Hardy 03 - Hard Evidence

by John Lescroart

  ‘I don’t know how to say it or explain it, but it was okay. You did things with Daddy, you felt a certain way. Ask Ken.’

  ‘But it couldn’t be the same with him. He’s married, he’s got a life.’

  She tightened her hold on his hand. ‘I’ve got a life, Dismas, don’t worry about me.’

  ‘I guess I do,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why, but I do.’

  ‘I know.’ She let him go and moved her palm up and down over his thigh. ‘You are a very good man, Mr Hardy. I wish…’

  She didn’t finish what she was saying. She didn’t have to.

  They never got around to mentioning the name of May Shinn.

  * * * * *

  Hardy got home just at seven. Rebecca was in bed asleep, one of their regular baby-sitters was in the living room talking to Frannie, and Frannie was dressed up, ready to go out.

  He was in the house for less than five minutes. He wanted to peek in on the Beck, to feed the fish. Pit stop.

  They walked out to the car, parked two blocks away on Clement, holding hands. ‘Are we still fighting?’ he asked.

  ‘I wasn’t fighting with you.’

  ‘Neither were you singing my praises.’

  ‘I didn’t agree with you. I don’t agree with you. I think your job is taking too much of your time and is threatening you and me and our family and I don’t like you not telling me what you’re doing and where you’re going.’

  ‘You’ve got to learn to speak out, Frannie. Express yourself a little more clearly.’

  ‘Not funny.’

  They walked on another half block without talking. ‘So if you can’t make a joke out of it you’re not going to say anything?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m going to say something.’

  The last of the chivalrous men, Hardy held the door for her, then went around to his side. The sun had at last gone down. He put the sides up on the Samurai, it was warm with the breeze off the ocean.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When what?’

  ‘When are you going to say something?’

  Hardy turned in his seat. Confidentiality obviously meant little to Andy Fowler. Since Jane knew, then certainly by now Chuck Chuck Bo-Buck was in on it. And Hardy had never promised Andy he would keep it private — he’d only promised himself.

  He’d only promised himself. He liked that.

  This was how it started, he thought. This was the kind of rationalizing that people everywhere seemed to be so good at. And once it was okay to break a promise to yourself, then it wasn’t all that big a step to break one to anyone else. Just so you could end a fight.

  Or maybe tell a little white lie to keep from getting into a fight in the first place.

  All he had to do was give in, tell Frannie about Andy and they would have a pleasant and well-deserved date. And Hardy’s supposed private integrity would only be slightly diminished — he could make it up on the weekend, do some good works.

  ‘Did you hear about the May Shinn thing today?’ he asked her. She hadn’t yet, and he filled her in on it.

  She listened, and when he’d finished, she told him that it was interesting but that it wasn’t what their fight had been about. Did he want to tell her where he’d been last night or not?

  ‘I went out to meet a guy who’s got a legal problem, which I can’t discuss. Period. If you want to be mad at me about that, it’s up to you.’

  She was biting her lip, not so much angry, he thought, as worried. ‘What about the other stuff?’ she said. ‘These hours at work, getting home when it’s dark, leaving in the middle of the night. What’s that doing to us?’

  The two front seats in the Samurai were separated by a well, and he reached for her and put his arms around her. She leaned into him. ‘We’re not being threatened,’ he said. ‘The job is not threatening us. I love you, Frannie, okay?’

  She nodded against him, her arms around his neck. Her reserve broke. She started to cry.

  * * * * *

  When they got home there were calls from Ken Farris, Jane apologizing, and Abe Glitsky wondering about the direction the D.A. was going with this thing.

  Hardy went into his office while Frannie drove the baby-sitter home and began rereading the file on the now-dead case. At least it was dead so far as May Shinn was concerned.

  He didn’t know what the D.A. was going to do, but he thought he personally was going to go back to doing his prelims, earn his stripes, win a lot of cases and eventually move up the ladder to where he might get a couple of righteous homicides.

  There was nothing else he could do. He wasn’t an investigator. He knew Glitsky, after the false arrest, would be super-cautious. He wasn’t inclined to stir things up with Pullios anymore. Frannie had been right… he was putting in too many hours, not having enough fun. He was becoming a lawyer, and if he wanted to do that he could get some corporate work and bill sixty hours a week for five or six years and make some money while he did it.

  He’d left Celine at Perry’s, thinking what a good man am I. He thought she might be a little in love with him. Although he knew he was infatuated with her on some level, he wasn’t going to pursue it. He’d made his choice, and not only was he going to live with it, he was going to be happy with it.

  That settled, he decided to close up the binder and file it away in the cabinets next to his desk. He arranged the yellow sheets from his own private notes at the beginning of the investigation — his initial talks with Ken Farris, impressions from Strout and so on — and laid them on top of the copies he’d made of the official file.

  His office was quiet. From the bedroom the bubbling of the fish tank registered subliminally. Not really looking for anything, waiting for Frannie’s arrival back home, he reread the early notes. All of this seemed so long ago, so distant in time and experience.

  He flipped pages, the police reports, Glitsky’s interviews, killing time. Elliot’s articles.

  And then the bubbling fish tank was gone. There was nothing in his world but a nagging, half-recognized contradiction. He flipped back to one of Jeff Elliot’s first articles.

  Ken Farris had told him that he’d last seen Owen Nash on Friday around lunchtime, after lunch. The article, quoting Farris as the source, said Nash had last been seen by his household staff on Thursday night.

  He looked back at his notes — Friday around lunchtime, after lunch. Elliot’s article — Thursday night. Thursday night was not Friday near lunchtime.

  He shook his head, rubbing his eyes. What was he thinking of? Farris wasn’t any kind of suspect in this. He had been Owen Nash’s best friend. All right, so he effectively inherited the business when Owen died, that wasn’t —

  Or was it?

  But all he had done was tell Hardy one day and Jeff Elliot another. The stress of those first days after Nash’s death had undoubtedly played some havoc with his short-term memory.

  But Farris was a detail man.

  Ridiculous.

  He shook his head again…

  Frannie was in the doorway to the office. He hadn’t heard her come in or close the front door or walk down the long hallway. She had turned on the light in the bedroom and it hadn’t registered.

  ‘You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’

  He came out of his trance, shook himself. ‘More of this madness,’ he said.

  ‘I thought you were done with it.’

  It was as tantalizing as that last cognac, where you knew if you had it you were going to hurt tomorrow. He would, perhaps, mention it to Glitsky. It wasn’t his job.

  ‘I am,’ he said, closing the file. ‘I was just waiting for you to get home.’

  36

  JUDGE GUARANTEES BOND IN NASH

  MURDER CASE

  But Defense Attorney Verifies May

  Shinn’s Alibi; D.A. to Drop Charges

  by Jeffrey Elliot

  Chronicle Staff Writer

  In a startling series of developments surrounding the murder trial of financier Owen Nash ye
sterday, Superior Court Judge Andrew B. Fowler resigned just hours before it was discovered that an apartment he owns had collateralized the half-million-dollar bail for defendant May Shinn.

  According to sources in the district attorney’s office, investigators may subpoena a defendant’s financial records if there is probable cause that the money used for bail, or for paying a defense attorney, is the result of criminal activity, such as drug dealing or, in this case, prostitution. Ms Shinn has admitted that she has been a highly paid call girl.

  In a related story, however, Ms Shinn’s attorney, David Freeman, produced two young boys as witnesses who have testified that, using a telescope, they saw Ms Shinn in her home during the time the district attorney had contended she was aboard Owen Nash’s sailboat, the Eloise.

  District Attorney Christopher Locke last night personally interviewed the two boys and announced that all charges against Ms Shinn related to the murder would be dropped.

  ‘Two eyewitnesses confirm her alibi,’ Locke said, ‘so there is no case. But remember, her gun was the murder weapon, we believed we had a solid motive. But we are dealing with a very clearly defined window of time in this case, and if Ms Shinn was in her apartment on Saturday afternoon, she could not have killed Owen Nash.

  ‘This office is, of course, distressed by implications of racism used against Ms Shinn, and we intend to investigate those charges and take disciplinary action if appropriate.’

  The relationship between Judge Fowler and Ms Shinn remains unclear. The judge has reportedly left the city, but California Supreme Court Justice Marshall Brinkman, who serves on the state’s Committee on Judicial Ethics, stated that he is ‘deeply concerned’ over reports of Judge Fowler’s purported involvement with the defendant. ‘Where there is any relationship, however tangential, between a judge and a defendant, the judge must immediately recuse himself from the case,’ Brinkman said. ‘Any failure in this area is gross judicial misconduct. At the very least it’s a disbarment issue.’

  David Freeman refused to comment on Judge Fowler, although he certainly knew the details of the bail arrangement. Citing the attorney-client privilege, he also defended Ms Shinn’s right to her privacy. ‘My client has been through enough,’ he said. ‘She did not commit this murder. She is an innocent woman, falsely accused, wrongly charged.’

  * * * * *

  ‘Wow!’ Frannie said.

  ‘Yeah.’ Hardy was on his third cup of coffee. He had read the article twice. He was astounded that Andy had essentially put up bail for May Shinn and hadn’t felt compelled to mention that fact to him during his soul-baring two nights ago.

  The sun was coming through the skylight over the stove, shining off the pots and pans hanging from the opposite wall. Rebecca was breast-feeding.

  ‘I’m sure this has nothing to do with a friend of yours who is in legal trouble that you can’t say anything about.’

  The shifting sands of the moral high ground. Hardy smiled at it, had some more coffee.

  ‘Where do you think he is?’ she asked.

  ‘I think he’s probably home, holed up, not answering the phone.’

  ‘How much more do you know about this?’

  ‘A little. Not much.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can keep this in. How long have you known about it?’

  He pulled the paper back in front of him. ‘This stuff, about fifteen minutes. The relationship a little longer.’

  ‘So what was the relationship?’

  ‘What do you think, Frannie?’

  Frannie was still in her bathrobe. She had a diaper over her shoulder, the baby against it, patting her gently. Rebecca let out a long, satisfied burp. ‘That’s a girl,’ she said.

  ‘Let me hold her.’

  Hardy took Frannie’s daughter — his daughter — into his arms and made a face that was rewarded with a delighted gurgle. ‘Are you my big girl? Am I not spending enough time with you?’ He put his face down on hers, breathing in her scent, rubbing his cheek against hers. Frannie came around the table and pressed herself against him, looking over his shoulder. ‘We’re the lucky ones,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’

  But the newspaper kept drawing them both back. Frannie reached down and turned it back to the front page.

  ‘What’s going to happen to him now, Diz?’

  ‘I don’t know. Since May Shinn didn’t kill Nash, the whole thing might just blow over. Couple of days of bad press. You were right, by the way. Remember his paperweight?’

  ‘She gave it to him.’

  Hardy nodded. ‘Reminded him of his broken heart, so he gave it to me. She dumped him for Owen Nash.’

  ‘So they weren’t together anymore, Andy Fowler and Shinn?’

  ‘No, I mean that was kind of the point.’

  ‘So then why would he put up her bail? Why would he be the judge on her trial?’

  ‘I don’t know. If he helped her out, maybe he could get her back eventually.’

  ‘That never happens,’ Frannie said.

  ‘What doesn’t?’

  ‘You don’t dump somebody for someone else, then go back to the first one. If you’re the one dumped, okay you might. But if your heart goes cold on somebody…’ She shrugged. ‘It just doesn’t happen.’

  ‘I don’t know if it was May’s heart that went cold, Frannie. The woman is a hooker. Maybe she really fell for Nash, but it was probably just a better financial deal with him. So Andy helped her out with the bail… it might have just been him putting out the word that he had money too, and he’d spend it on her. Hell, half a million, that’s serious good-faith money.’

  ‘And he’d be satisfied with that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess so. Anyway, that’s what he had before.’

  She was rubbing his back, rocking back and forth against him. ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘He loved her, and however she felt about him, he had to believe she loved him too. The paperweight, remember? That’s a special gift. That’s a message.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So what was it? After she left him I don’t believe he really thought he was buying her back. By then he had to realize she didn’t love him, even if he’d made himself believe it before. So there must have been another reason.’

  Hardy shook his head and leaned back into Frannie’s body. ‘Well, until you get it figured out, at least you’ll know why this thing has kept me up nights.’ He stood and shifted the Beck over his shoulder. ‘But it’s not going to anymore.’

  ‘I just feel sorry for Andy. I mean, if the Shinn woman really is innocent, then he just gave up everything for nothing.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Hardy said. ‘People do that all the time.’

  * * * * *

  He stopped by Glitsky’s before going to his own office, but the sergeant wasn’t in. He wrote him a short note about the discrepancy in Ken Farris’s recollection of when Nash had last been seen, and figured that was the end of his active involvement with Owen Nash.

  Then, taped to the center of his desk, he read the summons from Drysdale to see him as soon as he got in and to bring all of his binders on the Nash matter.

  It was getting to be a habit, the walk down to Locke’s office, although this time with the bulging, special ‘lawyer’s briefcase.’ Hardy sat in the anteroom, listening to muffled sounds through the closed door. The secretary seemed unusually preoccupied, typing away, filing. The intercom buzzed and she punched it and said yes, he was out here.

  Another few minutes and Hardy sat back, relaxed, crossed his legs and picked up the sports page from the low end table next to his chair.

  In the day’s latest, Bob Lurie was trying to move the Giants to either Sacramento, San Jose, or Portland, although he mentioned Honolulu — the great baseball tradition in Hawaii. Talk about a homeless problem, he thought. This is the team nobody wants to take home. He turned to the standings. Halfway through the year — nine games out, third place. Not terrible, not great. How could they have traded Kevin Mitchell?


  The door opened and Elizabeth Pullios came out. She didn’t appear to be in any particular hurry, yet she walked by Hardy, ignoring his greeting as if she’d never seen him before. ‘Have a nice day,’ he said to her back.

  Drysdale was at the door, gesturing with his forefinger.

  ‘Why do I get the feeling this isn’t a hundred-percent social?’ Hardy asked.

  Locke got down to it immediately. ‘Did you tell this reporter Elliot that our office subpoenaed Andy Fowler’s financial records?’

  ‘No. Somebody tell you I did?’

  ‘We’ve had a discussion about leaks and so on before, right?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Somebody tell you I was the leak? Did we subpoena his records?’

  ‘I want you to tell me everything you know about Andy Fowler.’

  ‘Was it Pullios? If it was, she’s a liar.’

  Drysdale, who’d been standing halfway behind Hardy, hands in his pockets, stepped forward. ‘We’ve got a problem, Diz. A real problem. You’ve got a problem.’

  ‘Fowler.’ Locke didn’t want to leave the issue.

  ‘How is Fowler my problem?’

  ‘You were seen entering the witness’s waiting room the other day with Jeff Elliot.’

  ‘Can I ask who saw me? Or rather, who thought it was important to tell you?’

  ‘It’s irrelevant,’ Locke said. ‘What’s relevant is that you knew something critical to a murder case and withheld it from us.’

  Hardy found himself getting pretty hot. ‘Like hell it’s irrelevant! You accuse me of something and you don’t let me face my accuser. I thought perhaps in an office practicing law we’d give a nod to the niceties of getting to the truth.’

  ‘We already know the truth. Fowler was your father-in-law, wasn’t he?’

  ‘That came from Pullios. Deny it.’

  ‘I don’t have to deny anything. Pullios, unlike you, is a damn good lawyer.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right. She really did a great job with May Shinn, locked her up tight.’

  Drysdale tried to slow it down. ‘Guys…’

  ‘If Elizabeth knew that Andy Fowler had gone the bail for May Shinn, she would have come to me with it, not the newspaper.’