Dismas Hardy: Nothing But The Truth Part 44

Hardy had to leave here, go see his children, make sure Ca.s.sandra was safe. Slumped, nearly reclining on the couch, he held his right hand over his eyes, s.h.i.+elding them from the overheads. His left hand fell on the photos Glitsky had left with him - extreme close-ups of the items under the back seat of Carl Griffin's car. Then there were the written forms - Canetta's autopsy report, his car. Interviews, interrogations.

Forcing himself up, he carried all the stuff over to his desk and went down the hall to throw some water in his face. When he returned, he had a moment of indecision - there was no chance that he could a.n.a.lyse any significant portion of all this material. What was the point of even starting?

But this, he knew, was the devil.

So he began, but after a quick scan knew that he wasn't equipped now to see anything in the photos of the junk, food wrappers, and French fries that had been under the back seat of Griffin's car. He'd try again in the morning, but expected nothing. Instead, he turned to the tapes, putting one of the micro-ca.s.settes into his hand-held machine.

He listened to an understandably impatient but finally cooperative Jim Pierce talking in his office with Vince Coleman - again. Next was Glitsky, Hardy, Kerry, and Valens from last night.

Hardy realized that this case - these cases? - must have gotten inside Glitsky as well. He'd put a rush on getting copies made of everything he'd delivered to Hardy, and then sat on his people to make sure it all got done.

Canetta's autopsy, especially. The morgue was backed up with bodies, but the coroner did his work on Canetta first. Hardy realized grimly, though, that this might not have been Glitsky's influence after all, but a final show of respect for a policeman killed in the line of duty.

He'd been at it for over an hour and the effects of the cold-water splash had long since worn off. And here before him now was the technical sheet from the autopsy of Phil Canetta. Entry wounds, exit wounds. A fresh wave of exhaustion rolled over him and he closed his eyes against it.

And against the other painful reality - if he hadn't recruited Canetta, the man would still be alive. The image floated up at him - Canetta enjoying the h.e.l.l out of his mortadella sandwich just a couple of days before, his cigar on Sat.u.r.day night at Freeman's. The sergeant had been very much alive - in tune with tastes, buffeted by the storms of love, hamstrung by his responsibilities. So much like Hardy, and now in a day gone to dirt.

Clothing. Powder burns. Next to the medical/chemical a.n.a.lysis of sugars, starches, and carbon compounds, someone from the coroner's office - maybe under Glitsky's questioning - had written down in the margin the layman's version of Canetta's stomach contents. Cop food. His last fast-food burger with a coffee and a candy bar - chocolate, beef, potato, almond, bread, pickle. Hardy pa.s.sed over it, and went on to blood levels for alcohol, nicotine...

He closed his eyes and saw Canetta's face again on the bench in Was.h.i.+ngton Square, his eyes lit up with the memory of Bree Beaumont, the simple joy in his deli sandwich.

Enough enough enough.

He flipped desultorily through the rest of the pile, which seemed to go on and on. His office closed in around him, and he shut his eyes again, just for a second. Then, starting awake, realized that he must have dozed. Still, he couldn't quit. He didn't know yet...

Frannie, still in jail...

He turned another page, trying to will himself to focus. It was no use. He could barely make out even the letters, and those he saw formed words that had lost all meaning.

PART FOUR.

37.

Hardy tasted turpentine in the coffee. At the kitchen table - showered, shaved, and dressed - he added more sugar and turned a page of the morning paper.

It was six a.m. He had returned to the Cochrans' at a little after eleven. All three of the children and both adults had still been awake. There might have been giggling in the background, but the atmosphere in the house was as carefree as an operating room.

By two, after five increasingly firm visits from the adults, the kids stopped making noise. Hardy, on the couch in the living room, heard the clock chime the hour at least twice after that.

Now he rubbed at his eyes, trying to get the salt out of them. The sugar didn't improve the java and he set the mug down and ma.s.saged his right temple, which throbbed dully.

It was election day. The articles contained few surprises. The MTBE poisoning and resultant scare - as well as his opponent's lame-brained response to it - had given Damon Kerry a last-minute three-point boost in the polls and he was now truly the front-runner by a nose. The Chronicle recommended him.

Hardy was gratified to see that Baxter Thorne's libel threats didn't appear to hold much water with Jeff Elliot. The reporter's 'Citytalk' column didn't directly accuse Thorne of anything, but did manage to present a litany of facts in a way that led to some unflattering conclusions. The column promised an ongoing investigation.

Suddenly Vincent materialized at his elbow. His pajamas were a replica of Mark McGwire's Cardinals uniform. His step-cut hair was a shade darker than his sister's, but still in the general category of strawberry blond. His ears stuck out and the face, except for Frannie's nose, was Hardy's exactly. 'Do you have a headache? You're rubbing your head.'

Hardy drew him close, mussed the hair. 'Hey, guy. What are you doing up so early?'

'It's not early.'

'Well, it's not late, and you didn't get to sleep till almost two o'clock.'

'That wasn't me,' Vincent said. 'That was the girls. I went right to sleep after just a little whispering. Dad?'

'What?'

'I've got a question.'

Hardy longed for the day when Vincent would simply ask a question without announcing his intention to ask one, but he could only sigh now. 'Shoot,' he said.

'How come Max wasn't invited, too? How come it's always the Beck who gets her friends over and I get stuck with all the girls and then they don't want to play with me?'

'That was one question?' But Hardy pushed his chair back and pulled Vincent on to his lap. The sleepy boysmell still clung to his son and Hardy held him close for as long as he thought he could get away with it, maybe two seconds. 'I've been missing you, you know that?'

'I miss you, too,' Vincent said perfunctorily. 'But you're real busy lately,' he added, parroting the excuse Frannie had no doubt always supplied. 'We know that. But Mom, I really miss her. And you said she's coming back today. It's today, right?'

Hardy tried to ignore the stab that his son's answer had given him. 'That's the plan,' he said. Then slipped and added, 'I hope so.'

Vincent's face immediately clouded. 'But she might not? I thought you said it was today.'

'It is today. Don't worry.'

'Then why'd you say you hoped so?'

'Shh. Let's not wake up anybody else, OK.'

'But why'd you say that?'

'I don't know, Vin. I guess because I want it so bad, just like you do. It was just a figure of speech. She'll be home today.' He almost promised, but thought better of it. A promise, especially to his child, was sacred.

The boy's eyes brightened. 'Home? You mean like our real home? How can we do that if it was all burned up?'

Hardy rubbed his son's back and shook his head, framing his reply carefully. 'Home isn't just a house, Vin. It's where we're all together.'

'But so where are we going to live then?'

'I don't know for sure, bud. We'll find a place soon while we get our house fixed up again, and we can stay here with Grandma and Papa Ed in the meantime. You don't have to worry about that, OK?'

'OK.'

'Promise?'

Vincent shrugged. 'Sure.' If Dad said he didn't have to worry, that was the end of it. It was going to be all right.

Please G.o.d, Hardy prayed, don't let his trust in me be misplaced.

'So why couldn't Max come?' Vincent was back on his original track.

'You want to know the real reason? He didn't sleep enough the night before, so his dad thought it wouldn't be a good idea.'

Vincent considered this for a moment. 'His dad's nice,' he said simply.

Hardy could only nod dumbly. Just what he needed - another unsolicited testimonial on Ron Beaumont from his innocent, good-hearted son. 'That's what I hear,' he said. 'How do you know him?'

'School. He helps in cla.s.s, sometimes with yard duty. He's nice,' he repeated. 'Is your head hurting?'

'It must be,' Hardy said. 'I keep rubbing it, don't I?'

Hardy had gotten into the habit of leaving the house before the crazy rush of getting the kids ready for school kicked in. He'd given the alternative a try for several years, but the routine made him nuts. He'd get cranky and take that with him to work. It affected his performance, his job. And without that, where would they be?

For the last couple of years he'd wake up early, have his coffee and read the paper. He'd go in and kiss Frannie awake. Sometimes they'd talk - logistics. Then he'd shake the kids and be out the door.

So he'd missed the rite of pa.s.sage, but sometime in the past few months, Vincent had learned how to make breakfast. French toast, pancakes - 'Just the mix, though. I don't do it from scratch' - scrambled eggs, oatmeal. 'You just tell me what and I'll do it.'

'You don't need any help?'

The look. 'Da-ad.'

He watched his boy adjust the flame under the pan, throw in some b.u.t.ter, expertly crack five eggs into a bowl and whip them up. Hardy tried to remember when he'd begun making his own breakfasts - he must have been about Vincent's age, but somehow he'd never a.s.sumed his younger child could be that competent. Not yet. Not for a long time. He was still a baby.

Vincent lowered the heat a fraction. 'I like them a little runny, but I can take mine off first if you want them cooked dry. That's how Mom and the Beck like 'em. Dry. But you know that. Mom says you always used to cook breakfast, so you'd know, wouldn't you?'

'Yeah,' Hardy said hoa.r.s.ely. 'Sure.'

At the stove, Vincent turned at the tone. 'Hey,' he said softly. 'You OK, Dad?'

As the house started to wake up, Vincent went back to torment the girls and Hardy took his briefcase back to the dining room, where he could spread out a bit. He heard Erin in the kitchen, but she didn't come around the corner to wish him a good morning.

The photos were not so daunting this morning - the items from Griffin's back seat in sharp color focus - a Juicy Fruit gum wrapper. Two bullets. A ziploc bag, snack size, crumbs inside. Parking stub, Downtown Center Garage, dated 7/22/95 - three years ago! a.s.sorted coins worth one dollar thirty-two. An Almond Joy, which Hardy bet would be pretty stale by now.

He forced himself to continue, but was getting convinced that there wasn't going to be anything here. It was a garbage can. He flipped the photos and the rest weren't any better - more stuff from the body of the car proper. Gilt paper with traces of chocolate - more candy. Several plastic lids from the tops of coffee cups and soft drinks. Sunflower-seed sh.e.l.ls.

Glitsky had also thoughtfully provided a copy of the autopsy report on Griffin, as well as a final inventory of the personal belongings he carried on his body - a ring of keys, a Swiss Army knife, a half pack of Life Savers, two ballpoint pens, an empty ziploc bag.

It all looked like nothing to Hardy. Beyond that, he was reasonably confident that the lab had a.n.a.lysed every item listed here for fingerprints, oils, fluids, and whatever other tests they ran to find or eliminate suspects.

The following pages contained the same relative information from Phil Canetta and his vehicle and, aside from demonstrating that he was far more personally fastidious than Carl Griffin had been, provided nothing that Hardy could use.

Rebecca stuck her head out of the kitchen door, lit up in a smile. 'Oh, there you are. I'm so glad you're still here.' She crossed over and gave him a kiss on the cheek, snuggled up against him.

He kissed her back. 'I'm glad I'm still here too. Where's Ca.s.sandra?'

She remained plastered against him. 'She forgot to bring clothes, you know, but I told her she could borrow some of mine. She wanted to make sure that was OK.'

'I'm sure that would be fine.'

'Is she going to school? 'Cause she's missed the last few days, you know.' Rebecca lowered her voice. 'She's a little nervous, I think.'

'About what? Missing school?'

She shook her head. 'She's worried she's going to have to move. She said you were helping them, but she's still worried.'

'She told you about that?'

'Dad,' Rebecca said seriously. 'We tell each other everything. She is like my best friend.' She checked to see that they were still alone. 'She's all worried about something else, too. Do you know Marie?'

Hardy nodded. 'I met her yesterday. She seems like a nice lady.'

'Well, why's her dad with her when her mom only died like a month ago?'

'Maybe they're just friends.'

Rebecca's expression was startlingly adult. 'Dad. I'm sure. Ca.s.s thinks maybe her dad was already having an affair, before her mom died. She thinks that would be awful.'

'Well...'

She whispered urgently. 'You and Mom aren't with other people, too, are you?'

Hardy pulled her close to him. 'No, hon. We're only with each other. Promise. And we're going to stay that way.'

'Cross your heart?'

He made an X on his chest. 'Hope to die.' He gave her a pat. 'OK, now you'd better go tell her she can wear your clothes or you're all going to be late for school.'

'Oh!' She all but ran to deliver the news.

Hardy's eyes followed her out of the room. Then he glanced down at the pages on the table in front of him. Casually, he flipped through Canetta's autopsy. All the technical minutiae of violent death, as it had been with Griffin - state of rigor, body temperature, contents of stomach, angle of bullet entry. It was all too familiar and too ugly.

He picked up the pages and tossed them back into his briefcase, and closed it over them. He stood, took a deep breath, and went into the kitchen to face the chill.

They all got to Merryvale a few minutes early, and Hardy went in, out of Ca.s.sandra's presence, to explain the situation to Theresa Wilson. Lying, he told her that he expected and had been instructed to tell her that both Beaumont children would be back in school tomorrow. Since she and Hardy had last talked, he'd been retained by Mr Beaumont and they'd been watching Ca.s.sandra while a few last-minute legal maneuvers were carried out.

Max was staying with some other friends out of town and should be back in school by the next day. Hardy was sorry for any inconvenience, grateful for her forebearance, but Ron had been afraid of the police jumping to the wrong conclusions - as they had with Hardy's own wife - and he hadn't wanted to subject his children to that trauma and upheaval.

'I understand,' Mrs Wilson told him from behind the doors of her office. 'I might have done the same thing myself. How is Frannie holding up, by the way? I read that she might be getting out of... her situation today.'