"Be his friend."
"Exactly. Keep him close."
Hardy swallowed his last oyster, tipped his beer up. "I've heard worse plans," he said. "But do yourself a favor first."
"What's that?"
"Memo to file."
Two o'clock, and Cuneo was blasting away with the Beach Boys. Not that Dennis Wilson was a rock drummer in the league of, say, Charlie Watts of the Stones, or any of the big band guys, but he beat the living hell out of his skins, and sometimes Cuneo just wanted to play loud and hard, not good. He was letting the cymbals ring at the end of "Help Me, Rhonda" when he heard the knock on his front door.
"Hold on!" Barefoot, drenched with sweat, he was wearing a tank top over a pair of lime green swim trunks. Because of his location he didn't get a lot of action at his front door, so the knock was a little unusual in itself. And he'd been a cop long enough-thirteen years-that he carried the standard load of paranoia around with him wherever he went. His gun and shoulder holster hung from the back of one of the chairs in his kitchen, and he skipped the three steps over to it and had the weapon in his hand within about two seconds. "Just a sec," he said. "Coming."
But first he parted the gauzy white living room drapes and looked out. On the concrete apron that comprised his front yard was a city-issue car with a uniformed driver behind the wheel. Pulling the curtains further apart, he put his eye against the window and saw Glitsky standing at ease on his stoop, so he set the gun on top of his television set, went to the door and opened it.
Glitsky began in an amiable way, with a grotesque but perhaps sincere attempt at a smile. "Sorry to bother you, Inspector, but I didn't know if my messages were getting through, and we need to get on the same page with this Hanover thing. It's heating up pretty fast. You mind?"
"No. Sure. Good idea." Cuneo, thrown off-balance, half turned back to his room. "I was just doing my workout. I haven't got to my messages yet. I think we must have just missed each other last night. I stopped by your office."
"That's all right. I was in and out." Glitsky cast a quick glance over Cuneo's shoulder. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I? You got company?"
"No. Just me." Cuneo backed up a bit and said, "You want to come in? We can sit."
"Thanks." A step into the room, Glitsky stopped. "Cool place, great location." He pointed at the drums. "How long have you been playing?"
"A couple of years now. It blows off energy."
"I hear you," Glitsky said. "I haven't had that since I gave up football. If you don't include a baby. They can wear you out pretty good." He scanned the room, apparently relaxed. "One of my boys, Jacob, is a musician. A singer, actually. Opera, believe it or not." Cuneo had no reaction to all the chatter, but Glitsky went on anyway. "We didn't exactly play a lot of opera around the house when he was growing up, so I don't know how he got the taste for it, but he's pretty good. The downside is, he lives in Italy and I never get to see him."
Glitsky sat himself on the edge of the love seat. He let a silence build, then broke it. "So I'm guessing you're pissed I'm involved in this. I know I would be."
Cuneo sat down at the drum kit, hit the kick drum. "Sure, a little, but what am I gonna do? Nobody asked me. But it's my case."
"Nobody's saying it isn't."
"Well, pardon me, sir, but that's just bullshit."
Glitsky frowned at the profanity, the insubordination, although he'd invited it to some degree by coming to Cuneo's home unannounced. "Actually, it's not. As I thought I explained in my message, the mayor had a personal connection to Hanover. She wanted to be in on it."
"And Lanier couldn't get it from me, then let her know?"
Glitsky shrugged. "She knows me better." "Lucky for you."
"Maybe. Some people might think that's debatable. But the point is, as far as I'm concerned, you're still the investigating officer."
"And you're what? My supervisor?"
"I was thinking, for this case, partner."
Cuneo started a light but quick tattooing on the snare drum. Caught himself and stopped. Started again. "I've had most of my luck working alone," he said.
"So have I." Thinking this was about as far as this topic could take them, Glitsky decided to break the stalemate and move along to the facts of the case. "I talked to Becker and he told me some of your witnesses thought they saw Missy leave the house before the fire."
The drumming stopped.
Glitsky continued. "So I'm assuming first thing this afternoon you were going to put out a net on her. Obvious, right? She was the shooter."
"So?"
"So have you gotten with Strout yet?" He raised a hand, cutting off the reply. "That's not a criticism, in case you haven't. It's a question."
"I was planning on seeing him right after I saw you this afternoon."
"Well, maybe I can save you a trip. I went by the morgue this morning. He ran dental records last night. It was Missy."
The news finally sparked a show of interest. Cuneo's whole body came forward, forearms on his knees, his eyes sharp now, focused. "How sure was he?"
Glitsky's mouth turned up a half inch. "It was Strout." Meaning that if he said it at all, he meant it completely.
Nodding in understanding, Cuneo asked. "So she went back inside?"
"That's one theory."
"She did him, went out to get the gasoline, spent a few minutes pouring it around, then lit it and did herself?" "Except she didn't."
Cuneo cocked his head to one side, then remembered. "That's right. She was shot pretty far around in the back of the head, wasn't she?"
"Right. Physically possible, maybe, but not likely. More likely somebody else did both of them." He spread his palms. "That's where we are."
Cuneo tapped his hands on his thighs. "So who did my witnesses see that they thought was Missy?"
"Maybe it was her. Who were your witnesses?"
"Neighbors."
"So your take is maybe she went someplace and happened to come back in at the wrong time?"
"I don't really have a take. Do you think it was about Hanover?"
"I don't know. The mayor thinks it, though." "She give you any other information?" "Nope."
"So she might be someone to talk to?"
Nodding, Glitsky said, "Maybe. I intend to ask."
"And then you'll tell me what she says?"
"That's the plan. We're working together. And that being the case, I wanted to pass something along. I got a call from Catherine Hanover this morning. The daughter-in-law?"
"Sure. I talked to her twice already. She called you?"
"She did. It seems we've been doubling up on her. I talked to her yesterday, and then evidently you came by to visit her after we'd talked, she and I?"
He answered warily. "Right. She told me you'd called her."
"Well," Glitsky said, "you won't like this, but she said you came on to her."
Cuneo's face hardened down in an instant. "She said what? How did I do that?"
"You touched her."
"I touched her. Where? Did she say?"
"Arm and shoulder."
"Arm and shoulder. As if I'd remember arm and shoulder. And that was coming on to her?" Then, a different tone. "Is she filing a complaint?"
"No."
"She says I came on to her, but she's not filing a complaint? What's that about?"
"That doesn't matter," Glitsky said. "Did you touch her?"
Cuneo paused for a second. "I really don't remember." "It would be better if you did, one way or the other." "Okay then. No, I didn't." "You're sure?"
"Positive. If I did, maybe passing by her, it was so innocent I didn't even notice."
"So if you did that, maybe by mistake, you're saying she must have overreacted?"
"Either that or just flat lied. It's been known to happen."
"And why would she do that?"
"That's what I'm asking myself, especially if she's not filing a complaint." His fingers tapped a steady beat on the snare drum. Ta da dum, ta da dum, ta da dum. "Maybe I was getting close to something she didn't want to talk about."