last-ditch motion prepared.
But this was his best chance. This might work.
He called Frannie from the San Francisco airport and endured the expected anger. She had every right to be angry. He hadn't been much of a father or husband in the past months. But he was going to make it up to her, to the kids. This trial had taught him something. A lot. It was an insane life and he had fallen into it. But he was going to get out. Do something else, or do this some other way. As soon as this was done.
First, though, he was going to finish this.
When she cooled off she'd understand. She wouldn't, in fact, expect any less – she was the one, after all, who had insisted he do all he could to find the truth behind Larry Witt's murder. And Matt's. For Jennifer's sake. And now, sick or not, unless he died trying, that's just what he was going to do.
51
The plane was scheduled to land in Burbank an hour before dusk. He was sleeping in a window seat, covered with a blanket, when the pilot came on announcing their descent. He opened his eyes, taking in the view. Two or three times its normal size, the sun shimmered through a red haze out over the ocean. Looking down, Hardy picked up the maze of freeways winding through the Valley, the Hollywood jammed even now on an early Saturday evening, the Golden State also packed heading downtown. The Pasadena wasn’t yet a parking lot, at least not from the air.
Feeling wasted with fatigue and fever, he closed his eyes again until they came to the famous complete stop at the gate.
This, he told himself as he tried not to stagger walking to the nearest rent-a-car booth, was a dumb idea.
But somehow he made it to Pasadena. He had taken a couple of DA training classes at an Embassy Suites there and had a vague memory of where he was going. Within an hour of landing, he had registered, showered, left a message for Frannie that he'd made it and passed out under the covers.
He slept fourteen hours and woke up in soaked sheets feeling he had a chance to survive. It was close to noon, Sunday, October 24. After another shower, still shaky, he called home again, and again no one answered. He left another message. He was feeling better, which wasn't saying much. He'd try again tonight.
Restoffer picked up after three rings. The greeting was cordial enough, but when Hardy started to brief him on why he had come down here, he hadn't gotten out two sentences when he sensed a change, an almost ominous reserve.
Restoffer interrupted him. 'You gotta leave this. Or at least leave me out of it.'
An unwelcome surprise. Last time they'd talked, Restoffer had told him he'd be around if he was needed. Now he was backing out.
'Did something else happen?'
'Nothing else happened except your prosecutor called my chief.'
Silence. But nothing else needed to be said. Hardy had made some serious problems for Floyd Restoffer in the months before his pension was going to kick in. He didn't want any more. 'I've got to go.'
The line went dead.
Hardy squeezed the receiver. 'Now we're having fun,' he said to no one. He went into the bathroom and took three more aspirin, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. 'Nice eyes.' Backing up a step, he realized the rest of him matched his eyes – he needed a shave, clean clothes, another fourteen hours of sleep. He didn't have the courage to take his temperature.
After pacing the room for fifteen minutes, he ordered breakfast from room service, then called Restoffer again. 'Margaret Morency is engaged to Jody Bachman, you know that?' There was a long silence and Hardy said: 'I've got to start somewhere, Floyd. I'm down here. I need a little help. Please?'
Restoffer's breath echoed on the line. Hardy waited. 'Believe it or not, Morency is in the book. I checked.' After another moment the cop said, 'San Marino,' and hung up.
Hardy left a message for Jody Bachman at Crane amp; Crane. He was sure it was just an oversight because he was so busy, but Bachman had never gotten back to him on the Larry Witt matter. Now he was down in LA today and tomorrow. Maybe they could get together sometime, perhaps for lunch. He left the number of his hotel if Bachman wanted to call him back. Also his room number.
His luck ran out. Yes, Clarence Stone had been able to see him.
Freeman had come up with pretty much the same conclusion. The plane had had an open seat, the hotel a vacant room.
That was it – that had been the run of it.
Now Restoffer wouldn't talk to him, Frannie wasn't home, Bachman wasn't at work on a Sunday and Margaret Morency's phone apparently didn't even have an answering machine.
Steeling himself for the shock, Hardy drew the shades back. The San Gabriel mountains rose sparkling in front of him. Closer in, squatting along the Rose Bowl parade route on Colorado Boulevard, he noticed the low buildings were waging a losing fight with grafitti. He pushed open his window. The air was fragrant and warm with a late- summer softness to it.
A new rush of dizziness came over him and he was tempted to yield to the inertia, to lay down, call it a mistake and fly home this afternoon when he woke up. Sitting on the bed, he flopped onto his back, closed his heavy eyes.
Suddenly, anger forced him up. He was disgusted with himself, with his weakness, with being sick. If he was going to sleep fourteen hours he could have done it at home. He hadn't come all the way down here to catch up on his sleep, to let a run of bad luck do him in.
The sitting up cost him another hit of dizziness. He knew the fever hadn't broken but he'd done a lot yesterday feeling even worse. He picked up his shirt, soggy and wrinkled. It wouldn't do. He had to get some clothes. He had to keep moving…
Clarence Stone's home in Seacliff had been a nice, human-scaled, run-of-the-mill mansion. Margaret Morency's place in San Marino put things in perspective. Hardy was getting a lesson in the investment community – there were the very comfortable, then the rich, and then there were the people who had houses that weren't visible from the road. The drive, through the double iron gates, would back into a forest of scrub oak up over the crest of a small knoll and disappeared.
It hadn't been as hard to find as he had expected. The Huntington Library was open on Sundays (after noon) and they carried back issues of the city's weekly society sheet. In the past year there had been several charity events as Margaret Morency's.
Pastille was on Swan Court. Pastille was the name of her place. After those French breath candies. Maybe that's how Ms. Morency thought of her home – a trifle, a confection to soothe the spirit.
Hardy pulled his rent-a-car up to the gates. He had to get out of the car to ring the bell. No one had answered the last time he'd tried the telephone but that had been nearly an hour before. Something might have changed. If it hadn't, he'd try Bachman again, then come back here. Something.
