Hardy paid five dollars to park in the Redwood City Courthouse lot, only to discover that here at four-thirty, all the courtrooms were deserted and locked up. On the front steps, he saw two middle-aged black men in business suits talking together. Both of them had thick briefcases at their feet; both projected an air of solidity.
Hardy strolled over and excused then introduced himself. "Would either of you gentlemen know where I would find an Everett Washburn?" he said.
Washburn was a different suit of clothes than Hardy's friend and mentor David Freeman, but he was cut from the same cloth. No doubt pushing seventy, Washburn wore suspenders and seersucker rather than Freeman's rack brown suit, but neither believed in shining their shoes, neither shaved with particular care (and Washburn sported an impressive gray walrus mustache), and both seemed to believe that the smoking of daily cigars with some kind of strong alcohol was the key to longevity, to say nothing of sex appeal.
When Hardy found Washburn in the backroom of the Broadway Tobacconists- private humidified cigar vaults, bottles of single malts and rare cognacs on the low tables- he was holding court with a few well-dressed younger people of either sex. Next to him, an elegant and statuesque middle-aged black woman in a bright red dress smoked a cheroot and kept her free hand protectively on Washburn's forearm.
Reluctant to interrupt, Hardy watched and listened to him for a while through the thick, blue, fragrant smoke. Finally, and again Freeman-like, Washburn called the shot himself. Smiling around at the gathered group, whispering something to his attractive companion, he rose and walked directly up to Hardy. "If you're looking for Everett Washburn, son, and by the way you're standing here I gather you are, then you've found him." He had a large watch on a fob chain that he consulted. "There's barely five minutes left in the business day, and even if I didn't have a beautiful woman waiting for me when I get free, I don't work after that, so you'd better talk fast."
"I'm trying to locate Catherine Mooney. You represented her sixteen years ago in a divorce proceeding against her husband, Mike, who was killed a few months ago in San Francisco. I'm representing the suspect in that homicide, and Catherine may have some crucial information that could free my client." This was a stretch, but Hardy didn't care. "I have to talk to her as soon as I can."
Washburn's expression showed nothing. He brought his cigar to his lips, squinted his eyes against the smoke. "You got a card with your cell number? You got your phone on you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Let's have 'em both."
Hardy dug out his wallet, extracted his business card, gave the man his cellphone.
"Let's go find ourselves a little more light." He led the way out of the room, out of the store, stopped on the sidewalk outside and turned around to face Hardy. "You wait here." He walked off ten or fifteen steps and Hardy watched as he first punched some numbers, then talked into the phone, then read from Hardy's card, and finally closed the phone up. When he came back, he handed the phone back to him, pocketed the card in his shirt. "I like the dart on the card," he said. "Nice touch."
"Thank you."
"If she wants to talk to you, she'll call you. That's how I left it."
Hardy knew that that was all he was going to get, and damned lucky at that. If Catherine Mooney had remarried and changed her name, which was not unlikely, Washburn wasn't about to give it to him. Without the call, Hardy might never find her. "I appreciate it," he said.
Washburn waved the thanks away with his cigar. "Professional courtesy, Mr. Hardy. I'm sure you'd do the same for me."
"Could I ask you one more question?"
A quick smile washed away the merest flash of impatience. "Certainly."
"In case I need to see her in person, would you recommend that I stay in the area, or go back up to the city?"
"And which city would that be? Pace," he said. "A joke. I'd stay nearby."
"Good. Thank you."
Washburn checked his pocket watch again, nodded with satisfaction. "And with twenty seconds to spare, too. If I would have gone over, it would have cost you."
Now it was after six o'clock and Hardy brought his cup of espresso to the pay phone by the kitchen at Vino Santo Restaurant on Broadway, across the street from the tobacconists, about five blocks from the courthouse. He had his cellphone with him, of course, but he didn't want to use it and risk missing Catherine if she called.
"Hello," Frannie said.
"I'm assuming the kids must have put the phone in your bed, right? Which is how you're able to answer it."
"Dismas, I'm fine."
"In other words, not in bed as the doctor- no, scratch that, two doctors have ordered."
He heard her sigh. "Did you call to yell at me? Because if you did, you can just call back in a minute and leave it on the machine."
"I'm not going to yell at you. I'm calling to say I'm probably not getting home anytime soon. I'm down in Redwood City, hoping to talk to a witness for Andrew Bartlett. Are you making dinner?"
"No. As a matter of fact, our two darlings are cooking up something even as we speak. It smells delicious. What's gotten into them, do you think? They're being angels."
"They love their mother and want to take care of her, that's all. Since, apparently, she won't take care of herself."
"You didn't talk to them?"
"I talk to them all the time. It's what a father ought to do."
"That and not nag the mother."
"Unless she asks for it."
"Well, whatever you said, thank you. It's really made a difference."
"That's good to hear. Really," he said. Then added, "But you, don't push it, okay? I don't want to come home and have you on your back in bed."
She lowered her voice. "That's the saddest thing. You always used to."
"Here's a little secret," he said. "I still do."
Hardy next reached Wu at the office, where she was getting ready for tomorrow. She told him that the Brolin testimony had gone all right. Judge Johnson had given her considerable leeway with the psychologist, who'd painted Andrew in the best possible light- a young man who didn't need rehabilitation because he was essentially a good citizen already. As Hardy knew, they had also pulled Mr. Wagner from Sutro in, and he'd testified to Andrew's basic goodness, his extracurricular activities, talent for writing and the arts in general. Again, there was nothing to rehabilitate. Brandt had not even bothered to cross-examine, and Wu had thought it was because he was prepared to give her these criteria. After all, he only had to win one of them. "But Mr. Brandt fights everything, I'm learning. He called his own witness. Glen Taylor, the inspector who'd arrested him?"
"And what'd he say?"
"Well, Brandt leads him up from the beginning of the investigation, his first suspicions about Andrew, the mounting evidence, right up to the arrest, then asks him if in all that time, did Andrew show the slightest amount of remorse for what he'd done."
"You objected, of course."
"Of course, and even got sustained, but he just rephrased. 'Did Andrew at any time show any remorse about what had happened?' And of course Taylor said no."
Hardy, at his table at Vino Santo, drew circles on his legal pad. There weren't any notes to take or comments to make. This was pretty much pro forma police testimony in proceedings of this kind, and wasn't particularly sophisticated or damning stuff. It sounded as though Wu had won her point.