‘Really. Gee, that never occurred to me.’

‘I bet it did. But look, it gets better. Thorne wrote these leaflets, probably by himself at his apartment. So you get a warrant and have somebody search the place. You find a piece of paper, a computer file, and you solve a murder, maybe two or three.’

Glitsky cocked his head to one side, all interest. ‘I’m listening. What’s two or three?’

‘He talked to Griffin the morning he got killed. Griffin.’

‘Who did? Thorne?’

A nod.

‘Are you sure of this?’

Hardy explained his reading of Griffin’s notes – that the meeting with Thorne had been one of the last entries, 5 October, eight thirty a.m. ‘It was that day, Abe, count on it. And you’ll love this: Elliot thinks Thorne is bankrolling the good governor Damon Kerry through SKO. Somehow.’

‘How?’

‘Nobody knows, but if there’s anything to it at all, it connects dirty tricks to Damon Kerry, who we liked so much last night and maybe even more this morning.’

Glitsky was still sitting back, contemplating. ‘Thorne has erased any computer work, Diz. If not immediately, then for sure by now after talking with you and Elliot.’

‘OK. Still, there might be hard copy in the garbage cans? Some dumpster behind the building.’

‘I know, I know.’ Glitsky had come forward and was shuffling more pages on his desk. He spoke almost to himself. ‘But I’ve got no inspectors.’

Finally, he opened his desk and withdrew what Hardy recognized as a blank warrant form. He grabbed a pen from the middle drawer of his desk. ‘OK,’ he said, beginning to write. ‘We’ve got the leaflets. We’ve got Griffin on his last day. So. Help me here. What else are we looking for?’

Hardy considered for a moment. ‘The smoking gun connection to Kerry. Valens. Receipts, Thorne’s phone records, anything.’

‘I’m going to need some very serious physical evidence to get anywhere near Kerry. It’s going to take more than a phone call he forgot.’

‘Maybe get some DNA on him, and check it against Bree’s baby?’

‘That’ll take six weeks if he’s not elected, for ever if he is. And then, even if he is the father, nobody puts him at Bree’s place that morning.’ The scar between Abe’s lips stood out. He shook his head in frustration. ‘Even on a normal mortal, much less our popular politician, nothing remotely convictable.’

‘Not even indictable,’ Hardy agreed.

‘OK, then.’ Glitsky the strategist was back at it. ‘We go for Thorne and squeeze from that direction. You talked to him. Can you think of anything else on him?’

‘My house.’

The lieutenant met Hardy’s gaze and nodded somberly. As a salve to his friend, he made a pretense of writing that down. ‘I’ll check with the fire department. What else?’

Hardy wracked his brain but after nearly a minute still came up empty. ‘Nothing, Abe.’ He sighed. ‘Oh, except I did discover where Carl Griffin did his laundry.’

‘Are you kidding?’ Glitsky frowned. ‘Carl never went to a laundry in his whole life.’

After Glitsky left to go try and get his warrant signed, Hardy copied down the remaining numbers for M. Dempsey, then sat back pensively. Glitsky had closed the door when he’d gone, and now in the tiny cubicle, Hardy could work without distractions and he needed to concentrate.

It seemed that every answer he got raised another question. How wonderful, he’d thought, that Glitsky had found Bree’s lengthy call to Kerry on the morning of her murder. But something about the information had nagged at him, and now here it was again. On his copied pages of Griffin’s notes – the time 9:02. Or that had been his assumption, and it had led directly to Kerry’s phone records and his lie. But the phone call hadn’t been at 9:02. It had begun at seven ten.

So what was 902?

Then there was Heritage Cleaners, Griffin’s laundry. Hardy pulled the phone on Glitsky’s desk around and reached a woman who spoke English so poorly that he settled for what he hoped was the address of the place and politely thanked her, then hung up. He had no more strength this morning for disjointed conversations over that miracle of modern communication, the telephone. He would try to get time to stop by Heritage later in the day – when? when? – and maybe see what they did, why Griffin had put them in his notes.

It was all a mess.

He checked his watch. After eleven o’clock already.

And today was his last day to get it done. Frannie had told him that the best thing would be if she didn’t have to tell, and the only way that would happen was if Hardy provided some answers before they questioned Frannie tomorrow again in front of the grand jury.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, with his mind vacant and receptive, he came to understand precisely what Frannie had meant by her last cryptic, challenging remark. Hardy had been telling her he’d listen to her. They’d work things out. He’d try to care more about what she did, what she cared about. So she’d heard him out and turned at the door, telling him OK, this is what is truly important to me.

Fish or cut bait.

‘Your honor, if I may.’

J. Marian Braun looked up from her desk in her chambers. She wore wire-rimmed half-glasses under a barely controlled riot of gray hair and made no effort at all to conceal her displeasure at the interruption, or at the identity of the caller. ‘You may not. I’m at lunch. I’ll be back at my bench in forty-five minutes, counsellor. Talk to my clerk.’

Hardy didn’t budge. He was taking a chance, but felt he had no choice. ‘Your honor. Please. Time is short.’

Her scowl deepened. The mayor’s outrageous effrontery and reprimand, the DA’s arrogance and political posturing – all of this before she’d finished her morning coffee – still galled her deeply. To say nothing of the potential legal ramifications to which she’d exposed herself by allowing the mayor to bully her into staying for the duration of his meeting. She’d committed a serious ethical breach in this Frannie Hardy matter, and could only hope it wouldn’t come back to bite her.

And now here was the damn woman’s own husband, no doubt wanting more ex parte communication. Well, at least here was someone far beneath her on the pecking order. She could chew him up and spit him out with impunity and probably feel a little better after she did. If they were all trying to double-team her to subvert her ruling, she would pick them off one by one, starting with this meddling lawyer.

‘Time is short, Mr Hardy. You’re damn right. What do you want? And I’d better not hear one word of whining about the situation your wife put herself in.’ She ostentatiously consulted her wristwatch. ‘You have three minutes and I’m counting.’

Hardy wanted to strangle Marian Braun where she sat. At the very least he longed to try to make her understand the staggering difficulties to which she had subjected his entire family. But neither of those served his purpose here this morning. This would remain impersonal, a legal matter, nothing more.

He moved forward rapidly, placed his briefcase on the chair before her desk, and opened it. ‘I have here,’ he said, ‘a writ for a habeas hearing on my wife. I’d like you to grant an alternative writ for tomorrow morning.’

The frown remained, but Braun laughed harshly through it. ‘Are you joking? What are you doing here with that? If you’ve got grounds to vacate the contempt, submit your motion in the normal fashion.’

‘Your honor…’

The judge wasn’t listening. ‘And assuming you had grounds for this writ at all, do you expect the DA’s office to answer by tomorrow morning? What do you hope to accomplish by this?’

‘Quash the contempt charge before the grand jury.’

The judge drummed her pencil against the desktop. She observed him over the tops of her glasses. ‘I admire your nerve, Mr Hardy, although I can’t say the same for your wife’s.’