You have to remember, sergeant, that everyone we deal with is a convicted felon. Not some, not most-all.”

The supervisor was a plain woman with a no-nonsense attitude that somehow managed to convey warmth. Perhaps it was the Oliver Peoples glasses-tiny little lenses magnifying robin’s-egg eyes. The name on the little strip by her door said Ms Hammond, and Glitsky liked her right away. She had the back-corner office in the Ferry Building, with a view over the water to Treasure Island, up to the Bay Bridge, out to Alcatraz. People paid three grand a month for one-room apartments with that view. It might be one of the perks of the job-he knew she didn’t make that much.

Her office was clean and functional, brightened by the view and a small forest scattered in pots. Twenty-one parole officers reported to her.

“Well, what I meant was-”

“No. It’s all right. It’s just helpful to remember where these people are coming from. What they face outside.”

“Well, it’s possible our man-Louis Baker-was outside about an hour before he killed somebody.”

Ms Hammond sighed heavily, nodding. “Yes. That happens, too, I’m afraid.” She scooted her chair across the floor from her pitted green desk to a battered green file cabinet.

After a minute looking at something, she sighed again. “You want to see Al Nolan.”

“Is that bad news?”

She looked at her watch. “It’s two-thirty. If he took a normal lunch at noon, he might be back.”

Glitsky wondered if the entire bureaucracy was sinking, every department bogged down in bad faith and bullshit. But Ms Hammond faced him, shrugging. Shrugs and sighs. She probably didn’t know she did it. “Some of them need more supervising than others. Let me show you the way.”

She led him down a long corridor that reminded him of the Hall, into a large room that was subdivided into cubicles.

Al Nolan, a white male in his late twenties, was opening a Wendy’s bag and putting the contents on his desk. He wore a bowling shirt with the name Ralph stitched over the right pocket. His long brown hair didn’t look too clean and was pulled back into a ponytail. “Al,” Ms Hammond said, “this is Inspector Sergeant Abe Glitsky…”

Nolan held up a hand. “Hey, it’s my lunch hour. You mind?”

Glitsky heard Ms Hammond’s intake of breath. “Lunch is supposed to start from twelve to one-thirty, somewhere in there, Al.”

“Well, at noon I had to take my car down to the garage, and the guy didn’t have a clue what was wrong, so I had to leave it and take the bus back. You know the buses.” He, too, shrugged.

“You know, Al, that sounds to me like two and a half hours of your own time.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t get to eat yet.”

Glitsky butted in. “They paying you for this?” Turning to Ms Hammond, “Excuse me.”

“Hey, what? I’m not supposed to eat? We’re entitled to lunch.”

Ms Hammond, getting impatient, said, “And what do you suppose the state of California gets to ask of you in exchange?”

Nolan chewed a few fries. “In exchange for what?”

“In exchange for your lunch break?”

“Hey, I do as much work as anybody here. More than some.”

Glitsky just waited.

Ms Hammond smiled. The warmth was gone. “You know, Al, that’s just not true.” She laid a hand on Glitsky’s arm. “Mr Nolan is on the state’s time now, sergeant. If his eating bothers you, he’ll throw his”-she paused-“afternoon snack away.” She turned and was gone.

Nolan rolled his eyes. “Her time of the month,” he said, and gestured for Glitsky to pull up a chair. “Who we talking about now?”

Glitsky was tempted to get into it. This attitude was making him crazy. He wondered if Ms Hammond’s sweet grandmother nature wasn’t really to blame, and everyone on the top ought to start right now being a hard-ass of the first order, whip things back into shape. Kick ass and take names. Fire people like Al Nolan. Then he remembered -nobody ever got fired from a government job. Kill your neighbors, come to work drunk, miss thirty days in a row calling in sick… hey, it robbed a person of dignity to take their job away.

Glitsky found himself sighing. “Louis Baker,” he said. “We’re talking about Louis Baker.”

“Yeah, I just saw him this morning. Seemed okay, a pretty nice guy.”

“Well, we think maybe he killed somebody last night.”

Nolan took a bite of burger. “No shit? Well, these guys can be very cool about things.”

“About killing people, you mean.”

“Whatever. You know, they don’t talk to us. They just check in, lie about having a job or an offer, then split.”

“Did Louis Baker say he had a job?”

“Now you mention it, no.” He seemed to ponder that a moment. “Well, he’s only been out a day. Hasn’t learned the ropes yet.”

Glitsky leaned forward. “So what did you talk about?”

“Mostly the Giants, I guess.”

Glitsky could have guessed, too. The Giants were in the thick of the pennant race.

“I think they’ll stay in the city.”

“Who?”

“Who we talking about, man? The Giants. I mean, a pennant is what we need. No way are they gonna let ’em go to San Jose if we get another pennant. The team is happening. Who’d Baker kill?”

“We don’t know if he killed anybody. He’s a suspect is all.”

“He probably did.”

“Why do you say that? You just said he was a nice guy.”

Nolan shrugged. Glitsky wondered if people here all had shoulder and back problems from the shrugging. “So he’s a nice guy. That just means he’s got manners. I mean, everybody says Ted Bundy was the nicest guy you’d ever want to meet, and how many people did he ace, twenty, thirty?”

“So you figure Baker killed somebody. Why? Did he say anything to you about last night?”

“These guys kill each other.”

“The victim wasn’t black, Mr Nolan.”

“No shit. I just assumed.”

“Caucasian woman.”

“Well, maybe he was just unloading after all that time in.” Nolan looked at Glitsky man-to-man. “You know.” He pointed at his crotch. “No conjugal visits at the Q. Lot of guys get out and that’s the first thing they do.”

Glitsky, suddenly very weary, shook his head. “No, it wasn’t that.”

Nolan, thoughtful, chewing. “Well, they kill white guys too.”

It was still early afternoon, balmy with a light breeze. Glitsky had the windows down on both sides of the Plymouth. Driving down Mission, he had intended to get on the freeway and head south to Holly Park and see if he could get a few words with Louis Baker.

But Al Nolan had gotten inside of him-young, hip, ponytailed Al Nolan with his ‘Ralph’ fifties-style bowling shirt, probably seriously thought he did a real job. And real clever to boot. Above it all with that glib shit that all these cons were just passing time before they went back. Jive about the Giants. For a minute Glitsky thought about bringing Al to the Hall and booking him for obstructing a homicide investigation. See how funny he thought that was.

He drummed his fingers on the dash. Then there was Marcel Lanier and the other cops in homicide with their damn golf clubs. What was the use?

He tried to get his mind kick-started back on Louis Baker. About why was he going down now to see Louis Baker. Sure, Hardy had his reasons. But for him, wasn’t it the same reason Al Nolan had for assuming Baker was guilty-because he was a black ex-con?

There wasn’t any hard evidence making him a suspect. There was Hardy’s suspicion, and Hardy’s fear. But Hardy, all white, points the finger at Baker, all black, and Abe Glitsky-half and half-jumps on the white wagon with both feet. Well, shit, why is that, Abe?

Look at the facts. Okay, so Hardy is your friend, and an ex-cop. Ex-cops also kill people. And Hardy was apprehended-let’s not forget that, apprehended-there at the scene with a loaded weapon. Sure, he had his stated reasons, but why didn’t Glitsky suspect him? Well, he knew Hardy. Also, Hardy’s gun hadn’t been fired. Still…