Art Drysdale, his old mentor, the man who had hired him back to the DA's office a year before, said, "I'd like to, Diz, but it's not my case. I don't know much about it."

Baloney. Art Drysdale knew the nuts and bolts of every case of any import that got charged, especially any murder case. "It's Dean Powell's case. You know where his office is, don't you?"

In other words, bye-bye, and don't stop back on your way out. You're on the other side now. See you around."

Hardy decided he would rather not talk to Dean Powell, not yet. Instead, he went upstairs to homicide, hoping to run into Sergeant Inspector Abe Glitsky. Hardy and Abe had started out together as policemen walking a beat. While Hardy had gone on to law school, then to the DA's office, Abe had progressed through the SFPD for almost ten years until he made it to homicide, the place he called home. If Drysdale no longer was any kind of inside source, Hardy had no doubts about Abe, who was sitting at his desk, looking down at some papers and chewing ice out of a styrofoam cup.

Hardy walked through the open room of the Homicide Detail, poured himself a cup of old coffee, pulled up a chair and waited. After a moment or so, he sipped loudly. Abe looked up. Then back down with no change of expression. "The element of surprise," he said, "in the right hands, can be a powerful weapon."

Hardy sipped again, more loudly than before. Glitsky raised his head and chewed some ice with his mouth open. One of the homicide detectives walked by behind Hardy and stopped. "I'd give it to Glitsky on points," he said. "Those are real attractive sounds."

Hardy swallowed his coffee and brought the file up, laying it on the desk. "What do you know about Jennifer Witt?"

After a last look down at the papers in front of him, Abe closed the folder. "I wasn't doing anything."

Hardy smiled. "You've told me many times that nothing you do when you're in the office is important, isn't that a fact?"