The Keeper

by John Lescroart

  Glitsky knew what Hal was talking about; it reflected his own former anguish at the prospect of dealing with the world without Flo. Eventually, for Abe, life had returned to what felt something like normal, but it had taken a very long time, and while he was waiting, he never felt anything like a guarantee that it would arrive at all.

  “I’m going to head out,” Glitsky said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Yeah,” Hal said. “Find out who did it.”

  “I’m looking,” Glitsky replied, then added, “I really am.”

  And found—again with some surprise—that he meant it.

  30

  FRANNIE HARDY SWUNG her legs out on her side of the bed and said, “Well, that’s how that’s done.”

  Among the many advantages of not having children living with you anymore, Dismas Hardy counted high on the list the fact that you didn’t have to schedule lovemaking for when they were either away from home or in a far corner of the house. With his workload allowing him the occasional morning off, he and Frannie had fallen into, if not a routine, at least an openness to the possibility that they did not always have to wake up and immediately rise from bed.

  Hardy lay with his hands behind his head and a grin on his face. “I tend to agree. Could it be we’re actually getting better?”

  “We should, after all the practice lately. Do you want coffee in bed? Or will Your Majesty be down for breakfast?

  “I’ll do what you’re doing.”

  Naked, her finger to her chin, Frannie struck a pose at the door to the bathroom. “Coffee. Downstairs. Five minutes.”

  Hardy took a satisfied breath and nodded. “Done.”

  Next to the bed, the telephone rang.

  “First amended response,” he said to Frannie. “Maybe ten minutes.” He picked up. “It’s not yet nine o’clock, so this better be important.”

  “Why aren’t you at work?”

  “Because I’m at home, Wes. As should be obvious, since you called here.”

  “That’s really not a very civilized way to answer the phone.”

  “Yes, well, no civilized person makes phone calls between nine at night and nine in the morning. So we’re even.”

  “Who made that up? The nine-to-nine rule.”

  “Alexander Graham Bell. It was the first thing he invented after the phone itself, and a damn good invention it is. What’s so important?”

  “What’s important is that this is a courtesy call that I probably shouldn’t be making to you, as Hal Chase’s attorney, but I’ve got a soft spot in my heart for my former partners. My sources are correct—he has retained you? Right?”

  “Indeed.”

  “That’s what I heard. So although I couldn’t tell anyone about a grand jury proceeding because it’s secret, I thought you might want to make an appointment to be with your client by noon or so. That way, if you got a phone call saying that—oh, I don’t know—he happened to be indicted, you could surrender him to us as soon as you get the word.”

  Hardy sat up against his headboard. “This is a mistake, Wes. You get some new evidence I don’t know about?”

  “We’ll get all evidence to you at the appropriate time, Diz, but in the meanwhile, Mr. Chase will need to be in custody.”

  “What’s changed since yesterday?”

  “I can’t comment on that, but no doubt you’ve noticed the clamor—citywide, I might add—that we do something.”

  “Clamor isn’t evidence, Wes. And you don’t want to do just something, you want to do the right thing.”

  “That’s going to be up to the grand jury. If there’s not enough to indict him, they won’t do it.”

  Hardy barked out a one-note laugh, and although Farrell couldn’t see him to appreciate the gesture, he also rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, spare me.” Both men knew that the grand jury was a prosecutor’s blunt instrument whose primary function was to issue indictments against suspects, and since those suspects were not allowed to have an attorney with them in the room, the result of a proceeding was nearly absolute in its inevitability. “Seriously, Wes, if you’ve got nothing new, you might want to hold off until you get something that a jury in this city is going to believe. As you know, that’s a pretty high bar. And I’m telling you, as your friend, I seriously don’t think Hal did this. At the very least, there are too many unexplored questions that you ought to get some answers for.”

  “I think, hypothetically, of course, that a grand jury could decide we have enough answers to warrant a trial, Diz. And if they did, I would agree with it.”

  “You’re making a mistake. Really.”

  “I hope that’s not true—I don’t think it is. And if it is, it won’t be my first one. Come on, Diz, you saw this coming as soon as they found her body. I’m doing you a favor with this heads-up, and you know it. How about a little gratitude among old friends?”

  “All right, I’m grateful, but—”

  “Quit while you’re ahead, Diz. And have yourself a nice day.”

  • • •

  “I KNOW THE grand jury has a low standard for indictments,” Glitsky was saying, “but isn’t this below even that threshold?”

  The three of them were at the Hardys’ dining room table. Glitsky had come straight from dropping the kids off at school. Frannie had gotten dressed, while Hardy remained in gray sweats.

  “In theory, you’re right. But what the grand jury really likes is a narrative, and even without much in the realm of physical evidence . . .”

  “Much? How about none?”

  “It’s not none. They got the slug.”

  “They can’t connect it to Hal’s gun, though, can they?”

  Hardy shrugged. “It’s a hell of a narrative. Hal’s got no alibi, and he and Katie are having problems enough that she’s seeing a counselor, and a very pretty one at that.” Hardy nodded over at his wife, who gave him a patient smile. “Katie’s body’s found less than a quarter mile from their house. He’s been having an affair, cheating with a wealthy and beautiful woman, the wife’s ex–best friend, who admits she’d marry him in a heartbeat. Oh, and did I mention that with Katie’s death, he’s no longer a poverty-stricken deputy sheriff but a millionaire? You must admit, it has a certain je ne sais quoi, which, as we know, is French for ‘holy shit.’ Have I left anything out?”

  “Well.” Frannie cleared her throat and whispered after a small silence, “This is not good.”

  Hardy nodded. “To say the least, and now—”

  Frannie held up her hand, stopping him. “No. Not what you’re saying. I should have said something before now. Ever since they found her body, I . . .” She looked back and forth between the two men, let out a breath. “When I was still assuming—hoping—she was alive, it was all privileged, so I didn’t . . .”

  “It still is,” Hardy said. “Privileged. That never goes away.”

  “I know. But she’s dead now. So maybe betraying the privilege is technically unethical, but I don’t believe it would be wrong. I mean, it can’t matter to her anymore, can it? And that’s my main concern, especially if it helps you discover who killed her. But I warn you. You might not want to hear it because it doesn’t necessarily help Hal, either. It might even hurt him.” She reached over and put her hand over her husband’s. “I didn’t think his arrest would be so imminent. Now it looks like it could be any minute, doesn’t it?”

  Hardy nodded.

  “What did she tell you?” Glitsky asked. “We’re not in court, Frannie. Nobody’s going to bust you on the privilege issue. I promise. If you know something that might be important, we need to hear it.”

  Frannie sighed, looked from one man to the other.

  “What?” Hardy was brusque. “Tell us.”

  Another moment of silence. Frannie swallowed and came out with it. “She had an affair, too. Katie.”


  Glitsky and Hardy exchanged glances. “I don’t believe that’s made it into the record yet,” Hardy said. “With whom?”

  “I don’t know. She never said.”

  “When was this?” Glitsky asked.

  “A few months after her first baby was born.”

  Glitsky kept at it. “How long did it last?”

  “I think a few months.”

  “Who broke it off?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Hardy stepped in. “Did Hal know about it?”

  “No. Not as of last week, anyway.” Fran took a small sip of her coffee and carefully placed the cup back in its saucer. “That’s the other thing: I feel like I might have talked her into telling him. I made a big pitch for it in our last session, told her she should come clean, start over with trust and no secrets between them. Since they found her, I’ve been thinking what if she did? What if I talked her into it and she told him and that became the last straw?”

  “I don’t think so,” Glitsky said.

  “That’s so good to hear,” Frannie said, “but why do you think not?”

  “Because he’d just been doing the same thing. Even if Katie told him, unless she rubbed it in his face somehow . . . would she likely have done that?”

  “I can’t see it. That’s not how she was.”

  “Then I really don’t see him reacting with outrage. He wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. Not to say it doesn’t happen, but . . .” Glitsky let the sentence hang.

  Hardy’s tone softened. “Strategically, it’s not going to make much of a difference, whether Hal knew about it or not. From any kind of jury perspective, he doesn’t need any more in the way of motive than the insurance and Patti Orosco. Besides, I agree with Abe. He wasn’t going to decide to kill Katie because he found out she had an affair.

  “But that doesn’t mean it’s not significant,” he went on, “if only because it puts another player on the board. Somebody who was at one time close to Katie and who still might be. Or might have wanted her back, or might still want her back. And maybe because he couldn’t, he had to kill her.” He looked at his wife. “You’re sure it was over as of a couple of years ago?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Well,” Hardy said, “it’s good to know about, in any event. And Frannie, I wouldn’t beat myself up over what you told her. I assume you gave her similar advice in the past. Did she tend to take it most of the time?”

  This brought a weary smile. “Not so much. One of her common themes was wondering out loud why she kept coming to me when she wasn’t doing about nine-tenths of what I suggested.”

  “Why did she keep coming?” Glitsky asked.

  “I think we just got along as people. She liked to have a chance to talk to another adult woman about her life once a week. That’s the thing about what I do that’s so frustrating sometimes. It’s not so much therapy—I mean real psychiatric therapy, where your expectation is that you’ll become more together and self-actualized and maybe healed in some way—as it is problem solving.”

  “And what was her problem?” Glitsky asked.

  “She wanted to be happier. She wanted to be a perfect mother and a full-time successful businessperson and a sexy and fun wife and a devoted daughter. It’s the old cliché, guys. She wanted it all.”

  Hardy pushed himself back from the table. “And on that cheery note, I’ve got to get moving if I’m going to be surrendering the client sometime today.”

  31

  GLITSKY HAD MADE an appointment with the medical examiner of San Francisco, John Strout, who was ancient and had stayed on in his job long after his pension could have kicked in. Yet he showed no signs of slowing down. His acuity included what was lately a remarkable response to Glitsky’s coming into a room, namely a comment on his retirement.

  “How did you hear I was retired?” Abe asked.

  Strout had a huge desk cluttered with ordnance and the tools of mayhem. For as long as he’d been the ME, Strout had, often quite illegally, assembled a collection of murder weapons that now graced a glassed-in cabinet against the side wall. If that didn’t get your attention, he had a human skeleton perched on a medieval garroting device that he’d had shipped over from Madrid. Now, with Glitsky comfortable across from him, he sat back, idly tossing a hand grenade—rumored to be live—from hand to hand. “Hell, ain’t it been like six months? Who ain’t heard by now?”

  “I could give you a list,” Glitsky said.

  “You still are, right?”

  “I am.”

  “How you likin’ it?”

  “As you can see, John, I’m putting my foot back in the water. That answers that.”

  “All right, then, who are we going to be talking about?”

  “Katie Chase.”

  Strout nodded as though he’d expected nothing else. “Damn straightforward. One shot, lower occipital, exit at the hairline.”

  “Anything on the slug?”

  “Thirty-eight, brass jacket. Common as dirt.”

  This informed Abe that the murder weapon had been a revolver. It also explained the absence of a casing at the scene.

  Strout went right on. “There were powder burns in her hair and on her scalp. It was close. Two to three inches. Who are you working for on this if you’re off the force?”

  “Dismas Hardy.”

  Strout’s eyebrows went up. “Defense work?”

  Glitsky smiled. “I know. It kind of crept up on me, too. Is there anything you want to tell me that might be useful in court?”

  “It’s going to court? The husband?”

  “Rumor has it that the grand jury’s indicting him today.”

  Strout gave the grenade a spin on his desktop. “You met him, the husband?”

  “Several times. We’re pals by now.”

  “How tall is he?”

  Glitsky cocked his head to one side. “That’s an interesting question, John. Why do you ask?”

  “You tell me first.”

  Glitsky thought about it. “Six feet even, give or take.”

  Strout nodded.

  “You’re being a little enigmatic, John. You enjoying yourself?”

  “Always.” Strout reached for the grenade again. “This is as nonscientific as it gets, but my instinct tells me the shooter wasn’t that tall. Here’s why: We got a clean trajectory back to front. There’s a clear canal from entry low in the back to exit high in the front. Pretty good angle.”

  The corners of Glitsky’s mouth turned down. “You been to the scene?”

  “Nope. But I saw the pictures.”

  “Maybe not close enough,” Glitsky said. “It was uphill.”

  “This would have been pretty steep uphill, Abe. Maybe thirty-five or forty degrees, almost too steep to walk without feeling like you’re climbing. If it’s less than that angle, the shooter probably wasn’t six feet tall, although I’d never testify to that on the stand. Katie was sixty-eight and a half inches—that’s five eight and a half. Pretty tall. Now, she could have had her head tucked in, any number of other variables. But I don’t think that was it, either.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because of where some sharp-eyed Crime Scene person found the slug.”

  “And where was that?”

  “About nine feet off the ground in a eucalyptus tree.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Scout’s honor. These guys comb an area, they don’t mess around. Plus, they got lucky, which never hurts. Anyway, if Hardy’s looking for something to argue about, and I assume that’s what you’re talking to me for, he could do worse than start with a short shooter. At least plant a seed, mount some posters, do a little show-and-tell.”

  “I’ll mention it to him. You got anything else, defense-wise?”

  “You want to give me a
hint?”

  “They found some of her blood in her kitchen. Hal thinks she slipped cutting something. You got any ideas about that?”

  Strout leaned back in his chair. Something about the question evidently pleased him. “Could have been. I wondered about that. Something cut two fingers of her right hand. Not deep, but it would have bled.”

  “What was that?”

  “I don’t know. Could have been self-inflicted, or maybe somebody getting her attention?”

  “Wouldn’t the gun have done that all by itself? If you’ve got a gun, you don’t need a knife.”

  The damn grenade still in one hand, Strout spread his arms. “Hmm. All too true, Abe,” he said. “All too true.”

  • • •

  IT WAS ALL well and good for Dismas and Abe to say that Frannie’s advice to Katie “probably” had nothing to do with her death. Since both men were laboring under the assumption that Hal was innocent of the crime, any talk of his motivation was moot. If he didn’t do it, then it didn’t matter what reasons he might have had.

  But her irresponsibility—whatever the result had been—left Frannie with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  She had schmoozed with Abe for a while until Diz had come down in his business suit, then she’d followed them out and waved goodbye as they’d driven off separately. The temperature had climbed a few degrees since yesterday, and it was pleasant walking to her office with the prevailing breeze at her back.

  Now Frannie sat in her recliner with a small stack of her notes on Katie’s visits, twenty months’ worth. Katie’s first visit had been triggered by her second pregnancy and by what she’d called an “emotional breakdown” over the fact that she was letting Ellen be raised by a nanny and the two grandmothers.

  She was toying with the idea of quitting work to stay home and be a full-time mom, and she wanted to talk out all the myriad issues and implications, many of which Frannie had been able to relate to. (With a stab of chagrin, Frannie punched some numbers into her calculator and realized that while she was listening to Katie’s problems, many to do with how tight the Chases’ money and budgeting would be, she had billed her about ten thousand dollars.)