“I been busy, of course. You got a case number, Hardy? I got no time to chat.”

“No case.”

“Okay, then. Later.”

Dismissed, he kept walking. A couple of faces looked familiar to him, but he was surprised that he saw no one he actually knew to talk to. Had it been that long? He felt like he’d gone back to his old high school.

Finally he stopped near a doorway where a studious young man was sitting in a chair studying blowups of photographs that Hardy did not want to look at too carefully. He had seen enough of that stuff firsthand this morning. He had already decided who he had to talk to.

“I’m trying to find Art Drysdale’s office,” he said.

The kid tore himself away. “Probably a good idea anyway,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, sorry. Talking to myself. Probably a good idea to get away from this for a minute. Drysdale, you said?”

They walked back past the file library. Drysdale’s office was two doors beyond it on the other side of the hall. As Hardy knocked, the kid, into his work, was already halfway back to his room.

“It’s open.”

Drysdale was turned away from the door, his feet propped up on the windowsill, talking on the telephone. There was no one at the other desk. Hardy moved some folders from a chair to the floor and sat to wait.

“No,” he was saying. “No, we don’t know that.”

He listened. Hardy noticed his knuckles white on the receiver.

“You want my opinion, it’s not even likely. I think it’s a big mistake.”

He said ‘uh huh’ and ‘right’ a few times, loosening his collar with one hand, the knuckles on the other one staying white. “All right. It’s your decision.” A beat, then loudly, “Course I’ll do it. It’s what we do, isn’t it? But it sucks, Chris. Sir. It really sucks.” He slammed the phone down. “Son of a bitch.”

He swiveled in his chair. “Yeah?” he began. Then, recognizing Hardy, “Hey!” He stood up, extended a hand. “Here’s a sight for sore eyes. What brings you downtown?”