Dismas Hardy: Nothing But The Truth Part 19

'All right, all right. But it worries me.'

'Don't worry about it, Al. It's nothing. And if it's not nothing, I'll take care of it.'

18.

The evening remained clear and warm with no fog and Hardy felt he'd picked up a scent. People were evading and lying, and this juiced him up.

He wished he had a set of Al Valens' fingerprints as well as Damon Kerry's. He had no explanation for why Valens would lie about calling Ron. Still, he did have Damon Kerry's cleverly purloined water gla.s.s and he dropped it off on Abe Glitsky's desk with a cryptic note that it contained crucial evidence in the Bree Beaumont case and should be dusted and checked against prints that had been found in the penthouse.

Hardy added that if Glitsky didn't do this he'd be sorry, a statement Abe would enjoy. The note also mentioned that Kerry had denied ever having been there and this was a new development.

It was still early - Hardy had time before his scheduled seven o'clock meeting with Canetta at his office. He could zip down to see Ron and his well-behaved children, deliver his update, and make everybody feel better.

He'd also filled a page of legal pad with questions that Ron would be able to answer for him, mostly to do with the names Canetta had copied from Ron's answering machine.

Who was Marie? Kogee Sasaka? Tilton? What did all these people want? What about Valens and Kerry and Pierce? How well had Ron known them? Or had Bree known them?

Then, the harder questions: Did Ron think or know that Bree was having an affair? If so, with whom? What about the baby she'd been carrying? Had she and Ron planned it? What had her last morning been like? What, if anything, had she been worried about? How involved, if at all, had Ron been with her professional life? Did he know what she was working on now?

And, most importantly, what was Ron's explanation for the fact that of all the men Hardy had talked to - Pierce, Kerry, even Canetta - why was it that her own husband seemed the least affected by her death?

Driving south on the freeway, heading for the hotel where Ron and his children had holed up, Hardy almost let himself believe he was beginning to make some progress. He would get answers from Ron, and maybe learn more about MTBE and ethanol and today's reservoir poisoning which, he reasoned, had to be related to Bree's murder. He was really getting somewhere.

'Mr Brewster has checked out.'

'Checked out?' Hardy repeated it as though it were a foreign phrase he didn't understand.

The concierge was a pleasant-looking young woman with a brisk and efficient manner. 'Yes, sir.' She punched a few keys at her computer. 'Early this morning.'

'You're sure?' An apologetic smile. 'I'm sorry. It's just that I thought we had an appointment and I'm a little surprised.'

She punched a few more keyboard b.u.t.tons and noticing his obvious concern softened visibly. 'Maybe you got the day wrong?'

Hardy nodded. 'Must have,' he said.

So it was still early and he had noplace to be for a couple of hours.

Ron Beaumont was beginning to remind him of several clients he'd had in the past - they tended to lie and, when not held in custody, to disappear. It made him mad and crazy, but at the same time this behavior was so predictable among suspects that it didn't necessarily force him to believe they were guilty of anything. They were just scared, confused, misguided. Except for those who were, in fact, guilty and on the run.

As he drove by Candlestick Point, Hardy was trying his hardest to stick with the rationalization that Ron had his children to protect. There was the further point that if Hardy had been able to locate him at his hotel, others with less benign intents - the DA's investigators, for example - might be just as successful. And Ron hadn't promised Hardy that he'd stick around for continued consultation.

Nothing had changed, he kept telling himself. He had until Tuesday to find who had killed Bree. And Frannie would remain locked up until then anyway.

By the time he took the 7th Street off-ramp by the Hall of Justice downtown, though, his pique had progressed into a fine fury. Ron Beaumont, the son of a b.i.t.c.h, had a million answers at his fingertips, and now Hardy was going to have to find them on his own, if he could. And meanwhile the clock kept ticking. He didn't have the heart anymore for this cat-and-mouse nonsense. And especially not from someone who'd put Frannie where she was.

Force of habit almost led him to park across from the jail where he would visit Frannie and check back in with Abe's office. At this time, late on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon, there was actually a spot at the curb.

But he kept driving. He wasn't going to leave any messages now with Glitsky to accompany his note on Damon Kerry's fingerprints. The way he felt about Ron would spill over somehow and muddy the waters. He didn't want Glitsky even glancing in Ron's direction as a viable suspect if he could help it.

And Frannie? She was the reason he was doing any of this in the first place. And sure, he could go hold her hand again but it would use up two more precious hours. Frannie wanted him to save Ron and his kids and the price of that - for her -was going to be that her husband couldn't come and console her every time he was in the neighborhood.

Truth be told, Ron's disappearance had kicked up a renewed dust storm of anger at Frannie, too. And a smaller zephyr at his own gullibility, his continuing efforts in a cause in which he had at best a manufactured faith. He was doing all this for his wife, at her urging. He'd let her deal with the consequences. See how she liked them apples.

But he had to admit that there were developments in this case that didn't depend on Ron Beaumont, that had piqued his interest on their own. The three men - Canetta, Pierce, and Kerry - who were in mourning over Bree's death. Today's MTBE poisoning. Al Valens lying. And always - three billion dollars.

Hardy was on automatic, some non-rational process having determined that he should go to his office. He still had two hours until Canetta was due to show up to trade information. The odds were in favor of David Freeman being around, working on Sat.u.r.day. Hardy could bounce his discoveries and hunches off his landlord, a practice that was nearly always instructive.

If Freeman wasn't there, he'd pore over the copies of Griffin's notes that Glitsky had given him and see if some new detail caught his attention. It was a backup plan, but at least it was some plan.

And then suddenly the open curb at 5th near Mission called to him. One legal parking s.p.a.ce downtown on a weekday qualified as a miracle, but seeing an entire side of 5th Street nearly empty was nearly the beatific vision. Fresh snow or a morning beach without footprints - you just ached to walk on it. He pulled over and came to a stop directly across from the Chronicle building.

It was a sign.

Jeff Elliot was the Chronicle columnist who wrote the 'Citytalk' column on the political life of the city.

When Hardy had first met him, he'd been a young, personable, fresh-faced kid from the Midwest who walked with the aid of crutches due to his ongoing battle with multiple sclerosis. Now, although still technically young - Hardy doubted if Jeff had yet turned thirty-five - the baby-faced boy sported a graying, well-trimmed beard. His chest had thickened and his eyes had grown perennially tired. Here in his office just off the city room, the old crutches rested by the door, almost never used anymore. Now, Jeff got around in a wheelchair.

But he was still personable, at least to Hardy, who over the years had been the conduit of a lot of good information and the subject of one or two columns. He and his wife had even been to parties at Hardy's house.

Jeff had undoubtedly come downtown today after the water poisoning. Barring an a.s.sa.s.sination of the President or an eight-point earthquake, this was going to be tomorrow's headline and there were political elements all over it.

But now that Hardy had stuck his head in his door, first things first. Jeff swung away from his computer and motioned him in. 'Big D,' he said. 'Que pasa?' Then he remembered and grew suddenly serious. 'How's Frannie holding up?'

Hardy made a face. What could he say?

Jeff shook his head in disgust. 'I'd sue Braun, Pratt, Randall, the whole lot of 'em. Or kill them. Maybe both.'

'No options are out of the question.'

'So you got my call at home?'

'No. I've been out all day.'

This surprised Jeff. 'Well, the message was that I was going to give this Frannie thing a couple of graphs on Monday, maybe get somebody's attention. I thought you could give me a good quote.'

Hardy smiled thinly. 'Nothing you could print in a family newspaper.'

Jeff looked a question. 'So you didn't get the message and yet you're here?'

'I saw a free parking place at the curb. h.e.l.l, the whole street. What could I do? I said to myself, "Self," I said, "why don't you have a little off-the-record chat with your good friend Jeff Elliot?" '

This brought a smile. Long ago, Hardy had neglected to preface some remarks to Jeff that they were off the record. It hadn't worked out too well, and since then Hardy had made it a point to include the words 'off the record' in every discussion he ever had with Jeff, even purely social ones.

Jeff smiled. 'I was waiting for that.'

'Plus,' Hardy continued, 'I thought it was possible you might know something I don't.'

'Probably. I'm good on the Middle Ages and Victorian England.'

'Dang.' Hardy snapped his fingers. 'Neither of those. I was thinking more about Frannie, Bree or Ron Beaumont, this MTBE business.' Hardy thought a minute. 'Damon Kerry. Al Valens.'

Jeff cracked a grin. 'You done? I think you left out my wife and a couple of senators.'

Hardy spread his palms in a frustrated gesture. 'I can't seem to get much of it to hang together.'

The columnist swung his wheelchair around to face Hardy. 'In return for which I get the exclusive of the big secret Frannie's gone to jail about?'

'Nope, but you might get Bree's killer before anybody else.'

'Are you close to that? Everybody's saying it's the husband. Ron, is it?'

A shake of the head. 'Abe Glitsky, whom you may remember is head of homicide, is definitely not saying it. And Abe be the man on this stuff.'

'He's not on Ron?'

Pause. 'It's not Ron.'

He'd almost said that Glitsky was affirmatively saying it wasn't Ron, which wasn't true. But if that's what Jeff Elliot heard, he wouldn't correct the impression.

'So who's your guess? You got one?'

In his chair, Hardy drew a deep breath. He'd gathered a lot of information. But in spite of feeling as though he'd gotten somewhere in his investigation, he realized that he couldn't precisely define where that was. When he asked Elliot to tell him about Damon Kerry, it surprised him almost as much as it did Jeff. Where had that question come from?

Jeff was shaking his head. 'That's got to be a big negatory, Diz.'

'Maybe. But I'd sure like to know more than I do about the two of them, Bree and the good candidate.'

For a response, Jeff sat all the way back in his wheelchair behind his desk. He pulled at his mustache, scratched his beard, and brushed at the front of his s.h.i.+rt.

'No hurry,' Hardy prodded, shooting Jeff a hopeful grin. 'It's only Frannie doing hard time for keeping a promise.'

Finally, the reporter sighed. 'You know, the connections,' he said. 'You don't put them together.' But Jeff wasn't quite ready to spill anything, not yet. The impish smile from his youth fleetingly appeared as he came forward, his hands together on the desk. 'You know that off-the-record thing we do? This is one of those, private and personal.'

'Done. Understood.' Hardy was beginning to feel a little like a Catholic priest in a confessional. A couple more days like the last few and he'd know every secret in the world and wouldn't be able to tell any of them. But if that was the price for knowledge, he had to pay it.

Eve's bad trade. He could only hope it wouldn't turn out as badly for him as it had for her.

Jeff underscored it. 'So this is personal, your ears only. If it doesn't directly help Frannie, it stays here.'

'Deal.' Hardy got up and they shook hands over the desk. 'So what connections?' he asked.

'What you just said. Frannie in jail. Kerry in another file in the brainpan - the election, the water poisoning today, all that. I didn't put them together.' His eyes shone with interest. 'But they are together, aren't they? They're all Bree.'

'That's my guess.'

Jeff fidgeted in his chair, came to his decision, and nodded.

'Have I mentioned the off-the-record thing?'

Hardy was dying to learn what Jeff knew, but it never helped to show it. He broke an easy smile. 'Once or twice.'

He waited.

'The thing about Kerry is that he's really a good guy, especially for a politician. I've been with him more than a few times, in press rooms, after the odd banquet, off the record -much like you and me right now, and he's decent. Plus he plays straight with us.'

'Us?'

'Reporters, media, like that.'

'OK.' And... ?

'OK, so a guy like that, sometimes a guy like me finds out a fact and kind of unofficially decides it doesn't have to be in the public interest.'

Hardy's eyebrows went up. 'Excuse me. I thought I just heard you say that the media could show some restraint.'

Jeff acknowledged the point with a wry face. 'I'm talking personal here. Me. It's not something I brag about, but it happens. Sometimes.' At Hardy's skeptical look, he spread his palms wide. 'OK, rarely. But the point is, Kerry's not married, he can date anybody he wants. As our President has pointed out, it's his private life. It's not news.'

'But Bree was married.'

'And maybe they didn't do anything let's say carnal. Maybe she just hung around a lot and it was purely the campaign and business.'

Hardy leaned forward. 'But you know otherwise?'

'Did I catch them inflagrante? No. But I know. My opinion is they were in love with each other.'

This took a minute to digest, although Hardy had come to suspect it.

But Jeff was going on. 'She only lived a half-dozen blocks from him, both of 'em up on Broadway, you know.'

'No, I didn't know about him. I knew she did.'

'Well, Kerry, too. His place is that little thirty-room shack just up from Baker. You'd remember it if you saw it, and you have.' Jeff seemed almost relieved to be able to let his secret out. If he'd promised not to print it, telling somebody who in turn couldn't tell was next best. 'Anyway, couple of months ago I was pus.h.i.+ng Damon for an interview - as I said, we go back a ways, too - and he said meet him at his place after hours, he'd dig up something for me. He was coming in from Chico or someplace, and was going to be alone, which meant without Valens. Except when I got there, who opens the door but Bree Beaumont.'

'Dressed?'

Jeff chuckled. 'You've got a dirty mind. Let's go with casually attired. Casually and very, very attractively.' He paused, remembering, then blew out a rush of air. 'Very. Low green silk blouse, linen pants, barefoot. I distinctly remember she forgot her underwear on top. Believe me, it was the kind of thing you noticed, especially on her, even if you weren't a trained reporter like me, alive to every detail.'

Hardy wanted to keep him going. 'I keep hearing how pretty she was.'

'A couple of miles beyond pretty, Diz. In any event,' he continued, 'here's a bottle of champagne in a bucket on the coffee table, and otherwise the house is empty. So ask me, do I feel like I'm intruding? Moi?'