A few lines down the page, and apparently still under Kerry, there was another number: 902. If it were a date, it was over a month out of synch, so Hardy assumed it must be a time. And if it were a time, it would comport very closely with the hour of Bree’s death.

So what had Griffin discovered about Kerry’s whereabouts at nine o’clock? And why so precisely?

It had to be a phone call, Hardy reasoned, but where were the phone records? He flipped quickly through the few pages, but was sure he would have noticed them sooner if they’d been there, and sure enough, they weren’t.

He chewed on possibilities for a couple of minutes, then got up again, went to his desk, and picked up the phone.

‘Glitsky, homicide.’

‘Hardy, bon vivant, scholar, champion of the oppresse-’

‘What?’ Glitsky growled.

‘I’m guessing Kerry called Bree or vice versa on the morning she was killed.’

‘Great minds.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Kerry’s got both a residence and a cell phone. I checked already. I got a rush call in on both phone records this morning, to see if maybe he didn’t sleep in late like he said he did. I’m waiting for the fax.’

‘So what about Griffin? Did any phone records turn up under that back seat?’

‘Not yet. I stopped by the garage again coming in. They’d barely got it cleaned out, much less catalogued.’

‘But Griffin must have gotten the phone records, right? Don’t you guys do that?’

‘I would hope so,’ Glitsky said, ‘though I wouldn’t bet the ranch on it.’

‘So where are they?’

‘They’d be with the stuff you have if he’d filed them.’

‘Uh huh. See if you can guess whether they are.’

Glitsky sighed. ‘His desk is cleaned out, Diz. It’s all somewhere. Stuff related to his cases supposedly got forwarded to the new teams.’

‘Maybe they were in one of the bags in the trunk, tagged already?’

‘Then they’d be downstairs in the evidence lockup’. Another sigh. ‘You think there’s some possible phone connection to Kerry?’

‘It’d be sweet if there was.’ Hardy hesitated. ‘I’m really starting to like the good candidate.’

‘I told you last night, I might even vote for him.’

‘That’s not how I meant “like.” ’

‘No,’ Glitsky said. ‘I know what you meant.’

After he hung up, Hardy went back to his couch and his notes. He had come now to the last full day of Griffin’s life, and under Sunday found what he’d been hoping for: ‘Box T, Embarc.2, 10/5, 830. Burn, or Bwn. $!! -??’

He had earlier assumed that this might be a reference to a post-office box in one of the highrises along the Embarcadero. Now he saw it in a different light. It wasn’t Box T. It was Bax T.

Baxter Thorne. As he read it now, Hardy realized that the note referred to an eight thirty a.m. meeting at Thorne’s Embarcadero office.

Hardy stared at the cryptic note. Here, finally, was Thorne connected to Bree in Griffin’s investigation. Had the inspector in fact gone to question Thorne on the morning of his death? Had they then taken a little drive?

Suddenly a detail kicked in. He bolted upright and checked his watch. It had at last gotten to eight o’clock, a little after. Jeff Elliot had told him he was setting a meeting with Thorne first thing this morning, and at it he planned to bait and switch him into a corner.

Half joking, Hardy had warned Jeff to make sure he didn’t go alone. Now there was no joke about it.

He called Jeff’s home and got no response. At the reporter’s personal number at the Chronicle, he left a message, then checked the general switchboard. No. Mr Elliot hadn’t come in yet. Would he care to leave a message?

In a flash, Hardy was grabbing his jacket. At the office door, he stopped still, then turned and went back to his desk.

In thirty seconds, armed, he was flying down the stairs, pausing for a second at the reception desk. ‘Is David in yet?’

Phyllis replied in her usual icy fashion. ‘Not as yet. I haven’t heard from him at all this morning.’

‘Is he at court?’

The gimlet eyes fixed on him. ‘I wouldn’t know, Mr Hardy. I haven’t heard from him.’

‘Oh, that’s right.’ Hardy thought it was kind of sad that someday he knew he was going to kill Phyllis. ‘I think you said that.’

‘Twice.’

‘Right.’ He couldn’t help himself. ‘So I guess he’s not in?’

Although it was fifteen or twenty blocks from his office to the Embarcadero, there was no point in trying to drive. Between the morning traffic and parking when he arrived, it would take longer than walking.

So Hardy was breathing hard from the forced march. In spite of that, he was also chilled from the fog and painfully aware of a gnawing in his stomach – he hadn’t eaten since mid-afternoon yesterday, those tasty few bites of lukewarm tortilla pie at Glitsky’s.

The directory listed the Fuels Management Consortium on the twenty-second floor and the elevator had him there in seconds. The office was anything but threatening. Lots of glass – they were floating in the clouds up here. Modern furniture, partitioned workstations, piped new-age music. The hum and bustle of a busy workplace.

‘Can I help you?’The receptionist was a very young woman, perhaps even a teenager, with a warm smile.

Hardy returned it, fantasizing briefly about what it would be like to have a cheerful presence to greet people in place of Phyllis. ‘Is Mr Thorne available?’

‘I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting right now. I can take your name, though. Did you have an appointment?’

‘No, no appointment. Can you tell me, is he by any chance with Jeff Elliot? A Chronicle reporter?’

She looked down, biting her lip, clearly wanting to do the right thing, not knowing if she should give out this information. Hardy smiled at her, told her his name, and spelled it out. ‘I’m a friend of Mr Elliot’s. I’m sure he’d like to know I’m here.’

The streets on the walk over had been cold with the fog-laden wind, but Baxter Thorne’s large, corner office was positively Arctic. The executive director of FMC wasn’t a big man by any means, and seemed a shrunken, pugnacious, malevolent gnome behind the cluttered expanse of his desk.

In his wheelchair, Jeff Elliot simply turned his head when Hardy was announced. Thorne nodded at the nice receptionist and she withdrew silently, closing the door behind her. No pleasantries of any kind were exchanged.

From the feel of things, the bait had been taken and the switch had just begun. ‘As a courtesy, Mr Elliot, although I’m beginning to wonder why I would want to extend one, I’ve admitted your acquaintance. Now what?’

‘You don’t know Mr Hardy?’

Thorne threw a glance Hardy’s way, than came back to Elliot. ‘I’ve never seen him in my life.’ Hardy was taken aback by the voice – deep, quiet, cultured.

Elliot was shaking his head. ‘That’s not what I asked. I asked if you knew Mr Hardy.’

‘Should I?’

‘You seem unable to answer the question, Mr Thorne. I wonder why that is?’

Hardy, believing in his heart that Thorne was in some way behind the arson of his home, had to fight the urge to withdraw his weapon and end the cat and mouse right here. But he thought he’d let Jeff play the hand a while first. At the very least, he already seemed to have gotten under Thorne’s skin.

The gnome cast a gaze out toward the side window, where the fog was swirling past. To Hardy, it felt for a moment as though they were in an airplane. The wind moaned – keened really – just at the threshold of sound.

Thorne looked back at Elliot. ‘I don’t know Mr Hardy.’

‘Are you familiar with the name?’

‘I don’t know. It’s common enough. I may have heard it.’

Elliot seemed to be watching for some giveaway reaction, but if there was one, Hardy didn’t see it. ‘His wife is in jail now for refusing to testify before the grand jury about the death of Bree Beaumont. Have you heard of her? Bree Beaumont?’