“You could get me out of your hair if you wanted to.”

“But you’re not in my hair. I have no complaints.”

“You will have.”

Douglas had held the thoughtful look. Now he inclined it towards amusement. “All right. For argument’s sake, what would get you, as you put it, out of our hair.”

“Your hair.”

“My hair then.”

“Give me the names of the men you were playing cards with the night my son died.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I’m serious.”

Douglas looked over at Liz and shook his head incredulously. “I’m beginning to see why you were so shook this morning. I’m afraid we’re dealing with a—” He turned back to Hook. “What would you call yourself, Mr. Hook? A monomaniac? Does that sound unfair?”

“It sounds beside the point.”

“Ah, the point. And what is that?”

“That if you were playing cards that night—if you really weren’t here—then you’ve got nothing to fear. There’s no reason not to give me the names.”

Douglas had dispensed with his smile now, his incredulity, his act. He stood at the bar studying Hook openly, slowly tolling the bell of his empty glass back and forth.

“You’re right,” he said finally. “You’re absolutely right.” He set down the glass and took out a ball pen and a business card. He wrote quickly, then held the card out to Hook, without moving towards him.

And Hook was perfectly willing to surrender his position for the prize. He got up and took the card.

“Will that do?” Douglas said.

Hook read the names: Rich Ferguson, Bo Parnelli, Dr. Herb Hammer.

“I’ve met Ferguson,” he said. “These other two work for you too?”

“Not Dr. Hammer. But he is an old friend. I have this weird habit of playing cards with people I know.”

Hook had what he wanted now. But to get it he was afraid he had gone too far, had put Douglas too much on guard. Placing the card in his pocket, he tried to undo some of the damage.

“Thanks for indulging me,” he said. “I guess all this is just to put my mind at ease. So I’ll know I did all I could. When I reach a dead end—and I imagine I will—I’ll be out of your hair.”

It was a hangdog, humble-pie performance. But Hook could not tell if Douglas had bought it. The man did smile, though, sympathetically. “As I said before—I can understand. I really can.”

“I appreciate that.” Hook finished his drink and set the glass on the bar.

Douglas was checking his watch. “Well, I’ve got to be going. Busy afternoon ahead of me. Come on, I’ll walk you to your car.”

Hook looked over at Liz Madera. “If Miss Madera wouldn’t mind, I’d like to stay and talk with her a few minutes.” At her look of alarm, he added: “About what my son said, that’s all. During his last hours. If it really was suicide, I’d appreciate having more to go on, so I’ll have some idea where it all went wrong. I have another son, you see. Two years younger.”