But running on automatic, he knew that whatever else he did he had to go to Erin’s first, to check in and see Vincent and Rebecca, make sure they were getting along all right at their grandmother’s. And that visit had provided him with a bonus as well as the usual territorial disputes.
Last night Ed and Erin had taken them to the Planetarium and they were telling him about all they had learned, and the cool way the night sky came up. Vincent didn’t believe it was an optical illusion. He was sure it was the real night sky. ‘It was. It was exactly the sky, Dad. They just opened the roof and there was the moon and the stars and everything.’ Shooting a glare at Rebecca the literalist, daring her to contradict him.
But Hardy cut them off. ‘I’ve seen it, too, Vin. It is the exact sky. I love that, too.’ A warning eye at his girl – don’t say anything. Let him have this one.
Finally he got to her. ‘So, Beck, what’d you see?’
His daughter, always ready to show off a fact, no longer cared about the truth of the night sky. Her father had finessed Vincent and given her the floor and that was all that mattered. ‘Well, the main thing was about, what’s that moon, Vin?’
‘I don’t know, but around Jup-’
‘Yeah, that’s it. Around Jupiter, one of the moons has an atmosphere and water and everything you need for life.’
‘What about heat?’
‘Inside, Dad. Molten core and volcanoes. Just like a mile under the ocean here on earth. Where’s the heat there? Inside. See?’
‘Great. I bet it could happen.’
‘Definitely. They even showed what could grow as if we were there. Some of them-’
‘You know what I thought was the best thing?’ Vincent had to get a word in.
‘The Beck’s not done, Vin. One more-’
‘She’ll never get done. She’ll keep going till you have to go.’
Hardy thought of a new name for his ‘don’t have that child’ book – The Endless Referee. But he sighed. ‘Beck? Are you almost done?’
But she must have been truly happy to have her dad there, or else wanted nothing more than to please him, which did happen. She hesitated only a second before smiling. ‘He can go.’
‘OK, Vin, what did you think was the best thing?’
The boy was so thrilled with his good fortune – interrupting his sister and it worked! – that for a moment Hardy thought he’d forgotten what he was going to say. This happened all the time, and invariably made Vincent cry. But it was, suddenly, a morning for miracles. The fact had come back to him. ‘How you can see a star when you can’t see it?’
It must have been obvious that Hardy didn’t understand.
Vincent tried it another way. ‘When it’s too dim, when you can’t see it otherwise.’
‘What is?’
‘A star, or a planet, or anything in the sky. If it’s really dim, the way you see it is you don’t look right at it. You look to the side. We did it. It really works.’
So when Hardy left, his next stop wasn’t Frannie or Abe or his reporter friend Jeff Elliot to catch up on the Beaumont case.
At his son’s suggestion, he wasn’t going to look directly at it for a while. He still had clients and phone messages and paperwork so he went to his office to attend to those.
And sure enough, somewhere in the middle of that, he remembered that Phil Canetta had stood behind him with his spiral pocket filing system, and he’d written down all the names on Ron’s answering machine.
He had told Hardy he worked out of Central Station, so he looked up the number and made the call.
The Central Station, close to the border of Chinatown and North Beach, was where Hardy wanted to open his restaurant when he retired. Not that there weren’t dozens of other fantastic dining establishments within a couple of blocks – Firenze by Night, Amelio’s, Rose Pistola, the North Beach Restaurant, Caffe Sport, the Gold Spike – but the smells of coffee, breads, licorice, sesame, roasted duck, cheeses, fish, and sausages kept tourists in a near constant feeding frenzy.
Even the locals, such as Hardy, weren’t immune. After his breakfast, he wasn’t at all hungry, but as soon as he stepped out of his car and caught a whiff of it all, danged if he didn’t think he could go for a little smackerel of something. It was a wonder, he thought, that the cops out of Central weren’t the most overweight in the city.
Plus parking. The five-story public parking structure was directly across the street and would never under any conditions be approved by today’s city planners because, after all, what kind of political statement could a parking structure make? Its only purpose would be functional, and the shakers in the city hadn’t cared about that issue in years and years.
Hardy was walking out of its utilitarian perfection now, trying to figure whom he could bribe to condemn the station building so he and maybe David Freeman could open some hip new spot there. Somebody had done it recently with Mel Belli’s old building and you couldn’t get inside the place now. Freeman, another old lawyer, might react to the precedent, and certainly he’d know whom to bribe.
Canetta cut a completely different figure in his uniform. With the three stripes on his arm, his handcuffs, bullet belt, gun, and nightstick, he was definitely a cop through and through. He appeared more substantial than he’d been the other night – heavier, older, thicker in the chest.
Hardy had arrived at what might be considered early lunchtime, and Canetta obviously wanted to get away from the station if he was going to talk about any of this.
They stopped at Molinari’s Deli so Canetta could get a sandwich – mortadella and Swiss with the waxy sharp pepperoncini Hardy loved and usually couldn’t resist, although today he did. He bought a large Pellegrino water instead.
They walked up Columbus to Washington Square. A few minutes of small talk – an update on Frannie – brought them to an unoccupied bench directly across from the twin spires of Sts Peter and Paul. Coit Tower presided over the row of buildings to their right. In front of them, a bare-chested man with gray hair in a long pony tail was trying to train an Irish setter to fetch a frisbee.
Canetta unwrapped his sandwich and Hardy started talking. Somebody had been in the penthouse and at least erased the tape. Perhaps they’d taken something as well.
Canetta let a few seconds pass, looked sideways at Hardy, fiddled with his sandwich wrapper. ‘That was me.’
Hardy tried not to show his surprise. ‘You went back? After we left last night?’
A bite of sandwich. A long time chewing. Then a nod. ‘I already had who’d called, right? Wrote ’em all down.‘ He patted his back pocket, where he kept his notebook. Then he went on, explaining, ’My answering machine at home, it only takes nine messages. I figured his might be the same. And if somebody else called him, I didn’t want the machine full up.‘
‘Makes sense,’ Hardy said, although that wasn’t what he thought. But it was a done deed. And in any event, Canetta was going on. ‘You know, they always say it’s the husband.’
Hardy nodded. ‘I used to hear that a lot when I was a cop. Now I’m not so sure it’s true.’
‘You were a cop?’ Canetta looked him over with new eyes.
‘It’s been a few years, but just after ’Nam, before I went to law school, I walked a beat. Glitsky was my partner, matter of fact.‘
A moment’s reflection while this settled. Then a question. ‘So the head of homicide’s your old buddy, and you’re coming to me?’
‘I’m the one whose wife’s in jail. Glitsky’s got two guys on the investigation, but it’s three weeks old now and they’re don’t have a thing.’
‘And you think you can help them?’