Sometimes Hardy would say things like that. If you stuck with him, Glitsky knew, he’d get around to saying it in English. But this time Hardy said fuck it, it was nothing.

Glitsky rolled up his window.

“You want a lift home?”

Hardy motioned with his head. “I got my car, Abe.”

“Yeah, I know. Maybe you want company.”

Hardy stared into the fogged-up windshield. “After Michael…” He stopped. He rubbed a hand over an eye. Glitsky looked away again, giving him the space. Michael had been Hardy’s son who’d died in his infancy. “Anyway, I told myself I wouldn’t feel this shit anymore.” He shook his head as though clearing it. “Who’d want to kill Eddie?” he asked.

Glitsky just nodded. That was always the question. And it was easier talking about cases than trying to find some reason for the deaths of people you cared about. So Glitsky followed that line. “You see him recently, this guy Eddie? He say anything?”

“Anything like what? I saw him a couple of weeks ago, up at his place. He said a lot of things.”

“I mean, anything to indicate troubles? Somebody pissed off at him? Maybe depressed himself?”

Hardy looked away from the dashboard. “What are you talking about, depressed?”

Glitsky shrugged into his coat. “Guy’s dead alone in a parking lot with a bullet in his head and a gun in his hand. Possible he did himself.”

Hardy took it in, said, “No, it isn’t.”

“Okay, just a thought. It’ll occur to Griffin.”

“What? Is he two weeks on the force?” He rolled the window down and looked across the lot. “Nobody comes out a place like this to kill themselves. People take people here and kill them. Or meet here and kill them.”

There was no moon. The fog hung still. A streetlight behind them caught the lot in its muted, garish, yellowing pool. Hardy was right, Glitsky thought. This was an execution spot.

“Besides,” Hardy continued, “Eddie wouldn’t kill himself. He wasn’t, as they say, the type.”