Dismas Hardy: Nothing But The Truth Part 39

'And why was that?'

'Why was what?'

'Why were you at your in-laws'?'

'Because my children were there. It was Hallowe'en night,' Hardy said. 'They were staying with their grandparents and I wanted to be with them.'

'You're married, aren't you? Was your wife there?'

'Yes, I'm married,' he said evenly, 'and no, she wasn't there.'

'You having marital problems?' Lopez asked.

'Mr Hardy's wife is in jail,' Predeaux said, although it didn't seem to come as a shock to either of his colleagues.

Hardy paused. 'That's a long story.'

'We've got time.' Wilkes smiled insincerely.

Hardy returned it. 'I'm happy for you, but as it turns out, I don't.'

Predeaux moved a step forward. 'Did you make it a habit of staying with your in-laws?'

This, finally, was enough of a press that Hardy straightened up in his chair, sat back, and crossed his arms. 'I don't believe this.' He almost barked out a laugh, but stopped himself. 'You guys talk to my in-laws? They'll tell you I was there. I didn't burn down my own house, for Christ's sake.'

'Were they awake at three thirty?'

'Yeah,' Hardy replied crisply. 'We were all sitting up telling yarns around the campfire.'

'There's an interesting choice of words,' Wilkes said.

'Oh yeah,' Hardy replied. 'Very telling.' He came forward in his seat. 'Look, guys, I thought I was coming down here to get the lowdown on your progress, and maybe get my house turned back over to me so I could get to work rebuilding it.'

'You got insurance?' Wilkes asked.

He sighed wearily. 'Yes, sir. I've got insurance. Thank G.o.d.'

Predeaux piped in. 'Replacement value or loss value?'

Another aborted chuckle. 'You know, you may be surprised to learn that I haven't checked the policy lately. I don't have any idea.' He shook his head. 'This is ridiculous. If we're going to continue in this vein, I suggest we make another appointment and I'll bring a lawyer.'

'You think you need a lawyer?' Lopez asked.

Hardy a.s.sayed a cold smile. 'Here's a tip, sergeant. Everybody needs a lawyer.' He pushed his chair back and stood up, and squared off at Predeaux. 'Am I under arrest? Are you seriously thinking of charging me with this, 'cause if you are I could use the money the false arrest lawsuit will bring in.'

'Funny you should bring that up.' Predeaux pulled a chair around and straddled it backward. He transferred his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. 'You a little short on money?'

'Who isn't?' Hardy shot back. 'What's the matter with you people? I'm the one who got his house burned down. I've got at least two reliable witnesses who'll swear I wasn't anywhere near the place and guess what? I wasn't.'

'We're looking into it, as you say,' Predeaux responded.

'Well, good luck with that. Or with finding any evidence, which by the way, guys, is generally one of the traditional steps in a criminal investigation.'

'He's pretty confident, isn't he?' Lopez asked.

'Confident enough.' Hardy had had all he could take of this. They had no grounds and no evidence and he had other places to be. 'So Sergeant Predeaux, am I under arrest or not?' The other three men started holding a silent conversation. Hardy b.u.t.ted into it. 'Sergeant Wilkes, when do I get my house back?'

'That hasn't been determined.'

'Well,' Hardy snapped, 'when you get finished wasting your time and do determine it, you know where to reach me. Sergeant Predeaux,' he repeated, 'am I under arrest or not?' He stood by the door for a moment, waiting. 'I'm taking your silence as a "not." That makes this your lucky day.'

By the time he parked again in the Western Mission, he had gotten his anger under control to some degree. Although, considering the purpose of this visit, he didn't think he'd be able to squelch it entirely. He did, however, derive some pleasure from David Freeman's latest wisdom regarding his weapon.

Hardy, after some real consideration, decided to leave the Police Special in the trunk of his car for his visit to the fire department. This, he realized, turned out to have been a good idea. Driving out to the Mission, he imagined a scenario where Predeaux had, in fact, decided to place him under arrest. If Hardy had had his gun with him, he would have been sorely tempted to pull it out, get the drop on these three clowns and lock them in the room while he attempted to locate Ron Beaumont.

This, of course, would have ended his legal career and maybe killed him in the bargain. It certainly would have curtailed his mobility in the next twenty-four hours, what with the manhunt and all. But, because of Freeman's little lecture, he hadn't brought the gun in. He'd have to remember to thank the old man.

Marie Dempsey's place was on Church Street about a block from Hans Spreckman's, an authentic bierstube which Hardy considered to be on a par with Schroeder's downtown, which in turn had a reputation as the best German restaurant in the city. The neighborhood had a certain friendly charm in spite of the overwhelming preponderance of pavement and stucco, and the lack of trees, lawns, and shrubbery. Maybe it was the scale of the buildings, or the trolley that pa.s.sed on Church Street every half hour or so.

Today, though, a wet and heavy cloud still hugged the earth, and Hardy felt at one with it.

The address was the upper unit of a duplex in a square, gray two-story building with an internal stairway. From his experience at the Airport Hilton, Hardy thought there was little to no chance that Ron would open the door to a knock or a ring. This was the reason he'd finally opted not to try and call the various numbers he'd collected on the M. Dempseys of the city, but rather to discover the address on his own. He didn't want to give Ron any warning of his visit.

So he walked up the stairs and stood by the door and listened. A man's voice, singing quietly to himself, was barely discernible inside. There was definite movement, footsteps.

He pushed the doorbell, gave it very little time, then pushed it again. The footsteps had stopped. So had the concert. Whoever was in there was alone. He'd be very surprised if there were children. After another short wait, he knocked desultorily.

Walking back down a few of the steps, making his footfalls as heavy as he could, he then crept back up to the landing and waited. About two minutes later, the doork.n.o.b turned and Hardy hit the door hard, leading with his shoulder. There was a satisfying bit of resistance and then he was inside, hovering over the man he'd knocked to the ground.

'Hi, Ron. How've you been?'

Struggling to get up. 'Mr Hardy.'

'Dismas, please. After all we've been through together, I think we're on first names by now.'

Ron was on his feet again and broke a nervous smile. 'All right, Dismas.' He let out a long breath. 'You may not believe this, but it's good to see you.'

Hardy was brusque. 'It's better to see you. Where are the kids?'

'They just went to the store for a minute.'

'With Marie?'

After a beat, Ron offered a resigned shrug, another attempt at an ingratiating smile. 'You're pretty good,' he conceded.

'I have my days,' Hardy admitted. Closing the door behind him, when he turned back again to Ron, this time he was glad he had it - he'd taken his gun out from his waistband, holding it so Ron could see.

'You don't need anything like that.'

'Maybe not,' Hardy said. 'But then again, maybe I do. So I figured I'd be prepared either way.'

The gun had Ron's attention, no doubt about it. He couldn't take his eyes off it. 'So what are you going to do now?'

'Not me, us.' They were in a small foyer. Hardy motioned over to the living room, visible behind them. 'Now we're going to wait for a little while and you'd better hope your kids come back with Marie in a reasonable amount of time. Or else you and I are going to take a ride downtown.'

'And do what?'

'And tell a DA named Scott Randall anything he wants to know.'

Ron took a seat on a low leather couch. Hardy, still pumped up, remained standing. 'My understanding,' Ron said, 'was that you were going to wait until tomorrow. Then Frannie was free to tell anything, everything. And the children and I would be gone.'

He clipped out the words. 'Yep. That was it.'

'But?'

'But now she's not sure she can do it.'

'Why not? I've...'

Hardy raised his voice. 'It's not you, G.o.d d.a.m.n it! It's not anything you forbid or allow. It's her.' He shook his head, reining in the emotion, and got his voice under control. 'The way she sees it, as soon as she tells them your situation, your kids suffer. They've got to move and start over.'

'But that's not Frannie's doing.'

It still galled Hardy to hear this man refer to his wife so familiarly, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He bore some of the responsibility for that himself. 'No,' he said, 'and as soon as they indict you, which is tomorrow, it's going to happen anyway.'

'So what's her problem with it?'

Hardy suddenly felt stupid holding the gun. Tucking it back into his belt, now invisible again under his jacket, he stepped across to a wingback chair and sat on the edge of it, across from Ron. 'She doesn't see it as a problem,' he said. 'She's willing to trade a few more hours in jail, to give me a few more hours...' He stopped.

'To find who killed Bree?'

Hardy leaned forward and eyed him coldly. 'Yes,' he said. 'To find who killed your sister.'

Ron didn't give it up right away. He put on a quizzical expression, as though he really didn't understand what Hardy had just said. 'You mean my wife. Bree.'

'I mean Bree all right,' Hardy replied. 'But she wasn't your wife. She was your sister.'

34.

For the third time since they'd arrived, a cable car rattled by outside on Mason, shaking the floorboards of the apartment. The conductor had a heavy hand with the famous bells, too.

Ding ding ding ding ding!

Glitsky had always been under the impression that sounds were m.u.f.fled by heavy fog, but this clanging, certainly, was an exception to it. He decided it must affect only the lower register.

The shaking under him increased and for an instant the lieutenant thought it might be a real earthquake. Thorne's work area was a desk in his living room, up against the front window overlooking the street. Glitsky had been going through a stack of computer printouts, and now pushed the ergonomic chair back a couple of inches, ready to bolt for a doorway if things began to fall around him. 'It's hard to believe that people pay real money to live with this experience.'

On the couch behind him, Jorge Batavia patiently lifted another page of printed matter from a suitcase he'd placed on the coffee table. He scanned it quickly, and set it on the pile of rejected paper next to him. 'It's new-age therapy,' he said. 'Every fifteen minutes you get to wonder if your building is going to fall down.' The sergeant put aside another page. 'You think you're going to die four times an hour, you squeeze what you can out of every minute. Your life experience is enriched.'

The shaking had stopped, punctuated by a last burst of clanging. 'Good theory.' Glitsky pulled forward again, and went back to his stack of paper.

There was also a computer on the table, but Glitsky didn't dare even turn the thing on. He thought there was a reasonable likelihood that the thing was b.o.o.by-trapped, so he had placed a call back to the Hall to have one of the cyber-specialists come down and unplug it, then bring it downtown for examination.

It wasn't as if he didn't have enough to look at. Thorne put out a prodigious amount of paper, and Glitsky and Batavia had been at his hard-copy files for almost an hour.

Batavia and Coleman had been checking in at homicide after Glitsky had returned to the office with his newly signed warrant. He had asked Batavia to accompany him on the search of Thorne's place while Coleman went to talk to Jim Pierce again about his activities on Sat.u.r.day night.

While Glitsky and Hardy thought they might be closing in on Damon Kerry - perhaps through some agent of Baxter Thorne - Coleman and Batavia had moved Pierce up a notch or two on their possible suspect list. This was mostly because a review of the business calendar he'd provided for them had revealed another questionable alibi - a two-hour gap after Bree's funeral, during which he'd had lunch alone at a crowded Chinese counter restaurant. This was when someone had killed Griffin, and made it three out of three for Pierce's squishy alibis. That in turn piqued the inspectors' curiosity.

But Glitsky had developed a personal hard-on for Thorne. As Hardy had pointed out, even a tenuous connection to the weekend's water poisoning at Pulgas was going to make life very difficult for Mr Thorne. If they found any tie-in to Bree Beaumont, it would even be worse.

Between him and Batavia, they'd already done a thorough job on the kitchen, the waste baskets, and garbage cans. In the bedroom, there was nothing in or taped under any of the drawers of the dresser or night table, nothing tucked between the box spring and the mattress.

Glitsky went to the computer table while Batavia checked the bedroom closet and found shoes and hanging clothes and the suitcase filled with propaganda. Batavia brought the suitcase into the living room, but thus far, they'd found nothing at all - no longhand drafts or fragments of the d.a.m.ning press release, no final or proof copies, no printing or copying bills.

The rest of his records were similarly disappointing. His bills and check register revealed nothing unusual - phone, electric, rent, credit card payments. If he hired operatives, he kept no records of them here. There weren't any random keys. Apparently he didn't own a gun.

When Glitsky could free up another inspector or two, by Christmas, he intended to do a similar search on the offices of FMC, although he'd believed that his best hope on Thorne was an unexpected search of his apartment.

But maybe he was wrong.

After another few minutes, he heard Batavia move behind him. 'Well, that was a slice.' Glitsky turned around and saw the sergeant returning the large stack of pamphlets, letters, and other reading material back into the suitcase. 'All of these are older. Weeks, even months. Nothing on Pulgas.'

He closed the suitcase and stood up. 'I'll keep looking.'

Glitsky heard a key in the front door. He pushed the chair back and stood up as a short, well-dressed man appeared in the alcove. He wore a hat with a small feather in it, gloves, and a tweed overcoat. Behind him stood the building manager who'd let Abe into the apartment and then, apparently, called Thorne at his work.

The dapper man stared at Glitsky with a dead expression, then transferred it to Batavia as he entered the living room from wherever he'd been. His tone was completed uninflected. 'What is the meaning of this outrageous intrusion?'

'You're Mr Thorne I presume.' Glitsky had his search warrant in his pocket. He extracted it and held it out to the man, who glanced at it contemptuously, making no move to examine it. Glitsky shrugged and in a few words introduced himself and explained the basic situation. 'I'm afraid,' he concluded, 'that I'm going to have to ask you to leave the premises while we continue here.'

Thorne didn't even blink. 'No, sir. I refuse to do that. I've called my attorney and he'll be here shortly and put an end to this.' He was taking off his overcoat, hanging it on a peg in the alcove, planning to stay.

'He won't be able to do that, sir.' Glitsky held all the cards here, and he knew it. 'This is a legal search conducted pursuant to a murder investigation...'

'Baxter?' The manager interrupted, s.h.i.+fting from foot to foot in the still-open doorway. 'If everything's all right here, I've...'

'Sure, Daniel.' Thorne thanked him courteously and he backed out on to the porch, closing the door behind him. But the suspect hadn't lost the thread. He came back to Glitsky, asking quietly. 'Whose murder?'

'James Allen Browning of Pescadero.'