The Dismas Hardy Novels

by John Lescroart

  “What else could I do? It was the middle of the week. The kids had school. It was just me and them.”

  “Sure, I understand. But during that time, before you’d heard about the potassium, you had quite a bit of time during which you say you believed Eric had killed Tim. And yet you made no attempt to go to the police yourself?”

  The question surprised her, and she hesitated for a moment, perhaps wondering about the why of her answer. “No. I didn’t know.”

  “Why do you think not, if you don’t mind?”

  “Because I thought…I mean, I guess I believed…I’d heard Tim died from the accident.”

  “And you believed that? For two days? Even after Eric had apparently told you he’d killed him? Mrs. Kensing, did you get any sleep in those two days?”

  Shaking her head no, she began to sob quietly, but Hardy had to go on. “So when you heard Tim had been killed on purpose, that it hadn’t been the accident, what went through your mind?”

  “I don’t know. When I heard about it…it was so unreal. Almost as though he’d died again, a second time.”

  “And that’s when you remembered what Eric had said the first time?”

  “Yes.”

  “But in spite of Eric’s apparent confession, you never really seriously considered that Tim had died of anything but the hit-and-run accident?”

  “But he said—”

  “But you didn’t believe him at the time, did you? You didn’t believe him because you knew he didn’t mean it literally, as a statement of fact. He said it to hurt you, didn’t he? It was a sarcastic and hurtful way to call you stupid, wasn’t it? That you’d asked such a question.”

  She looked at him in a kind of panic, forcing him to backpedal slightly. “I’m not trying to put words in your mouth, Mrs. Kensing. I’m just trying to find out what really happened. What you recall now, today.”

  Hardy waited through the lengthy silence.

  “I mean,” she said, “if Tim had been killed, that changed everything, didn’t it?”

  “I agree it changed that it was no longer an accident.” He let her live with it for another long moment. “Mrs. Kensing, Ann, I’m not going to lie to you. Your testimony here is critical, and as you said when I first got here, I’m Eric’s lawyer. I’ve got a vested interest in keeping him out of jail.” He waited again until she met his eyes. “If in your heart you believe that Eric killed Tim, and meant it when he said he did, I’m not even going to try to talk you out of it. You know what you know. But Eric is among the things that you know best, for better or worse, isn’t that right? And he’s been a good father, as you admit; a good doctor. Maybe even by your own estimation, a good man?”

  She was nodding, fighting back more tears. “I always thought he was. He is.”

  And finally, the nub of it. “Do you really believe he could have killed Tim? That he actually did that? Because if he didn’t, Mrs. Kensing, somebody else did, and that’s the person I’d like to find, whoever it might be. And to do that I’m going to need your help.”

  The real problem with the reunion between Eric and Ann Kensing was that Hardy didn’t know that Glitsky had assigned an officer to protect Mrs. Kensing from her husband should he come back to try and kill her again. When Hardy had rung the bell and been admitted to Mrs. Kensing’s house an hour before, this officer hadn’t molested Hardy in any way, although he had placed a call to Glitsky informing him of the circumstances.

  So at 5:35, Glitsky knocked at the door himself. Ann Kensing got up and, thinking it was her husband with her children, she opened it. Hardy, who had remained seated in the living room, jumped up when he heard the voice, but it was too late—Glitsky’s foot was already across the threshold. Holding up his badge, he had asked if he could come in, and Ann had seen no reason not to let him.

  Hardy, fiercely protective and fuming, stopped when he got to the hallway. “What the hell are you doing here? Are you following me?” Then, to Ann, “You can ask him to leave. He doesn’t have a warrant.”

  But Glitsky had already won that round. “She let me in. I don’t need a warrant.”

  “So what’s your point?” Hardy asked, taking another step toward him. “Just general harassment this time? Just kick all the rules out?”

  Glitsky ignored him and spoke to Ann. “I thought you might want some moral support before your husband and this Mr. Hardy double-team you. Has he theatened you in any way?”

  “No.” She looked back and forth at the two angry men. “Well, just—”

  Hardy held out a hand, interrupting. “Ann, please.”

  “Just what, Mrs. Kensing? Are you saying he has threatened you?”

  “No. But he told me some rights that maybe—”

  Now Glitsky interrupted. “Is he your lawyer, too? God forbid you haven’t let him talk you into that?”

  “No, he’s…”

  By now the voices had pitched up. Hardy couldn’t resist finishing her thought, which would—he was sure—give him the next round. “There never was any confession. You didn’t take the trouble to get the context of my client’s statements.”

  Glitsky stood stock still, rocked by the blow. Although he’d expected something very much like it, the confirmation of the news was a haymaker. His scar flared, his eyes blazed. It took a moment for him to get his senses back. “All right,” he said finally, softly. “But both of you are now going to hear me out.” And in the most reasonable tone he could muster, he proceeded to give her an earful of angry cop.

  Like: “Ms. Kensing, you said that your husband confessed to murder. That’s part of the record in this case. If you go changing your story under oath, someone could decide you’re committing perjury. You might get in very big trouble yourself. Do you understand that?”

  Like: “Isn’t it obvious to you that Mr. Hardy here is using your own children as bargaining chips so that you’ll help him get his client off? Could it be any more transparent?”

  Like: “Of course your husband isn’t pressing charges against you about what happened Saturday. He’s lucky he didn’t have them brought against himself. But please be clear on this: He doesn’t decide what charges get filed, the DA does. Try to understand that what he’s really doing is trading your possible misdemeanor charge against his own murder rap.”

  Like: “You don’t have to make this kind of deal. We can in all likelihood have a judge sign a TRO”—a temporary restraining order—“and get your children back with you.”

  Finally, Hardy had had enough. Glitsky was overdoing it. Besides, it was in his own best interests to rise to her defense. “Actually, the lieutenant’s a little off base. There’s no judge in the world who would grant a TRO on what’s going on here.” He turned to Mrs. Kensing. “Unless, it must be said, he issued it against you. You’re the one with charges pending here, not your husband.”

  Back at Glitsky, his voice hardened. “And you know the woman’s got every right in the world to talk to me, Lieutenant. We need to know exactly what Dr. Kensing said, and if perhaps your inspectors were too eager. Mrs. Kensing got it wrong the first time and, realizing that, would like to get back on some kind of cordial footing with her ex-husband so that they can cooperate, as they always have before, on raising their children. I don’t see how you can have any kind of problem with that.”

  Glitsky’s scar seemed to glow red in the dusky light. “You don’t? You don’t consider what you’re doing tampering with this witness?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You deny that you’re bringing undue influence to bear?”

  Hardy bit back his initial response, which prominently featured the vulgarity Glitsky so despised. Instead, he turned again to Mrs. Kensing. “Am I forcing you to do anything?”

  “He’s not, Lieutenant.”

  Glitsky believed that like he believed in the Easter Bunny. He wanted to pull Hardy into another room where they could duke out some of their continued differences outside of the presence of this woman, but if he suggested that, h
e knew it would come across as though he were trying to hide something from her. And he couldn’t have that, either. There was no other good option, so he went right ahead with what he had to say.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what, Counselor. I’d call this tampering. I’d call it undue influence, if not outright coercion. Jackman cut you a sweet deal, okay, but that’s not carte blanche to sabotage any case we might be building. I think he’s going to find you went way over the line with this. To say nothing of this autopsy charade I’m learning about with Strout. And now he tells me you’ve got Wes Farrell on your team, too, trying to pull the same crap.”

  “Wes isn’t on any team of mine, Lieutenant. He’s got his own client and his own problems.”

  “Yeah, which includes somebody else who died at Portola Hospital? Just surfacing at this moment? You expect me to believe that? It’s just a coincidence, is it?”

  “I don’t expect you’d believe anything I said. But I’m not trying to obstruct this case. I’m trying to see it for what it is and solve it.”

  Glitsky just about spit it out. “Yeah, well that’s my job.”

  Hardy shot it back at him. “Then do it.”

  “I just tried and Jackman stopped me.”

  “He did you a favor.”

  Glitsky snorted scornfully. “You’re telling me I got the wrong man? Then how come every time I turn around, you’re playing some legal game covering his rear end—cutting your deal with Jackman, muddying the waters with Strout, talking to my witness here. You know what that makes me think? You’ve got something to hide. That all you’re doing is trying to get your client off, and be damned with the law, and be damned with the truth.”

  “That’s not who I am and you know it.”

  “Yeah, well if the shoe fits…” Glitsky turned to Ann Kensing. “You’re making a mistake here,” he told her. “If you want to change your mind again, after you’ve calmed down, you’ve got my number.”

  Hardy was in a true high rage now, and he wheeled on them both, his voice laden with disdain. “If you do, make him promise he won’t charge you with perjury.”

  Glitsky glared at him. “You think that’s funny?”

  “No,” Hardy snapped. “I don’t think it’s funny at all.”

  While the Kensing children got used to their mother again, the cast on her foot, the bandage on the back of her head, their father stayed away from her. He called out for a pizza delivery and spent the best part of the next half hour picking up around the house—he collected and started two loads of laundry, put every dish and utensil he could find into the dishwasher, ran a sponge mop over the kitchen floor.

  Hardy called Frannie to tell her he would be a little late. Yes, sorry, he knew. But he was still shooting to be in time for dinner, which they’d rescheduled over the past weekend for 8:00, instead of 6:30 or 7:00, to better accommodate Hardy’s workday. He also took an extra minute and described a bit of his terrible fight with Glitsky. He needed to talk to her; he needed her. And he would definitely be home by 8:00. She could set the clock by it.

  Hardy went to the bathroom to throw some water on his face, hoping it would counteract some of the nausea he was feeling, the residue of his argument with Glitsky. He felt as though he’d swallowed a rock. When he returned, the children were devouring pizza in the kitchen, a video of some action flick on and purposely turned up loud.

  In the living room, Ann and Eric had taken their respective neutral corners, and now they sat in silence, not even facing each other, waiting for Hardy.

  He started to go back to his old spot on the couch with Ann, but decided that this might have the appearance that he was taking sides, so he stayed on his feet and stood by the trash-and ash-filled fireplace. “Both of you are doing the right thing,” he began. “I know it’s hard.” He looked from one of them to the other. Both obviously still seethed. He kept on. “I’ve been involved with this case for going on a week now and there’s far too much I don’t know. We need to talk together about it. Who might have killed Mr. Markham.”

  Ann took it as an opening, and she wasted no time getting to the crux. “All right. I’ve heard your lawyer tell me you didn’t do it, Eric. Here’s another chance for you. Why don’t you tell me yourself?”

  He turned his head to face her, then shook it in disgust and weariness, and brought a flat, dead glance back to her and answered her with no inflection at all. “Fuck you.”

  “There!” she exploded to Hardy. “See? That’s him. That’s who he really is.”

  Kensing came right at her, up out of his chair, his voice a rasping whisper so the children wouldn’t hear. “You don’t have a clue who I am anymore. I’m just so tired of your shit. Did I kill Tim for Christ’s sake? Fuck that and fuck you again.”

  “Eric,” Hardy began.

  But now his client turned on him. “I don’t have to listen to this all over again, do I? It won’t work with her. You can see for yourself—she’s an irrational menace. I’m out of here and I’m taking the kids with me.”

  “Don’t you touch them again!” She might use crutches for her sprained ankle, but Ann could move quickly enough without them when she had to. She was at the entrance into the hallway, blocking Kensing’s way, before he’d gone three steps.

  Hardy moved too, as fast as he could, getting himself between them. For an instant, he thought he and his client were going to mix it up. “Get out of my way, Diz.”

  “Not happening,” Hardy said. “You going to make me?”

  “Don’t you make me.”

  “See?” Ann was saying. “This was Saturday! This is what he did then!”

  “I didn’t do anything on Saturday!” He pointed at her over Hardy’s shoulder. “You want to talk about the problem here! You want to talk danger to the kids, you want to talk unstable?” Then he took it directly to her. “You really think I’ve got it in me to kill somebody? Give me a break, Ann. My whole life is keeping people alive. But you lock me out, raving about maybe I’m here to kill my own children? That’s real craziness. That’s scary fucking lunacy.”

  Hardy had to find a wedge to get in or this was over before it started. “Speaking of scared, she was scared, Eric.”

  “She’s got no call to be scared of me. I’ve never done anything to hurt her. If she doesn’t know that…” He shifted his focus from Hardy to her, his own anguish now evident in his voice. “What were you thinking, Ann? What’s the matter with you?” Finally, a plea. “Would I ever hurt a kid? One of my kids? How could I ever do that?”

  Ann was almost panting—taking quick, deep breaths. “When the police told me, I just…I was afraid…I didn’t…” Hardy thought she would break again into sobs, but she got hold of herself this time. “I didn’t know what to think, Eric. Can’t you understand that? I loved Tim, and he was dead. I hadn’t slept in two days. I was so scared.”

  “Of me? How could you be scared of me?”

  Now she pleaded for understanding from him. “I was just scared, okay? Of everything.” Her voice was small. “I didn’t want to make another mistake and then, of course, I did.”

  It was the closest thing to an apology Kensing was going to get. Hardy recognized that and took the moment. “Why don’t we sit back down?”

  “Did Ross go in?” Hardy asked. “It must have been minutes before the monitors went off.”

  “He might have. He could have. I just don’t know.”

  “Where were you then?” Ann’s anger hadn’t entirely passed. “I thought you were on the floor. It’s not that big. How could you not know?”

  Kensing kept any defensiveness out of his reply, directed as much to Hardy as to Ann. “We had three patients in the hall. One of them was having problems coming out of the anesthesia, so Rajan—he’s one of the nurses—he and I were checking vitals pretty closely. During those minutes, anybody could have walked behind me—I’m sure some people did—and I might not have noticed. An hour before, Brendan Driscoll had just walked all the way in.”

  “Ho
w did that happen?” Hardy asked.

  Kensing shrugged. “Nobody stopped him. You’d have to know him. He carries himself with a lot of authority. If any of the nurses would have said anything, he would have just said, ‘It’s all right, I belong here,’ and they probably would have accepted it.”

  “I hate the little bastard,” Ann added. “He actually believed he could order Tim around.”

  “Did he?” Hardy asked. “Order him around?”

  “He tried, especially when it came to his time. Scheduling.”

  “And how did Tim feel about that?”

  “He couldn’t live without him,” Eric put in, unable to keep some fresh venom out of his voice. “Brendan did about half his work.”

  “Wrong!” Ann Kensing wasn’t going to let Eric slander Tim. “Tim thought big. Brendan was good with details. But Brendan didn’t do Tim’s work. He took orders…”

  Eric snorted in disagreement.

  “…there’s no question who was the leader.”

  “So there was friction between them?”

  “Major,” Eric said. “You’ve got to know Brendan to appreciate him. ‘The little engine that could.’”

  Hardy came back to Ann. “What else did they fight about? Besides you?”

  She hesitated. “I think some of Tim’s financial decisions. Tim was more of a risk taker.”

  “With Parnassus’s money?” Hardy’s main interest was the murder, but if he could uncover some business dirt that might be helpful to Jackman, he’d be glad to have it.

  “Well, I don’t know exactly. The last couple of years they’ve had to run pretty lean…and then there were some personnel problems—”

  “Me, for example.”

  Ann shrugged. It was the truth. “Well, yes. Among others.”

  Kensing amplified. “Brendan wanted Tim to fire me straight out starting three or four years ago. Make an example of me.”