Fatal

by John Lescroart

  But not before Bina reached the front door, saw the silhouette through the beveled glass, and grasped the doorknob, turning it, pulling the door toward her.

  Ron Jameson stood a little back from the threshold, on the welcome mat under the porch light. “Bina,” he said in a friendly tone, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  The door partially blocked Beth’s line of sight, but as she came around the corner, she saw Bina as she started to raise her right hand, something glinting dark and metallic in her grip.

  And all at once Beth realized what was happening—Bina was bringing up to fire the Tariq 9-millimeter pistol that she must have gotten out of Geoff’s safe while Beth and Ike had stupidly, inexcusably, left her alone for the past twenty minutes in his office.

  “Bina,” she yelled. “Drop it! Drop it!”

  She turned halfway to Beth, a horrified expression on her face, and froze for an instant.

  Just barely enough time for Ike, coming around behind her the other way into the foyer, to get his arms around her, grab for the gun, and efficiently wrest it from her as she sank to her knees and began to sob.

  Ron, all solicitude and concern, came forward uncertainly and stepped over the threshold. “Beth,” he said. “What are you doing here? Is Bina all right? Is there anything I can do to help?”

  37

  AT TEN O’CLOCK ON THE day before Thanksgiving, Beth Tully sat on a bench facing the water across the street from the Safeway store by San Francisco’s marina. The day was cool and clear and foot traffic was heavy with its usual load of joggers and walkers, strollers and dogs.

  Beth was in plainclothes—black slacks, hiking boots, a black and orange Giants jacket. Under the jacket, she carried her service weapon in a shoulder holster. Waiting for Kate to arrive, she scanned the faces of people coming toward her while she tried to calm her nerves. Unconsciously, she clutched at the knotted mass, her stomach tight in the middle of her guts.

  All of her instincts were telling her that she should not be here. And if she was going to meet up with Kate, at the very least she ought to have called Ike and alerted him as to her plans. But she hadn’t done that. And last night when Kate had called her, she’d taken it as the opportunity she’d been waiting for since the night at Bina’s when she had finally understood.

  Surely, she now tried to convince herself, Kate wasn’t going to be a danger to her.

  Still, though, this morning she’d barely hesitated before packing her own gun.

  Kate had asked her to come by her house on Washington Street so they could start their walk from there the way they used to, but Beth suggested a public place like this bench instead, out in the open.

  Not that it would really matter. But, she thought, it might.

  And now suddenly Kate’s actual appearance interrupted her reverie. She was across the street, waiting for the light to change on the corner. Even from a distance, she looked drawn and depressed, her hands in her jacket pockets, her shoulders slumped.

  Beth stood up, caught her eye, raised a tentative hand in greeting.

  Kate crossed the street and, the two women barely exchanging greetings, they fell into stride with each other, heading toward the Golden Gate. After a few steps, Kate thanked Beth for coming down to meet with her, especially when she was under no real obligation to do so.

  Beth shrugged. “We’ve been friends a long time, Kate. Of course I’m going to come if you want to see me.”

  They walked on in a silence that stretched and stretched until, to Beth, it had become almost unbearable. She was about to say something—anything—when Kate finally spoke up. “You really thought it was Ron?”

  “I still believe Ron killed Peter, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course it is. What else could it be?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Kate.”

  “There’s no proof. There was never any proof.”

  Beth chose not to respond to that. “You know why he came to Bina’s, Kate. Because she told him that she knew he’d killed Geoff. And by extension, Peter. She was going to call the police—us—and lay out all of her evidence, which was compelling. He couldn’t let that happen.”

  “But you were already at her house . . .”

  They walked on a few steps.

  “I was.” Beth had nothing to lose by telling the truth. “The plain fact is that we baited a trap for him, Kate, and he took the bait.”

  “You mean you, personally, you baited it?”

  “Yes, I did. You have to understand, Kate, Ron had to be stopped.”

  “But there was nothing to stop. He wasn’t going to kill anyone.”

  “Well, maybe except for Bina. He had a gun on him, after all. What did he need that for if he wasn’t planning to kill her?”

  “How about self-defense? If she was planning to kill him. Which, after all, she almost did.”

  “No. He came to kill her, and then after her anyone else who threatened to expose what you’d both done.”

  “Both?” Kate stopped and turned to face Beth. “Will you ever give it a rest, Beth?”

  “I don’t know if I will. Probably not.”

  “Even with no proof? No evidence? Even though Ron was at a deposition with four witnesses the whole night Geoff killed himself? I would have thought that would have been a little inconvenient for your theories.”

  “Yes, that was a surprise. Because I really did believe that Ron had killed Geoff. But his alibi totally checked out. So I had no choice but to admit that Ron didn’t kill Geoff after all. But you knew that, too, didn’t you? Because you killed Geoff.”

  “You’re out of your mind, Beth.”

  “I think not. Why don’t you tell me what you were doing that night, Kate?”

  “You must be joking.”

  “Not at all, really.”

  “So you really believe that Ron killed Peter and that I killed Geoff?”

  “I’m certain of it.”

  “Okay, then, tell me why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Well, to start off, why did Ron kill Peter? Which is what started all this.”

  Beth cocked her head and let out a breath. “You know this, too, Kate. Because you slept with him.”

  “Once, Beth. One time only. That can’t have been it. And on top of it all, that was six months before Peter got shot.”

  “But maybe only a few days after Ron found out about it, Kate. Or maybe the jealousy was heating up for a few months and then all at once it boiled over.”

  “And what? It finally got to Ron and he just called Peter up one day and said they ought to get together . . .”

  “From the phone in Geoff’s office, yes. Don’t forget that.”

  “I never would,” Kate said. “And why not, while we’re fantasizing here. Then what did he do in your make-believe world?”

  “We know what he did. He took out his Iraqi souvenir gun . . .”

  “You mean one of the guns he turned in to the city last summer?”

  “Exactly, Kate. Except maybe you don’t know that they keep a record of all guns surrendered to the city, and neither of those guns, or anything like them, are on the list. I checked.”

  “Of course you did. But again, so what? It’s just more evidence that isn’t there. It must be very disappointing to you. And you have to understand something else, Beth. Peter was a dangerous man,” she said. “He was ruining lives.”

  “So he deserved to die?” Beth fixed her with a flat stare. “How about Geoff? Was he ruining lives, too?”

  “He was cheating the firm, cheating us. Everyone thought Geoff was so honorable, but he stole clients from Ron, he did a lot more shady business than anyone realized.”

  “And he had to die, too? Because of his business dealings? I don’t think so.”

  “No, then why?”

  “Because you saw your opportunity and took it. You could make it look like he killed both Peter and himself. All you had
to do was get him alone and shoot him, leave one casing in the car and plant another one—from the same Iraqi gun—on the boat where you knew there’d be traces of Peter’s blood, because that’s where he’d actually been shot by Ron. You got the casing you needed, by the way, from the missing extra bullet, and I’ll give it to you, that was a nice touch. As long as you got us—the police—to believe the same gun killed Geoff and Peter, you’d done your job, hadn’t you?”

  Kate made a face. “It sounds to me, girlfriend, that all that evidence you talk about comes to that same conclusion. Which is why they closed the case, isn’t it?”

  “It isn’t closed to me, Kate. It never will be, and you’ll have to live knowing that.”

  Kate’s perfect face was a study in frustration. “You can’t blame me for all of this. I didn’t know any of this was going to happen.”

  “But it did happen, didn’t it?”

  “So it’s my fault? All these dead people? You’re saying they’re my fault?”

  Beth said nothing.

  “I’m just not willing to accept that,” Kate said.

  “That would be your decision. I can’t help you with that. It is what it is.”

  Kate’s eyes scanned the horizon behind Beth, as though looking for a different answer.

  “And what am I supposed to do now?”

  “I don’t know, Kate. I can’t help you with that, either. You’ve got to try to find a place to put it. And when I find a way to take you and Ron down, I promise you that I will.”

  Kate reached out a hand and touched Beth’s arm. Incipient tears shone in her eyes. “I never meant for anyone to get hurt, Beth. You have to believe that.”

  Beth’s eyes looked straight into Kate’s. “As a matter of fact,” Beth said, “I do believe that. I don’t think it ever entered your mind that what you did with Peter would have consequences. And maybe, you know, it should have.” Seconds passed, perhaps half a minute, and finally Beth simply nodded. “Good-bye, Kate,” she said.

  Beth turned and started back toward the marina. The thought crossed her mind that if Kate had somehow brought along a weapon, now would be when she would use it.

  Hands in her jacket pockets, she kept moving.

  Kate called out her name—once—but she didn’t stop, didn’t even pause.

  She just kept on putting down one painful step after the other.

  * * *

  About a mile south of where Peter Ash’s body had washed up on shore at the Cliff House, a lone white seagull soared over a patch of large sand dunes the size of a football field. The bird banked hard right out over the Pacific Coast Highway, floated in to a landing atop the tallest of the dunes, then jumped a few feet downhill, where it spread its wings and squawked at the couple in front of it.

  Beth said, “Look at this guy. Is he shameless or what?”

  “He just wants food,” Alan said.

  The two of them were sharing a blanket, their picnic the leftovers from the Thanksgiving dinner they’d shared at his sister Laurie’s place yesterday. Down in the cup of the dunes, there was no breeze. The sun shone down from directly above them, enveloping them in an incongruous late November warmth.

  Alan flung a piece of crust from a turkey sandwich out toward the begging bird. “It’s his lucky day.”

  “Not only his.”

  Beth broke a sunbeam of a smile and held it long enough that the sheer force of it pulled him toward her.

  A minute or so later, Alan was on his back and she was on her side, lying up against him. A few of the buttons on his shirt had somehow come undone and her hand lay flat up against the skin of his chest.

  “Are you okay?” Alan asked her.

  “Just a random tear,” she said, wiping at her eye. “I wouldn’t worry about it.” Bringing her face up to his, she lay a soft kiss against his cheek, then sighed heavily.

  “I’m here, you know,” he said. “Whatever it is.”

  She drew in another breath. “You remember our pizza night at your place? What a mess I was?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Actually, I don’t think that’s far enough. I can’t tell you how disconnected and scared I was, Alan. Just generally scared of life, of terrorists, and for Ginny and her future, and of what was going to come of me.”

  “Scared of me, too, a little, if I remember right.”

  “Well, in all honesty, of every shadow on every wall.”

  He tightened his arm around her. “You had your reasons.”

  “Admittedly. I’m not denying it. But my point is, whatever the reasons were, I felt that they were beating me. I couldn’t seem to shake them. And then, yesterday I’m cutting the turkey and I look around the table and there’s Ginny and Laurie and you and it was like something just shifted inside me—I know that sounds weird, but that’s what it felt like. And suddenly all that stuff was gone. And now here we are today, you and me . . .”

  He held her against him. “It’s all right, Beth. You can let it all go.”

  “I know,” she said. “That’s the amazing thing. I already have.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  When a writer has been fortunate enough to have established a successful series, as I have with Dismas Hardy and his universe, the idea of that writer creating a stand-alone novel outside of that series is not particularly calculated to warm the heart of his agent. So it was with more than a soupçon of trepidation that I proposed the idea of this book to my agent, Barney Karpfinger. I needn’t have worried. As he has been for the past twenty years, he was the soul of enthusiasm and cooperation. Barney remains the rock of my career, and a great cheerleader for this book at every step of the process. It truly would never have been written without his input and support. Thank you, sir. You are the best.

  Last year I met a fellow writer, Rob Leininger, via email. We began a near-daily correspondence during the writing of this book that was a great source of motivation and connection in this often-lonely business. I also wound up reading more of Rob’s books than any other author’s last year—Gumshoe, Killing Suki Flood, Richter Ten, Sunspot, and Gumshoe for Two. I recommend every one of them. He is a talented writer who deserves wide recognition.

  As is the case with most of my books, this one needed a medical consult or two. For the umpteenth time I called on my friend Dr. John Chuck, who in turn introduced me to Lisa Loker, LCSW, manager of the Eating Disorder Program at Kaiser Permanente, Sacramento. Thanks to both of you for your time and expertise. Also on the medical front, I would be remiss if I didn’t thank Dr. Amit Banerjee of Kaiser Permanente Vacaville, whose surgery on my back midway through the writing of this book alleviated some pretty impressive chronic pain that threatened my peace and productivity. Finally, my brother-in-law, Mark Detzer, PhD, was again helpful in clarifying some important psychological issues that arose as the story progressed. By the way, and perhaps needless to say, any medical (or other) errors that survived into the final manuscript are the fault of the author alone.

  On a day-to-day basis, my assistant, Anita Boone, continues to work her organizational magic keeping the decks clear for my daily pages. Without her unbelievable competence, cheerful personality, and remarkable efficiency, I would be hard-pressed to find the time needed to devote to writing these books.

  It is a lucky man who finds himself surrounded by friends, and I have been extremely fortunate to count myself among those so blessed. So here’s to all the “usual suspects”—you know who you are.

  As long as we can keep from killing each other over differences of opinion about various plot points, legal and otherwise, in my books, Alfred F. Giannini, Esq., is and will remain the quintessential technical consultant, as he has been for this and all of my other novels. There is no way to overstate Al’s contributions to my work over the years, and I hope it goes on forever.

  Generous contributors to charitable organizations have purchased the right to name characters in this book. These people and their respective organizations are: Michel
le Griffin (SFCASA); Nancy Casey Muller (Yolo County CASA); and Kathy Pelz (Napa County Library Literacy Center/Charitybuzz.com).

  Taking great care of the entire social media package, including my web page (www.johnlescroart.com), blog, Facebook, Twitter (www.twitter.com/johnlescroart), is the inimitable Dr. Andy Jones (Poet Laureate of the City of Davis, California). I’d also like to thank Doug Kelly and Peggy Nauts, who have been editing my books for the past decade—thank you both for your keen eyes and sensibilities.

  I am extraordinarily proud to be published by Atria Books, and I’d like to thank my publisher, Judith Curr, and my editor, Peter Borland, for giving me the opportunity to work with one of the best imprints in the world. Thanks also to Janice Fryer, Wendy Sheanin, Colin Shields, and to the efforts of the publicity and marketing departments at Atria, especially the indefatigable David Brown.

  Finally, I truly love to be in contact with my readers, and I invite one and all to stop by any of the sites mentioned above and get in touch with me. I look forward to hearing from you. And thanks for buying my books!

  Don't miss these thrilling novels by John Lescroart, "the master of legal suspense" (The Associated Press)

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  ORDER YOUR COPIES TODAY!

  JOHN LESCROART is the author of eighteen New York Times bestsellers, including The Fall, The Keeper, The Ophelia Cut, Damage, and The 13th Juror. His books have sold more than twelve million copies and have been translated into twenty-two languages in seventy-five countries. He lives in Northern California.