'Maybe Abe…'
Hardy shook his head. 'Abe is a good guy but he's done on this one. Everybody's done. It's down to me.'
Frannie finished her wine. 'And you don't have a lawyer argument that's going to save Jennifer, do you?'
'No. She won't-'
Frannie shushed him. She knew all that, she reminded him. 'Okay, then. There's only one option left.'
'I'm listening.'
'You've got to find out who killed them.'
42
Hardy sensed that he and Walter Terrell weren't friends anymore. He had reached him by telephone at the homicide detail before nine the next morning, and they had had a brief discussion. After Hardy had introduced himself, saying he just had a couple of quick questions, Terrell had replied, 'Why don't you take your questions to somebody who gives a shit?' And then the inspector had hung up.
Hardy held the receiver for a long minute, until it started to beep at him. Okay, he thought, I can take a hint.
He had a problem – nobody was going to talk to him. Terrell was the first indication, but as he sat flipping though the interview folders and copies of police reports on his desk, he realized that he had about run out of folks who might be willing to give him the time of day, much less a substantive interview.
Tom and Phil DiStephano – forget it. Nancy – too scared, and rightly so. The Romans – he could go get in Cecil's face, but there was no leverage even if he had a grounded suspicion, which he didn't. There was Sam, the gay receptionist at the Mission Hills Clinic, but that could get awkward and was still once removed from any even remotely potential suspect.
Hardy went downstairs again, watched more World Series action, drank a cup of coffee and schmoozed with Phyllis. David Freeman was in his office this morning but had a client with him and Phyllis wouldn't interrupt, not that Hardy wanted her to. It looked like another murder case. By the way, he'd been working while he'd been at home – she had typed the first papers on the Witt appeal this morning.
The ever-spinning wheels of the law depressing him, Hardy went back upstairs. He threw darts – 20, 19, 18. The numbers falling, the clock ticking.
The only human being left was Ali Singh, the office manager at YBMG. Hardy thought he'd take him out to lunch, see if there was any other avenue he hadn't explored regarding Larry Witt's work. Maybe he had stolen another doctor's patients? Singh's avowal that Larry had been popular with his fellow workers – on reflection – just didn't seem to be possible. The man had been difficult with everyone, and all work environments created frictions. At least it was worth a shot. Not to mention that it was the only shot Hardy had.
Except that Singh no longer worked there.
'Do you have a forwarding number?'
The efficient voice said they weren't allowed to give out that information, which Hardy had somehow known was coming.
'It's very important.'
The voice was sorry. There was nothing it could do. Hardy's karma on a negative course.
'Okay, then, how about this? How about I give you my name and number and you call Mr. Singh and ask him if he'd like to call me back?'
'I may be able to do that,' the voice said. 'I'll check.'
Assistant District Attorney (and candidate for Attorney General) Dean Powell and his boss Chris Locke were having lunch together at a corner table fifty-two floors above San Francisco in the Carnelian Room at the top of the Bank of America Building. Powell had asked for the lunch.
The special was Santa Barbara rock shrimp risotto, and both the attorney and his boss the DA had ordered it. Powell had decided he wanted a half bottle of Meursault to go with it. Locke wasn't having any until it was poured, and then he allowed himself to be talked into a glass. They did not click their glasses together.
The upcoming election was now less than two weeks away, and Powell was leading the pack of contenders in the latest poll by four percentage points. After a few minutes of chatter about that, Powell came to the point, filling Locke in on Hardy's visit to his office, the one he had promised not to talk about.
When he had finished, Locke said, 'He's only been with Freeman how long and he's pulling this? 'Course, he's capable of doing it all on his own.'
Powell nodded. 'It's pretty transparent.' He stabbed a shrimp. 'He tells me his client won't let him bring it up but nevertheless it's the truth and I'm a cretin if I don't believe him.'
'Still, though, Dean, this issue has been floating around since the beginning.'
'Of course. There's little doubt the woman was hit a few times. But it's nowhere in the record.'
'Yes, it is, Dean. At least once.'
'Not with Larry. Not with the second husband.'
A bit annoyed, perhaps only impatient, Locke snapped, 'I know who Larry is.' Then, 'What's he doing with it? Hardy, I mean?'
'Well, that's just it – he says Jennifer has forbidden him to bring it up in open court.'
'He say why?'
Powell shrugged. 'She says it gives her a reason to have killed Larry and she didn't do it.'
'She's feathering her bed for the appeal.' Locke finished his short glass of wine and Powell poured him a little more, to which he did not object.
'That's how I read it, too. She's just stonewalling, and she's smart, figuring if she admits to being beaten she's admitting to the murders.'
'I don't think she killed anybody because she was being beaten,' Locke said.
'Right. She did it for the money. Twice.' Powell looked out over the sparkling city, the view clear to Napa. He sipped at his own wine. 'I just wanted to alert you. I think you can expect a personal call from Mr. Hardy, calling on you to tap those reserves of sympathy for which you are so justly famous.'
Locke, never able to stand Hardy, allowed himself a small smile. He brushed his lips with his napkin. 'If it's not in the record it doesn't exist, Dean. That's how I run my office. Always have.'
Powell was satisfied. 'Yes, sir, I know.' He nodded. Locke held out his glass for the last drops of the Mersault, and Powell poured.
At least Hardy had found a couple of questions he hadn't yet asked. It gave him a glimmer of hope.
Not that this particular question – what was in the Federal Express package and/or who sent it? – appeared to have much to do with the matter. But it might. At this point, he was considering a 'might' of resounding relevance.
The files were piled in a half-circle around the periphery of his desk, in places a foot high.
The other consideration that had occurred was Phil DiStephano's co-workers. Glitsky had told him about the redneck feel of the plumbers' workplace. Hardy thought it was at least possible that here, from a pool of blue-collar workers, might surface a moonlighter who augmented his hourly wage by a sub-specialty in taking people out.
Again, this was the long shot to end them all… who said blue-collar workers were disposed to professional
