Nothing but the Truth

by John Lescroart

  He couldn’t sit still any longer. He had to make something happen.

  Glitsky had promised him that he’d send a squad car over to Merryvale to try get an indication of Ron Beaumont’s whereabouts, but that wasn’t going to be good enough. It would fall under the category of ordinary business—Hardy doubted whether Glitsky would even send homicide inspectors. Some uniforms could take the information and pass it along upstairs. Well, Hardy decided, why should he wait when he could do the same thing himself?

  Merryvale’s principal, Theresa Wilson, was a no-nonsense, handsome woman in her mid-forties. She was standing as Hardy was shown into her office. Her handshake would have been impressive in a linebacker and her smile under a close-cropped henna mop appeared at the same time to be both genuine and professional, also impressive. She didn’t hide behind her desk, either, but met him by the door, leading him to a small corner grouping of upholstered chairs. “Mr. Hardy. I hope your being here doesn’t mean bad news for your wife? Please, sit down.”

  The bare-bones explanation took less than a minute. It was a misunderstanding about some point of Ron Beaumont’s alibi on the morning of his wife’s death, and somehow Frannie had gotten in the middle of it.

  “But that’s terrible! She’s not under any kind of suspicion herself, I hope?”

  “There’s no sign of that so far.”

  Mrs. Wilson read between the lines of that. “So how long might this continue? Until they let Frannie out of jail?”

  A shrug, downplaying the drama of it. “Best case, it might only be a couple of days. She thinks Ron Beaumont’s gone camping or something with his kids and when he gets back and finds out what’s going on with her, he’ll come in and straighten out the whole mess.”

  “But you don’t think that?”

  “No.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know if Ron killed his wife, but my guess is he started to feel some heat from the police investigation and decided to take his kids and run.”

  “But I thought . . .” She paused.

  Hardy read her mind. “The alibi with Frannie was solid, but evidently the time of death opened another door. He thought he was going to be arrested. At least that’s my opinion.” He leaned back into the chair’s cushion. “And it’s why I’ve come here to you.”

  She looked him a question.

  “I realize you’re probably not allowed to give out any information about your students, but I was hoping you might be able to tell me if you know I’m wrong.”

  “How would I?”

  “Well, say, if the Beaumont kids have been in school the last couple of days, if Ron’s given some kind of excuse . . .” Hardy gave her a weary smile. “It looks like he’s moved out of his home, probably Tuesday afternoon. I’d like to know if you’ve heard anything from him since then.”

  As he expected, she was torn between his dilemma and her duties as principal. “Ron Beaumont is a wonderful man, Mr. Hardy. He volunteered here all the time. Really. I don’t believe he’s any part of this either.”

  But that wasn’t Hardy’s dilemma. He had to give it more urgency. “Please, Mrs. Wilson. I want to be clear that I’m not asking you to tell me where he is, if you know. Also, if you’re protecting the children, okay, I understand. They must be having a rough go of it no matter what’s happening. But if you’ve heard nothing, then I think that increases the chances that Ron is on the run, either that or”—a sudden, new possibility—“or something’s happened to him.” He stopped, elbows on knees, hands spread. “Please,” he repeated. “If I don’t find him, Frannie stays in jail.”

  After an excruciating minute, Mrs. Wilson stood up and crossed to her desk, where she reached over, grabbed at a folder, opened it and withdrew a sheet of paper. Another beat of hesitation. She turned around, crossed back to Hardy, and handed him the paper.

  “I’m really not allowed to discuss any details of the children’s lives without the parents’ consent, as I know you understand.”

  It was a list of about twenty names under the heading “Absentees” and the day’s date. There were asterisks next to four of the names, and two of them were Beaumont. There was also the number 3 in parentheses, which Hardy took to mean number of days running. At the bottom of the page, an asterisk indicated that the absence was unexcused.

  Mrs. Wilson hadn’t heard a thing. The children were gone without a trace.

  “You don’t think something’s happened to Mr. Beaumont and his children, too, do you? Maybe the person who murdered his wife . . . ?” A startled expression at the unthinkable that had just surfaced. “You don’t think it could have been him after all, do you?”

  “I sure hope not, Mrs. Wilson. Let’s not think that, okay?”

  Hardy was waiting by the curb outside Merryvale when the bell rang to end the school day. Vincent was in the car almost before Hardy saw him. Ginger-haired after his mother and freckly, he was the all-American ten-year-old boy. “Where’s Mom now? Why are you here?”

  He was sure that his son didn’t mean it to sound so accusatory, so unwelcoming, but there it was. He’d better deal with it, since he had a feeling it was going to get worse after his daughter arrived. Rebecca had developed an impressive knack of late, pushing his buttons, not letting anything go.

  Driving down on his way to the school, he’d decided how he’d break the news, on his precise phrasing. “Your mother’s down at the jail.” This had a decidedly familiar ring in the family—since Hardy himself was often visiting clients who were behind bars, his children were accustomed to hearing the words. They wouldn’t, by themselves, produce trauma. He hoped.

  And when he tried them on Vincent, they seemed to go down well enough. “What for?” he asked, still calm.

  Hardy went for the noble spin. “They wanted her to tell a secret that she’d promised not to, and now—”

  “Where’s Mom?” Rebecca had the back door open, throwing backpack and lunch pail into the car in front of her. “She promised she’d be helping paint our class’s Halloween booth—she promised—and it was today and—”

  “Beck, hold it! Hold it.”

  “She’s at the jail,” Vincent piped into the silence. He appeared to be delighted with the news, and definitely happy to be the one to break it. Finally he got to tell his sister something she didn’t know.

  Although for a moment it didn’t register. “Well, she promised me first. There were two other moms waiting and waiting and she didn’t even call and so here I am with my friends and their moms showed up, and I’m all embarrassed—”

  Hardy snapped his fingers, pointed directly at her. “Stop it! Right now!” His daughter glared sullenly back at him. “Did you hear what your brother just said?”

  She turned to Vincent, easier pickings. “What?” she snapped.

  “Never mind anyway.” Power play of the fourth-graders.

  Hardy thought he’d better get driving so he wasn’t tempted to thrash his children right there in front of the school where everybody would see.

  The Beck’s teasing, na-na-na voice. “I don’t care. I heard you anyway.”

  “Oh yeah? So what did I say, braceface?”

  “Vincent!”

  “You said she was in jail, stupid.”

  This brought the wail. “Da-ad! You heard that. The Beck just called me stupid.”

  “He called me braceface first.”

  “Tin grin!”

  In the backseat, something was thrown, something connected. Vincent was screaming and swinging.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” Hardy knew his face had gone crimson. Somehow he’d pulled over to the curb again and turned around in his seat, at the top of his voice. “Stop this stupid, stupid bickering and fighting. Stop it right now!” Another finger pointed, this time at Vincent. “And don’t tell me I’m not supposed to say ‘stupid.’ This is stupid! Don’t you two ever think about anything but yourselves? I said your mother’s in jail, and you’re screaming at each other about nothing, just to hear y
ourselves scream.”

  “You’re the one screaming.” The Beck had self-righteous indignation down to a fine art. She was right and that was just too bad for the rest of humanity.

  “You didn’t say ‘in jail,’ ” Vincent wailed as hysteria mounted. More tears broke. “You said she was down at the jail, not in jail.”

  So much for Plan A.

  At last, Rebecca seemed to hear. “Mom’s in jail? What do you mean, in jail? How could Mom be in jail?”

  Vincent: “When does she get out? What did she do? Are we ever going to see her again?”

  Now they were both crying.

  “Daddy,” Beck asked, anguish through her tears. “How could you let this happen?”

  Finally, finally, after they got home, he and Erin and Ed succeeded in convincing the kids that Frannie was going to be okay. This was a funny glitch in the legal system, which they were always hearing Dad talk about anyway, right? This time it had just happened to their family.

  Mom was sticking up for a friend of hers and Uncle Abe was there, working right across the way, taking care of her. And sure, she might be gone for a few days, but she was all right, in a really nice cell—“a country club,” in fact. It was kind of like a vacation for Mom, and the Beck and Vincent got to stay with Grandma and Papa Ed for the weekend. It would be fun, an adventure. There wasn’t anything to worry about.

  10

  Hardy, alone on Friday evening, pacing his home front to back, was trying to come to some—any—conclusions, develop a plan. All he knew for sure was that he would go back and see Frannie again tonight, freshly armed with the news that Ron hadn’t simply gone fishing or something. If that had been the case, he would have told Mrs. Wilson and there would have been no asterisk.

  But he knew that this information wasn’t going to sway his wife. She would tell Hardy that of course Ron had had to disappear. Because of his children, he couldn’t let the law get involved with him. He would have had no choice.

  And, fool that he was, Hardy had promised Frannie that he wouldn’t reveal what she had told him, whether or not he believed a word of it. Never mind that he’d lost his claim to attorney-client privilege; he realized that he’d done something that was potentially far more debilitating.He couldn’t talk to anybody about this—not Glitsky, Freeman, Moses, Erin, nobody. He shouldn’t ever have promised Frannie, but now that he had, if he wanted to keep faith with her, he was stuck.

  The telephone jarred him from these thoughts. Sometime before he must have stopped pacing because he was sitting at his kitchen table, a cup of coffee untouched and cold in front of him. The light had changed as another afternoon’s load of fog had settled outside. He stood and picked up on the second ring.

  “It’s going to be on the five o’clock news.” Freeman wasn’t much of a preamble kind of guy. He heard Hardy’s voice and he was talking. “I called a press conference and it must be a slow news day. Everybody came. You should have been here. This is where the action is. What are you doing home anyway?”

  “I’m picking out new curtains for the bedroom,” he said. “What’s going to be on the news? Frannie?”

  “And Braun. And Randall. They loved it, they ate it up. I wouldn’t be surprised if it hit the national wires. If I were you, I’d expect some calls myself pretty soon. Play up the wife-and-mother-torn-from-her-family part.”

  “What other part is there?”

  Freeman hesitated. “Well, there’s probably going to be some reporters with dirty minds, too. You might take this as a heads-up, not blow off on them.” Then, back to strategy. “I really think this might get to Pratt, persuade her to pull the rug out from Randall, get him to reconsider. What do you hear about Bree’s husband?”

  “He left town.” Hardy told him about checking at Merryvale. The kids being gone.

  “Do the cops know this?”

  Hardy realized with a shock that they probably didn’t. He hadn’t thought to call Glitsky because the lieutenant had told him he wasn’t really interested in Ron Beaumont as a suspect. But Freeman was right. His running changed that. “I’ll call as soon as I get off with you.”

  “You ought to get to Frannie, too. She discovers that he’s really run, he looks like a murder suspect, she might want to change her mind about protecting him.”

  “That’s a good idea,” he said, biting his tongue. “I’ll do that.”

  “Check the news first,” Freeman said. “Starts in about five minutes, Channel Four.”

  “I’m on it. And David, thanks.”

  Freeman laughed. “Are you kidding? This is what I live for.”

  Calling Glitsky was a good idea. His inspectors would be happy if they found any suspect other than Ron for the murder of Bree. But now that Ron had apparently fled the jurisdiction—and Hardy had to make that assumption—Abe would have to do something.

  “Why is that?” the lieutenant asked, exasperation starting to leak out. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Find him, Abe. He looks a lot better for the murder now. You’ve got to admit that.”

  “Maybe a little better, but Scott Randall’s already out beating the bushes trying to find him. The feeling here is that it might be fun to watch him for a while.”

  “And meanwhile Frannie’s rotting.”

  Hardy could hear the patient exhale over the telephone line. Another beat. “Have you made any progress with Judge Braun? Did Freeman?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then it looks like Frannie’s in for four days no matter what, doesn’t it?”

  Hardy had no ready answer for this. It was the truth.

  Glitsky went on, logical and detached. “Ron could walk in here tonight with a signed confession including everything Randall wanted from Frannie, and my understanding is that it wouldn’t make a hill of beans difference. Am I wrong?”

  Hardy knew he wasn’t. Frannie was in jail on two separate contempt charges. Even if she talked now, she would still have to complete paying her personal four-day debt to Marian Braun. And on the other hand, even if Braun rescinded that citation, Frannie would remain in jail on the secret until Scott Randall said she could go.

  Hardy knew all this, although it wasn’t any solace. “Look, Abe, maybe I can still get Braun—”

  “ ‘Maybe’ is the key word here. Look, Diz, I’ve pleaded with Pratt, I’ve tried to bully Randall, I’ve been over to see Frannie twice, make sure they’re taking care of her, which it seems like they are. I don’t like this any more than you do.”

  “I know, Abe. I’m not saying you’re not—”

  “But anything to do with Ron Beaumont isn’t the issue for the next three days. Your immediate problem is with Braun.”

  “But if you found Ron, put out a warrant, got other agencies looking . . .”

  “Then what? That’s going to happen when the grand jury reconvenes on Tuesday anyway. They’re going to indict him unless my guys find somebody else and then the whole world will be looking for him. So they’ll probably find him. But even then, if he’s a killer he’s not going to say anything. Then what’s Frannie going to do?”

  “I don’t know, Abe, I just don’t know.”

  “Lord.” The cop voice softened. Abe clearly felt for him, was even trying to help on several fronts, but there just wasn’t anything he could do. “What do you think, Diz? She give you a hint what this is all about? You got any ideas at all?”

  He had to force the words. “Not a clue, Abe,” he lied. “Not a damn clue.”

  Fifteen minutes after the news ended, he had his coat on and was walking out the door when the telephone rang again. He was sure it was the beginning of the onslaught of the reporters, and was going to let his answering machine get it while he drove downtown. But then he remembered that it might be Erin or the kids, so he decided to monitor the call and stood listening at the hallway extension.

  “Hello?” An unfamiliar voice, probably a reporter, and one who was good enough to have scored Hardy’s unlisted number. He sounded obviou
sly disappointed that it hadn’t connected with his interview. Well, Hardy didn’t want to talk to reporters. He got to the front door, on his way out. The voice continued. “I’m trying to reach Dismas Hardy. My name is Ron Beaumont and I just saw the news report on—”

  Hardy grabbed at the phone, said hello.

  “Mr. Hardy, how are you?”

  “Well, not so good, to tell you the truth. You know they’ve got Frannie in jail?”

  “That’s why I called you. It was on the news and I thought I might be able to help.”

  “You could. Where are you now?”

  A pause. “Uh, I’d rather not say. Not too far away. I thought it would be smarter to get away before the police decided I was their suspect.”

  “The police haven’t decided that. It’s the DA.”

  A dry laugh. “Same thing to me. I can’t afford to get in their sights. Did your wife tell you about . . . about the situation here? With me?”

  “Yeah. We talked.” Hardy knew he sounded furious, impatient. He was. He didn’t feel compelled to dissemble for poor Ron the prime mover. “The thing is, Frannie’s in a pretty damn bleak way right now. She’s already done a night in the can.”

  “I know. I feel terrible about that. That’s why I’m calling, to find out if there’s anything I can do.”

  “You want my recommendation?”

  “Yes.”

  Hardy gave it to him straight. “You come see me now, give me a note to take to Frannie at the jail and tell her she’s got your permission to talk to the grand jury. She takes this word-of-honor stuff pretty seriously.”

  “Obviously you do, too.”

  Hardy didn’t answer that. He wasn’t sure how far his nobility would go if Frannie stayed locked up much longer. But for the moment, let Ron think whatever would help Frannie. “The point is, she needs to tell the grand jury. Or you do.”

  A long silence. Then, “You must know I can’t do that.”

  “Sure you can. You give Frannie permission to talk, go back to wherever you are now. You said you’re still local, you can just—”