Hardy 03 - Hard Evidence

by John Lescroart

  ‘So is he — Fowler — seeing Shinn again?’

  ‘No sign of it, and believe me, people are looking. She seems to be lying low, trying to collect her money, suing me and the City and County. Freeman’s bill must be approaching the national debt.’

  Those had been Glitsky’s facts.

  * * * * *

  To satisfy his own curiosity, Hardy had done some checking himself. He had the telephone records. Andy Fowler might have convinced himself that before Owen Nash came along he had May Shinn all to himself, but her telephone records included three other numbers, called with about the same regularity as those to Andy Fowler.

  Hardy tried all three numbers. One was to a switchboard of the main office of the Timberline Group, a timber-lobby consulting firm with an address on Bay Street. Hardy thought it unlikely that May Shinn was doing a lot of lumber work.

  When a woman answered at the second number, Hardy, feeling a little foolish, pretended to be taking a demographic survey for the Neilson ratings. The woman said that she and her husband, who worked out of the house (he was in software), were both in their mid-fifties. She didn’t want to be too specific, but their income was in the low six figures. He let it go.

  The third number was to the private office of an affable millionaire in the garment district.

  So…

  It seemed May had three other clients before Owen Nash came along. Four including Andy Fowler. And, from the phone record, she’d dropped them all around the beginning of February. Did Nash pay her more, or had she, as she contended, truly fallen in love with Nash?

  Of course, he knew nothing that tied any of these men to Owen Nash. Not yet. Hardy spent a day wondering if he should mention them to Glitsky, then decided against it. He had promised Andy he wouldn’t bring up the phone records if he didn’t have to. The originals were there in the file downtown if anybody wanted to look at them.

  It wasn’t Hardy’s job anymore, but it didn’t take immense reserves of gray matter to realize this discovery would open things up again. If the motive they had all ascribed to Fowler, killing a rival, applied, then it applied as well to May’s other three clients/lovers. But then, the D.A.‘s office wasn’t arrayed in a vendetta against any of these guys, as it was against Fowler.

  Still, Andy must have made a mistake. Some evidence must have turned up, but where did they get it? Hardy was sure Glitsky would have called him with anything at all, so it hadn’t been him. And if Glitsky didn’t have it, who did? He was the investigating officer. It didn’t make sense.

  Hardy hadn’t set foot in the Hall of Justice since the day after he was fired, when he went in to pick up his personal effects, his dart board, the paperweight.

  Now, coming up the front steps with Jane, he found it hard to believe that he’d been talked into returning. The false accusations, the unnamed informer, the politics of the lifers — the gut reaction still kicked in.

  He and Jane rode in the crowded elevator up to Booking. He didn’t have much of an idea what he was going to do. It was late in the afternoon, and he thought at least he’d get the lay of the land. At the desk, the sergeant looked up and nodded.

  ‘Hey, Hardy, taking the day off?’

  It took him a minute — Hardy was in casual clothes. The sergeant thought he was still working there.

  ‘Where you been, on vacation or something?’

  ‘Or something. Listen, you got Andy Fowler processed yet?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so, I’ll check. Can you believe that? The judge?’ He got up from his chair and disappeared for two minutes, during which Hardy devoutly hoped no one would recognize him. When he came out again he pointed to his right and told Hardy he could go on in, they’d be bringing the judge down.

  He and Jane were admitted, then ushered into Interview Room A, the same room where he had first seen May Shinn.

  Jane sat comfortably. ‘How’d we get in here?’

  ‘I think under false pretenses. Now listen, when your father gets in here, be cool in front of the guard. Don’t jump up and yell or anything. Since they think I’m working here, let’s let them think you’re my assistant, okay?’

  * * * * *

  But it wasn’t so easy. Her father just didn’t look the same in a yellow jumpsuit. Four hours before, in his pinstripes, Andy’s handcuffs had been the ultimate indignity. Now Jane realized she hadn’t known the half of it.

  The judge played the game, entered cooperatively, nodded at both of them and sat down across the table. Hardy thanked the guard and told him to wait outside. As soon as the door closed, her father said, ‘Good. How did this happen?’

  Dismas inclined his head a fraction, his hand to his mouth. ‘I cheated. How are you doing, Andy?’

  ‘Badly. How about you?’

  ‘All right.’

  The two men tried not to look at each other. Jane wasn’t going to let this go bad. Or worse. ‘Dismas didn’t leak your story, Daddy. About you and… May.’

  Her father didn’t look beaten. In fact, he looked ready to fight. ‘You didn’t?’ Directly at Dismas.

  ‘I said I wouldn’t, I didn’t.’ He shrugged. ‘I figured you had other things on your mind. So did I. I got fired over it, for example.’

  ‘I heard about that.’ More waiting. Jane realized she was squeezing her fingernails into her palms. She didn’t understand this silence — the two men who’d been closest to her jockeying for something.

  ‘I guess I just got a little tired explaining how I didn’t do whatever it was somebody thought I did. It gets old.’

  ‘I’d imagine it would.’ Her father was inside himself, settling something. ‘Sorry, Diz, I just assumed…’

  Jane’s ex-husband had his hands folded on the table. He opened them. ‘I lived through it. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Somebody thinks I killed Owen Nash.’

  ‘I know that. But who’s representing you? You ought to be out of here already.’

  A tight smile. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? One of Locke’s little object lessons. No bail until the arraignment.’ He paused. ‘At least.’

  ‘That Locke, he’s a swell guy.’

  Fowler kept on. ‘I called David Freeman. He thought it might not be wise for him to represent me because of May. He intimated he’d put out the word. Meanwhile, it appears that I’m to stay locked up.’ Another tight smile. ‘Lousy pun.’

  ‘Daddy, they can’t do that.’

  ‘They can, honey. How many times have I had a defense lawyer tell me his client had to get out of jail, wouldn’t survive one night there, it was life and death. And I told them it would have to wait until the morning. Judicial process…’

  ‘We can’t let this happen, you can’t stay here. Dismas can do something.’

  Hardy nodded. ‘I could try, Andy.’

  ‘Why would you want to do that? What would you try?’

  ‘I don’t know, I got me and Jane in here to see you, didn’t I? I could try walking you downstairs and out the door.’

  Her father pulled at the jumpsuit. ‘Don’t you think the outfit’s a little conspicuous?’

  ‘Goddamn it,’ Jane said. ‘Will you two cut it out.’

  ‘You’re right, I’ll have to think of something else.’

  The judge got serious. ‘You’d really do something? Why?’

  Hardy shrugged. ‘At least until one of Freeman’s wonders shows up. At least you’d be represented. I could pass it off after you decided who you wanted.’ Hardy straightened in his chair. ‘Not to mention, I wouldn’t mind getting in the face of a few of these people here —they seem to have pissed me off.’

  ‘Can you get him out tonight, Dismas? On bail or something?’ Jane looked at her father. ‘You cannot stay here overnight.’

  Fowler reached out and patted her hand. ‘It’s all right, honey. I spent a night in jail once before — voluntarily, I admit — and it wasn’t so bad. I wanted to see what we were putting people through. I’ll survive, I promise you. Besides, I might as w
ell get used to it. It could be longer than that if bail is denied.’

  ‘They couldn’t do that!’

  Her father and Hardy shared a glance. The guard outside the door gave a knock.

  ‘I’ll call Freeman, keep him on it,’ Hardy said. ‘And I’ll be there tomorrow… You sure you want me representing you, even temporarily?’

  Andy appeared, for really the first time, to consider it. ‘Maybe more than that.’

  ‘Why, Andy?’

  The judge looked around the tiny room, then at his daughter, as though looking for verification of something.

  He knew he’d written Hardy off too easily before, when he thought he had betrayed his trust. There had been a mistake. He knew Hardy and he hadn’t blown any whistle on Andy Fowler. Hardy didn’t betray trusts and he didn’t give up. ‘The devil you know?’ he said, smiling.

  40

  He left Jane at the fourth floor. Getting out of the elevator, he walked down the hallway and turned into Homicide. If Glitsky was in maybe they could stop in at Lou’s for old times’ sake. But he wasn’t around. Hardy leaned over his desk and was writing him a note when he heard some heels on the tiles and looked up.

  Pullios stopped in the door.

  ‘Hi, Bets,’ Hardy said. ‘Getting any… exciting cases?’

  Her smile was glacial. ‘How are you, Dismas?’

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘I’m writing my memoirs.’

  She didn’t react. Her eyes searched the back of the open room. ‘Anybody seen Lanier?’ she asked. One of the guys said he thought he was downstairs having some coffee with a witness. She came back to Hardy. ‘Well, take care of yourself.’

  She started to turn and Hardy spoke. ‘I hear Judge Fowler’s been arrested.’

  She stopped. ‘My, news travels fast.’

  ‘Tribal drums. We’re kind of family.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s right.’

  ‘You really think he killed Owen Nash?’

  ‘The grand jury thought there was enough evidence to issue the indictment.’

  Hardy folded his arms, leaning back against Glitsky’s desk. ‘I have it on good authority that if the D.A. wanted, the grand jury would indict a ham sandwich.’

  Pullios nodded. ‘Well, it’s been nice talking to you.’

  Hardy caught up with her out in the hallway. He turned conversational. ‘I guess there’s some new evidence, huh?’

  Pullios stopped. ‘Are you representing Fowler?’

  ‘I’m merely a curious citizen who wonders what you’ve got new since Shinn?’

  ‘Quite a bit. I’m sure it’ll be in the newspaper.’

  She started walking again.

  Hardy found himself planted to the floor with roots of rage. It just came up over him. His stomach turned over and he heard his blood pulsing in his ears.

  Don’t do it, he told himself. Don’t say any more. Don’t chase her through the halls. Nothing to be gained.

  He watched her elegant figure disappear around the corner of the elevator lobby. Where had the air gone? Feeling as though he’d stopped breathing, he sucked a strained lungful. He needed a drink.

  * * * * *

  Or four. Or five.

  On top of the three Guinnesses he had had before Jane had arrived at the Shamrock. He had the first couple of Irish whiskeys at Lou’s, but then the guys started showing up. Guys that knew him, that wanted to know what he was doing, how he was getting along.

  Yeah, he was busy, working on stuff, was looking into opening a second bar maybe, even a restaurant. No, he didn’t want to go into private practice, wind up defending a bunch of scum.

  Leaving Lou’s, he remembered that he had forgotten to call David Freeman. He’d call him from the next place. And Frannie too. He couldn’t forget to call Frannie. She would worry. She’d been worried for a couple of months now — worried about him, about them, their future, their baby, the pregnancy. Everything. Their wavelengths had ceased to coincide somehow. It worried him too, made him doubt himself. Sometimes he thought it was making him sick. Drinking seemed to cure it.

  Entertaining the possibility that he should cut down on his intake, and forgetting his own oft-uttered advice that beer on whiskey was mighty risky, he stopped at a place down Seventh Street and ordered a Rainier Ale. The bar didn’t have a pay phone.

  He brought the bottle of green death over to a small table next to the door and stared up at the television screen broadcasting the evening news. The financier, the judge and the prostitute again. He moved to the other side of the table, where he didn’t have to look at the damned set. White noise.

  They’d enjoyed the vacation. The two weeks had been good for them. They’d come back refreshed, reinvigo-rated, reconnected. They’d purposely put off discussing his career plans — there would be plenty of time for that. Instead, they talked about babies and childbirth, about whether Moses and Susan were an item, about food and their past lives — Eddie and Jane. And if they should move to a bigger house before or after the next child came along.

  Hardy had run daily on the beach. A couple of days of rum drinks, then he’d surprised himself by going on the wagon for the rest of the trip. He was tan and lean and liked it.

  Then, the first week home, catching up with Abe about Owen Nash and May Shinn and Andy Fowler. Cleaning out some tanks at the Steinhart with Pico. Pouring a few shifts at the Shamrock to keep his hand in.

  At first it was a nagging unease, a touch of insomnia. He hadn’t wanted to admit how much he’d invested, how great had been the risk, when he’d given up bartending right after Christmas to go back to the law. But now, in the long and formless days stretching before him, he was starting to come to the numbing realization that he’d failed in one of the fundamental decisions of his life.

  He’d been fired. His services were not wanted. It wasn’t that the people he worked for were so honorable or talented or better at their jobs than he was, at least he didn’t think so, but the fact that he’d been judged by those people and found unacceptably wanting. Never mind their standards. He was out, they were in.

  It got to him. He found himself internalizing the rejection. More, he couldn’t seem to get it out of him. Who was he at forty, anyway? A castoff, a reject. He had told Frannie what the hell, he didn’t want to be underfoot all day, he’d go out and interview a few places, get some work, try to get some feeling back that he was doing something worthwhile — that maybe he was worthwhile.

  People were nice. Men and women — lawyers and office managers — in business suits like he was wearing. But they didn’t hire him. They’d call him back, it was just a slow time. Maybe he could try the public defenders.

  He thought he was a logical man, and logic was telling him that in terms of the marketplace, he was worthless.

  Well, shit, he wasn’t going to accept that. He’d lived a pretty good life, thank you, and it damn sure wasn’t over yet. The hell with the rest of you.

  Then he made his big mistake.

  * * * * *

  Frannie was a rock at home, telling him not to push it, time would take care of it. Something would come up. She loved him.

  But once you started thinking people didn’t want you, it was easy to start believing nobody wanted you for anything. You were just a burden, a drag, plain and simple, not able to carry your own weight.

  He thought he could feel Frannie pulling away. She swore it wasn’t true, she wasn’t. She was with him. But he found he couldn’t talk with her anymore. He could tell it was making her lose confidence in him, and that was too much to ask her to carry. She needed him to be strong, especially now, building a family. So he resolved to put on a happy face. Lots of laughs, long silences between.

  He idly thought of finding someone he could talk to where he wasn’t constantly reminded of his situation. Of course, he wasn’t going to, but wouldn’t it be nice to be around someone who thought you were okay, not aware of any of the baggage?

  He’d taken to stopping by the Shamrock after his inter
views and having a round or two. It was more time that he didn’t have to face her. He stopped working out.

  He’d been home from Hawaii a month now, six weeks. He told himself enough was enough, it was time to beat this thing, not let the bastards get him down. The first step, he told himself, was physical — get back in shape, stop drinking, tighten up.

  * * * * *

  He stood behind Celine Nash as she pumped up and down on the Stairmaster. Her hair was fixed back with a hot pink headband. A patch of darker pink showed where she was sweating between her shoulder blades. Her ass was a phenomenal pumping machine. Up and down, step step step. Sweat was pouring off her. He thought about turning around and walking out.

  It was okay, he told himself. He was here to work out and he’d chosen Hardbodies! because he’d already been in the place and it had the machines he was looking for.

  He hadn’t seen her since she’d stopped in front of his house before the vacation, when she’d realized she couldn’t be in his life. Well, he wasn’t putting her back into his life now. Enough time had gone by since then. He wasn’t starting anything by showing up here.

  He climbed onto the machine next to hers. ‘Yo,’ he said.

  * * * * *

  They were sitting together in the steam room. He was on a towel, leaning back against the cedar wall, in gym shorts and a t-shirt. She’d gone to the locker room after her workout, gotten rid of her leggings and changed into a one-piece black bathing suit.

  The talking wound down. She was doing all right, she said, keeping busy. He wished he was. Well, at least he was exercising. That was doing something. Yes.

  The temperature was near a hundred and twenty. The room was tiny, cramped, perhaps five by seven feet, with a furnace near the floor, which was covered with rocks. Celine got up and poured more water from a pitcher over the rocks and a cloud of steam lifted and hovered. She went to sit down on the wood where she’d been, then jumped and said, ‘Ouch.’