Hardy 03 - Hard Evidence

by John Lescroart

  Hardy wasn’t even tempted.

  * * * * *

  Officer Patrick Resden was never going to make inspector. He was never going to make sergeant. He was fifty-one years old, a big, wheezy, friendly dog of a cop who was twenty years on the same beat.

  Resden had taken the sergeant’s exam five times in the early ‘70s. Hardy had helped Glitsky study for the sergeant’s exam around the same time, but after a review of the first few chapters of the prep book, those ’study sessions’ had become the boys’ night out — Jane and Flo, respectively, staying home while their husbands improved their minds and careers. What they had really improved was their tolerance for alcohol. They knew they’d drunk enough on any given night when a question in the prep book — any question — stumped them.

  Hardy had known plant life — and definitely some of his fish — that were smart enough to pass the sergeant’s exam on the second try, and Resden had flunked the thing five times.

  But this did not mean he didn’t have a place on the police force. He could follow simple instructions. He did not abuse his gun or his badge. Resden was a good beat cop — his heart was in the right place and he had a lot of experience helping people out, pulling kittens out of trees, busting neighborhood bullies.

  One of whom — the defendant in this case — was named Jesus Samosa. It seemed that about two months ago, Officer Resden had had occasion to reprimand Samosa when he caught him about to spraypaint a sidewalk in front of the Mission Street BART station. Instead of getting a hard-on for him, Resden had simply confiscated the can of paint and let the boy go — he was only eighteen — with a warning.

  Two days later, in the street in front of the same BART station, Samosa failed to stop at the sign on Mission. His maroon ‘69 Chevy got pulled over and Resden was the citing officer. This time, Resden gave Samosa a ticket —this was evidently very funny to the passengers in the Chevy, but again, Resden simply warned everyone and let them go their way.

  Now, it turned out that Jesus Samosa worked at the Doggie Diner three blocks from the BART station. About a week after the stop-sign incident, Resden and his partner, Felice Wong, decided to take their lunch at this same Doggie Diner. Resden ordered his usual couple of double burgers, double cheese — a special order. Felice was grabbing some napkins, with a clear view of the grill area, when Jesus, to the delight of his broiler mate, spit into the bun that he then placed on top of one of the double burgers.

  Felice drew her gun, walked behind the counter, confiscated the burger for lab analysis and bagged Jesus Samosa on the spot.

  Now this defendant, Hardy thought — this guy is going down. Hardy gave a moment’s thought to ordering an HIV test — if the guy tested positive they might be able to charge him with attempted murder. On reflection, though, that might be a little extreme, even if an Elizabeth Pullios might go for it.

  As it was, they had Jesus on a couple of health and safety-code violations, misdemeanor aggravated assault, profane language and resisting arrest. The maximum penalty if he got everything was forty-five days in the county jail and fines totaling $3,115.

  If the defendant’s attorney wanted to bargain, Hardy figured he would be a sport and knock the fines down to an even three grand.

  * * * * *

  After he’d talked to Ken Farris, Hardy had taken his yellow legal pad from his top drawer and wrote notes on everything he could remember relating to Owen Nash. It took him almost twenty minutes, filling two pages.

  He then called Art Drysdale at his home, making it clear that he had taken no part in supplying Jeff Elliot with any information used in the Chronicle story. ‘But just between you and me, Art, my bones tell me the victim is Owen Nash. And if May Shinn is still alive, we may be looking at my murder case.’

  Once again, Drysdale counseled Hardy to cool his jets and wait for the police investigation to catch up. Hardy replied that of course he would do that.

  He dialed Jane, but she hadn’t been home — either out working early or spending the night in a strange place. Well, Hardy didn’t know that and it was none of his business anyway. He’d left a message.

  * * * * *

  The morning light in Hardy’s office at the Hall of Justice was especially flattering to Elizabeth Pullios. She wore a blue leather miniskirt — far enough down her leg by about an inch to still be professional if the term were loosely applied— with a tailored robin’s-egg man’s shirt made less conservative by the three-button gap at the top. A raisin-sized ruby on a thin gold chain hung to where her cleavage began. Her chestnut hair was loosely tied at the back of her neck. She knocked demurely at Hardy’s door.

  ‘Good work,’ she said.

  He invited her in and she closed the door behind her.

  ‘What is?’

  She placed her rear end on the corner of Hardy’s desk and pushed herself back so she could sit back with her legs crossed, showing and showing. Hardy pushed his chair back almost to the window, put his own feet up on the desk, crossed his hands behind his head and leaned against the glass. ‘What is?’ he repeated.

  ‘The Chronicle thing. Keeping it alive.’

  ‘Believe it or not, that wasn’t me.’ But then he realized that it had in fact been him who had sent Elliot on the mission that took him to Missing Persons. ‘Not completely, anyway.’

  She waved him off. ‘Well, whatever, it’s still on the burner. Who killed him?’

  Hardy spent a couple of minutes on Owen Nash, Farris, May Shinn, the Silicon Valley connection. ‘The bottom line, though, is that we don’t have an identified victim yet, so there’s nowhere to go. I think we’re going to need a body.’

  ‘Well’ — she leaned toward Hardy, both palms resting flat on Hardy’s desk, the ruby swinging out from the gap in her shirt — ‘not necessarily. You remember the Billionaire Boys Club case down in L.A.? They never found the body in that one. And you’ve got part of a body. Get some good pathologist —’

  Hardy laughed. ‘Whoa. I don’t think we’re there yet. What about the ring?’

  Pullios shrugged, mercifully straightening up. ‘The ring’s a detail. Maybe his friend Farris was wrong, or lying. Maybe Nash only wore it sailing. Who knows?’

  Hardy put his feet down and stood up. ‘That’s just it. If nobody knows —’

  She shook her head. ‘Dismas, this is too good. You’ve got to grab these when they come around, which, believe me, isn’t often. Mega-rich victim, corporate intrigue, the paper’s already on it. This could make a career.’

  Hardy remained casual, motioned to his stack of folders. ‘I think until I clear some of these, my career is on hold.’

  She slid off the desk, adjusting her skirt, which entailed leaning over again. If body language talked, Hardy thought, this woman was yelling from the rooftops. He didn’t get it.

  ‘Well, it’s your decision,’ she said.

  * * * * *

  It was that rare San Francisco treasure, a truly warm day. Hardy had decided to walk down to Fifth and Mission without calling first. He wanted to be outside, and going to see Jeff Elliot was an excuse more than anything else.

  Jane had reached Hardy during the morning, and the two of them were having lunch at noon at Il Fornaio. Hardy reasoned he could pass a pleasant hour until then, putting in some nonbillable time.

  Now he stood in bright sunlight on the steps outside the ChronicleBuilding. Jeff Elliot hadn’t been at his desk, and the guy who sat next to him told Hardy he thought Jeff had said something about going down to the Marina and did Hardy want to leave a message. He did.

  Walking down Howard toward the FerryBuilding and the Bay, hands in his pockets and tie loosened, Hardy drank in the smells of truck fumes and pork bao, of tar and roasting coffee. Whenever he passed an alley, about every half block, the heavy odors of urine and garbage would overlay the city smell, but even these were, in their own way, mnemonic and pleasant — Paris when he was in college, Saigon later. He found himself whistling, marveling at the new skyline with the Embarcadero t
orn down after the Big One, the World Series quake.

  He decided to keep walking along the waterfront. Gulls sat on guano-stained pilings, occasionally lifting off with a squawk. Three or four of the docks were unfenced, and a few Orientals squatted fishing with long poles. The Sausalito ferry came in with a deafening honk of its horn, spewing out a carefree river of tourists. Hardy went with the current, letting it carry him inland with the flow. He turned uptown, noticed the time and hailed a cab to take him the last ten blocks.

  11

  Jane was in a banquette in the dining area behind the bar. There was a tulip glass of champagne on the table in front of her. She had cut her dark hair very short, but Jane always managed to look good. As a buyer for I. Magnin, she always hovered at or near the top of haute couture, six weeks ahead of everybody else. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

  ‘Ivoire de Balmain,’ he said. It was the perfume he’d always bought her on Christmas. He didn’t think it was a coincidence she was wearing it now.

  ‘You have a good nose.’ She kissed him again, quickly, on the lips. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  ‘It is,’ he admitted.

  He ordered a club soda and found out Jane was seeing a younger man, an architect named Chuck.

  ‘Chuck, Chuck, bo-buck, bo-nano-bano, bo-fu…’

  ‘Dismas.’ She put a shushing finger to his lips.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to do that,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure you have.’ She gave him an amused look. ‘He’s a wonderful guy.’

  ‘I’m sure he is. It’s a wonderful song, too. You can’t do it to Dismas, you know. Dismas, Dismas, bo-bismas… it just doesn’t scan,’ The club soda arrived.

  ‘Club soda is a change,’ Jane said.

  Hardy sipped. ‘Change is my life right now. If I have my old usual couple of beers for lunch, you can forget about the afternoon. I tried it a few times. Bad idea.’

  She sipped her champagne. ‘So you’re really back at prosecuting?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And you like it?’

  He lifted his shoulders. ‘Sometimes. It’s more b.s. than I remember, but it’s all right.’

  They waded through another five minutes of small talk before they ordered — calamari for Hardy, quattro formaggio calzone for Jane. Hardy broke down and decided to have some wine, so he and Jane ordered a half bottle of Pinot Grigio.

  When the waiter had gone, Hardy said, ‘So you’ve seen your dad?’

  She nodded. ‘You were right. There’s definitely something.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Frannie says it’s a woman.’

  Jane took that in, sipped at her champagne. ‘Why did she say that?’

  Hardy told Jane about the jade paperweight, how Andy had demanded he take it. ‘Frannie said seeing it every day reminded him of his broken heart, so he had to give it away.’ He held up a hand. ‘Her words — she’s more melodramatic than I am.’

  ‘I also think she’s right.’

  ‘Did he say that?’

  ‘He didn’t deny it. I asked him point blank if he was all right, if something was bothering him.’

  ‘And what’d he say?’

  ‘He said he’d just become more aware of mortality lately, that nothing lasts forever.’

  ‘This is not exactly headline stuff, Jane.’

  ‘I know. It just seemed evasive, the way Daddy’s always been about his personal life. So I asked if something specific had triggered all those feelings, you know. He said a friend of his had died and he just had to accept it. I asked who, and he said I didn’t know him, it didn’t matter.’

  ‘He said you didn’t know him?’

  She shook her head. ‘But I don’t think he meant that, meant it was a man.’

  It occurred to Hardy that, impossible as it might seem, Andy Fowler could be gay. In San Francisco, you never knew. ‘But if that’s what he said…?’

  ‘No. There was a pause before he said that. Something, anyway. Then he patted my hand and thanked me for being concerned, but that he could work all this out himself, he was a big boy.’

  The food came, the wine ritual. Hardy dipped some fresh bread in a little bowl of olive oil on the table. Jane cut into her calzone and let the steam escape.

  ‘What I think,’ she said, ‘is it might have been someone he’s ashamed of being involved with, maybe the wife of one of his friends, something like that.’

  ‘And she broke it off?’

  ‘Either that, or he couldn’t go on with it anymore. Can’t you just hear one of them saying it? “We’ll just pretend the other one died.” I can imagine Daddy taking that tack.’

  ‘Yeah, that flies.’

  ‘It’s a problem when you’ve always been perfect. You can’t even let your daughter see anything else. Even when I told him that whatever it was, I’d still love him.’

  ‘You told him that?’

  ‘Of course. I would.’

  ‘No, not that you would. You told him you suspected it was something he might be ashamed of?’

  ‘Not in so many words.’

  Hardy was thinking Andy Fowler didn’t need so many words. He was a subtle and intelligent man, accustomed to dealing with nuance every day on the bench. He could imagine Jane’s forthright approach scaring him off, driving him back further within himself, if that’s where he was.

  Hardy chewed on the delicious bread, filled his mouth with wine and sloshed it around. ‘Well, whatever it is, you think we can do anything to help him out? He talked about a vacation.’

  Jane half smiled. ‘Sure. Daddy’s idea of a vacation is not bringing work home for the weekend. You know any women he might like?’ But she tossed the idea away. ‘No. I can hardly see Daddy allowing himself to be set up.’

  ‘Maybe it’s what he says — awareness of mortality. That can stop you.’

  Jane scratched at the tablecloth with a perfect coral fingernail. She and Hardy didn’t need reminders of the lessons of mortality. Every time she thought of their son, Michael, who’d died in a crib accident ten years before, it stopped her again, as it had stopped her life, and Hardy’s, back then. A tear came from one eye and she turned away.

  Seeing it, or simply knowing, he reached over and covered her hand. ‘Let’s leave it for now, Jane. Come back to it later,’ he said. ‘We’ll think of something.’

  * * * * *

  He missed the stud the first time and figured it must have been the wine.

  After lunch, he’d stopped at a sporting goods store on Market and picked up the dart board he’d promised himself. Back at his office, he’d banged on the wall opposite his desk, listening for the hollow sound to give way to solid wood, locating the stud, or thinking he had.

  The first stroke of the hammer drove the nail through drywall clear up to its head. Hardy was a good carpenter. Wood was one of his hobbies. It wasn’t like him to miss a stud. He banged on the wall, thought he’d found the stud again, and this time was right.

  Measuring off eight feet with a ruler from his desk, he put some tape down on the floor just under where his chair would normally be. Then he moved the chair back up, took out his leather case and fitted the blue flights onto the shafts of his darts. He stood up at his tape line and threw two bull’s-eyes and a 20. Leaving the darts in place, he picked up his phone.

  * * * * *

  Judge Fowler had called in sick. That was odd. Judges never called in sick — their dockets were too full. A sick day inconvenienced too many people. Hardy tried his home, but no one was there either, not even an answering machine. He was tempted to call Jane again but why worry her?

  Maybe Andy was simply taking a mental-health day. God knew, he worked hard enough to deserve it. Maybe after seeing Jane last night, he’d gotten drunk again and was hung over. In any case, if Andy Fowler wanted to take a day off, Hardy would not disturb him.

  He looked at the still-large pile of case folders on the corner of his desk, wondering what unknown thrills lay in store for him in that mou
ntain of paper. He considered going around to his darts and throwing a solo game of 301 to keep his eye up. He wondered if Jeff Elliot was back from the Marina or wherever he’d gone. He should call Frannie and see how Rebecca was doing.

  Anything, he thought, but…

  It wasn’t a big enough room to pace in. He pulled his chair up to the desk and sat down, feeling lethargic and heavy. The wine. Blame it on the wine.

  * * * * *

  Elizabeth Pullios was still wearing the gold chain with the ruby, but that was all she was wearing. Christopher Locke, the district attorney, was lying with his hands crossed behind his head. He had a barrel chest covered with curls of black hair. His stomach was beginning to bulge, but it was a hard bulge. He had a pretty good body for an older guy, she thought. And as long as he let her be on top, his mobility wasn’t much of an issue — she could control things, which was how she liked it.

  She moved forward a little, adjusting her position. The D.A. moaned with pleasure. His black, broad-featured face broke into a grin. ‘My, don’t we look smug,’ Pullios said. She tightened herself a little around him and he closed his eyes with the feel of it.

  ‘I feel smug,’ Locke said. ‘Come down here.’

  She leaned down over him. He took one breast in each hand and pulled her face up to his. She took his tongue into her mouth and bit down on it gently, then pulled away.

  ‘You are such a bitch,’ he said. Still smiling. She moved her hips again. He tried to come up to meet her face, but her hands were on his shoulders, forcing him down, grinning at him.

  ‘I know, and you love it.’ She came down and licked the bottom of his ear, staying there, beginning to rock rhythmically.

  ‘God, Pullios…’

  She pulled away, halfway up. Her face now was set. She had found her angle, concentrating. Her hands cupped his head, tighter. He rose to meet her, feeling it build.