'They actually went to his office? That Sunday?'

'I don't know, Lieutenant. I assume so. That was the plan. You could probably find out easier than me.'

This was the truth, and Glitsky accepted it ruefully. 'And you didn't hear from her again?'

Walsh bit down on his lower lip. Suddenly Glitsky got some sense of emotion. 'No. Just the last message. You know, it's funny, I haven't been able to bring myself to erase it.'

Which was all well and good and perhaps sad, Glitsky reflected as he walked away from the table, but all in all not as interesting as the fact that Walsh had lied about the current state of his relationship with Elaine. He also had no alibi for the time of her murder. On the other side of the cafeteria, Glitsky's father and the two older boys were at their own table, reading different sections of the newspaper. Glitsky got to them and pulled a chair around, straddling it backward.

Nat looked up. 'Not to nag, Abraham, but maybe you want to sit like a normal person? Maybe now you go home and get in bed and rest. Enough already with talking to people on this thing.'

Glitsky looked at his kids. 'Not to nag, he says.' Back to Nat. 'It's my job, Dad.'

'Except last I heard, they put you on leave. Am I wrong here? Tell me I'm wrong. Also tell me I'm wrong you had a heart attack three days ago, maybe you noticed.'

'I noticed. But Ms Ghent told me that he-' he pointed across at Walsh, '-that he worked here Thursdays. I was right here. It was too good an opportunity to pass up. Besides, they wouldn't let me out of here if I wasn't OK.'

'Famous last words, Abraham. Don't worry, this parachute opens every time.'

Glitsky threw a half-amused glance at his two boys, both of whom had stopped reading to follow the exchange.

'And enough with that look!' Nat shook a finger at him. 'That same look your mother had that she was OK, too. So she goes home and does a load of laundry and dies. God forbid she dies with dirty clothes in the hamper.'

Abe held up a hand. 'OK, Dad, OK. We go home.'

Nat nodded his head violently, included the boys. 'Finally, your father says a smart thing.' He pointed a finger at his son. 'And rest.'

A nod. 'Rest is good,' Glitsky admitted. Although he had no inclination to get any.

Acting on the information Treya had given him last night about the doctor, Glitsky had called Walsh's office first thing and learned that he had a break in his surgery schedule. It turned out that it coincided with the arrival of his father and sons with his clean clothes, here to take him home. Glitsky had put on the clothes, but didn't take the time to shave.

Hospital rules mandated that they use a wheelchair to take him outside, so they had wheeled him out the front door where he'd stood up and turned around and walked back in to corner Dr Walsh, his family in tow, Nat kvetching all the way.

Now they were finally in the car, Isaac driving, his father next to him in the passenger seat. 'So how did that interview go?' he asked.

Nat started to mutter an objection from the back seat, but Abe spoke through it. 'Pretty good. He only told one little fib.'

Jacob, interested, leaned over from the back seat. 'Is that normal?'

'What? That he told a lie, or that he only told one?'

Nat, still unhappy, interjected again. 'Your father's line of work, nobody tells the truth. I don't know how he stands it.'

Glitsky spoke over his shoulder. 'Are you kidding? That's the best part.'

'But he really lied? Knowing you were a cop? I mean, he's not some criminal,' Isaac said. 'He's a doctor.'

Glitsky got a kick out of that. 'They've done experiments,' he said. 'You can be both.'

Jacob piped in. 'So did you call him on it?'

'Not yet. Maybe never.'

'Why not?' Isaac asked. 'If you tell a lie, you're hiding something, right?'

A nod. 'That would be the general rule.'

Jacob again. 'Well?'

'Well, you can call someone on a lie, or you can catch someone in a lie. And the second one's way more fun.'

'Fun?' In the back seat, Nat sounded disgusted. 'What do you know from fun, Abraham?'

Hardy had had enough of waiting for Ridley Banks to get back to him. He was reasonably friendly with a fair number of homicide inspectors and not a one of them -Glitsky included – had as his first priority a callback to a defense attorney. But that didn't mean he couldn't pursue an investigation of his own. He killed time at his office for an hour while he waited for the phone to ring, then finally decided to walk the half mile or so down to the jail and the Hall of Justice.

When he got there, force of habit made his first stop the homicide detail but without an appointment with Banks and in Glitsky's absence, the reception he got was a little bit cool. Inspector Sergeant Marcel Lanier knew Hardy fairly well, but he was handling the administrative overflow left in Glitsky's wake, and, stuck at his desk, he was neither a happy camper nor inclined to chat. No, he didn't know what was happening with Abe, but he hoped whatever it was wouldn't take too long. No, he hadn't heard from Banks. So what? No doubt he'd check in when he got far enough behind on his paperwork.

John Strout, the coroner, was in the middle of an autopsy, 'up to his elbows', and couldn't see him either. Hardy left a message, asking him to call when he could, and walked across the corridor to the jail's entrance, where he couldn't make himself go inside. He still tasted a kind of bitter residue from his ruined date night with Frannie. Although he was certain that his client would be thrilled to have any visitor, Cole Burgess was the last person he wanted to see.

He walked back through the Hall, out the other side, and jaywalked across Bryant Street. Lou the Greek's was a bar located there in the basement of a bailbondsman's building. Lou's served food, too, for lunch. Since Lou's wife hailed from Hong Kong, these were mostly Chinese-Greek combinations – hot and sour lemon egg-drop soup, egg rolls stuffed with hummus – the culinary equivalent of colors not found in nature.

It was a dark and somber bar, pure and simple, its popularity now on the wane due to the young, hip legal crowd's attraction to loud, jumping, music-filled meat markets such as Jupiter and, just down the street, the Circus. Today, though, still early in the morning and deserted except for Lou behind the bar, the place fitted Hardy's mood perfectly.

'Hey, Diz.' The bartender slid a napkin across the pitted wood.

Hardy nodded. 'I've got a question for you, Lou.'

'You want a drink while you're asking it?'

'No. I'm good. Maybe some coffee.'

He waited while the Greek turned and poured a cup into an old ceramic mug, came back and placed it on the napkin. Even in the dim light, Hardy could make out a faint lipstick stain on the rim – cleanliness was never a big issue at Lou's. He turned the cup around to drink from its pristine side, nearly burned himself on the bitter brew. 'Let's say you're a lawyer…'

Lou crossed himself backwards, smiling. He said something, but it was Greek to Hardy, who pressed on, 'You've got a client you think is guilty. The evidence says he's guilty. He – the client – even starts out by saying he's guilty. He confesses to the cops. Now, get this, the cop who arrests him comes to you and says, "No wait, I don't think the confession's any good." Then the other cop, the one who took his confession, he starts to have doubts-'

'This guy, your client – is he a hypnotist or something?'

'He's a heroin addict. He's been known to take a drink, too.'

Lou nodded. 'My kind of guy – not the heroin part, though. So what's your question?'

'Wait. I'm not there yet.'

Lou raised his eyes and scanned his dark and empty bar. He raised his voice. 'Anybody need another round?' He came back to Hardy. 'OK, I've got a couple more minutes, but my rates are going up fast.'