The coroner’s office was in the same building Hardy worked in, on the ground floor. To wheel the gurneys in, there was easy access from the parking lot. The public could enter without being frisked, without going through the detector at the back door to the Hall of Justice.

Hardy was sitting on one of the yellow plastic chairs in the outer office. It was four-thirty and he was meeting Esme’s attorney at five in his office, so he took a break and decided to go check on the hand.

The receptionist was one of those rare marvels of civil service. Sixto was about twenty-five, wore a tie and slacks, combed his hair, spoke English politely and with some grammatical precision. A miracle.

‘I don’t think they’ve found anything yet, Mr Hardy,’ he said. ‘It hasn’t been a good day. Mondays never are.’

‘Bad weekend?’

Sixto nodded. ‘Two homicides. This drive-by stuff. What gets into people?’ There wasn’t any answer to that and Sixto didn’t expect one. ‘So I doubt if they’ve gotten to anything with the hand, but I’ll keep on it, okay? I’ll let you know.’

Hardy thanked him and got up. Outside the door, in the June fog, he stopped to take in the parking lot, the freeway blocking the horizon to his right, which was starting to sound like rush hour. Walking toward him from the back door were Detective Sergeant Abe Glitsky and Chief A.D.A. Art Drysdale.

‘Guys,’ Hardy said, nodding.

The guys were not in good humor. Coming abreast of him, Drysdale said, ‘We don’t want to talk about it.’

‘The hand?’

Glitsky, as big, black and mean looking as the lanky, white Drysdale seemed benign, snapped, ‘What hand?’ He reached behind Hardy and pulled at the door.