But, like Restoffer's cooperation, and though it was not what he'd call hot evidence, the information gave Hardy some small consolation. The unanswered questions had been distracting, and there weren't many left now.
There seemed something fishy in the YBMG takeover. Hardy's theory was a long way from completely developed and even further from proven, but what he was beginning to suspect drew him like a moth to a candle. Hell, any possibility did. Suppose that both Larry Witt and Simpson Crane had, for different reasons and by differing paths, somehow threatened to expose and undermine an extremely lucrative and shady business transaction. So whoever was behind it had these two obstacles to eliminate – Simpson and Larry – before the deal could proceed. Someone was hired to do the dirty work, and the murder of Simpson Crane (and his wife, who just happened to be there) looked like some kind of radical union hit, while the murder of Larry Witt (and his son, who just happened to be there) got laid off on his wife. It was at least a tantalizing parallel.
Sunday morning, frying eggs and bacon in his metal pan. Frannie in her bathrobe reading the paper in the sunny kitchen. Rebecca and Vincent enjoying the special treat of sitting next to each other, Rebecca the big girl helping her mommy, feeding the baby, getting fully twenty percent of the squashed banana into Vincent's mouth.
Hardy taking it all in out of the corner of his eye, one of the life moments that he'd committed himself to recognizing, savoring. From the front of the house came the strains of the Grand Canyon Suite – more Freeman influence. He walked a couple of steps across the kitchen and planted a kiss on Frannie's forehead.
'Um,' she said, kissing the air distractedly near his face.
And the telephone rang. It always did.
'Don't get it,' Hardy said. He was standing right next to it and was fighting the temptation pretty well.
But Frannie was already up. 'I know it's Susan. She said she'd call me. She might be pregnant.' She picked it up, listened, then frowned. 'Just a minute, he's right here.'
He gave her a look, but what could he do?
It was Floyd Restoffer. 'I've got good news and bad news,' he said, getting right to it. 'The bad news is I'm off the case.'
'You're off the case?' Hardy had gone around the corner to the workroom off the kitchen. 'What happened?'
'My guess would be politics. After I got your stuff on Friday I talked to the younger Crane, Simpson's kid, Todd. Asked him if he didn't mind, which he didn’t, if I interviewed some of his partners, although he had no idea what I wanted from him. Anyway, I didn’t tell him much – just following up a new lead on his parents' deaths. I asked if his dad did any work with Yerba Buena.'
'And?'
'No. It was this guy Bachman and a couple of associates.'
'Okay.'
'So Bachman and I have a chat. He seems like a nice guy, cooperative.' Hardy remembered that had been his take on Bachman, too. 'I ask him if he knows Witt. He says he's heard the name. Then he remembers – you'd called him, Bachman, I mean. He says he forgot to call you back, the message got lost. He writes himself a note this time – I'd expect a call from him if I were you. So we talk for a while about the deal, if Simpson had been involved somehow. Bachman can't think how, and I don't have any more questions, so that's that. I get the impression he doesn't know Witt from Whinola.'
'Did you mention the seventeen million?'
'Yeah, he said he thought that figure might be pretty exaggerated but he'd look into it. There might have been some slush, as he called it, given as bonuses an so on, and he was pretty sure the members of the Board had a buy-back option, but none of this was a secret.'
'So why are you off the case? Somebody took you off?'
'Somebody asked, that's all. Yesterday, called me at home.'
'Who?'
'My deputy chief. But there wasn't any pressure, more like a suggestion – what am I doing messing with a ten-month-old murder when I'm counting four months to pension city? Clear my plate and get out, that's what I ought to do.'
Hardy was staring out at the city's famous skyline across the rooftops in the Avenues. The thought occurred to him: 'How did he know you were on it to begin with? Did you tell him?'
'I asked him the same thing. Evidently it came down from the chief himself, who in turn got an earful from Mr. Kelso.'
'Who's Mr. Kelso?'
'Oh, that's right, you're not a local. Frank Kelso is one of our illustrious supervisors. Called the chief and wanted to know why we were hassling – that was the word – why we were hassling the pillars of our legal community, and grief-stricken ones at that. I took it he meant the son, Todd.'
A Los Angeles supervisor! My, Hardy thought, but this is heating up. Whatever else he might be doing, he had touched a nerve here. It pumped him up. 'So where do we go from here?'
'Me? I'm afraid I don’t go anywhere. I'm in don't-rock-the-boat mode, Hardy. The brass wants me to leave it, I leave it.'
'They just tell you to forget about a murder?'
'Every few years, yeah.' After a beat, he said seriously, 'I asked the same question. You know what the answer was? Did I have anything solid to go on or was I just fishing? So I told him a little about your client, what you'd told me – just the high spots but enough – and he said it sounded like I was fishing. I told him sometimes it pays to fish and he said it wasn't one of those times.' Restoffer sighed. 'It's all a numbers game here, and I do have five live ones they want cleared up by the time I'm gone.'
Hardy took a moment, then tried again. 'You're okay going out with unfinished business like this?' It was a lame attempt at a guilt trip, but Hardy didn't want to let it go.
Restoffer laughed. 'You know how many open cases I'm leaving? You don't want to know, but one more isn't going to make any difference, I can tell you that. There's just no percentage in it for me. You might have some luck with a private eye. I could recommend a couple of guys down here.'
'Floyd, I need a pro. Someone inside.' Maybe sugar would work. Restoffer had access and a history no private detective could approach.
'Can't do it, Hardy. Sorry.'
'Okay, Floyd. Thanks for your help anyway.'
He was about to hang up, waiting for Restoffer to say goodbye. Instead, the inspector said, 'Aren't you going to ask me about the good news?'
'Okay.' Hardy played along, although even the bad news was good in a sense – the involvement of supervisors and police chiefs was corroboration that it wasn't all a chimera. Something was getting covered up. 'What's the good news?'
'The good news is that last night I think this whole thing stinks, so I did some research of my own this morning. Downtown we've got lists some guys in White Collars use for whatever they do, you know? It's all public record, although sometimes it's a little hard to get access to. Contributors to various causes, that type of thing. I thought I'd check the list of Supervisor Kelso's contributors against the Yerba Buena Board and see if I found anybody who might feel comfortable leaning on our good supervisor for a favor or two. Guess what?'
'You found one.'
Hardy could almost see him nod. 'Margaret Morency. San Marino old money and lots of it.'
'She called Kelso?'
'I can't prove it, but it's a safe bet.'
'Can you go to your deputy chief and tell him about it? Seems like this takes it out of the fishing department.'
'Not enough, Hardy.' Restoffer was off the case and he was clear about that – he wasn't going to jeopardize his retirement with his last months on the job. Hardy was grateful, taking what he could get – at least the man was
