John Lescroart - A Certain Justice

'We're going to go back and pay them sometime, though, aren't we?'

Kevin squared her around to him and kissed her. 'Yes,' he said. 'That's a very important point and I concur that we should do it at the first opportunity. Which might not be tonight.'

She snuggled up against him, the relief flooding through her.

'Okay. But let's try not to forget, okay?'

'I won't forget. I've got a mind for this kind of stuff.' He kissed her again. 'You are such a dork,' he said tenderly. 'I don't know why suddenly I'm so in love with you.'

She came up as though she were going to kiss him back, but instead took his bottom lip in her teeth, held him there, whispering with equal gentleness, 'Birds of a feather.'

Before dinner Dismas Hardy had loaded up about five hours worth of opera on the CD player and now a male tenor – beyond Pavarotti, Glitsky wasn't too hot on the names – was barely audible, singing to break your heart. His heart.

After leaving Loretta, Glitsky had originally planned on zipping by here, getting the lowdown on Hardy's interview with Farrell, then calling Farrell and moving out on Kevin Shea.

As soon as he had come in he had called Farrell's number but there had been – maddeningly – no answer. Why didn't the man have an answering machine? All lawyers had answering machines – Glitsky thought they had dispensers for them in the bathrooms at law schools.

Then he had come into the kitchen and given Hardy's wife Frannie a kiss hello and Frannie had taken one look at him and said he was staying for dinner and that was the end of that. It was obvious that he wasn't taking good care of himself. Just look at him – what did he weigh anymore? What was the matter with him? He should at least think of his children.

Frannie was Moses McGuire's little sister, a petite woman with long flaming red hair, skin the color of cream, green eyes. More than a decade younger than Glitsky and Hardy and everybody else he saw outside of work, she was idealistic, headstrong, quite beautiful.

When Flo had died, and though the Hardys had two young children of their own, Frannie had taken all of Glitsky's boys for a month while he had pretended he was starting to get his life back together. It was a crucial time – and it had enabled him to find, interview and hire Rita; it had given the boys some sense of continuity when they needed it most. And it had given him an excuse to come someplace and not be alone after work.

So tonight they had fed him – Dismas and Frannie were turning into some sophisticated eaters, but Abe thought there were probably worse fates. They called it risotto, whereas Abe would have said rice and fish, but by any name it tasted good. He even had most of a glass of wine. White.

A half shot of Stoly during the day, a glass of wine at night. He was turning into a drunk. And speaking of drunk…

He'd called Farrell again. Or tried. It was frustrating to realize that his own sense of urgency involving Kevin Shea didn't appear to be shared by the suspect's own attorney. Or maybe it was – it could be they were having a meeting, a strategy session. He thought of his meeting with Farrell at Lou the Greek's, Hardy's description of his own tête-à-tête with Farrell in the Shamrock, and had come to the conclusion that whatever Farrell was doing, it was over drinks.

Well, he'd have to be patient.

Over dinner they had covered the riots, Abe's kids and his dad, Monterey, Ashland, the production of The Tempest , camping in general, which led to the Glitsky household's rules committee, on to early childhood development (the Hardys' kids were five and three, respectively), somehow over to Supervisor Wrightson, the city's wrong-headed policies on affirmative action, then on to events at the Hall, Art Drysdale, Chris Locke, the future of the United States political system. The usual stuff.

The subject of Loretta Wager had come up as well. As had Elaine. In catching up with the week's events, Hardy had not been thrilled by the role the two women had played – the rush to the indictment of Kevin Shea, the cynical way they had manipulated the media.

But Glitsky – not really wanting to dissemble in front of his friends – had segued to a different topic, saying all of that was just politics. Nothing to talk about. And how about these green beans – how did Frannie keep them so crisp? With all of the other topics they did not get around to the specifics of Hardy's talk with Wes Farrell, the fact that the search warrant had been served by a DA's investigator. It just never came up.

Now Glitsky sat on the low couch in the warm and spacious – compared to his – front room of the Hardys' house. He couldn't help noticing with some measure of regret and envy that there wasn't a large and unsightly changing screen – as there was in his own cramped duplex – separating the living area from the sleeping area. Of course, there was no need. The Hardys didn't have a nanny. Frannie stayed at home with the two kids. Dismas went to work. Old-fashioned, but there it was. The way it had been with him and Flo, and the way it wasn't anymore.

An oak fire crackled in the fireplace and he could hear his friends in the back of the house, the familiar and comfortable chit-chat as they got dessert together.

Frannie appeared now from the kitchen – her hair was back in a ponytail and she wore a white 'Cal' sweatshirt and Nike running shorts and sandals, no socks. Carrying a tray with two pots and cups and cookies, she set it down on the coffee table in front of Abe, sat kitty-corner to him in Hardy's lounger. 'What do you say? Let's be bold and not watch television tonight.'

Glitsky smiled, began squeezing some lemon over his tea. Frannie did think of everything. 'You mean just talk?'

She nodded. 'Unusual but I say go for it.' She reached over, grazed a hand lightly on his knee. 'We haven't talked about you at all. How are you doing?'

Stirring his tea, studying the swirl of the liquid. 'I'm fine.'

Frannie poured herself some coffee, adding a little cream from a carved crystal pitcher. 'I think what I like about you most, Abe, is your gushing nature, the way you just spill out everything that's on your mind.'

He kept stirring the tea. 'I'm fine, Frannie. Really. That's all there is to it.'

'Well, you seem, if you'll pardon me, a little run down.'

'It's been a long week.' He sipped. 'I'm fine, really.'

Frannie nodded. 'Dismas says if you say you're fine three times in under a minute, you're not.'

'Dismas says that, huh?'

'And if you add "really" at least once, you really aren't.' She was leaning forward. 'You said "really" twice. I noticed.'

He had to chuckle. 'Maybe this is one of your husband's theories that will prove unfounded.'

'What is this heresy I hear?'

Hardy arrived from the kitchen through the dining room with a snifter of something. 'One of my theories?'

Frannie looked up at him. 'Abe's fine,' she said. 'Really, he says.'

Hardy nodded. 'Good.'

'He doesn 't want to talk about it.'

'Better.' Motioning for Glitsky to slide over, Hardy found a place on the couch. 'I don't want to talk about Abe either.'

'There's nothing to talk about,' Glitsky said. 'I'm working, life's going on.'

Frannie was shaking her head. 'You have not had a date in one year and three months.'

Glitsky had been through variations of this scene before. His scar stretched through his lips. 'That's 'cause you're already taken.'

Frannie beamed at him, said to Hardy, 'He's so sweet.'

'A cupcake,' Hardy agreed. 'In spite of what everybody says.'

'But really, Abe…' Frannie didn't want to give it up.

Glitsky slapped his thighs, was standing. 'But really, guys, I've got to try Wes Farrell again.'