Pico had been listening to Hardy talking about the ATM and didn't think it was very clear. 'So Larry Witt was alive at 9:30, right? You know that? What time were the shots?'
'Let's say between 9:35 and 9:40.'
'And who told you about this difference between 911 times and the bank times?'
'Nobody. I went down with Abe and-'
'So this DA – what's his name? – you're telling me he doesn't know? What about the cops?' Pico walked on a few steps before he noticed that Hardy had stopped. He turned back to him. 'What?'
'I am really stupid.'
Pico nodded. 'Now we're getting somewhere.'
Hardy ran it down out loud to hear how it sounded. 'No, listen. You're right, forget 911 time, Jennifer's at the bank at 9:43, right? Larry's definitely alive at 9:30. Take away two or three minutes for Larry to walk back upstairs, call it 9:35 or even later when he gets shot. Jennifer is at the ATM at 9:43, not 9:46 – eight, not eleven minutes later.'
Pico was shaking his head. 'See? All this worrying about the truth. If the DA doesn't know about the three minutes…'
'I'm not sure the DA even knows about the stop at the ATM.'
Pico spread his hands. 'Well, there you go. You win.'
'No way could she have made it 1.7 miles in a maximum of eight minutes, even if it's all downhill.'
'I believe you,' Pico said. 'Being faster than a speeding bullet myself, I could have done it, but your average bipedal human…'
Nancy DiStephano stood him up.
He was meeting her at five-fifteen outside the real estate office where she worked as a secretary. The office was on Kirkham near 19^th Avenue and it was closed up when Hardy arrived. He double-checked the address, the time, the cross-streets. No Nancy.
After fifteen minutes he called it a day, debated with himself whether he should go by the Shamrock and apologize in person to Moses, decided not, got in his car and headed home.
'I want to meet her.'
'Who?'
'You know who. I would just like to meet her.' Frannie's red hair hung long and shiny, shimmering in the evening sun. They were walking along Clement Street – Hardy with Vincent on his back in a pack, Rebecca running ahead, stopping at driveways, alleys and corners the way she had been taught. Frannie caught Hardy with a sideways look. 'You said she was a person, not a case, remember? It would just make me more comfortable. Rebecca!'
'Out of the street!'
Rebecca had dropped a toe over the curb. She pulled it back, turned around smiling. 'Just teasing.'
'That is nothing to tease about,' Hardy said. 'The street is dangerous. We hold hands crossing the street.'
Rebecca knew this. She gave her mother a conspiratorial glance and slipped her hand inside Hardy's. 'I don't think it's a good idea,' he said.
'What?'
'Mommy and Daddy are talking, honey.'
'We can talk about it later, Dismas.'
'No, Now's fine. We ought to be able to have a small discussion without being interrupted, don't you think? And I don't think it's a good idea. I don't even know if you'd be allowed to. Or if Jennifer would want to see you.'
'Who's Jennifer?'
Hardy let go of the Beck's hand. 'You can run ahead now.'
'But who's Jennifer? Do I know her?'
'Jennifer's one of Daddy's clients, sweetie.'
'Doesn't she like you?'
'She doesn't know me. I want to meet her.'
'Hey.' Hardy, the referee, making hand signals. 'Time out, all right? This is our discussion. Beck, enough, I mean it.'
'You don't have to yell at her.'
Hardy was trying to keep his voice under control. 'I'm not yelling at her. I'm trying to teach her not to interrupt. This is a useful social skill.' Vincent, suddenly startled, let out an anguished cry.
'Great,' Hardy said. 'This is just great.'
Rebecca, arms outreached, mouth open, broke down. She clung to Frannie's legs, wailing.
'Here's an idea. Let's give them to Moses and Susan for two weeks.' Hardy drank gin about twice a year and figured this was the night for it. Bombay Sapphire on the rocks with two olives.
They had gotten the children down to bed. It was still light outside, not yet eight o'clock, and still warm. They were sitting together on the front steps, waiting for the pizza to arrive, holding hands, the door open behind them so they could hear if anyone called. Or – more likely – cried.
'I don't think two weeks is enough.' Frannie was having a glass of white wine. The children's crying jag had lasted nearly an hour. 'If they rally want to get the flavor.'
'Moses lives close.' Hardy was running with it. 'We could visit them all the time.' He sipped at the cold gin, so smooth it almost wasn't there.
'Speaking of visits…'
Hardy shook his head. Jennifer again. 'I don't know, Fran. I don't see what good it would do, what the point of it is.'
'It would just set my mind at ease. That's doing some good.'
'You don't really think she'd try to get at me, do you? I mean, we went through the same thing with Andy Fowler.'
'I knew Andy, Dismas, or at least who he was. A judge, your ex-father-in-law. Plus you got him off. This woman…' she shivered, brought her glass to her lips – 'all I know about her is what I've read, which is she's a money-hungry, cold-blooded, drop-dead beautiful-'
'She's not that pretty – she's nowhere near as pretty as you.'
Frannie leaned into him, mocking the flattery. 'Well, then, she's the most photogenic not pretty woman on earth. But what she isn't, to me, is a real person, somebody I shouldn't be afraid of, worried about.'
'What if she won't see you?'
'Then she won't see me.'
She was right. If Jennifer wouldn't agree to see Frannie that would be the end of it. The gin that almost wasn't there was telling Hardy's body that oh yes, it was, too – the evening had taken on a soft edge, a benign glow. He told her he'd ask, see what he could do. It was a small enough request. If it made Frannie feel better…
How could it hurt?
When he had tried to contact Nancy DiStephano earlier in the day asking her to call him back for an
