The Ophelia Cut by John Lescroart Page A

and an assortment of teas. A few weeks into his administration, Treya had convinced him to bring in some real chairs, a couch, and a coffee table to create two well-defined seating areas—one in chrome and one in leather—in the event that guests wanted to sit down at any point.
    When Hardy entered, Farrell was drying his face over the sink. He was wearing brown slacks over worn-down, scuffed-looking brogues, no jacket, and no tie. His white dress shirt had its top buttons undone over his T-shirt, and this Hardy took as a cue. “Drum roll, please, for today’s secret message,” he said by way of hello.
    Farrell hesitated only a moment before he put down his towel, nodded agreeably, undid two more buttons, and opened his shirt, under which his T-shirt read: SMITH & WESSON: THE ORIGINAL POINT-AND-CLICK .
    Hardy, a longtime fan of Wes’s T-shirt fetish, nodded in appreciation. “What happens when you run out of those things?”
    Farrell shook his head. “Couldn’t happen. The themed T-shirt market is unending. I get six or eight a day from my legions of fans. If it stops tomorrow, I’m good till I’m seventy-five.” He started buttoning up his dress shirt. “So how’ve you been? How’re things at the old office?”
    “Good and good. Phyllis sends her love.”
    “Ah, Phyllis. The things we never thought we’d miss.”
    “You miss Phyllis?”
    “Actually, no, not specifically. I think I was talking about those carefree days of yesteryear back when Phyllis was the worst thing we were likely to encounter on any given day. Here, every fifteen minutes, we get people who make Phyllis look like Mother Teresa.”
    “So you take naps to avoid them?”
    “Hey.” Farrell pointed a warning finger. “I deserve some rest when I get up at four-fifteen, as I did today. And even with the nap, trust me, I’ve already filled the asshole quotient for the whole day.”
    “Having to do, by any chance, with the bar busts last night?”
    Farrell squinted. “As a matter of fact, exactly. Are you on that?”
    Hardy nodded. “Ed Benson called me a few hours ago, begging for conflicts attorneys. Naturally, I volunteered to do my public duty.”
    “For which I, public servant extraordinaire, am deeply grateful.”
    “But really. You charged these turkeys? Underage drinking?”
    “It wasn’t my idea, trust me.”
    “So who do we both have to thank, then?”
    “You are aware, I presume, of our esteemed supervisor, Liam Goodman?”
    Hardy sat on the arm of the couch. “I thought it might’ve been him. I’m just a little surprised you okayed the warrants.”
    Farrell waved him off. “Don’t get me started on politics. Goodman wanted felony arrests, Diz. I’ll spare you the conversation we had. As for people knowing it was Goodman behind it, there won’t be any doubt by tonight. He’s going to be all over the news, local and national, taking whatever credit he can.” Farrell had come over to the foosball table. He took the ball from its spot under the goal and dropped it on the table, lined up a shot, and viciously spun the handle. Score.
    Farrell looked over at Hardy. “As though the city doesn’t have enough problems. We had three murders last night, you know that? Three. I don’t even know how many assaults and break-ins and drug deals and muggings and random mayhem, all of it more or less serious, and what do I get a call about? The scourge of underage drinking. Are you kidding me?”
    “Twelve arrests,” Hardy said.
    “You don’t have to tell me. I’ve already gotten an earful from everybody from the sheriff to the mayor, including my beloved girlfriend. Why was the city moving on this? Why wasn’t there any warning? Wasn’t this a little bit of an overreaction to a nonissue? Was I really going to prosecute all these people? On the other hand, if I wasn’t, why not, since they all broke the law I’m sworn to uphold. Meanwhile, I am as in the dark as anyone except Mr. Goodman about the real reason he wants