Glitsky ran a finger around his expressive mouth, caressed the scar that ran top-to-bottom between his lips. "I like the way you say 'isn't that a fact?' instead of 'isn't that true?' like the rest of humanity would. It's very lawyerlike. Witt isn't my collar. You representing her? Of course you are," Abe answered himself.

"Not completely true."

"Forty percent true?"

Hardy pretended to be thinking about the answer. "She's David Freeman's but he's in court. He asked me to go make her feel better."

"Which, of course, you did."

Hardy shrugged. "It's a modest talent."

Glitsky seemed to want to follow it up, find out how his friend got even this much involved with this particular client, but he resisted the temptation. He'd no doubt get it sometime. He took the folder over his desk and flipped some pages. "Terrell made the arrest." He craned his neck, checking the room. "Terrell here?" he called out.

"Who's Terrell? Do I know him?"

"OFO," somebody answered.

"OFO?"

"Secret police code which I'm not allowed to reveal under penalty of death." He leaned forward, whispering, "Out fucking off." He went back to the report. "You've seen Terrell around. White guy, brown hair, mustache."

"Oh, yeah, him. When I was at school, there was a guy like that."

Glitsky himself was half-Jewish, half-African-American. He stood six feet some, weighed two hundred something and had blue eyes surrounded by a light brown face.

"Terrell's okay," Glitsky said.

"But…"

"I didn't say anything. I said he was okay."

"I heard a 'but'."

Abe chewed more ice, then spoke quietly. "If God's in the details, Wally and God aren't that close." He leaned back, spoke in a more conversational tone. "He's a big picture guy, only here in homicide, what, a year? Gets and idea, a theory, a vision – I don't know – but it seems to keep him running."