The Oath

by John Lescroart

  Her shoulder-length blond hair was a mess. Without makeup of any kind, she appeared drawn and gaunt. Still, there was no hiding her attractiveness. Her eyes, especially, were deep-set, wide and compelling, almost electric blue. He'd never seen eyes quite like them.

  Even after they'd introduced themselves, badges out, Mrs. Kensing simply stared at them until Bracco finally asked if they could come in. Nodding, she took a step back, opening the door as she withdrew. "I'm sorry," she said ambiguously, then waited another long moment before she brought the door closed behind them all.

  The light was dim in the vestibule. They stood dripping on the woven cloth rug in the tiny area. "Maybe we should " she said distractedly, and not finishing the sentence, led the way a few steps down a short hall, then to the right into the kitchen.

  Overflowing onto the floor, a huge load of laundry lay piled on the table. Skirting that, she pulled out a stool. The counter still held dirty dishes from the morning—a milk and a juice carton, two boxes of cereal, some brown pear and banana slices on a cracked saucer. Finally she focused on them where they stood in the small humid room.

  "All right. What?" The startling eyes flicked back and forth between the inspectors.

  Bracco pulled out his tape recorder and put it on the counter in front of her. He cleared his throat and recited his name and the date, his badge number, the usual. He hadn't rehearsed what he was going to say, hadn't really considered what the woman's state of mind might be before she'd opened the door. But now he had to begin with something soon or, he sensed, she'd throw them both out. "Mrs. Kensing, Tim Markham and you were lovers, weren't you?"

  She cleared her throat. "We used to be, but he broke it off. Twice."

  "Why?"

  "Because he was guilty about his family. Especially he didn't want to hurt his kids. But he didn't love his wife anymore. So he kept coming back to me."

  "But he left you again, too? Isn't that right?" Bracco asked.

  "Temporarily. He would have come back again."

  "So why did he leave?"

  "Because he had to try again with them. One more time, he said."

  Fisk asked, "And when was that?"

  "Last week. Late last week."

  "And were you okay with that?" Bracco asked. "With his decision?"

  "How could I be? I knew " Her eyes were hard. "I knew he'd come back to me eventually, just like he always did. He loved me. I didn't see why he had to put everyone through it again. All the back and forth. I told him he should just separate. Make it clean."

  "The way you did in your marriage?" Fisk asked.

  If she took offense, she didn't show it. "Yeah, like I did. As soon as I realized I loved Tim and not Eric, I told him he had to move out. I mean, what was the point? I wasn't going to live a lie."

  Fisk looked across at his partner. "And how did Carla take all this? His leaving her?"

  "He never left her," she corrected him bitterly. "I was always on the side."

  "But she knew about you? What then?"

  "Well, she threatened him, of course. Said she'd leave him and take all his money. He wouldn't get visitation. That's why he went back."

  "You mean this last time?"

  But Fisk didn't wait for her to answer his partner's question. "You know that Carla and the children are dead, too?"

  She went still for a beat. Then, "I saw that, but I turned it all off. I'm not interested in her. She doesn't have anything to do with me." She looked up at them in defiance. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. I don't care about her."

  Fisk spoke up. "Maybe Carla didn't take him back? Maybe she was still mad at him?"

  Suddenly she broke and raised her voice. "Aren't you listening to me?! It was done." The wind gusted and heavy drops pounded at the kitchen window. "He was going to tell her everything he'd done wrong in his life. Make a fresh start. What a fucking fool!"

  "But did he in fact tell her?" Fisk asked.

  "Who cares? What could it matter now? I never saw him again after he left me," she snapped. "I don't know what he did."

  "And when was that?" Bracco asked more gently. "The last time you saw him?"

  She slapped angrily at the counter. "Goddamnit! I don't care! Don't you hear me? What matters is I'm left here." She gestured despairingly around the cluttered, tiny kitchen. "Here. By myself."

  Fisk asked abruptly, "Did you know that your husband treated Mr. Markham at Portola?"

  "Yeah, I knew that. I saw him right after." Her gaze sharpened. "Why is that important?"

  "Markham had broken up your marriage. Maybe he still hated him."

  "Yeah, but so what?" She shook her head wearily. "This all shook out two years ago. It's ancient history."

  The inspectors shared a glance. "You're saying he wasn't still bitter?" Fisk asked.

  "Sure he was bitter. He made no bones about hating Tim. He always " She hesitated. "Why?"

  Fisk told her. "We're trying to find out who killed him, Mrs. Kensing. I know you'll want to know that, too."

  Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, killed him? He got hit by a car."

  "No, ma'am, he was killed," Bracco said.

  "You didn't know that?" Fisk asked harshly. "Didn't you read the paper this morning?"

  "Yeah," she answered in a voice heavy with sarcasm. "I got my kids off to school, then had the maid bring in the paper with my coffee and bonbons. She hasn't gotten to the laundry or the dishes yet." Dismissing Fisk, she turned to Bracco. "You're saying somebody ran him over on purpose?"

  Bracco shook his head. "It wasn't the accident," he said. "He was killed at the hospital. Somebody shot him up with potassium."

  Her eyes flashed with the onset of panic. "I don't know what you're saying."

  Fisk took a step toward her. "You're a nurse and you don't know about potassium?"

  "Of course I know that. What about it with Tim, though, with his dying?"

  "It's what killed him," Bracco replied. "Really."

  Slowly, the news seemed to register. "In the hospital?" Then slowly, as the thought congealed, her face changed by degrees until finally it was contorted with rage. "That son of a bitch. That miserable motherfucker." She looked from one inspector to the other, her rasping voice filled with conviction. "You can stop looking," she said. "I know who killed him."

  13

  Kensing was working at the Judah Clinic and didn't seem inclined to return calls, so Hardy decided that he'd simply show up, hoping that his unexpected appearance would help convey the air of urgency he was beginning to feel. So he ventured out into the teeth of the storm and made it to the clinic in time to spend another half hour in the crowded waiting room before Kensing, in his white smock and stethoscope, came out to see him. The doctor told him he couldn't get away, even for a few minutes.

  His doctor work was more important. He was swamped here, as Hardy could see. And anyway, wasn't their appointment supposed to be for tonight?

  Hardy tried to make him understand the reality they both faced, but the doctor couldn't seem to accept it.

  "I don't see how it's any different than it was yesterday," Kensing replied. He made a helpless gesture with his hands.

  "Everything about it is different," Hardy explained with a patience he didn't feel. "Yesterday, nobody thought Markham was murdered, so it didn't matter that you hated him. Now it does. A lot. So you've got motive, means, and opportunity. It's bad luck to have all three of these around a homicide, trust me."

  But he dismissed Hardy's concerns with a shake of his head. "We covered all this on the phone this morning, didn't we?" He put an arm on Hardy's sleeve. "Look, I appreciate your concern, but I've got to keep things moving here at the clinic or we won't even get to talk tonight. Sorry you had to come all the way down, but this won't work."

  Hardy closed some space between them and lowered his voice. "That's what I've been trying to tell you. We're not going to talk tonight, Doctor. At least not with the police. I canceled the interview."

  Kensing s
howed a little pique. "Why'd you do that?"

  "Because I'm your lawyer and it's my job to protect you."

  "I don't need protection. Once they hear what I've got to say, especially if I give it to them voluntarily, they'll cross me off their list."

  "Really? And you know this because of your vast experience in criminal law, is that it?" Hardy was right in his client's face. "Listen to me. I promise you—you have my solemn word—that they will not do that. Don't kid yourself. Like it or not, you are a murder suspect. They won't be looking for reasons to let you off. They'll be looking for reasons to bring you in. And I'm not going to give them a chance to do that. You and I need a lot more time together. A lot more. Like most of the weekend."

  Kensing shook his head. "I don't know about that. I've got Giants tickets for Saturday. I've got my kids and I'm taking them."

  "That's really swell," Hardy said, "but you're not taking anybody anywhere if you're in jail. The point is you and I need to block some time. This is serious stuff, okay?"

  In the waiting room over Kensing's shoulder, a baby began to wail.

  Kensing checked his watch, frowned, looked over at the crying infant. "All right," he said, gesturing toward the noise, "but this is serious, too. What I do." He offered a professional smile. "Maybe Sunday, though, how'd that be?" Giving Hardy a conspiratorial pat on the back, he turned and disappeared through the door that led to the doctors' offices.

  Hardy, who had walked a block and a half from the parking lot, felt the squish in his soaking shoes, the chill in his pants, damp below the knee. After Kensing left, he sat down for a minute in one of the plastic chairs, then combed his wet hair with his fingers, stood up, and buttoned his raincoat for the walk through the squall back to his car.

  * * *

  "Just checking on my investment," Hardy said when Moses McGuire looked up in surprise from behind the Shamrock's bar. He was the only person in the place.

  "What investment? I gave you your quarter in trade, in case your memory fails you, which it never does. You drinking?"

  Hardy hadn't had a drink in the daytime in six months, but between his failure to talk with anybody at the hall, Freeman's attitude, the weather, and his recent debacle with Kensing, he was ready to try anything to change his luck or his timing. "You got any Sapphire behind the bar?"

  Though McGuire disapproved of gin in any form, he didn't have to ask Hardy how he wanted it. Up, dry, chilled glass. As he was pouring, he asked, "You all right? Frannie okay?" He had pretty much raised his little sister, Hardy's wife, by himself, and he still felt protective.

  "We're fine. I had an appointment near here that didn't work out. Nothing to do with Frannie." He sipped his martini, nodded appreciatively. "This," he said, "is perfect."

  Moses, whose own Macallan scotch, neat, was a permanent fixture in the bar's gutter, lifted his own glass, clicked it against Hardy's, and raised it to his lips. "That," he replied, "is gin and dry vermouth and ice. This"—holding up his own glass—"is perfect. But I accept the compliment with grace and humility. Why didn't you have him come to your office?"

  "Who?"

  "Your appointment. I didn't know you made house calls."

  "I don't. This one seemed important."

  "Well, to one of you, at least."

  At that truth, Hardy nodded ruefully. "Then again, maybe I just needed an excuse to break up the routine."

  Moses pulled up the stool he kept behind the bar. "I hear you," he said. "You want to plan a road trip? We leave now, we could be in Mexico by nightfall."

  "Don't tempt me." Hardy lifted his drink, sipped at it, spoke wistfully. "Maybe I could pull the kids out of school "

  "I wasn't thinking of bringing the offspring with us."

  Hardy noted the tone, looked at the battered face across the bar. "You and Susan okay?"

  "At least we're not getting divorced, I don't think." He drank some of his scotch. "But sometimes I'm sure it's only because we made a deal that the first one to mention the D word gets the kids. I hear Mexico's warm this time of year."

  "It's always warmer than here."

  They both looked out the picture window, where the rain continued in sheets. The cypress trees that bordered the park were bent over halfway in the wind.

  Abruptly, Hardy stood up. He pushed his unfinished martini to the edge of the bar.

  "You leaving so soon?" McGuire asked him. "You just got here."

  Hardy pointed to his drink. "If I finish that, and I desperately want to, I'll never leave."

  "Fortunately, you don't have to."

  "No, I do have to. I've got work and the devil's trying to give me an excuse not to do it. But I've got an idea for you and Susan. Why don't you get somebody to cover for you here and bring the kids over tonight. We'll take 'em. You guys go out. How's that sound?"

  "It could work," McGuire said. "Though it isn't Mexico."

  "Yeah, but what is?" Hardy laid a friendly punch on McGuire's arm. "Think about it."

  * * *

  Standing in front of the grand jury after a working lunch with Clarence Jackman and Abe Glitsky, Marlene Ash was in her element. The nineteen citizens gathered before her in the Police Commissioner's Hearing Room on the fifth floor of the Hall of Justice, one floor above Glitsky's office and two above Jackman's, cared mightily for justice to be done. They might appear to be a hodgepodge of humanity—certainly both genders and most of the ethnic populations in the city were represented here today—but Marlene knew that these people sitting now before her, and the others like them on juries (and not just grand juries) all over the country, were the backbone of the legal system she worked within. Without them, the "average" good citizen, justice would be an empty concept, the social fabric would tear.

  So she played fair with them, respecting their intelligence and experience. "Ladies and gentlemen of the grand jury," she began. "On Tuesday, April 10, Timothy Markham began his customary, invariable morning jog. When he got to Twenty-sixth Avenue, here in the city, he was run down by a green, early model American car. The driver fled the scene in his vehicle.

  "But the car accident is not what killed Mr. Markham.

  "Instead, after he'd been somewhat stabilized after surgery at Portola Hospital, and as he lay helpless in his hospital bed, a person or persons as yet unknown injected his body with an overdose of potassium.

  "Potassium is a common medication. It is readily available in emergency rooms and intensive care units. But potassium can kill when administered in large doses. And such a dose was given to Mr. Markham.

  "That same night, his wife, Carla, and their three children died of gunshot wounds in their home. We have convened here today to take evidence to determine the identity of the killer or killers in this series of brutal deaths."

  All eyes were glued on her. Most of the members had pads on the desks in front of them, ready to take notes. "The medical examiner has ruled that Carla Markham's death by gunshot is a possible suicide, but this is still a matter of uncertainty. Lieutenant Glitsky, the chief of the homicide detail, will be testifying here for you in a few moments. He will be conducting a parallel investigation into that aspect of the case, and he may decide to his satisfaction that in fact Mrs. Markham killed her family and herself, or he may arrest a suspect before you have gathered enough evidence to issue an indictment." She paused and met a few eyes among her jurors. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. In the meanwhile, the city has received a bill in the amount of thirteen million dollars for services "

  * * *

  Hardy wasn't exactly sure what had brought him to Portola in the first place. He'd vaguely wanted to talk to someone in administration, he thought, but nobody would talk to him. He hadn't made an appointment—it was becoming his theme for the day. Everybody was busy, all the health care professionals and administrators were dealing with the fallout from the week's horrors within the hospital itself, to say nothing of the upheaval under the corporate umbrella. They had no time for impromptu meetings.

 
This whole day ought to teach him to rein in his boyish enthusiasm, he told himself as he squished down the hallway on his way to the lobby and out. He was just steeling himself for the dash outside when he noticed a sign that directed people to various locations, one of which read CAFETERIA.

  Realizing that if he didn't ask no one could say no, he turned back and followed the arrows. It was long past lunchtime, and the place, while not deserted, wasn't crowded, either. Hardy grabbed a muffin and a cup of coffee, paid the cashier, and stood waiting for his muse to speak. Alone, at a table by a window, a woman in a nurse's uniform sat reading a book, and he began to walk toward her.