Out of force of habit Freeman glared at them both, but then he focused on Michelle and his look softened. ‘Watch this man,’ he said, ‘he’s unorthodox and dangerous.’

Freeman reached into his breast pocket and extracted a cigar. Thoughtfully, he bit off the end, spit the tip into his hand, and deposited it into one of the potted plants. Finally, he spoke to Hardy. ‘When’s the last time you saw Graham Russo?’

‘After lunch,’ Hardy replied. ‘Couple of hours ago in jail. Why?’

Freeman was famous for his dramatic flair in the courtroom. He played it out now, lighting his cigar, taking his time, exhaling a long plume. ‘Nobody’s called you?’

Hardy didn’t like the sound of this. ‘No, nobody’s called me. Quit the games, David, what’s going on? Is Graham all right?’ He was up out of his chair.

‘I’d say he’s probably better than the last time you saw him. The word at the Hall was they were letting him go. I’d’ve thought somebody would’ve called you.‘

‘In a startling development today, District Attorney Sharron Pratt has announced in a special press briefing that she has declined to file charges against Graham Russo, the lawyer and former federal court clerk who’d been arrested in the apparent assisted suicide of his father, Sal.’

Hardy sat in the Little Shamrock at the far end of the bar, watching the television above it. It was still light outside the wide front windows, though traffic had thinned out on Lincoln Boulevard. Frannie would be here soon to meet him for the sacred and traditional Date Night – nearly every Wednesday since they’d been married. They would most often meet at the Shamrock – Hardy would drive halfway home, Frannie would cab it halfway downtown – and go someplace for dinner, maybe a movie, some live music.

Hardy sipped his stout and glanced up again at the tube.

Pratt’s face filled the screen, the six-second sound bite all the pols lived for. ‘I’ve read the file on this case and the autopsy revealed an advanced, irreversible brain tumor. Mr Russo was in great pain with no hope of recovery, and whoever helped ease him from this mortal coil should be congratulated, not prosecuted.’

Frannie was suddenly at his elbow, a married kiss on the cheek, pulling up the stool next to him as the television reeled her in.

The pretty young newscaster was continuing. ‘Right-to-die groups across the country have already begun applauding the DA’s action, while police officials here in the city refused to comment on Graham Russo’s arrest or subsequent release. Russo’s attorney, Dismas Hardy, who denied his client had killed anybody, said Mr Russo had no plans to sue the city for false arrest, so that may be the end of this episode, but sources at the Hall of Justice say they wouldn’t be too sure of that.’

‘That would be you,’ Frannie said. ‘Dismas Hardy, not the sources at the Hall of Justice.’

‘That’s me,’ he agreed. ‘Fame and glory.’

But the story wasn’t over. The screen widened to include the Serious Anchor. ‘One thing seems certain, though, Donna – the district attorney’s controversial decision will inflame the already heated national debate over assisted suicide.’

‘That’s a good bet, Phil. This was a political broadside by Sharron Pratt. No doubt of it. It’s going to have ripple effect.’

Phil nodded sagely and met the camera’s eye. ‘And meanwhile, our Bay Area Action News team has learned that the state attorney general’s office has not ruled out its own investigation into Sal Russo’s death. Graham Russo is a free man tonight, but who can say for how long?’

‘Who indeed, Phil?’

Hardy stood and went around behind the bar. He reached up and turned off the television. ‘How can there be so many idiots? Where do they come from?’

‘How’d you get Graham out of jail so fast?’ Frannie asked.

So it didn’t look as though the old TV-as-cultural-nemesis distraction was going to work with his wife tonight. He’d have to develop a new technique. ‘I didn’t,’ Hardy replied. ‘He just got out. Pratt let him go. What are you drinking?’

Frannie was white-wining, and Hardy waved Alan off and poured it himself while he was behind the bar. He went to the jukebox and put on Van Morrison. ‘Moondance’ was thirty years old and still sounded to Hardy as though it had been recorded yesterday.

He pulled up next to Frannie. A better kiss. ‘Okay,’ he said, looking at his watch, ‘it is seven oh four and we are officially on a date. Now, for the record, I didn’t do anything with Graham Russo. Well, that’s not true. I talked to him in jail. How were the kids today?’

‘Notice the clever way he tries to change the subject.’ Frannie sipped her wine. He had to admit it, she was good, sticking right to the subject at hand. ‘The kids were fine. Nobody broke any bones. They had two fights after school, one less than usual. Do you think you and I ought to talk about Graham Russo? I thought if he went to jail you were out of it.’

‘I did too.’ Hardy tipped his glass up. ‘Then he went to jail.’ A shrug. ‘I couldn’t just drop him.’

‘No, you wouldn’t be able to do that.’ Frannie sighed. ‘So how did he get out? You really had nothing to do with it?’

‘Nada. Pratt just let him go. You heard Donna and Phil, so it’s got to be true. It was political.’

‘I also heard the case wasn’t over.’

‘That may also be true. In fact, I’m pretty sure of it. But I’m not certain he killed his father at all.’

Frannie put her glass down. ‘I thought he did. I thought that was a given.’

‘You’re not alone.’

‘So what did happen?’

‘I don’t know. I get the impression he might be protecting some doctor, somebody he knows. Maybe one of his family. He’s adamant he didn’t kill his dad or help him kill himself.’

She reached over and covered his hand with hers. ‘But, Dismas, don’t all clients say that, especially at first?’

‘Yeah,’ he admitted. ‘Still…’

‘Still you want to believe him.’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’m intrigued, I guess.’ Suddenly, he snapped his fingers and jumped up.

‘What?’ Frannie asked.

He was behind the bar, rummaging. ‘Something I just remembered,’ he said, pulling out the phone book, opening it on the bar.

‘Who are you looking for?’

He ran a finger down the page. ‘Singleterry,’ he said. ‘There’s only four of them. No Joan, though.’ He told Frannie about the money, about Graham’s explanation, where Sal had wanted it to go. ‘Do you mind if I make a call or two? You have another glass of wine? The phone’s right up front there, you can watch me the whole time.’

‘A thrill a minute,’ she said. ‘Dismas, are we on a date? Are you working now?’ But she touched his hand again. ‘It’s all right. Go.’

In five minutes he was back, frowning.

‘What?’

‘Two of them were home and both of them said I was the second person asking about Joan in the last three days. They didn’t know any Joan.’

‘Okay?’

‘Which means that Graham had called looking for her. Which means maybe he didn’t make up the story about the money.’

‘And what does that mean?’

‘I don’t know, Fran. It might mean he was telling the truth.’

Sarah Evans gave herself an hour to sulk about Graham Russo’s release. It bothered her that she’d gone to all the trouble of investigating and then arresting him, and then the DA had simply let him go. She could fume for the rest of her life if she wanted. But she reminded herself it was only one case in what she hoped would be her long career. And she had done her job. No one had found any fault with her.

The rest of it – Pratt’s decision, the AG’s response – all of that was out of her control.

It wasn’t going to ruin her life, or even her night.

In fact, part of her was almost relieved. She’d thought Graham Russo was about the most attractive man she’d ever met and she hated to think that someone so good looking could be evil inside. That was superficial of her, she knew, and there were a million examples to the contrary, but before she and Marcel had started finding things at Graham’s apartment, she almost allowed herself to feel some kind of connection with the suspect. They were about the same age. He was a lawyer and, like her, a jock.