When Hardy was at court, he’d often stop into the place for some kind of lunch or a drink at the end of the day. Lou the Greek had married a Chinese woman, and every day she would put together her own version of California Asian cuisine. All over the city, celebrity chefs were making their reputations and fortunes by marrying the finest ingredients from the Pacific Rim and creating stunning masterpieces—lobster ravioli in a lemon-grass-infused beurre blanc, tuna sashimi over Tuscan white beans with thyme and wasabi mustard. Here at Lou’s you’d get stuffed grape leaves with sweet-and-sour sauce, fried squid floating in a bowl of dip made from garlic, cucumbers, and yogurt. Surprisingly, most of Lou’s wife’s stuff tasted pretty good even if the architecture of the plate, as they called it, left a little something to be desired. But it was still hours from lunchtime, and Hardy wasn’t there to eat anyway. He was tucked into a corner booth around a mug of coffee, waiting for David Freeman. After leaving Frannie, he’d gone by Glitsky’s empty office, leaving a note about Ron Beaumont’s absence, then went down to the third floor to confront Scott Randall personally—physically wasn’t even out of the question. Even though it was well past eight o’clock, there wasn’t a soul in the entire DA’s wing.
