But first there was Frannie. He had to see her again, get some sense of what was happening, and to that end he was here.
The door to the visitors’ room opened and she stood still, as though afraid to move forward, perhaps afraid of him. The guard shot a questioning look at Hardy. “This okay? You ready?”
And as the door closed behind her, Frannie took one step into the room.
“He wasn’t home.” Hardy was using his I’ve-got-bad-news lawyer voice, uninflected and neutral. Reciting facts. “Ron wasn’t there. He’s moved out.”
She didn’t look any better than she had the night before, but she didn’t look worse either. Maybe she’d slept a little. The worst thing was this tension that seemed to keep her from moving forward. Hardy had spent so much time punishing himself for his inability to get her sprung out of jail that it had never occurred to him that she might be harboring similar self-loathing feelings for what she’d put him and the kids through.
Something in her look—and that thought struck him now. He would take the first literal step, reaching for her. With a heartrending sob, she fell into his arms.
“I couldn’t tell you last night, Dismas. Abe was there, remember. He came in just as we got to it, or started to.”
“So tell Abe, too.”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t do that. I told Ron that I couldn’t promise not to tell you, that I told you everything, but Abe wouldn’t be the same thing at all.”
“Couldn’t you have just asked him to leave last night, step outside for a minute?”
“No, not in front of you. Then he would have known I’d told you something, wouldn’t he? And what could that be except Ron’s secret? He wouldn’t have let it go. You know Abe. It’s not a matter of trust, but he’s a cop. He’s always a cop first, even with you.”
Hardy knew she was right. A couple of years before, he’d had a case where he’d gotten confused on that point, and Abe hadn’t talked to him for several months. If Abe knew that Hardy was holding a secret that related to one of Abe’s cases and hadn’t told him about it, it would be tricky at best. Frannie had saved him from having to deal with that.
She sat next to him, her hands holding his on her lap. She was still in jail, but at least they were talking now, man and wife again. What he really wanted to know about was the relationship between her and Ron, but he wouldn’t ask that specifically. It shouldn’t matter. She was his wife and she needed his help. That was today’s issue—when she was out of this situation, he’d deal with the rest of it.
Also, he told himself that if it did matter, if something threatening to their marriage was going on, then she should tell him—she would tell him, wouldn’t she? He knew that the betrayal of failing to tell would be worse than anything she might have done. She would tell him.
But he couldn’t ask directly. He’d go general and see how she went with it. He put on his lawyer face, asked in his least aggressive tone, “So what’s this all about?”
Frannie was using his hands as a pair of worry beads. He noticed she was shaking and took off his nylon jacket. He put it over her shoulders.
The guard knocked and said she was going to miss breakfast if this meeting didn’t end, but Hardy with his vast legal expertise finagled a couple of cups of coffee and this morning’s food unit, biscuits and gravy, for which they waited a few minutes in an uncomfortable silence.
Why doesn’t he ask me? she was thinking. Can he really care so little that he doesn’t even ask? If it were me, that’s the only question I’d have, about me and Ron.
He’s been in this business too long, that’s it. It’s changed him so fundamentally. Now he sits there so cold and clinical and he’s got another case, another problem to solve. Never mind if his wife’s been unfaithful. He just wants to know what happened. Just the facts, ma’am—but it wasn’t a Joe Friday joke with him. It was his essence.
Please, Dismas, would you just care enough about us to ask?
She tried to will him to talk, but he only sat at the table, patient and understanding, waiting for her breakfast to be delivered. Occasionally he would squeeze her hand, the way he might comfort any female client.
She wanted to punch him.
When the tray arrived, Frannie took a few quick bites. She was famished. She had been so upset last night that she’d been unable to get down any of her evening meal. Finally, she put the plastic spoon down and sipped at her coffee. “Okay.” She spoke to herself in a near whisper, as though afraid that even in this private room, someone would hear. “But this has to stay between us.”
“This secret that can get you out of jail? You want me to know and not use it?”
“That’s the only way I can tell you, Dismas. That’s what I promised Ron. I can’t tell you as my lawyer, especiallynot as my lawyer. Only as my husband. You’ll understand when you hear what it is.”
Hardy wasn’t sure this would prove to be true—he wasn’t understanding much of this as it developed—but he knew he had to know, and to know he had to promise not to tell.
He wasn’t comfortable with any part of the idea. And beyond his own personal reservation, there were two other basic, professional reasons for his reluctance to make this promise. As a licensed attorney, he was an officer of the court, obliged to cooperate with law enforcement in a whole slew of public matters. The second reason was even more fundamental—if Frannie told her secret to him and he was acting as her lawyer, it would be protected under the attorney-client privilege. No court could make him reveal it—it was a shield.
What Frannie was asking was fraught with danger. As a private citizen, he could very easily find himself called before the grand jury and in the same position as his wife, unable to testify, tossed into the clink. Beyond that, if he got into any investigation about Ron Beaumont, and he couldn’t claim privilege, then he could very easily picture himself having to lie about what he did or didn’t know to the very people—Glitsky, Canetta—who might be helping him. It was ugly in all respects, and he tried to explain it all calmly to Frannie.
But she wasn’t budging. “No.” She still spoke in a near whisper, but her voice was firm. “What will happen is that you’ll trust the privilege.”
“And? What’s your point? That’s how it works.”
“But sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes the system doesn’t work.”
“Uh-oh,” Hardy said.
“What?”
“The system doesn’t work. That oldie but goodie greatest hit of the sixties. Except now I get nervous when I hear it. Because I’ll tell you what—sometimes the system does work.”
“It didn’t in Ron’s case. It betrayed him.” Her eyes had some of that old spark back in them, although Hardy wasn’t especially delighted to see it. She reached out toward him and her voice softened. “Dismas, you have to believe me on this. Ron had a reason not to trust lawyers, you’ll see.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Hardy said. “I don’t trust too many of them myself. But this is me.”
“You the person, not you the lawyer.”
He hung his head and shook it from side to side. His wife had her hand on his knee. He drained the last gulp from the plastic cup of tepid coffee. “All right,” he said, “I promise. It’s between you and me-the-person, me-the-son, and me-the-Holy-Ghost. Let’s hear it.”
Frannie took a last look back toward the door to the room, making sure no guard lurked to overhear. Then she came back to Hardy, took a breath, and began. “Ron and Bree had been fighting a lot over this change in her jobs.”
Hardy didn’t like this opening. “I really hope that after all this preamble you’re not going to tell me, ‘Oh, yeah, I remember. He did kill her after all.’ ”
The concept wasn’t all that funny, but she forced a smile. “He didn’t kill her. He was with me when she died.”
Whether or not this was good news remained a question, but he wasn’t saying anything about it right now. “All right. I’m listening. What were they fighting about?”
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“Well, her old job with the oil company was evidently pretty great. Anonymous but big money. She did her research and wrote her papers and nobody paid too much attention out in the real world. She was kind of a star in-house. I mean, she played a big role paving the legislative way for this three-billion-dollar industry, but she wasn’t really a public figure.”
“But when she signed on with Kerry, that changed?”
“Right. She started getting a lot of press right away about all the problems with these oil additives.”
“So why was this an issue with Ron? I mean, if she was the one working, why did he have any say in it?”
“Same reason I have some kind of input on what you do, the clients you take. At least I think I do, don’t I?”
This was true. Frannie wouldn’t want him to defend, say, the tobacco companies, or a mass murderer, and if he decided he had to/wanted to/needed to, they would certainly have words on the topic. But this whole area didn’t need to be aired, not this morning on top of everything else. Hardy glossed over it. “You’re right. But we’re not talking about me and you. We’re talking about Ron and Bree, and they were arguing, right?”
“Right.” She was tightening up, as clipped as he was. But he had to keep pushing her. He had to know.
“Okay, and what were they arguing about? Politics? Money?”
But Frannie surprised him. “No, nothing like that. It was the kids. Ron’s kids. Max and Cassandra.”
“They weren’t her kids?”
“No. Ron was already divorced once. They’re his from that time.”
“Okay. And?”
“And what?”
“How was this new job going to affect the kids?” Suddenly Hardy remembered the discussion he’d had with Erin and Moses last night. “Is this the custody thing you mentioned to Erin?”
A look of chagrin, her own carelessness coming back to hurt her. “How did Erin connect that with Ron? I never mentioned him.”
She didn’t even mention him to Erin? This news— more secrets—didn’t make his heart sing. But Hardy had a craggy smile he could trot out for juries, and he employed it now, a deflection when something really bothered him and he didn’t dare show it. “I think some crafty lawyer might have helped her. But I’m missing the connection here. Job and fights, okay, but how does that relate to custody?”
Frannie wasn’t ready to say exactly, not just yet. “Ron thought she was sacrificing the safety of his children for some vague notion of all future children.” At Hardy’s uncomprehending gaze, she pressed on. “She had come to believe that these gas additives, that they were ruining the water supply. She was all worried about cancer clusters and deformed babies.”
“And Saint Ron didn’t want her to expose all of this? Why not?”
She frowned. They were getting to the crux of it. “Because the more Bree became a public figure, the better the odds that Ron’s ex-wife would find out where he was.”
“And why would that be a problem? For the children, I mean? Was she a stalker, something like that?”
“Not exactly.”
He waited, then had to prompt her. “Frannie.”
It sounded to Hardy as though she was trying the words out for the first time, see how they flew. “She was abusive.”
“Who? The ex-wife?”
A nod. “Dawn. Her name was Dawn. She was”— Frannie seemed to be stumbling over the words—“uh, she was starting to try to make money off the kids. Ron found some pictures.”
“Are we talking kiddie porn here?”
Frannie nodded.
Hardy blew out a long breath. “Jesus.”
“So he filed for divorce, but even before it got to court, she started accusing him, saying he took the pictures. And the judge believed her and she got custody.”
“But he’s got them now.”
“I know,” she said. “He had to take them back.”
“What do you mean take them back?” It took a beat for the meaning of it to sink in. “Are you saying he kidnapped his own children?”
Frannie didn’t like that terminology. “Maybe technically, but that wasn’t what it was. He was saving them. And then, after he’d gone through all that, Bree was going to threaten the whole—”
He held up a hand. “Wait a minute, wait a minute! Forget about Bree. You’re telling me Ron lost the custody battle in court and then he took the kids? When was this?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Maybe six or eight years ago, I’d guess. It would have to be at least that.”
Hardy sat riveted to his chair, barely hearing her.
She continued. “He managed to get set up out here, change his name, get together with Bree. And everything was going along fine until she got involved with this Kerry . . .” She stopped.
Hardy couldn’t hold back the sarcasm. “Everything was going along fine except that he was wanted for kidnapping?”
“But that wasn’t a real problem—”
“Yes it was, Frannie. I don’t care what he told you.”
But she was shaking her head. “No. That was over. Nobody was looking for him anymore. There wasn’t a problem until he and Bree started fighting, and he thought even that would blow over until—”
Hardy cut her off again. His earlier patient and understanding persona was taking a beating. “Until she had the bad grace to get herself killed.” He dragged his palm across his forehead. “So where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
He tried to keep his voice modulated, but wasn’t entirely successful. “You realize of course that if the police get anywhere on this, they’re going to come to the conclusion that he killed her. The truth is, I think he killed her.”
“He didn’t kill her, Dismas. He’s desperate. He’s trying to save his children.”
“He kidnapped his children to save them. Maybe he killed his wife to save her. Or here’s a thought—maybe he killed his wife to save the kids again. Maybe he’ll kill you next.”
“He didn’t kill anybody. He’s not going to kill anybody.”
Hardy would have said that he’d been at the end of his tether when he arrived at the jail. Now there was no doubt about it—he was completely wrung out. Frannie’s hollow denial gonged in his ears, but he knew he was powerless to convince her of anything but what she already thought. Not today, in any case, not now.
He consciously reined himself in, sought a different path. “So Ron’s gone and you’re here. Telling the grand jury what you know can’t make any difference now to him.”
“Of course it can. If they search for him and find him, they’ll take his kids. But they’re not even trying to locate him yet—you told me that.”
“They will be, Frannie. He’s going to be their prime suspect as soon as he’s officially missing, which is going to happen like two minutes after Abe starts looking for him. By Tuesday morning when it meets again, the grand jury’s going to indict him for Bree’s murder, you wait and see.”
This hard fact—and Hardy believed it was the whole truth—finally seemed to get through to her. She slumped back in her chair, hugging his jacket around her. When she looked up at him, the fight had gone out of her. Still, she wasn’t backing down. She said it flatly. “He didn’t kill her, Dismas.”
He sighed. “All right, let’s go with that. Either way, what do you want me to do now?”
8
Lou the Greek’s was a dark bar/restaurant in the basement of a bail bondsman’s building across the street from the Hall of Justice. When Hardy was at court, he’d often stop into the place for some kind of lunch or a drink at the end of the day. Lou the Greek had married a Chinese woman, and every day she would put together her own version of California Asian cuisine.
All over the city, celebrity chefs were making their reputations and fortunes by marrying the finest ingredients from the Pacific Rim and creating stunning masterpieces—lobster ravioli in a lemon-grass-infused beurre blanc, tuna sashimi over Tuscan white beans with thyme and wasa
bi mustard.
Here at Lou’s you’d get stuffed grape leaves with sweet-and-sour sauce, fried squid floating in a bowl of dip made from garlic, cucumbers, and yogurt. Surprisingly, most of Lou’s wife’s stuff tasted pretty good even if the architecture of the plate, as they called it, left a little something to be desired.
But it was still hours from lunchtime, and Hardy wasn’t there to eat anyway. He was tucked into a corner booth around a mug of coffee, waiting for David Freeman.
After leaving Frannie, he’d gone by Glitsky’s empty office, leaving a note about Ron Beaumont’s absence, then went down to the third floor to confront Scott Randall personally—physically wasn’t even out of the question.
Even though it was well past eight o’clock, there wasn’t a soul in the entire DA’s wing. And they wondered why their conviction rates were in the toilet. Convictions, hell—they didn’t even charge crimes in San Francisco at the same rate as in other counties.
So Hardy went to Lou’s to wait, perhaps to try and think. He’d all but forgotten about the existence of the drinking breakfast crowd—guys and girls who were here when the door opened at six a.m. and had a couple of beers or a Bloody Mary. He recognized half a dozen fringe players from around the Hall and wondered how many of them recognized their need for a morning pick-me-up as any kind of danger sign.
But being a supercilious bastard was an easy game to play. At the moment, he didn’t feel he had much of a leg up on any of them. His wife was still in jail and all of his training, discipline, sobriety, and connections weren’t doing her any good at all.
For half a second he considered downing a couple of shots of something, put himself into creative mode, get out of his linear head until some great idea presented itself. Except that those great wet ideas, and he’d had plenty, never seemed to make the cut after the hangover.
Lou was silent with a surly edge this morning, and that suited Hardy to his toes. He pushed his mug toward the side of the table and got it topped up just as David Freeman slid into the booth across from him. “Hey Lou, give me one of those fast, would you? Three sugars, black. Christ, it’s dark in here. You ever notice that, Diz?”
Nothing but the Truth Page 7