‘She was drunk?’

‘Maybe.’ A quick exhale, letting some of the tension go. Hardy suddenly understanding a little about why Canetta didn’t want to talk to him at the station house. He was already involved here. ‘I’m alone in the cruiser. I recognize her of course. I don’t cite her. She’s not like out of her mind, blowing maybe a one is my guess. Long story short, she gets in and I drive her home.’

She got in his cruiser? Hardy wanted to ask if anything else had gone on. In his line of work, it wasn’t uncommon to hear about some cop pulling over a pretty woman because the tread on her back tires was worn down, so he could meet her, be charming and find out if she was available.

Much more seriously, if less common, was that it wasn’t unknown for a cop to get a woman’s address off her driver’s license and start stalking. Hardy was sure it was because he’d established his credentials as an ex-cop, a member of the club, that Canerta was telling him that he’d broken every rule in the book with Bree.

Still, it was unsettling.

And it wasn’t over. ‘So anyway, little while later, I’m passing the building and she’s standing out on the sidewalk. I stop and ask her does she need a lift someplace, but no, she’s waiting for somebody to come pick her up. We talk a minute.’

‘What about?’

A shrug. ‘She just thanked me for not writing her up. Said she didn’t usually drink too much. She’d just been under a lot of pressure recently. Job stuff. I tell her I heard her talk a couple of times. It seems to me she’s doing some real good with her work, making a real difference. But she shakes her head. ’It’s all a mess,‘ she says, then like stops, not wanting to say anything else. Says she’s sorry. I ask her for what, and she says like everything.’

A silence.

‘Did you tell any of this to Griffin?’

‘Who?’

‘Carl Griffin, the inspector who got the case.’

A sideways glance. ‘He didn’t ask me. I’m just a station cop – what could I know?’ The sergeant had gotten himself hunched over, elbows on knees, during the telling. Now, suddenly, he sat back up as though surprised at where they were. He remembered his sandwich and took a bite, his jaw working furiously.

Hardy killed a minute with his water. ‘You married, Phil?’

‘Eleven years,’ he said evenly. ‘We got a son just turned twelve. Sometimes you think if things were different, if you could have a choice…’

Hardy clearly heard what he didn’t say – you meet someone like Bree and you wish you wish you wish, but the option isn’t there anymore.

‘But you’d meet with her, with Bree?’

‘Nothing that arranged. I’d pass by the same time of day and she got so she’d be there sometimes. We’d say hi, how’s it goin’, like that. Tell the truth, the feeling I got was she wanted to be reassured that I was there, like her protector.‘ He took in a ton of air and let it out slowly. ’And then she gets killed on my watch.‘

Jim Pierce lived in a three-story Italianate structure set behind a wraparound high, white stucco wall. The property was in what realtors would call a serious neighborhood, on North Point, a block from the Palace of Fine Arts. On this lovely Saturday in the early afternoon, the tourists and even what appeared to be some locals were out in droves, enjoying the Marina district, escorting hordes of children through the Exploratorium, eating gourmet picnic items and feeding the ducks in the lake with the leftovers.

All of which Hardy got to see in his seven-block walk back to North Point from the parking space he finally located after circling the lake four times. As he went, Hardy found himself considering the possibility that the ducks were inadvertently being fed bits of duck from Chinatown – the odd smear of duck paté, maybe some seared duck cracklings, or breast slices from someone’s salad – and that this cannibalistic feeding would someday give rise to the dreaded Mad Duck Disease, which wouldn’t be discovered yet for another twenty years, by which time it would be too late. Today’s trendy duck eaters would be dropping like flies.

He’d let his mind wander as a defense to the sense of intimidation he’d felt when he’d first identified the house from the address Canetta had provided. But now he was here, before the imposing, black, solid metal gate, and there was nothing to do but push the burton. A pleasant, contralto, cultured female voice answered. ‘Yes. Who is it?’

Hardy told her. Said he was afraid it was about Bree Beaumont again. He was sorry. Keeping his role vague, since he really didn’t have one.

She hesitated, then asked him to please wait. For a moment, he thought he might have gotten lucky, and he put his hand on the knob, waiting for the click as it unlocked. Instead, an impatient male voice rasped through the speaker. ‘Who the hell is this? I’ve already talked to you people half-a-dozen times. I’ve talked to the grand jury. When are you going to let me have a little peace? I swear to God, I’m trying to cooperate, but I’m tempted to ask for a warrant this time. This is getting a little ridiculous.’

But the gate clicked, and Hardy pushed it open.

For all the imposing nature of his house, and even with the impatient tone in his voice, Jim Pierce came across as a nice guy. He opened the front door before Hardy was halfway up the walk. ‘Do they change investigators downtown every five minutes nowadays? No wonder you people aren’t getting anywhere.’ Hardy squinted in the bright sunlight. Pierce wore a white polo shirt with a colorful logo over the left breast, a pair of well-worn but pressed khakis, tassled loafers with no socks. ‘I’m just watching the game. Notre Dame, USC? The Irish are eating them for lunch. You like football?’

‘I used to like Notre Dame back when Parsegian coached,’ Hardy said. He was on the porch stairs and Pierce was already a step into the dark interior of the house. ‘You ought to know I’m not with the police.’

Pierce stopped and turned back. ‘I thought Carrie said it was about Bree… oh, never mind.’ It was his turn to squint. Hardy stayed outside, framed in the doorway. ‘So what can I do for you? What’s this about?’

Hardy introduced himself as a lawyer doing some work for Bree’s husband, Ron. ‘You called him last week.’

A flash of surprise. ‘I did?’

‘Yes, sir, I believe so.’

The expression held as – apparently – he tried to remember. ‘All right, then, I must have. Did I say what it was about?’

‘You asked him to call you back. Something about Bree’s effects. Did you ever hear back from him?’

Pierce didn’t have to think about it. ‘No.’

‘Can I ask you what you wanted?’

The nice-guy image was fading slightly. Pierce was getting tired of fielding questions about Bree. ‘One of my duties involves community relations,’ he said. ‘I think she took a lot of boilerplate with her when she left – form letters, standard language PR materials, disks. It would be helpful to have it back.’

‘So why didn’t you ask her for it when she was alive?’

‘I did. She wasn’t very well disposed toward the company after she left. I thought Ron might be a little more… malleable.’ By degrees, Pierce had moved back to the doorway, and now stood perhaps two feet from Hardy, his hand back on the door, by all signs ready to say goodbye.

But something stopped him. ‘Now how about if I ask you one?’

‘Sure.’

‘As a lawyer, what are you doing for Ron? The police don’t have suspicions of him, do they?’

‘They’re eliminating suspects right now and he’s one of them. Maybe I can find something to get them off him.’

‘So you don’t think he killed Bree?’

Something in his tone set off bells. Hardy cocked his head. ‘You do?’

‘No. I didn’t say that.’

‘That’s funny. That’s what it sounded like.’

‘No.’ He sighed again, this time the weariness unmistakable. ‘Lord, where will this end? I don’t know who killed Bree. I’m still having a hard time believing anyone could kill her, that someone purposely ended her life.’