‘This is a travesty. This is a goddamn travesty.’

The climax was over. Hardy heard Pratt say something about ‘sore loser,’ loud enough for the crowd, but the public face-off wasn’t good politics, and evidently this had finally occurred to her. Drysdale was pushing his way, Soma in tow, to the back lot.

Suddenly Abe Glitsky was standing at Hardy’s elbow. ‘What’s going on? What was Art doing?’

Hardy looked over. ‘Evans went sideways. Art thinks Sharron had something to do with it. He’s a little worked up.’

‘How sideways?’

‘Not much,’ Hardy lied.

Shackled next to them in his jumpsuit, Graham wasn’t intimidated. ‘She said she believed me.’

The scene shifted for Glitsky, registered. ‘How special for you,’ he said. Then, to the bailiff, ‘Carl, what’s this guy still doing here?’

Carl could take a hint. He was moving with his prisoner before the question was over. ‘He’s on his way to AdSeg.’

In front of them the crowd had thinned. Part of it – some reporters and supporters and David Freeman – had followed Soma and Drysdale. Pratt, enjoying the photo op, had led another group off on a different walkway.

Evans and Lanier stood by themselves, alone, arms folded, and watched as Graham was led by them.

‘All politics aside, Abe, you’ll be happier in the long run if you look into George Russo’s alibi,’ Hardy said. ‘Graham’s brother?’

‘I know who he is.’

‘You know where he was when Sal bought it?’

‘I don’t need to.’

‘Well, don’t say I didn’t try.’

But neither of the men moved away. Hardy had his hands in his pockets, wondering if Sarah was going to come over and say something. Glitsky, his jaw working, the scar white through his lips, stood with his arms crossed, feet planted. Eventually, his chest heaved. ‘Evans said on the stand she believed your man?’

‘She said he was trustworthy.’

‘How did that come up? How’d the judge let it in?’

‘Freeman. The guy’s a wizard. It was just one word. Drysdale objected afterwards and got sustained, but who cares? The jury heard it.’

‘How’d Freeman guess about Evans?’

Hardy shrugged, unable to divulge what he knew. ‘Instinct, I suppose. He was right.’

‘I’ve got to talk to her. She doesn’t think Graham did it?’

‘That’s the impression I got.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know.’ Lies, lies, lies. He wanted to tell Abe, but didn’t dare. The higher priority at the moment was protecting Sarah – and Graham. He wasn’t happy about it, but felt he had no choice. ‘You’ll have to ask her.’

Frannie’s saving grace was that she didn’t carry a grudge. In this way she was the polar opposite of her husband, who could nurse a slight for decades if the stars were aligned just right.

Beaten down or not, and Hardy felt utterly tromped upon, it wasn’t his style to slink. He let himself in his front door, put down his briefcase, walked into the living room, and stood in the middle of it. After a few seconds, letting out a long breath, he went over to the mantel and moved the elephants around.

He smelled baking bread. He heard the kids in the backyard, several neighboring youngsters out there with them. He’d come directly home. There wasn’t any point in going by his office and checking up on Tryptech, talking to Freeman, reviewing anything. He wanted to be with his family. Everything else was truly out of his control.

The weather continued warm. A breath of sea-scented air wafted through the open front windows.

Frannie’s arms were around him from behind. ‘Why did you marry such a ball-breaker?’ she asked.

He turned, his arms around her. ‘I didn’t mean to keep anything from you. There was just so much going on, I forgot.’

Leaning into him, she was barefoot, wearing cutoff jeans and a blue tank-top, no bra. ‘I was tired. Maybe jealous of all the time you spend with Sarah. Both of you knew something I didn’t.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m really sorry, Dismas. It just hit me wrong.’

Kissing her, he said he’d punish her later. ‘Meanwhile, want to hear a fun story about Tryptech? Maybe you’ll want to sit down.’

They were in the living room again, but four hours had evaporated into the children’s routines. Taking that essential half hour to brief Frannie on Michelle and Tryptech and his lost fortune – never mind any emotional reaction to it – had cost them all of their potential down time.

And because they hadn’t called their children in early from the backyard, the games with the neighborhood kids went on until well after six. Late dinner. Brush teeth. Pajamas.

Then, for an added bonus, Vincent remembered that he’d forgotten his homework. He had to write a poem – at least sixteen lines and it had to rhyme and his parents weren’t allowed to help him except that he needed his dad to approve every word, but not give him any of his own.

‘Daddy, no help allowed.’ Eyes overflowing, the glare. ‘It has to be mine. You don’t think I can do anything myself!’

Frannie had earlier decreed that this would be a bath night too. Rebecca decided to take a shower, no more bath with her little brother – more weeping and gnashing of teeth from Vincent. It wasn’t fair. Everybody hated him. Rebecca got everything she wanted.

Vincent hated everybody and was going to run away and live with the wolves or Balto or somebody who cared about him.

Finally, nine-thirty, Hardy pulled the windows down, drew the blinds against the darkness. A chill evening breeze had freshened, the breath of autumn. ‘Well, that was a good time.’

With an exhausted sigh Frannie dropped onto the couch in the front room. ‘No kidding. I am going to drink a glass of wine,’ she announced. ‘Perhaps two. Would you like to join me?’

‘Gin,’ Hardy said. ‘Three fingers. One ice cube. No olive.’

The television was all over it. The war between the prosecutors. Cops divided among themselves. Sharron Pratt and Barbara Brandt and social engineering. Art Drysdale and David Freeman with their sound bites on Sarah.

Drysdale: ‘Sharron Pratt’s wrongheaded policies have so permeated the system that good cops don’t even know what the law is anymore.’

Freeman: ‘Inspector Evans knows the truth in her heart. Graham Russo loved his father.’

Hardy hit the remote, killing the picture. ‘God bless David.’ The gin was nearly gone. ‘He’s got his lines and he rides ’em like a racehorse.‘

‘But Sarah’s in big trouble, isn’t she?’

‘That could be, although in today’s climate, if Pratt’s got anything to do with it, she might get a medal.’ Hardy sighed.

‘It’s serious down there, isn’t it?’

‘As bad as I’ve seen it. It’s civil war – brothers against brothers, sisters against sisters. Everybody hates everybody. I’ve got one last problem, too, fairly serious.’

She looked over at him sympathetically. ‘Not a new one?’

He smiled wearily. ‘This one’s almost ancient – seven, eight hours. Leland Taylor.’

‘He hasn’t stopped paying you? Not now?’

‘No,’ Hardy said, ‘but he might.’

He told her about his morning discussion with Graham, that he really should tell Leland he was going to be investigating the family. Leland would cut him off. ‘And if you’re doing the math, my love, you’ll realize that he’s my last regular source of income.’ He tipped up the glass of gin, the last drops. ‘I can’t tell him, not after today.’

‘Do you need George?’

He shook his head. ‘I tell myself no, but that’s just what I want to hear. If we found out he killed Sal, then Graham’s free and we won. So of course we need him. I’ve got to find out about him and if I even start to look, I’m dead.’

Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Hardy looked at his watch: ten-fifteen. It must be Sarah, he thought, wrecked over her testimony today, needing more counsel and comfort.

Hardy’s day had begun at five-thirty after last night’s late one and the tension with Frannie. He’d actually considered asking Salter for a continuance this very morning for fatigue, and that was before he learned he’d missed out on more than half a million dollars, before the long day in the courtroom, the marathon with the children.