The Dismas Hardy Novels

by John Lescroart

The question stopped Glitsky and he considered for a minute. “He’ll get used to it, I suppose. I just hate to disappoint him.” They’d gotten to the door. Frannie had opened it, and Abe was putting on his jacket.

  “You want,” Hardy said, “you and I could do a field trip to the crime scene tomorrow. Maybe get a tidbit for your dad, make him feel better, like you’re working on it. Maybe we even do some early Christmas shopping.”

  “I’ll check my social schedule,” Glitsky said, “but sounds like a good idea. You’d really do that?”

  “Sure. What are friends for? Say ten, eleven?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  When he was gone, Frannie closed the door and turned to him. “Maybe do some early Christmas shopping? Since when?”

  “It could happen,” Hardy said.

  “Okay, but what else?”

  “But that call from John? It turns out it was pretty important. The police want to talk to him about this guy Silverman’s death. Abe’s father’s friend.”

  “What about him?”

  “Whether he was involved somehow.”

  “Involved? How could John be involved? In what way?”

  “In the way of whether he had something to do with killing him.”

  6

  The sun broke through while Hardy read the morning paper at his kitchen table, waiting for Glitsky’s call, which never came. He finally called Abe’s and left a message at around eleven. Next he tried Holiday at home—useless—then at the Ark. Nothing.

  His own house had been empty now for an hour and a half. Though for years he’d fantasized about the magic day when he and Frannie’s lives weren’t ruled by the schedules of his children—the lessons and ballgames, the colds and homework and simple stuff that had cluttered his every waking moment for the past sixteen years—now that the time was upon him he wasn’t sure how much he liked it.

  Frannie was dropping the kids off somewhere and in an ironic turnabout he wasn’t sure he fully appreciated, she was seeing one of her clients on a weekend morning. Technically still a student, Frannie had gotten hooked up with a psychologist friend of hers, Jillian Neumann, and was working about twenty accredited apprentice hours a week in family counseling.

  So with the day looming empty as his house before him, Hardy went into the kitchen and took his black cast-iron pan down from where it hung off a marlin hook behind the stove. He ran his knuckles across its surface—silk.

  Automatically, he threw in a big pinch of salt—Frannie had switched to kosher salt and kept a bowl of it open next to the burners—and turned on the gas. He went to check the refrigerator, grabbed a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale from the top shelf, opened it, and drank. In two minutes, he’d cut up garlic and scallions, poured in some olive oil, added leftover rice, a can of sardines, a good shake of red pepper flakes. It occurred to him that he was eating too often at Lou the Greek’s if he found himself hankering for this kind of treat, but the smell pushed him onward. Soy sauce, some plain yogurt, and then, finally, an egg to bind it all. When it was done, it looked awful but he almost couldn’t wait to get back to the table to dig in. He thought it was even possible that he’d stumbled upon one of Lou’s wife Chui’s secret recipes such as Athenian Special Rice or even, wonder of wonders, Yeanling Clay Bowl.

  First, though, before he sat down to eat, he kept the heat up and threw in more salt. Swiping at the bottom of the pan two or three times with a dish towel, he then dumped the contents into the garbage can. The magic pan was as it had been before he began—black, gleaming, oiled.

  As he ate his masterpiece, his thoughts returned—if in fact they’d ever left—to Holiday. To most outside observers, the failed pharmacist was not typical of Hardy’s friends. The serious overdrinking, the gambling, the women. Certainly, bartending and trying to keep the bar he’d inherited afloat, he wasn’t working on any kind of career. That alone set him apart. Beyond that, Holiday had ignored his earlier friends until he lost them. He’d burned out his parents and the rest of his solidly suburban family, rejected their values and hopes for him.

  This was because John Holiday had no real hopes anymore himself. They’d been dashed six years ago when his wife and eight-month-old baby daughter—Emma and Jolie—had been killed by a hit-and-run driver who’d run the red and never even slowed down.

  Hardy, too, had lost a child. In another lifetime, he’d had a son, Michael, who’d lived seven months. A couple of years into his first marriage, to Jane Fowler, the child had somehow pulled himself up over the bars of his crib one day, fallen to the hardwood floor. For about ten years after that, his own marriage and fledgling legal career having collapsed under the weight of the grief, Hardy drank Guiness Stout, bartended at the Little Shamrock. Like Holiday, he was glib all the time.

  So Hardy knew what made Holiday the way he was. He didn’t blame him, wouldn’t judge him, didn’t expect anybody else to understand the connection. It was what it was.

  He was no longer eating. He was considering his friend’s life, and wondering if it could now have led him to a murder.

  Holiday grew up in a middle-class home in San Mateo. His father, Joseph, ran three independent and successful sporting goods stores until they were bought out by a nationwide chain in the eighties. His mother, Diane, stayed at home with the kids—John, his younger brother Jimmy, and their two sisters, Margie and Mary—until Mary was in kindergarten; then she went back to teaching.

  He went to an all-boys Catholic high school, lettered in baseball and track, became the school’s “blanket” player—the best all-around athlete whose name went on the blanket that hung in the school’s gymnasium. For a time he held the WCAL record in the half mile. Popular with students and faculty alike, he was secretary of the student body his senior year. Academically, he was sixth in his class with a 3.88 GPA, a National Merit and California State Scholarship Finalist, and a lifetime member of the California Scholarship Federation.

  These accomplishments were impressive, but said little about Holiday’s essence. Evidently between the ages of fifteen, when he lost his virginity, and thirty-one, when he got married, his chief persona was sexual predator. The first time was with Anne Lerner, a neighbor and friend of his mother, who . . .

  It was a warm, windy Saturday afternoon in late spring and he was with his three best buds from school buying sodas at the Safeway where they’d been let off by one of the moms after the ballgame. In the checkout line, Anne Lerner—the youngest and always the foxiest of Mom’s married friends, with a really cute bobbed-nose face and a great smile—was her usual friendly self to all of them. Every one of John’s pals admitted having the private hots for her—Mrs. Lerner was the only adult who got mentioned when the guys were making one of their frequent lists of the cutest girls, the best breasts, and so on. Today she looked almost like a teenager herself with her long, tan legs, the short white tennis shorts, the ash-blond hair hanging around her shoulders.

  She had a cart full of grocery bags and all four of the guys were happy to help her load them into the back of her wagon. Since none of them drove yet and all lived up the hill on her way home, she asked if they wanted a ride and all of them piled in, John in the front where, when she leaned forward to put in the key, he couldn’t help but see that the top button on her blouse had come undone. She glanced and caught him looking, gave him a playful, open smile, then buttoned up.

  When the last of them but John got out, Mrs. Lerner asked him if he’d mind stopping by her place first—just a few blocks farther up the street—and helping her unload the groceries. Her daughters were both gone on a weekend camping trip with the Girl Scouts and her husband was traveling again and wouldn’t be back until midweek. So she was all alone.

  He carried the bags inside. It took him four or five trips, and the button came undone again, and then the one under it. Finally, by the time he put the last bag on the counter and turned to face her, only one button remained.

  “Thanks, John. Can I offer you something? A glass of water?”


  He was mesmerized by the fall of her blouse, but stammered out a no. He had to be getting home.

  She took a step toward him. “Are you sure? You can stay a few minutes. Anything?”

  He swallowed—his mouth had gone dry—then he looked at her face, which wore a mysterious smile now, an expression unlike any he’d seen before. She closed the gap between them even more; they were so close he smelled the wonderful scent of her—almonds and . . . and something else. She cocked her head up at him. “What?” she asked playfully. “Tell me.”

  Following his gaze, she looked down. “Oh, these darn buttons.” But slowly, slowly, her eyes never leaving his, her hand went not to any of the open buttons, but to the closed one under them all, which was suddenly open, too. “Oops,” she said, laughter in her throat. She took his hands and brought them up to the little snap in the front of her bra, which she helped him open with a practiced ease.

  “What a charming story of young love,” Hardy said. “She was how old?”

  “Thirty-five. Forty. Somewhere in there.”

  “So if you were fifteen, she raped you.”

  “Diz, please, rape has such ugly connotations. I infinitely prefer the word seduced. And I promise it did not scar me for life. In fact”—a slow grin lifted Holiday’s corn-silk mustache—“I’ve been known to drop by in the recent past from time to time. And you know what? She is still hot.”

  “I’m happy for you both. Maybe not so much for the husband.”

  “Long gone, I’m afraid. I believe his prostate gave out.” Holiday kept his grin on, knowing he was pushing Hardy’s buttons. They were both sitting on folding chairs in sunshine just outside the propped-open front door of the Ark. Holiday was drinking a Bud Lite from the bottle and had his brown denim workshirt unbuttoned halfway. He was supposed to be bartending, but he owned the place and there weren’t any customers.

  “Well, fascinated though I am with all this history, it’s not why I came down. You talk to any cops yet?”

  “I haven’t had that pleasure.”

  “They didn’t come by your house?”

  “They might have.” Holiday tipped up some beer, the sloe-gin eyes twinkling. “I don’t believe I slept there last night, so I can’t be sure. But I did stop by here and Clint told me what was up, which was when I called you.”

  “And I’m so happy you did.” Hardy squinted up at the bright sky. He moved his chair back into the shade of the doorway. “So what do you think?”

  “I think I didn’t shoot Sam Silverman or anybody else.”

  “You pretty sure?”

  A nod. “Reasonably. It’s the kind of thing I’d remember.”

  “You got an alibi for when it happened?”

  Suddenly, all trace of the grin was gone. “This is starting to remind me of when you were my lawyer last time.”

  “That didn’t turn out so bad. Look at you now. They don’t let you drink in prison. Bud Lite or anything else.”

  “You chumming for business?”

  “Hey, you called me. The last thing I want in the world is a murder case. And here’s a hint—you don’t want one either. If Frannie wasn’t working, I’d be having lunch with her right now instead of checking up on your sorry ass. But as you appeared to be seeking advice and counsel—lo, I appear.”

  “All right.” Holiday leaned forward in the folding chair, his elbows on his knees. He had his index finger in the neck of his beer bottle and spun it in little circles near his feet. “So where were we?”

  “On your alibi.”

  Holiday gave an impression of thought. “What night again?”

  Hardy came forward and spoke with some sharpness. “Don’t give me that, John. It was the night after your poker game, which makes it Thursday. This is Saturday. I’m thinking even you, two days and who knows how many drinks ago, you might remember.”

  “Okay, between you and me, I had a date,” Holiday said. “Dinner and a movie.”

  Hardy sat back, spread his hands in victory. “There you go. Was that so hard?” But Holiday’s expression was far from relaxed. “What?” Hardy asked.

  “Well. Couple of things.”

  Hardy waited a minute, finally spoke. “Do I guess or are you going to tell me?”

  “No. I’m going to tell you.” He pulled the bottle off his finger and took another pull at it. “First, the lady in question is married, so she’s not going to want to be involved.”

  “Why am I not surprised? Maybe she’s not going to have a choice. So who is she?”

  “I can’t say. Not even to you. Her husband would . . .” He let it drop.

  “Well. There’s a ray of good news. Her husband, then, is still alive, I take it.”

  “Oh yeah. You’d know him.”

  “I’d know him? How’s that?”

  “I mean he’s well known, a public figure. She can’t come out.”

  “Great. Swell. You’re seeing the wife of a famous guy. Do I dare ask if this is a long-term relationship? Between you and her, I mean, not her and her husband.”

  “We went out a couple of months, but it looks like it’s over now anyway.” Holiday shrugged. “It ended Thursday, in fact. Before the movie. Before dinner, if you want to get technical.”

  “Technical’s good. Let’s go that way.” Hardy barked half a laugh. “So you didn’t go out with this unnamed married woman for dinner and a movie after all? And hence you don’t have an alibi for the time of the murder? Is that what you’re saying? And might I add parenthetically, do you have any idea how much fun I’d be having with you already if you were on the stand in court?”

  “But I was with her till at least six-thirty, is what I’m telling you, Diz. By which time Silverman was dead.”

  Hardy was shaking his head, not sure if he was near despair or enjoying himself. There was no question but that he believed Holiday—who else would go to these lengths to make up something so Byzantine and absurd?—but his predicament vis-à-vis the authorities might become very real if these vital facts couldn’t be managed. “I think I could use something to drink, John. You carry any nonalcoholic mixers? Club soda? Cranberry juice?”

  While Holiday went searching behind the bar, Hardy brought in the folding chairs, then sat at one of the bolted-down stools. “Just out of curiosity, where do you take the wife of a well-known public person out to dinner for a couple of months and never get recognized?”

  Holiday shot club soda from the gun over some ice, squeezed in a lime wedge. “Chinatown,” he said. “We all look the same to them. Hey, it’s true. It’s the next best thing to invisible.” He handed the drink across. “Anyway, the point is, Silverman was dead by the time we got to dinner, am I right?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t got the timetable on it. I gathered from Glitsky it was the end of the day, but five-thirty, six-thirty, I don’t know. You want to just tell me privately who the woman was?”

  “I could tell you, but so what? She’d just deny it. Especially now. She always had a cover story for her husband anyway, where she was. Look, maybe we won’t even need it, okay? Weren’t there three guys?”

  Again, Hardy had no previous connection to the case and he didn’t know.

  “Well,” Holiday said, “I’m telling you, there were. Clint, my night guy, said the cops were trying to scare him putting the three of us together—me, Clint, and Clint’s boyfriend Randy. Clint’s gay.”

  “I guessed,” Hardy said. “And they’ve got alibis? Clint and Randy?”

  “They were here together the whole time from six. Clint was behind the bar.”

  “And customers saw them and would swear to it?”

  Holiday shrugged. “Somebody must have.”

  “Very strong, John, very strong. Does Clint remember any of them, these customers?”

  “I’m sure he could come up with somebody.”

  This answer didn’t warm Hardy’s heart. He sipped at his club soda, wiped his finger along the overlacquered bar. “John, remember our first few i
nterviews when they busted you for the bad scrip? When you just couldn’t believe anybody really cared about prescription drugs enough to hassle anybody about them?”

  “I still can’t believe it. Adults ought to be able to get anything they want. If they kill themselves with whatever it is, hey, they’re adults.”

  “It’s really special you believe that, and we can have a debate about it later, but maybe right now we can agree that murder is more serious.”

  Holiday, on the other side of the bar, was filling the garnish trays. He stopped cutting lemon peel and looked up. “I really didn’t kill Sam, Diz. The other thing was different since I actually did it.”

  “Then why’d you call me last night? About this?”

  He went back to cutting. “Clint was freaked out about the cops coming by. It got a little contagious.”

  “But you’re over that now?”

  A shrug. “I really didn’t do it. Clint and Randy certainly didn’t do it. They’re not going to nail three of us when none of us were there.”

  Hardy sipped his club soda, said nothing.

  Holiday stopped again. “What? What’s that look?”

  “No look,” Hardy said. “I guess I forgot for a minute that nobody’s ever been arrested for a crime they didn’t commit.”

  “They’re not going to arrest me. They didn’t arrest Clint last night and they were right here with him.”

  “Okay, I’m convinced. You’re in no danger. But do me a favor. The cops come by to talk to you, call me first. Don’t say one word.”

  Holiday made a face. “Surely I should say hello. If I don’t return their greeting, they become surly. I’ve done experiments.”

  “Sure, say hello. Bake ’em a cake if you want.” Hardy drained his glass, stood up and walked out the open door without another word.

  After he calmed down a little, he called his home from the cell phone in his car, but nobody answered. At Glitsky’s, too, he got the answering machine again. This was turning into a rare day, with no work and no family. He considered going home and doing something physical—they had half a cord of wood that needed to be stacked, or he could take a run—but then he decided screw it. He’d go to his own well-run and pleasant bar and talk to someone with a functioning brain.