“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just on the rag tonight. Tired. This call came in, I was thinking about going home.”

“So go home now.”

“Yeah.”

They got to Glitsky’s green Plymouth. Hardy tipped his cup back. “You notice beer never gets warm here? It’s one of the great things about this ballpark.”

Glitsky squinted through the fog out toward the Bay. “Nothing gets warm here.” He stood without moving, maybe waiting for some signal. “I’m gonna check in,” he said suddenly.

Hardy eased himself up onto the car’s hood, waiting, wondering. What was Abe checking in again for after he should have been home with his wife and kids five hours ago? Hardy didn’t believe anybody had to be that much of a red hot.

But when Glitsky came out of the car, he was smiling his tight, scar-stretching smile. “Serves the fucker right,” he said.

“Who?”

“The guy who scammed this”-he motioned back to the stadium-“off on me. Two minutes after I left he got himself a righteous homicide. Ought to keep him up all night.” The smile tightened further. “You know, Diz, I think I better see how he’s doing.”

“That smacks of cruelty, Abe.”

“You know, I believe it does.”

They sat in the front seat and waited while Glitsky got patched through. “Carl? Abe. What you got?”

“What do you want to know for?”

“I got done here. Thought you might want some help.”

Hardy heard the voice change. “I don’t need no help, Abe.”

“I said want, Carl. Not need.”

There was a pause. “Okay. Sorry. No, we got it under control.”

“What is it?”

“White male, mid-twenties, tentative ID Cochran, Edward. Shot once in the head-”

“Find out where it is,” Hardy said.

“What? Hold on,” Abe said to the radio.

“Find out where it is,” Hardy repeated. “I know an Ed Cochran. It better not be him.”