Clothing. Powder bums. Next to the medical/chemical analysis 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 passed over it, went on to blood levels for alcohol, nicotine . . .
He closed his eyes and saw Canetta’s face again on the bench in Washington 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 even make out 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 a.m., 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 massaged 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 lamebrained 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, 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 onto his lap. The sleepy boy-smell 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, okay?”
“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 Grandpa in the meantime. You don’t have to worry about that, okay?”
“Okay.”
“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 God, 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 class, 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, 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 passage, 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 butter, 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 assumed 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 hoarsely. “Sure.”
At the stove, Vincent turned at the tone. “Hey,” he said softly. “You okay, Dad?”
As the house started to wake up, Vincent went back to torment the girls and Hardy took his brief
case 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 backseat 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! $1.32 worth of assorted coins. 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 shells.
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 analyzed 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 Cassandra?”
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 okay.”
“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. Cass 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. “Okay, 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, 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 Cassandra’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 Cassandra 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 forbearance, 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.”
Hardy, going for the Academy Award for Best Actor, conveyed that he wasn’t happy about what had taken place with his wife, but he was no longer worried. Everything was under control. “I’m going down to pick her up right now,” he said.
“Well, then, you mustn’t let me keep you. Godspeed.”
Hardy walked across the parking lot and stopped by the door to his car. Back toward the school, cars were still pulling up and letting out other children. The fog, he realized, had made only a token effort this morning, and now there was even a hint of sunshine in the sky. He made out a small knot of kids standing by a bicycle rack, his daughter among them. And Cassandra Beaumont.
Hidden in plain sight.
38
An objective observer would have concluded that the two men standing on the curb of Church Street were business associates working out some tedious details in their latest deal. Both were close to the same age, in good physical shape, conservatively dressed in business suits—one of them an Italian double-breasted with a deep olive tone, the other a Brooks Brothers charcoal with a microscopic maroon pinstripe.
A closer look would uncover a different truth. Both of the strong, perhaps even handsome faces were landscapes of strain and fatigue. And the deal was not going well.
Listen:
“I want to see her.”
“Not until after you’ve testified.”
“How’s this? I won’t testify until I do.”
Pinstripe smiled coldly. “Maybe you’re forgetting that I’ve still got her. It’s pretty straightforward. You want to get your daughter back, I want my wife. We trade. That’s the deal. That’s the only deal.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“Maybe. But at least an honest son of a bitch.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I haven’t lied to you.”
“As though I have?”
“Do you think I’m an idiot? Are you telling me you wouldn’t have packed them both up and been gone when I got here this morning?” A pause. “That’s what I thought, so don’t shit me. I did what I had to do. Your daughter’s safe.”
“Except for the trauma you’ve—”
“Not even that. She’s not even going to know any of this happened. Not unless you force me.”
The Italian suit walked off a few steps and the other followed.
“I’m the only friend you’ve got. Don’t you understand that by now? Nobody’s going to touch you until you tell your story.”
He whirled around. “And after that?”
“After that, if you’re telling the truth, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“If I’m telling the truth? I am telling the truth.”
A long silence. Finally the man in pinstripes stepped off the curb, around to the driver’s side door of a late-model Honda. “Get in the car.”
With about an hour to kill before Marian Braun’s courtroom was called into session at nine-thirty, Hardy didn’t want to push his luck by entering the Hall of Justice. If he a
nd his prisoner should run across Scott Randall or Peter Struler, he considered it a dead certainty that somehow they would get Ron into custody. Hardy would be powerless to stop them if they initiated the booking process under whatever guise.
Lou the Greek’s was dark and private enough. Few if any of the morning drinkers were going to look up and recognize anybody. Most of them had personal, more desperate agendas of their own for being there at that hour and one of them—David Freeman—was working. He was on the first stool at the end of the bar, just as he and Hardy had decided the night before.
A couple of steaming mugs of coffee rested untouched on the table between Ron and Hardy.
“Rita Browning? Where did you get that?” Ron was shaking his head, apparently mystified. He faced the back wall in the booth farthest from the front door. “No,” he said.
Hardy was across from him, where he could see anyone who entered. “You’re asking me to believe she wasn’t one of your credit card names?”
“I don’t care what you believe, but that’s right. Rita Browning?” There wasn’t any humor in the moment, but Ron almost chuckled. “Look, I might not be the most masculine guy in the world, but do you really think I could pass as a Rita Browning?”
This, Hardy had to say, was a reasonable point.
Ron amplified it. “And what was I supposed to use it for?”
“To pay the mortgage on another apartment in your building.”
An expression of apparently real perplexity. “Which one?”
“Nine-oh-two.”
Ron thought about it for second, finally reached for one of the coffee mugs and took a sip. “And why would I want to do that, have another apartment in my own building?”
It was a good question, but Hardy believed he had a good answer. “So if you had a problem just like the one you’re experiencing now, you’d have a place to hide out for a while, to take the kids until you could relocate.”
“Well, as you say, I’m having this problem now. You’ll notice I didn’t take them there. Doesn’t that tell you anything?”
Nothing but the Truth Page 41