Hardy was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "Would it be that bad? I always thought if you were gay, this was the town to be in."
"Maybe for older guys, but don't be a gay teenager. You'll get slaughtered. You want to hear a story?"
"Sure."
"I had this friend, Tony Hollis, you can look him up. He came out last year and got beaten up by cruisers in Noe Valley four times in six months, whenever any prowling group of teenage straights got bored. Then I guess Tony got bored with that and took a bottle of pills." He took a minute collecting himself. "So, no, I'm not saying anything in public. And you promised you wouldn't, either. If you do, I'll deny it. And that goes for Mooney, too."
"What do you mean, it goes for Mooney, too?"
"You promised you wouldn't tell about him."
"Yes, but that was…" Hardy paused. "I'm not sure I understand why that is so important now, after he's dead."
"For the same reason it was while he was alive. He didn't want his father to know. It was, like, the most important thing to him. He lived this whole secret life to keep the truth from his old man. If he didn't want to cause him that pain, how am I supposed to let it happen? I can't do it. When you were talking to me today, you said if I knew anything, I should come forward and do the right thing. Well, I've come forward, but letting you tell his father about Mike wouldn't be right at all."
"So then maybe you can tell me how am I supposed to use this information? If I can't let it come out."
"I don't know. That's not my problem." He stood up, a good kid awkward with playing the heavy, and now suddenly anxious to get away from what he'd already done. "Look, I'm sorry, I really am, but I just thought it was important that I tell you, so you'd know what you were really dealing with."
"Don't get me wrong, Steven. I really do appreciate that, but…"
The young man cut him off. "But what you do with it is up to you."
Hardy sat in his reading chair for a couple of minutes, pondering. Then he rose and walked back up through the dining room into the kitchen. In the dark and empty family room, he stopped to gaze at his tropical fish for a moment of centering and peaceful reflection. He turned on the room's lights, then knocked on his children's bedroom doors at the same time- perpendicular to each other.
"Just a second!"
"I'm doing homework!"
He knocked again. "I need to see both of you right this minute please."
The familiar grumblings ensued, but he heard movement from inside both rooms. By the time the first door opened and the Beck appeared, he was standing out in the middle of the family room, hands in his pockets, relaxed and casual. Vincent opened his own door, saw his sister pouting, looked to his dad. Having a hunch what might be coming, he wiped all traces of his own bad attitude from his face. He asked helpfully, "What's up?"
Hardy gave them a full ten seconds of low-grade glare, then finally spoke in the calmest voice he could muster. "I don't know if it's escaped your attention or not, but your mother is upstairs in bed, pretty beat up. And while I realize that the critical schoolwork you're both working on so diligently is far more important than the job I work at to keep us fed and clothed, I don't think it's asking too much for both of you to contribute toward the smooth running of the household when I'm, for example, busy on the telephone. And let me say I'm just a tad disappointed that I have to mention this to people of your ages, to whom it should already be, and I thought was, second nature. But clearly I was wrong."
He paused for a moment, made eye contact with both of them. "So here's the deal. Whenever the doorbell or the telephone rings and either your mother or I, or both of us, ask if one or even both of you could please get up and answer it, I don't want to hear about your homework, and I don't want to be told to wait even for a second. I want you both to jump and even race to see who can get to it the fastest.
"And whoever does get there first, I expect you to extend to whoever it is the kind of hospitality that you would expect to receive in the home of a civilized person. For example, Vincent, you don't leave a guest who asks for someone in this house by name standing out on the porch in the cold. And beyond that, if it's an adult you don't know, you look him in the eye, shake his hand and introduce yourself. Then you invite whoever it is in and even- I know this can be grueling- engage that person in small talk and make him or her feel comfortable until the member of this household that he requested makes an appearance. Does any of this sound remotely familiar to you? Have we ever talked about this before?"
Rebecca tossed her hair. "If this is just Vincent, Dad, I've got homework I need-"
Hardy wheeled on her and cut her off. "As a matter of fact, my dear, it's not just about Vincent. Your homework is not an automatic pass on the normal duties of citizenship around here. Vincent has homework, too. Believe it or not, even your father has homework from time to time, like tonight. Relatively important homework. Your mother never stops having homework. So homework is not an excuse to opt out of your duties as a citizen in this house. Is that clear?"
She drew a pained, audible breath. It hit Hardy very wrong. "And while we're on these special moments of politeness, I'd really prefer not to see your theatrical sighs or, Vin, your looks of obvious displeasure. We all live here together. We've all got things we need to do. So we respect each other, we cooperate, we use nice manners to each other and to our guests." He looked from his son to his daughter and back again. "Is there anything about what I've just said that either of you don't understand? Vincent?"
His son was leaning against the doorjamb, downcast. He shook his head no.
"Vincent," Hardy repeated. "Look at me. In the eyes. Good. Is there something about what I just said that you don't understand?"
"No."
"No what?"
"No, sir."
"That's the right answer. Rebecca?"
"No, sir. I'm sorry."
"Even better." Hardy turned as the phone started to ring in the kitchen. "Don't either of you trouble yourselves," he said. "I'll get that."
"I usually wouldn't call this late," Glitsky said, "but your phone was busy last time I called so I figured you might still be up. How's Frannie?"
"Sleeping, I hope, if she's not lacing up her track shoes. But that's not why you called."
"No."
"Are you waiting for me to beg?"
"No. You'll never believe what we think we found out about the Executioner."
"Don't tell me he's a redheaded dwarf."
"He might be," Glitsky said. "But he may also be using a silencer."
"Still on silencers."
"We didn't have anything else, so I sent out half of homicide to ask around in Twin Peaks. Between the two killings, we talked to twenty-one citizens who were nearby- just like with Boscacci- and nobody heard a thing. Elizabeth Cary's neighborhood, too. Remember her? Nobody on the whole cul-de-sac, and all of them were home. Nothing."
"So what are you saying. These were all this Executioner?"
"That's the working theory. In any event, you get four shots in high-density areas and nobody hears anything, something's a little funny."
Hardy didn't really agree. It was a noisy city, and people were so inured to near-constant aural assault that he thought a gunshot could easily go unremarked. Nevertheless, though he wasn't ready to mention it to Abe yet, when the time came he might be tempted to call his friend to the stand as a witness in the Andrew Bartlett matter, where the actual sound of the gunshots was the proverbial dog that barked in the nighttime.
Another alternative theory presenting itself, another ball in the air.
But something entirely different struck him. "Wait a minute," he said. "Did you say Boscacci? What's this got to do with him? You think this guy shot him, too?"