"I may be able to do that," the voice said. "I'll check."
Assistant District Attorney (and candidate for Attorney General) Dean Powell and his boss Chris Locke were having lunch together at a corner table fifty-two floors above San Francisco in the Carnelian Room at the top of the Bank of America Building. Powell had asked for the lunch.
The special was Santa Barbara rock shrimp risotto, and both the attorney and his boss the DA had ordered it. Powell had decided he wanted a half bottle of Meursault to go with it. Locke wasn't having any until it was poured, and then he allowed himself to be talked into a glass. They did not click their glasses together.
The upcoming election was now less than two weeks away, and Powell was leading the pack of contenders in the latest poll by four percentage points. After a few minutes of chatter about that, Powell came to the point, filling Locke in on Hardy's visit to his office, the one he had promised not to talk about.
When he had finished, Locke said, "He's only been with Freeman how long and he's pulling this? 'Course, he's capable of doing it all on his own."
Powell nodded. "It's pretty transparent." He stabbed a shrimp. "He tells me his client won't let him bring it up but nevertheless it's the truth and I'm a cretin if I don't believe him."
"Still, though, Dean, this issue has been floating around since the beginning."
"Of course. There's little doubt the woman was hit a few times. But it's nowhere in the record."
"Yes, it is, Dean. At least once."
"Not with Larry. Not with the second husband."
A bit annoyed, perhaps only impatient, Locke snapped, "I know who Larry is." Then, "What's he doing with it? Hardy, I mean?"
"Well, that's just it – he says Jennifer has forbidden him to bring it up in open court."
"He say why?"
Powell shrugged. "She says it gives her a reason to have killed Larry and she didn't do it."
"She's feathering her bed for the appeal." Locke finished his short glass of wine and Powell poured him a little more, to which he did not object.
"That's how I read it, too. She's just stonewalling, and she's smart, figuring if she admits to being beaten she's admitting to the murders."
"I don't think she killed anybody because she was being beaten," Locke said.
"Right. She did it for the money. Twice." Powell looked out over the sparkling city, the view clear to Napa. He sipped at his own wine. "I just wanted to alert you. I think you can expect a personal call from Mr. Hardy, calling on you to tap those reserves of sympathy for which you are so justly famous."
Locke, never able to stand Hardy, allowed himself a small smile. He brushed his lips with his napkin. "If it's not in the record it doesn't exist, Dean. That's how I run my office. Always have."
Powell was satisfied. "Yes, sir, I know." He nodded. Locke held out his glass for the last drops of the Mersault, and Powell poured.
At least Hardy had found a couple of questions he hadn't yet asked. It gave him a glimmer of hope.
Not that this particular question – what was in the Federal Express package and/or who sent it? – appeared to have much to do with the matter. But it might. At this point, he was considering a "might" of resounding relevance.
The files were piled in a half-circle around the periphery of his desk, in places a foot high.
The other consideration that had occurred was Phil DiStephano's co-workers. Glitsky had told him about the redneck feel of the plumbers' workplace. Hardy thought it was at least possible that here, from a pool of blue-collar workers, might surface a moonlighter who augmented his hourly wage by a sub-specialty in taking people out.
Again, this was the long shot to end them all… who said blue-collar workers were disposed to professional killings – and besides, plumbers were not exactly economically depressed. But what else did he have? If he was going on the assumption that Frannie's feelings, convictions, were accurate – which he now was – then he had to have missed something.
When the telephone rang now it startled him. He had been trying to figure out a way to contact one of Phil's friends: Hi, I think one of your co-workers might be killing people on the side. Anybody talk about anything like that? Unlikely.
"Hello."
"Mr. Hardy, is it?" The welcome voice of Ali Singh, to that he was likely to know anything either.
"It's a little late," Hardy said, "but if you haven't eaten yet, I'd like to take you to lunch."
It was a different setting than the Carnelian Room.
The Independent Unicorn was one of those San Francisco coffee houses in the avenues that always seemed to be empty and yet had been operating in the same location for thirty-some years. A postere next to the front door announced poetry readings on Wednesday nights, open-mike music on a few others, randomly. The place had picture windows, but they were covered with paisley cotton sheets, keeping the room suitably dim. There was sitar music and faint smells of patchouli and curry. A shirtless bearded man and a long-haired thin young woman dressed in black were playing chess at the counter.
Singh waved tentatively from his table at the back. Hardy's eyes, not yet adjusted to the light, made out the form, and he moved toward it, knocking into one of the tables on his way. A cat meowed at Hardy's feet and jumped up to the window ledge.
Hardy studied the table, moving on. Singh shook his hand, weakly. The little efficiency expert seemed somehow diminished, beaten down, though he put on a brave smile. When Hardy thanked him for the meeting, Singh said, "It is my pleasure for you to come down. There is not, you see, much…" His voice stopped. He gestured around the room.
"Is this your place?" Hardy asked. "You own it?"
A polite laugh. "Oh, no, no." He leaned forward, confiding. "It is not expensive. They let me sit in here all day sometimes. It is better than being home. It is a place to come to, like work."
The shirtless man had put on an apron for his waiter's duties, and was at their table offering the menu. Espresso, teas, whole grain bread products, lentil soup, brown rice, tabouli. Hardy ordered hummous and a salad. Singh asked if Hardy minded if he had the vegetable curry, at $4.95 the most expensive thing on the menu. Hardy said sure, anything, lunch was on him. Hardy, the sport.
When the waiter had gone, Hardy asked Singh what had happened to his job. Singh smiled sadly. "Well, the business climate, you see…" he began, then trailed off again. He was still wearing his thin tie and his white shirt. The sportscoat was draped over the chair behind him. "No, it is not that. I think it is just greed."
"Greed?"
"No, that is not fair, not right. I suppose it is just business, but I am… I was with the Group for seven years and I thought…" He shrugged.
"What happened?"
"Well, the restructure, yes? The bottom line." Singh drank from his water glass, no ice. "I did not see this coming. It is my fault. I should have known. This is how profit is made – you trim the fat." He laughed. "I never saw myself as the fat, though. You see? I thought I was valuable, providing a service. Now, of course, I see."
Hardy, having read the offering circular three times, was by now familiar with the facts: The Yerba Buena Medical Group had been in the process of changing its status from non-profit to for-profit, for well over a year – the HMO needed to attract capital if it expected to compete for patients, and it couldn't attract capital if it didn't make a profit.
"So they just let you go?"
Singh shrugged. "Somebody else could do it more cheaply. Maybe not so well, I don't know. But I was staff, not a doctor, so…" Another shrug, the conclusion obvious. "In any case, how do I help you? You did not come to talk about me."