Dead Irish

by John T Lescroart

  The Jaguar turned into Berry Street, and Hardy, parked opposite the Cruz building, not in its parking lot, got out of his car and started walking across the street. The Jag pulled into the empty lot, and by the time Arturo Cruz, alone, had opened the door and stepped out, Hardy was standing in front of him. “Mr. Cruz,” he said, “I’ve got a problem.”

  “Mr. Cruz, I’ve got a problem.”

  The questions weren’t going to go away. He knew that now.

  You couldn’t build a whole fabric of lies, he thought, and have it all hang neatly together. And the weight of all of them was still affecting him and Jeffrey.

  Especially after the story on Linda Polk had broken yesterday. Of course, they’d run it in La Hora. Thank God he’d been with Jeffrey the whole day Sunday, that the police had another suspect. Otherwise, Jeffrey might have thought he’d killed Linda too.

  And now here was the man again. He might as well come clean right now, he thought, get it off his chest.

  He couldn’t see Hardy’s face, though he had recognized him as he was driving up. He was forced, looking into the bright, low, morning sun, to squint, then try to shade his eyes. The man was a fighter plane coming out of the sun.

  He turned back to the car. There, that was better. He could see fine. He reached inside for his briefcase, then straightened up. “Come inside,” he said, and started walking toward the building. Hardy fell in beside him. “I was going to call you,” he found himself saying. As he did every morning, he unlocked the huge glass double doors.

  “What about?”

  Cruz pushed the door and held it open. “Linda Polk was killed Sunday?”

  “Right.”

  “And Sam died when, yesterday? I heard about it yesterday, anyway.”

  “Sunday night, we think.”

  They were at the elevator, inside it. The doors closed shut quietly. The man, hands folded behind his back, didn’t say another word. Was he humming? The doors opened on the secretary’s station of the penthouse.

  “Being in the news business, I tend to hear about things.”

  Why wasn’t Hardy saying anything? Well, try again, at least now in his office, on his own turf. He sat behind his desk. “So what’s your problem? You said you had a problem,” Cruz said.

  “Why were you going to call about Sam and Linda?”

  “That’s your problem?”

  Hardy shook his head patiently. He was sitting, very relaxed, in one of the deep white leather half-banquettes in front of his desk. “No,” he said, “you brought that up. I thought I’d pursue it a little.”

  “Well, I mean, since Linda and Sam and, uh, that other fellow, the one who died here…”

  “Cochran. Ed Cochran.”

  “Yeah, since they all worked for the same company. That’s a pretty large coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Well, I mean…” What did he mean? He hadn’t been planning to call Hardy. He didn’t know why he’d said that-nerves, maybe. But Hardy-he could tell-wasn’t going to let it go.

  “What do you mean?” The persistent bastard.

  “I mean there must be some connection, wouldn’t you think? Between them.”

  I ought to shut up right now, he thought. Say good-bye to him and call my lawyer.

  “It’s funny you should mention that,” Hardy said. “It kind of brings it back to my problem. See”-he crossed his legs elaborately, ankle on knee-“the only thing I can see that ties them all together is the Cruz Publishing Company, La Hora, you. And the other thing is, what brought me here in the first place after I thought about it enough, is you lied to me at least twice when we had our first interview.” He paused, letting it sink in. “At least twice.”

  Cruz started to turn on The Glare, the one that worked with his employees, even sometimes with Jeffrey, but Hardy held up a hand, said, “No,” meaning, that isn’t going to work, and then folded up the hand, leaving one finger out. “One, you said you didn’t know Ed. His wife says he saw you the week before he died, and had another appointment scheduled right around that night. Maybe exactly that night. The one he died, I mean.”

  Cruz was glad he was sitting down. He could feel a sponginess in his legs and knew they wouldn’t have held him if he was standing. He would have had to slump against something.

  “And two,” Hardy continued, sticking up a second finger, “you described to me how bad it all looked, with the blood and all. Now my question, my problem” (the bastard was really enjoying himself) “is how you could know what it looked like if you went home at eight-thirty or nine when the lot was empty?”

  He tried to swallow, then cleared his throat. No good. Wheeling around in his chair, moving slowly, carefully, he took one of the cut-crystal wineglasses from its tray on the bookshelf behind his desk and pushed the water button on his small refrigerator. God, the water was delicious. He spun back around. “I didn’t kill him.”

  “There, now, that’s direct.”

  Hardy stood up. Cruz didn’t like looking up at him-it threw off any sense of balance between them-but he still felt too weak in the legs to risk rising himself. “You mind if I get a glass?”

  Then Hardy had the water and was sitting back down on the edge of the chair, elbows on his knees, holding the glass in both of his hands in front of him.

  “What about the black guy, the suspect? We ran his picture in La Hora.”

  Hardy nodded. “He’s a suspect.”

  “And so am I?”

  “Let’s just say my curiosity gets aroused when I get lied to.” Eye to eye. In no hurry whatsoever. “Pretty natural reaction, don’t you think?”

  Cruz gulped down the last of his water. “Maybe I should call my lawyer.”

  Hardy sat back in the chair. “You’re certainly welcome to. But I’m not here with a warrant. I came to talk.”

  “I really didn’t kill him.”

  “But you saw him?”

  He closed his eyelids, and the sight flashed up behind them again-turning into the dark lot, headlights finding the body. Keeping the beam on it as he drove up, he’d gotten out of the car and stood staring for who knew how long, not recognizing Ed Cochran-there wasn’t much to recognize-but knowing who it had been in any case. “I should’ve called.” He went to drink more water, raising the glass to his lips, but it was empty.

  “When was that?”

  “When I saw him.”

  “That night?”

  He found himself sighing, feeling the release, wanting to keep talking now that it had started, with nothing to hide. “I had an appointment with him at nine-thirty. I stayed working until maybe eight, eight-thirty, got hungry and went out to dinner.”

  “Where?” Hardy asked.

  He didn’t have to think about it. Every minute of that night had been looping in his mind for over a week. “Place called The Rose up on Fourth.”

  Hardy nodded. “I know it. Anybody see you there? Could swear to it?”

  Of course. Wendell could swear to it. They had flirted a little, discreetly. “I think the waiter I had might remember.”

  “What’d you have to eat?”

  Again, no need to think. “Calves liver, pasta, some blush Zinfandel.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I came back here. There was a car-I assumed it was Ed’s-in the middle of the lot.”

  “But you didn’t have your meeting?”

  “He was already dead.”

  “Just like the police found him?”

  “Yes, I assume so.”

  Now that he’d said it, he started shaking again. He didn’t trust his hands to reach for his water glass to refill it. He put them on his lap, out of sight under the desk. Hardy leaned back in his chair now, frowning.

  “What was the meeting supposed to have been about?”

  Did he really want to hear about it? All of it? Cruz realized it might not seem, on the surface, to have made a lot of s
ense, but if he could just make Hardy understand the issue with Jeffrey- how Jeffrey had started to take Ed’s side-then it would be all right. Anything was better than trying to keep all those lies in his mind.

  He hadn’t realized at first how bad it would be, having Jeffrey not believe him, even think he was capable of murdering somebody. But now, once he came forward, the police would find no evidence. They could have an investigation and find him innocent, and that would end all this horrible distrust between himself and Jeffrey.

  But when he had finished, Hardy was still frowning. “So how come you couldn’t tell us this last week?”

  He saw that his hands were back up on the desk, folded tightly together. He spread them, palms up. “I was afraid. I just… I know there’s no excuse. I don’t know.” He tried to smile, man to man. “It was a lapse, that’s all. I was nervous.”

  Hardy stretched, looked at his watch and slowly pushed himself up from the chair. “Can I use your phone?” he asked.

  Though it was still probably too early for Abe to be in the office, Hardy felt he ought to get the police involved right now. This warranted bringing in the troops. They might or might not corroborate Cruz’s story, but he had admitted being in the lot that night at the relevant time. That would be enough to get something official going. Then, whether he’d killed Ed would either come out or it wouldn’t. Either way, it was now a police matter.

  Hardy left a message for Abe and told Cruz that another officer would be coming by later in the day. He was, of course, welcome to have an attorney present at that time.

  Though Hardy knew it was patently ridiculous-that no real cop would simply walk out on a murder suspect leaving the later interrogation to another officer-he couldn’t think of a better way to continue with Cruz. He’d done what he’d set out to do, which was prove he’d lied. Finding out why was out of his province. If Cruz tried to run he’d only get in deeper, and the publisher was, after all, an established, wealthy and even well-known citizen. Hardy didn’t think he would run.

  At home, Hardy heard Abe’s message of the night before about Alphonse and felt satisfaction. Between Alphonse and Cruz there seemed no doubt they had the man who’d killed Eddie. At the very least they would have enough, once and for all, to call it a homicide.

  Of course, he’d wait for the official word before passing it along to Moses and Frannie or the Cochrans. And though it wasn’t going to help anybody’s immediate pain much to know that Eddie Cochran hadn’t killed himself, it would eventually be a consolation. The rejection factor would be gone. His death-the death itself-was a tragedy, sure, but the wound could heal over now. The quarter of a million dollars for Frannie wouldn’t hurt, either.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  STEVEN KNEW his mom was trying. Maybe she just couldn’t do it.

  She changed the bandages religiously, brought his ice cream and sandwiches, opened and closed the window and turned on and off the television or radio and probably would try to build him an airplane and take him for a flight if he asked her.

  It was all still Eddie.

  He didn’t blame her, couldn’t blame her. He felt the same thing, or guessed he did. Maybe it was different losing a son than losing a brother. But either way, it was a bad loss.

  All this reaction in him-probably even the running away- had to do with that, with losing Eddie. He’d had a couple of days to think about it and, bright kid that he was, had come up with this theory… there was this minimum amount of acceptance everybody needed to get along, no matter where they were. With Steven, it was this house. And up until last week it had been close but there was enough. He was at absolute zero-until you factored Eddie in. And even though he hadn’t been living at home for a while, Eddie had always been there in a way. His presence, his attitude, was felt. And Frannie, too, though not so much. Still, though, he gave Frannie (in those hours while the drugs were wearing down and he hadn’t yet called Mom) a plus three, more than anyone he lived with. And Eddie? Geez, Eddie was off the chart, maybe plus a hundred and six on a scale of one to ten. He couldn’t exactly figure it out, but he knew that to Eddie he had been about the funniest, smartest, most fun little (but not so little) brother in history.

  So with Eddie in the picture he belonged, weird though it sometimes felt here. He was accepted because Eddie dug him. Anyway, that’s what it all felt like now, after he’d figured it out a little. So when Eddie had died, he’d been left with a vacuum, and he hadn’t felt like he could continue to survive in that-not here at home. Not anymore.

  Now, since he’d been hurt, he honestly thought something had changed. Of course, it didn’t really count with everybody feeling sorry for him and trying to be nice. Most of all Mom. Mom, trying like hell.

  It probably wasn’t even conscious, but he knew he had become just a duty to her, like a paper drive or a cake sale, and Mom had always been somebody you could count on for that stuff.

  Here she was now, Steven keeping his eyes closed, breathing regular, pretending to be asleep. Hand on the forehead to check for a fever, then tuck the blankets around. He opened his eyes a crack, groggy.

  “How you feeling, honey?”

  “Fine.”

  “Really? Anything I can get you?”

  Slow shake of the head. She sits on the bed. He can feel her trying to say something else, but settles for reaching out a hand, rubbing it across his cheek. It feels oddly cold. He opens his eyes again.

  “It’s okay, Mom.”

  Her brave smile-still thinking of Eddie. It’s so obvious. But he can’t really worry about that. A little fake smile. “You just get better,” she says. “Take it easy and get better.”

  She looks at her watch. Time for another dose? No, he doesn’t hurt that bad. Close the eyes again. He feels her get up from the bed.

  Alone again.

  How about talking, Mom? How about suggesting I sit up and do something with you? Not just how I’m feeling. Well, it wasn’t going to happen for a while. She wasn’t ready for it. And it wasn’t as though he thought he could take Eddie’s place. Nobody could do that. But maybe if she’d just recognize him as something other than a duty they could start to get somewhere.

  He didn’t want much, he thought. If only he could do something to make Mom see him, maybe value him a little bit. That’s all he needed, really. And it might fill in some of the hole left by Eddie. Probably not much, but maybe enough.

  But Mom seemed below zero herself, and that made him real nervous, maybe more nervous than anything else.

  Erin wore a green jogging suit and tennis shoes. The low white socks had a little pom-pom on the back just over each heel, and Hardy found himself staring at them as he followed her back into the house.

  He tried to keep staring at the pom-pom, because seeing Erin Cochran in a jogging suit-even when she was still so obviously distraught-made him realize that another result of the sense of new life he was experiencing was a general increase in his libido.

  “What’s funny?” she said.

  They had come out onto the deck into the bright sunlight and he’d been admiring something other than the pom-poms when she’d turned and caught him. He didn’t think he ought to discuss it with her.

  “The way my mind works,” he said, striving to be suitably enigmatic. He pulled one of the multicolored canvas chairs out for her, catching a slight whiff of Ivory soap.

  There was a wide red-and-green umbrella stuck through the center of the table. The sun was high, and he pulled his own chair in close to hers so they could share the shade.

  “And how does your mind work?” She touched his arm lightly, reminding him of the way both she and Big Ed had used a hand on his arm to guide him on the day of the funeral. She looked directly into his eyes.

  But no way was she flirting. She was one of those people to whom the world was a straightforward place. Obviously, she was happily married to Big Ed and, at the moment, grief-stricken. She couldn’t be bothered with whether or not eye contact could be misinterpreted.
The hand on the arm, though, the wide serious brown eyes-it was disconcerting.

  “How does my mind work?” Hardy repeated. “Very slowly, I’m afraid.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” She poured coffee into two plain brown mugs and shifted the sugar-and-cream tray closer. “I don’t think so.”

  “Rusty clock, guaranteed. Tick…” He paused, looked around, came back to her eyes. “Tick. Like that.”

  It was the first time Hardy had seen anything like humor in her eyes. She took her mug in both hands and leaned back in her chair.

  “Jim-Father Cavanaugh-came by last night. Evidently there’s a suspect?”

  “You didn’t see the paper?”

  She shook her head. “With Steven, now…” she began, then stopped.

  “How is he?”

  She lifted her shoulders, noncommittal. “Anyway, the suspect is the reason I called.”

  “Well, I think we have two, actually.”

  He explained a little about Cruz, then went back and covered Alphonse. She listened, but her eyes were out of focus somewhere over the middle of her backyard. When Hardy finished she didn’t react in any way.

  “Mrs. Cochran?” he said.

  She might have been talking to herself, trying to find reason in something absurd. “Two people,” she said. “Two people might have killed Eddie, wanted to kill Eddie. How could two different people want to kill my Eddie.” It wasn’t a question. Hardy looked down into his mug. “I mean, it doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, I guess it doesn’t.”

  “But you think it happened?”

  He shrugged. “It seems to be the only other option. You were certain he didn’t kill himself.”

  “I don’t know what’s worse.” She closed her eyes. “Now I don’t know why I called you,” she said, apologizing, trying and failing to smile. “I mean, I keep thinking something, like some…”-she paused-“some information is going to make a difference. I keep thinking we’ll find out something and I won’t feel this way anymore. It’s stupid, really.”

  “No, it’s not stupid. It’s pretty natural.”