Nothing but the Truth

by John Lescroart

  There could no longer be any doubt. Ron hadn’t shot Carl Griffin, which meant he hadn’t used the same gun to eliminate Canetta. And finally, at long last, it was a near certainty he hadn’t killed his sister. As he’d sworn all along, as Frannie had believed, as Hardy had hoped, Ron Beaumont was innocent.

  It was a huge load off.

  It was galling for Hardy to realize he could have known all this on Friday night, Saturday evening at the latest, if only Ron hadn’t felt the need to bolt. But there was nowhere to go with that. Ron had in fact called him on Saturday, had tried to cooperate. He hadn’t known what Hardy was going through. The only thing for Hardy to do now was get his remaining questions answered while he could.

  He willed a neutral tone and began. “Tell me about Bree and Damon Kerry.”

  “You’ve gotten to him, huh? I’m not surprised.” Ron sat back and tipped up his beer.

  “Do you think he killed her?”

  Ron had given this question a lot of thought, and he gave it some more now. “The problem I’ve always had is pure logistics. How could he have done it?”

  “That’s not so hard. He comes by your place after you’ve taken the kids to school. They talked that morning, you know. Kerry and Bree.”

  “I know.”

  This was a surprise. “Do you know what they talked about?”

  “No. Not specifically. I think they just talked. They did all the time. But look, the man’s running for governor.He doesn’t just stroll down the street and kill somebody.”

  “Maybe he drove, parked in the basement . . .”

  Ron was shaking his head. “And what if somebody sees him down there or in the elevator? And why?”

  “She was pregnant.”

  “No. They loved each other. They were talking about getting married. That’s what Bree and I were having our problems about.” Ron spun his bottle nervously on the Formica table. “This wasn’t my finest hour,” he said at last. “I was upset enough with her when she started hitting the newspapers in connection with Kerry.”

  “Why was that, though, exactly?”

  “Because Bree isn’t the most common name on earth. If Dawn ran across it . . .”

  “How would she do that? Isn’t she back in Wisconsin?”

  “Why wouldn’t she? She reads the paper. California news plays everywhere.”

  “I thought she hated the kids.”

  “When they were babies. After she saw how lucrative they could be . . .” He trailed off. “Certainly she fought like hell for the custody judgment. She thought they were her property.”

  “And after she got the judgment? After you”—Hardy still had trouble with it—“took them? I’d think Bree would be the first place she’d look.”

  “That’s right. But it wasn’t as though the court’s judgment came as a surprise. Bree and I had had months to prepare. When we got out here to California, I was Ron Beaumont, recently widowed. For over a year the kids and I lived in an apartment in Oakland, kept a low profile.”

  “What did you do? For a living, I mean.”

  “What I do now. Computer-based financial work.”

  “So you stayed in Oakland until the investigators stopped coming around to Bree?”

  “Right. Then we started ‘dating,’ had a small, private wedding.”

  “And no one knew you?”

  “Not as Bree’s brother, no. We’d lived completely separate lives since I went away to college. At that time, Bree was like fourteen. Then she came out here for grad school while I was living in Racine. None of her friends even knew of me, not that she had that many.” He shrugged. “It was a perfect fit.”

  “It was also a hell of a risk.”

  Another shrug. “High risk, high return. It was the best option. There was no way I was letting the kids go back to Dawn.” He struggled to try and make it clear. “See, she really believed there wasn’t anything wrong with what she wanted to do, what she did. Society’s just too puritanical. Sex is natural. If some people are uptight, that’s their problem.”

  “Not kids, though. Nobody thinks it’s okay with kids.”

  Ron appeared at a loss. If Hardy didn’t know this . . . “Well, check it out. Somebody’s taking ten million pictures a year.”

  A short silence fell. Both men reached for their bottles.

  “Anyway,” Ron continued, “back to it. Say Dawn sees Bree in the paper, something clicks. Same name, same field. She checks into it even a little and finds out Beaumont used to be Brunetta, my name. I’m dead. The kids are dead.” He sighed. “So, yeah, we had some words about it.”

  “So what did she say? Bree?”

  “It wasn’t just saying,” Ron said. “It’s hard to explain, but it was like, all of a sudden, she just . . . became an adult.”

  “The ugly duckling,” Hardy said.

  “Right. I’m not saying she hadn’t been an unbelievably generous sister—all for the sake of my kids. She never told me anything about her other men, though I knew she had them. It was kind of tacitly understood between us that none of them could ever be serious because her first duty was”—he motioned to the back of the duplex—“to those guys in there. That’s what she’d signed on for.”

  “But why did she ever agree to do that? I mean, it was so unusual . . . ?”

  “I think that was part of it. If I thought I’d been raised conventional, at least I broke out of that at about twenty. Bree was twenty-eight. She had her doctorate and her new job, but she’d really never experienced anything in the real world. So suddenly this gave her a purpose. She had no social life and she loved the kids. She was saving their lives. You know when you’re young, you’ve got all the time in the world. You make lifetime decisions like it’s picking a pair of shoes.”

  Another silence. They both knew all about that.

  “So what happened?” Hardy asked finally. “Why did it start to unravel?”

  Across the table, real anguish spilled over into Ron’s face. “The most natural thing in the world,” he said ruefully. “She fell in love. She wanted her own life, her own family.” He hesitated, then went on. “And I didn’t want her to have it. I didn’t want to have to change. I was furious when I found out she’d gotten pregnant.”

  “By Kerry.”

  He nodded. “She was going to tell him. I don’t know if she ever did. It was another issue between us.”

  “Wait a minute. You had your identity established, so why didn’t you just pretend to get a divorce, then she marries Kerry?”

  Ron was shaking his head. “The next governor? I don’t think so. Anybody but him, maybe, but if she’s the new first lady of California, people are going to be pretty damn curious about her past. It would have come out.”

  “So what did you suggest? What was your solution?”

  “I don’t know. I thought we could split up now, okay, then wait a year or two. Put some distance between me and her. If she would only have waited . . .”

  “But she was already pregnant. She’d waited enough, hadn’t she?”

  To his credit, Ron wasn’t proud of any of this. “She really blew up at me. When was I going to let her live her life? How could I be so selfish after all she’d done for me and the kids?” He met Hardy’s eyes. “And, of course, she was right.”

  They came, at last, to the nub.

  Ron’s initial reaction was a shocked disbelief that Hardy would even ask. Surely he could see that it was impossible. Ron couldn’t do it. He’d gotten up, crossed the kitchen, went to the sink and threw some water on his face, wiping it dry with a dish towel. He stood for a moment leaning on his hands. Hardy spoke to his back. “I’m afraid this isn’t a negotiable invitation, Ron. You’re going to be there.”

  He turned around. “How can you ask me to do this?”

  “Because it’s the only way.”

  “It can’t be. They’ll arrest me. I can’t let that happen. This is precisely what I’ve gone to all these lengths to avoid.”

  “Ron, listen
to me.” Hardy stood, his jaw set. “This isn’t the grand jury. The deliberations aren’t going to be secret. No prosecutor is going to be able to sandbag you. And besides, I need you to be there. For Frannie.”

  “I don’t understand why.”

  “The simple answer is because there won’t be a hearing if you’re not sitting in the courtroom. I promised the judge.”

  “But that—”

  Hardy held out a hand, snapped it out. “Listen up, Ron. The real answer—and I really don’t think it’s going to get to that, but if it does—is you’ve got to be there to tell her she can talk.”

  The conflict played in his face. “But I wrote her that note that she—”

  “I know what you wrote her,” Hardy snapped. “That won’t play—I told you that. She’s got her own ideas on the timing of this thing, and nobody but you is going to change her mind.” He lowered his voice. “You owe her this, Ron. You know you do. Hell, you owe it to me.”

  Ron walked away again. The room was too small. At the window end, he stood staring out at the gray for nearly a minute, which seemed a very long time. Finally, he turned back. “Do you know who killed Bree?”

  “I know it wasn’t you. I can prove it wasn’t you.”

  “I’ve always heard you couldn’t prove a negative.”

  Hardy had always heard that, too. But with Glitsky’s corroboration, he could make a convincing argument that the same person had killed Griffin, Canetta, and Bree. Therefore . . .

  “That may be true,” he said. “But sometimes you get a good enough lawyer working on it, you can create the impression.”

  But Ron kept up the challenge. “And that would be you?”

  Suddenly, Hardy had had enough. Marie and Ron and the kids might be playing all of this as some game that would end tomorrow, but it wasn’t a game, and Hardy believed with all his heart that it wasn’t going to end until he made it happen. His mouth turned up, though he’d gotten beyond smiling. “That’s right, my friend. That would be me.”

  Ron stood by the window. Outside, Hardy could make out the little boxes on the hillside of Twin Peaks rising behind them. He was surprised to note that it was still light out. The fog had lifted to a low cover, smudged and dirty.

  “Ron.”

  Another long moment. “I don’t have any choice, do I?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  He stared out the window in front of him, then turned and walked back to the kitchen table. He sat down heavily, spun his beer bottle again, looked up at Hardy. “I’ll be there.”

  Hardy studied him for a beat. “You’re sure?”

  Ron bobbed his head distractedly. There was no more hesitation. He’d made up his mind. “Yes, I’m sure.” He raised his eyes and offered a smile. Hardy had wedged him and then beaten him. He’d be there. Of course. He had to be. There was no other choice.

  Hardy exhaled in apparent relief. “Okay, then. I’ll pick you up here at eight-fifteen. How does that sound?”

  “All right,” Ron repeated. “Eight-fifteen. That’s fine. I’ll be ready.”

  “Great.” Hardy again produced a victorious sigh. He extended his hand over the table. “Sorry this has been so difficult,” he said, “but it’s going to work out, believe me. And thanks for all the cooperation today.”

  Their discussion was over. Ron shook Hardy’s hand again, keeping up the chatter. When they’d gotten to the front door, Hardy paused. “Oh,” he said, “one last small thing. Could I have a word alone with Cassandra for just a sec?”

  Ron’s visage clouded over. But Hardy, expecting the negative reaction, gave him a man-to-man smile, laid a hand on his arm. “She’s my pal, remember?” he said. “She’s the one who got me into this with all of you. It’s only right we let her in on the plan, don’t you think?”

  They went just outside on the landing by the front door.

  Ron and Marie and the kids were treating it as a game, and Hardy made it just another part of the game for Cassandra, their own personal secret. Her father had told her she could trust Mr. Hardy, didn’t he? If she wanted to double check with him, they could call him out here and ask, but then there was a chance that Max would hear.

  The reason Hardy wanted to talk to her by herself, why they were alone out here on the landing, was because her dad didn’t want to have Max get all upset that she was the only one he was letting go to the sleep-over at Rebecca Hardy’s.

  Her eyes were bright with excitement. “Rebecca’s having a sleep-over? I love sleep-overs.”

  And Max would have been invited, too, except her dad had told Hardy he needed a good night’s rest after last night’s terrors. Vincent was going to be disappointed, but he’d understand.

  No. She didn’t have to go back in. Rebecca had extra toothbrushes. She could borrow some of her pajamas. It would be a blast.

  But they had to hurry to get to Mr. Hardy’s car, okay? They needed to get away before Max found out. Otherwise she’d have to stay here and miss the sleep-over.

  He stopped five blocks away and put in a gallon or two while Cassandra waited in the car. Inside the station, never taking his eyes off her, he dropped a quarter into a pay phone.

  Marie’s voice when she answered was choked with tension, but he allowed her no time to talk back. “I’ll be out front at eight-fifteen as Ron and I discussed. Cassandra’s fine.”

  Erin Cochran was as mad as he’d ever seen her, and Hardy thought it likely that compared to her husband, Ed, when he got home from work, her anger would appear mild as the driven snow. But his concern for people’s feelings weren’t in his mix anymore. He was running on instinct and adrenaline, and if the people he loved had a problem with that or with him, they’d have to get over it. He didn’t have time.

  “I borrowed her,” he said. “Just for one night.”

  “It’s not funny, Dismas.”

  “I don’t think it’s funny. I know it’s pretty damn serious.”

  She had all but taken Hardy by the earlobe and dragged him inside from the backyard. The children, oblivious to any intrigue, were engrossed with a contraption they’d made up of an oversized cardboard container, ropes, some plastic lawn chairs, and a blanket. Erin threw an eye at them, making sure the adults hadn’t drawn their attention. Then back to Hardy. “I can’t believe you’re asking me and Ed to be part of this.”

  “It was the only way, Erin.”

  “I find that hard to believe. And if the police—”

  “Ron won’t call the police,” Hardy replied, cutting her off. “He was going to run again and I need him tomorrow to get Frannie free.” Now he looked out at the children. “Cassandra’s my guarantee he shows up.”

  “But you can’t—”

  “Erin!” He put his hands, not quite roughly, on her shoulders. The harshness he heard in his own voice surprised him. But that, too, couldn’t be helped. “Erin, listen to me! I did it. It’s done. It’s one more night.”

  He brought his hands down. Erin’s mouth trembled as she fought for control, couldn’t speak.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said.

  36

  Hunched over, Hardy sat on the low upholstered chair by the balcony in the penthouse. The drapes were open and when he raised his head, he could see off to his left the sunset bleeding a bruised orange into the purple sea. Suddenly, visibility had returned between the cloud cover and the earth. Up at the north end of the Bay, he thought he could even make out individual cars on the Richmond Bridge.

  What had he done? What had he done?

  The thought assailed him.

  Had he needed to take Cassandra? After all, Ron had agreed to meet him tomorrow morning and accompany him to the hearing. He was going to do it—he’d promised. Hardy had convinced him that this was what he had to do. It was a done deal.

  Except . . .

  Except that Ron was lying. The conversion had been too swift and too unencumbered. He’d made his decision, all right, but it wasn’t to wait around for another day and go to court to
clear all this up. Instead, Hardy had no doubt at all that at the appointed hour tomorrow morning, Ron and his children would be gone with no trace.

  But if he were wrong.

  His insides churned and his skin felt clammy. In front of him, his hands were clenched—the only way he could keep them from shaking.

  Pushing himself up from the chair, he stood still, trying yet again to envision the struggle that must have occurred here. But nothing spoke to him. He crossed over to the French doors, unlocked them, pulled them open, stepped outside.

  It was all the same. The planters with their meager shrubbery. The small table and chairs, exactly as they’d been when he’d first come here. Three steps brought him across the slippery tiles of the balcony to the rough iron grillwork.

  He tested its strength and found it solid. He wasn’t tempted to lean his body into it, but again, hands on the rail, he was drawn to peer over and down to the enclosed rectangle of garden below. The sensation—the height itself—was mesmerizing. It held him there while seconds ticked until finally the vertigo straightened him up.

  Backing away, he shuddered, wondering at the primeval power of the urge to fall—death’s easy, frighteningly inviting availability with one instant of weakness.

  Or assent.

  It was unnerving.

  The railing was wet from thirty hours wrapped in fog and he went to wipe his hands on his jacket. A foghorn boomed from down below and suddenly he stopped himself.

  Rust stains. Fabric wash.

  He turned his palms up. With the sun just down, the dusk had rapidly advanced, but there was still enough natural light to make out the faint striations.

  For another long moment, he stood without moving. The switch for the light over the balcony was behind him and he turned around and flicked it. The rust wasn’t dark on his hands, but it had come off the grillwork sufficiently to be easily identifiable.

  Again he crossed to the railing, but this time squatted so that the top of it was at his eye level. Where he’d stood, the condensation had of course been cleared, but beyond that he thought he could make out where his hands had taken the rust. Swiping the arm of his jacket strongly over the area, the smooth and rugged Gore-Tex caught in a couple of places, and then when he pulled it away, the railing had left a line of rust on it.