“Do you clean the whole building?”
“No. There are, I believe, twenty-three or -four units, all individually owned. We contract through the superintendent for the public areas, and many residents are happy with our service.”
“And Bree Beaumont was one of them?”
“Yes.” Mr. Lee shot a glance at Hardy, ventured a personal comment. “It was very sad about her.”
“Yes it was,” he said. Sadness was all over this case. He gave the sentiment a moment. “So what is your schedule there, for cleaning? I gather you go on Tuesday and Thursday, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“So you do each place twice a week?”
“No. Generally, we clean once. Half the units on one day, the other half on the other.”
“And which was Bree?”
“Thursday. Every Thursday.”
Hardy saw the reason for Griffin’s earlier visit. If Heritage had come on Tuesday, possibly within an hour or two of Bree’s death and before the crime scene unit had arrived, then trace evidence might be found among the cleaning supplies, in the vacuum cleaner bags and so on. But evidently this had not happened.
Still, he wanted to be certain. “So you didn’t go to her apartment on the day of her death?”
“No. That’s what Sergeant Griffin asked us.”
“Did he ask if any of your staff saw anybody unusual in the hallways? Anything strange that they noticed?”
“Yes, of course.” Mr. Lee was still seated, and now sat back, folding his arms patiently. “But—have you been there? yes?—then you know. It’s really not that type of apartment building. There’s only two units on each floor, except for the penthouse, where there is one.”
Hardy remembered. At Bree’s twelfth floor, there was simply a landing with a window and a door. Residents weren’t exactly out wandering in the halls, loitering about in the locked lobby. “So there was really nothing to be found in any of your supplies. The crime scene had already been there by the time you came on Thursday?”
Mr. Lee shook his head. “I don’t know that. But Inspector Griffin . . . just one minute.” Pulling open the drawer again, Lee pushed junk around for a minute, found what he wanted, extracted it, and handed it up to Hardy.
It was a crinkled piece of paper. Hardy’s pulse quickened as he realized what it probably was—a sheet torn from Griffin’s notebook. In the by now familiar scrawl, Hardy read: “10 01. Received from Heritage Cleaners. One Gold and Platinum Movado Men’s watch, serial number 81-84-9880 /8367685. Evid/case: 981113248. C. Griffin, SFPD Badge 1123.”
“Where did you get this?” Hardy asked. “Where is the watch?”
Mr. Lee shrugged eloquently. “When the inspector came here, he said he still needed the watch. I should hold the receipt. If no one claimed it, eventually it might come to us.”
“But how did you get the receipt in the first place?”
“The inspector gave it to my supervisor in the building. They found the watch when cleaning.”
“And this was when your people found the watch? On the Thursday?”
Lee considered a moment. “Yes. The date on the receipt is October first, see? A Thursday.”
“And no one has claimed it since? Reported it missing?”
“No,” Lee said. “Not to my people.”
Hardy wasn’t surprised to hear this. If the watch inadvertently got left behind, say snapping off during a struggle at the crime scene, it would be the height of folly to go back to try to get it. But stranger things had happened.
Of course, Hardy realized, it might also be Ron’s watch. With the upheaval in his life since Bree’s death, he simply might not have missed it. But Griffin would have just asked Ron about that. Wouldn’t he?
Instead, he’d taken it as evidence, logged to the Beaumont case number. The problem was that by this time, Hardy knew the file backward and forward, and there wasn’t any watch in the evidence lockup or anywhere else.
Hardy asked if he might have a copy of the receipt. When Mr. Lee returned from making one, he handed Hardy the copy, then clucked sympathetically. “I’m sorry I can’t help more, but I haven’t even heard about Sergeant Griffin’s death until just now.” Mr. Lee wasn’t rushing him, but clearly he felt this investigation had little to do with him or his staff. It had taken enough of his time on a workday.
Hardy couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more here. There had to be. He’d referred again to the notes before coming and Griffin had included his maddening exclamation points.
But now they were moving toward the exit. The words “fabric wash” came to him, so he stopped at the door. “Mr. Lee, one last question. Do you do any clothes cleaning at all? Laundry work? Say one of your clients leaves a pile of clothes by a washing machine—would you dump it in for them? Or dry them?”
The proprietor considered this, then shook his head. “We remove window drapery occasionally, or upholstery fabric, but no. Generally, we don’t clean clothes.”
“And what about Bree’s drapes or furniture? Did you remove either of those for dry cleaning? Were there any stains you needed to remove?”
“No. That would have been a special order, and I checked into that with Sergeant Griffin when he came here. And again, I am so sorry to hear about him.”
Scott Randall heard the rumor from one of the other assistant DAs, who in turn had heard it from one of the forensic guys who’d worked with Inspector Leon Timms, unhappily cleaning and cataloguing through the night under the backseat of Griffin’s car.
Although Glitsky had cautioned Timms and his staff not to discuss any possible relationship between the murders of Bree Beaumont, Carl Griffin, and Phil Canetta, by some inexplicable mystery of nature the word had leaked out.
Now Randall was at a hastily called late lunchtime strategy session with his boss and his investigator, Peter Struler. They had just taken their seats at Boulevard, an incredibly fine restaurant that was well off the beaten track of the rank and file of workers at the Hall of Justice.
Pratt, still smarting from her dressing-down by the mayor, was inclined to dismiss the rumor, but Randall needed her support to move ahead, and he wasn’t going to let it go. “I think we have to assume it’s true, Sharron. It sounds right. It feels true, doesn’t it?”
Peter Struler was a fifteen-year, no-nonsense investigator and he spoke with a veteran’s confidence. “It’s true,” he volunteered. “Everybody assumed Griffin got hit on some dope sting, but he was doing Beaumont. Ballistics confirms the same gun whacked Canetta.”
Pratt’s mouth hung open for a moment. “Is that a fact? You know that for sure?”
Struler nodded. “As soon as Scott told me what he’d heard, I moseyed on down to the lab, checked it out with some of the good guys. Same gun.”
“The same gun.” Pratt was trying to fit this information into her worldview.
“The same gun that killed Griffin,” Randall explained again.
“But what was Canetta’s connection to Beaumont?”
“Well, isn’t that funny you should ask?” Randall tried to control an arrogant smirk and wasn’t entirely successful. He leaned over the small table. “You know the Frannie Hardy we took such grief about this morning? Poor little innocent thing.”
Pratt’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
“Well, our old friend, her husband the lawyer? He’s up to his ears in this. Canetta was freelancing for him.”
“For him? What do you mean?”
Struler butted in harshly. “Hardy was using Canetta’s badge to get information he couldn’t get on his own.”
“On what?”
Randall gestured expansively. “All of this. Anything he could.”
“But why?”
“He’d probably tell you he wants to help his wife get out of jail, but that doesn’t hold up. Despite the mayor, she doesn’t get out until we let her go, and I’m not too inclined to go there.” Randall tossed a conspiratorial glance at Struler. “I’ve got a theo
ry on the real reason Hardy’s involved, and Peter here doesn’t think it’s too bad.”
Pratt took a sip of her sparkling water, nodded attentively. “Go on.”
“Hardy is Glitsky’s best friend, right? You heard our good lieutenant in your office the other day, about what a true friend of his this Frannie is, what a great person. She took care of his kids when his wife died. Blah blah blah. Well, ask Marian Braun what a sweetheart Mrs. Hardy is.”
Pratt waved that away. “So what’s your theory, Scott?”
“All right, listen. We all agree Ron did this, right?”
Struler, if anything, was more certain than Randall. “Absolutely.” He turned to Pratt and gave it to her one more time, so she would be clear on it. “Straight insurance scam, ma’am. Bree was heavily insured. She was also Ron’s support and had decided to throw him out on the street.”
“Why?” Pratt asked.
Struler continued. “He had another girl on the—”
“Woman,” Pratt quickly corrected him. They were talking about multiple murder, but some things just couldn’t be tolerated even for an instant.
The inspector made a quick face, fixed it, moved on. “Another woman on the side.”
“Not Frannie Hardy?”
“No, ma’am. We don’t believe so. Anyway, I’ve got four witnesses from the building saying they’d seen Ron with another woman—same one—during the day when Bree was out working. They’d just walk out through the lobby holding hands, maybe sit on the bench out front.”
“So who is she?”
“That we don’t know. Yet. We’ll find her. Anyway, the point is, Bree found out about this.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s a reasonable conjecture,” Randall interjected, “maybe she didn’t. Either way it doesn’t matter. But you’ll see, it fits.” He nodded back at Struler to continue.
“So what finally happened was Bree got herself another boyfriend, got knocked up, was going to marry him.”
Scott Randall whispered, “We’re hearing it was Damon Kerry.” He exulted in his boss’s stunned expression— there was nothing, he thought, like a good surprise. And he was going to have a couple more for Frannie Hardy tomorrow.
“Damon Kerry.” Pratt’s eyes shone with excitement.
“That’s the word on the street,” Struler said.
“It’s really pretty smart the way they’ve figured it all,” Scott said.
“What? Who?”
“Hardy and Glitsky. Knowing Kerry would have to get involved . . .”
Pratt held up a hand. “I’m afraid you’re getting ahead of me. How is Kerry . . . ?”
“Why do you think the mayor wants us to pull back on this, just at this time? Democratic mayor. Democratic— now—front-runner for governor.”
“Yes, all right. But Damon—”
Scott Randall bulled on ahead. “Kerry was having an affair with a married woman, Sharron. During his campaign. He got her pregnant out of wedlock.” He shook his head. “No no no. It just can’t come out.”
The DA still didn’t see it. “All right, but what about Lieutenant Glitsky? Where does he fit?”
This, to Scott Randall, was the easy part. “Hardy,” he explained, “is Ron Beaumont’s attorney, right? Ron comes to him with this problem—he knows Bree’s going to dump him. So if that happens, he’s out two million dollars.”
“Two million?” The number was new to Pratt.
Randall smiled. “It’s a nice, round motive, isn’t it?”
Struler interjected again. “And Hardy’s not exactly hauling big coin. He hasn’t had a worthwhile trial in a couple of years. He’s doing scratch defense work. Meanwhile, the wife has no job, he’s got kids in private school. Money’s an issue—count on it.”
“You want to go along that road a little further, Sharron, ” Randall added, “the smart bet says he set fire to his own house yesterday, get some cash in.”
“So you’re saying”—Pratt was getting into the idea now—“that Hardy and Ron Beaumont conspired to kill his wife?”
Randall nodded, beaming. “With Hardy’s wife as the alibi.”
“So where does Glitsky fit in?”
Struler and Randall exchanged glances, and the inspector took it. “What does Glitsky make—seventy, seventy-five? He’s the head of homicide and Hardy’s pal, so they cut him in and it’s a dead lock Ron’s never arrested. Glitsky never moves on it. Period. End of story.”
Randall picked it up. “Then they run a little squeeze on Kerry about the affair with Bree, which makes him go to the mayor, who in turn tells us to release Frannie for political reasons, yada yada, just make the whole thing go away.”
“That son of a bitch,” Pratt exclaimed.
“Exactly.” Randall’s martini arrived and he lifted the olive out of it and chewed contentedly. “Every part of this fits, Sharron. And meanwhile, Beaumont’s killed two other people, both cops who were getting the picture.”
Pratt liked the scenario, but she had to raise an objection. “Except if Canetta was working with Hardy . . .”
But Scott had an answer for that, too. “Canetta was supposed to be digging up dirt on Kerry and Pierce, the Caloco guy. Classic muddy-the-waters lawyer shit, pardon the French. Some other dude did it. Then Canetta ran across something, got wise, tried to cut himself in.”
“And Ron had to kill him, too.” Struler sipped his beer.
“And, last but not least,” Randall said, “then Glitsky lays down orders that nobody talks about Canetta or Griffin or anything else. He’s, quote, pursuing his own investigation and p.s., Ron Beaumont seems to have dropped off his radar.”
“Jesus Christ,” Pratt enthused, “if this is true . . .”
“It’s the case of the decade,” Randall concluded.
“It’s true,” Struler repeated. “It all fits.”
A silence descended briefly while the waiter brought their salads. Pratt played with hers for a moment, then put her fork down. “Okay, another objection. If this was so well planned, why did this Hardy woman let herself get thrown in jail?”
“Anytime you want,” Struler answered, “I’d do four days for a million dollars.”
But Randall answered seriously. “That was just a dumb mistake like criminals make every day. She was nervous, got pissy with Braun.”
That wasn’t good enough for Pratt. “But what about this secret she couldn’t tell?”
“There’s no secret,” Randall said matter-of-factly. “She got overconfident and was extemporizing. She got too cute and talked herself into a corner, saying she knew Ron and Bree had problems, but didn’t know what they were. It seemed an innocent enough question at the time. She didn’t see where I wanted to go with it, and when she found out, it was too late.”
“So she . . .”
“My prediction is she’ll back off on the secret tomorrow. Or make one up.”
Struler: “She does that, it locks up this theory.”
Randall chewed happily. “That’s my plan,” he said.
“And meanwhile, the man Glitsky’s protecting had become a multiple-cop killer.” Pratt was firm. “Gentlemen, ” she said, “we’ve got to take these people down.”
From a freezing phone booth on Grant, checking back at his office for messages, Hardy learned that the fire department’s arson team had called and more or less urgently wanted to chat with him. So had three of his clients.
Finally, he was surprised at the relief that washed over him when he heard that David Freeman had, at last, come in. Back on foot, from Chinatown he made it to Sutter Street, the Freeman Building where he worked, in under ten minutes.
His old, crusty—and still apparently bulletproof— landlord was scribbling intently on a yellow legal pad at his desk when Hardy opened his door.
“I need a moment of your valuable time,” he said. He had scandalized Phyllis by overriding her “He doesn’t want to be disturbed” by saying, “Oh, okay. I’ll leave him alone then.”
He never glanced back, walking directly past her station, over to Freeman’s closed door, knocking, and pushing it open.
The old man’s eyes betrayed him. He wasn’t really as annoyed as he sounded, although he did pull an hourly billing form over, make a note on it, and growl. “Valuable doesn’t begin to describe it. And I am on billable time here, Diz. You want input right now, it’s going to cost you.”
“Everything does, sooner or later.” Hardy closed the door. Freeman’s hair was doing its Einstein impression and the rest of him was decked in his usual sartorial splendor—dead cigar in his mouth, tie askew, wrinkled shirt unbuttoned, the coat of his shiny brown suit draped over his shoulders. “Phil Canetta’s been killed,” Hardy said soberly. “You hear about that?”
The old man put his pencil down. “I saw something in the paper this morning . . .”
Hardy was a couple of steps into the large corner office when the door opened again behind him—Phyllis. “I’m sorry, Mr. Freeman. I told Mr. Hardy you didn’t want to be . . . he brushed right past me and . . .”
Freeman held up a hand. “It’s okay, dear. Emergency.”
She spent another instant perfecting her expression of displeasure, though Hardy didn’t think it needed much work at all. Then she made an appropriate noise of pique and backed back out.
“Dear?” Hardy said. “You call her dear?”
“She is a dear,” Freeman said. “Controls the riffraff element. I couldn’t survive without her.”
Hardy shook his head. “You’ve got to get out more.” He’d made it to Freeman’s desk, pulled around a chair, plopped his briefcase and opened it. He picked up as though they’d been talking all morning. “You were right about Griffin. That we ought to start with him.”
“I thought we were on Canetta.”
“Both.”
Freeman’s eyebrows went up, another question, and Hardy sat down, telling him about the ballistics confirmation—both men shot with the same gun, the rest of what he knew. “It looks like it wasn’t more than a couple of hours after he left here,” he concluded.
“Where was he?”
“Just inside the Presidio.”
Nothing but the Truth Page 35
