother Cole. Cole Burgess.'

Not possible, Hardy thought. Flatly not possible. Dorothy Elliot, sitting in front of him, was the picture of corn-fed wholesomeness. He'd known her for over a decade, since she'd first begun dating Jeff. Now they had three daughters and she still looked like a farm girl – those big shoulders over a trim and strong body, clear eyes the shade of bluebonnets, a wash of freckles cascading over her nose onto her cheeks.

Dorothy Elliot was pretty, smiling all the time, well-adjusted and happy. There was no way, Hardy thought, that this woman's brother could be the lowlife animal that had shot Elaine Wager in the back of the head for some jewelry and the contents of her purse.

He sought some fitting response, said he was sorry, finally asked, 'Did your brother know her? Were they going out or something? Working together?'

'No. Nothing like that. But the police are saying he was incoherent when they brought him in, they couldn't even confirm who he was until this morning. And when he finally could, he called my mother, which was of course no help.'

'And where is your mother?'

'Jody.' Dorothy's expression was distilled disapproval. 'She lives here in town now. Out in the Haight. With Cole.'

'With Cole? So he wasn't homeless after all.'

'Well, that depends on your definition. He wasn't with Mom too often, but she was there if he needed to crash. He had a rent-free room. She moved out here from home – Ohio – to be near him.' Another look of disgust. 'To help him.'

'And she wasn't much of a help?'

A snort. 'But he called her from the Hall anyway. And then after she predictably flipped out and couldn't get anything done, she called me.'

'What did she try to do?'

A calm had gradually settled over her. Hands had come to rest in her lap, shapely legs were crossed at the ankles. There was no sign of her usual cheerfulness, but her confidence was returning. The topic was awful, but she had facts to convey. 'He's in heroin withdrawal, Diz. He needs to be medicated.' She broke off and decided she'd said enough about that. 'Anyway, Mom lost her credibility with the police in about ten seconds, accusing everybody of trying to kill her son, the poor lost little boy.' She paused again, sighed heavily. 'But he does need to get into a detox situation soon.'

Hardy matched her tone – matter-of-fact. 'They have programs in place for that. As soon as they book him-'

But she was shaking her head. 'The police are saying Cole is only drunk and they're not through with him.'

'So you're saying he wasn't drunk?'

'Probably that too.' She impatiently brushed some flaxen hair from her forehead. 'But if he was desperate enough to mug somebody, he was after cash for heroin. That means probably he was already into withdrawal, drinking to kill the pain with alcohol until he could score.'

A silence settled. Finally, Hardy laced his fingers in his lap. He had heard enough to know he really didn't want to be involved in this. He liked Jeff, liked Dorothy, saw them socially three or four times a year. And now Dorothy wanted to hire him to defend the man who'd killed one of his colleagues. And though he'd been successful in his three previous murder trials, though he'd gotten himself a reputation, this time Hardy wasn't interested.

He'd known, liked and admired Elaine Wager. He had no desire to help her killer. There were other lawyers who could live with defending Dorothy's brother a lot more easily than he could. And they were welcome to do it. But the longer they talked, the more he would give her the impression of tacit acceptance. In spite of that, he couldn't resist the next question. 'So what do you want me to do, Dorothy?'

'He needs to get into detox and I don't know the channels. I need somebody they'll listen to, who knows how to talk down there.' Her eyes were telling him that she didn't like it any more than he did. But it was family duty. Her heartland values wouldn't let her shirk it.

Hardy told himself he wasn't agreeing to defend Elaine's killer. He'd see what he could do to get a suspect into detox. He was helping a friend, that was all, another heartland value that he couldn't shirk. It wasn't going to go beyond that.

Hardy figured he could get the fastest results by going directly to the head of homicide, who happened to be his best friend. On the fourth floor of the Hall of Justice, he exited the world's slowest elevator and was looking at Sarah Evans, a homicide inspector who was married to one of David Freeman's associates. He and Frannie would occasionally socialize with Sarah and Graham. He considered her a friend, and usually she greeted him warmly. But today her look was guarded.