John Lescroart - Betrayal

"Hit me."

"Nolan killed these Khalil people, and then their family killed him in retaliation."

"How'd they know he did it?"

"They put it together that it was Allstrong because of what was going on in Iraq, whatever that was. Once they knew that, they found out Nolan was Allstrong's man over here. Even if he wasn't the actual killer, they were striking back and getting revenge."

"How'd they know where he lived?"

"Diz, please. It's cake to find people nowadays. You got a computer? They probably knew where he'd be living before he moved in. Come on, this doesn't sing for you?"

"No, it does, that's the problem."

"Why's it a problem?"

"Because if it happened the way you say, my client's innocent."

"And this is bad news because…"

"Because he's about three years into life in prison right now."

Moses tipped up his club soda. "Could be worse."

"True," Hardy said, "but it also could damn sure be better."

"But why didn't the prosecution look into that?" Frannie asked between bites of her calamari. "I mean, I can see them finally deciding it was probably your guy Evan, but you'd think they'd at least question some of the victims' family, too, wouldn't they? If only to find out some background on them."

"More than background, Frannie. These were two murders. Just thinking it was Evan shouldn't have been nearly enough. They would have wanted to prove it and maybe send him to death row."

They were at Pane E Vino, back on Union Street not far from Washburn's office, and here it had finally chilled down enough to make them decide to eat inside. They were up right in the window. Dusk hadn't yet progressed into dark. Frannie's shoulder-length red hair brought out the contrasting green in her eyes, which were the same color as the silken blouse she wore-a visual that, even after all of their time together, still captivated Hardy.

Dipping some of the fresh warm bread into the restaurant's little dish of olive oil, Hardy pinched some salt from the open bowl and sprinkled it over his upcoming bite. "But just because we have no record that anybody from the FBI talked to them doesn't mean that it didn't happen. Washburn and I have developed a theory about that."

"Which is?"

"That the FBI interviewed these people and didn't pass their information on to the police or the DA."

"Why wouldn't they do that?"

"Well, the simple answer is because they didn't have to. But another answer is maybe they just didn't want to. And finally, Washburn's personal favorite and maybe my own, is perhaps they were ordered not to."

"Why would that be?"

"Evidently, that is not a question for us mere mortals."

Frannie chewed thoughtfully, sipped at her Chardonnay. "So what are you going to do?"

"Well, first thing, I've already done it. Driving up, I called Wyatt"-this was Wyatt Hunt, Hardy's private investigator-"and asked him to try to find anybody in the extended Khalil family that the FBI actually talked to. And the beauty of it is that it doesn't even really matter too much what they said. If the FBI talked to them at all about the Khalil murders and didn't see fit to tell the DA, then we've got a real discovery issue." Hardy put his wine down. "Moses, you know, thinks Evan might even be innocent."

"And why does my brilliant brother think that?"

"Well, the great thing about Mose, as you know, is that he can build these complex theories without any reference to the facts. Or maybe with just one teensy little fact."

"And which one was that?"

"In this case, that Nolan killed the Khalils."

"You think that's a fact?"

Hardy considered, nodded. "Close enough. I don't think Evan did, that's for sure. So based on that, according to Mose, Evan didn't kill Nolan. The Khalils did."

Frannie's face grew dark. She placed her hands carefully apart on either side of her plate. "And these are the people you're hoping to go talk to? These same people who killed Nolan?"

"We don't know they killed Nolan. That's just Mose's theory." But even as he said it, Hardy knew where his wife was coming from, and why she suddenly was so concerned. He couldn't deny the sharp tickle of apprehension that washed over him as well.

And, he realized, it was not altogether ungrounded.

Frannie was already concerned, and she wasn't even aware yet that there was any question about what had happened to Charlie Bowen, whether he'd in fact actually disappeared or whether he'd been the victim of foul play.

Perhaps following the same path upon which Hardy was thinking to embark.

He sucked in a quick breath-he didn't want Frannie to worry about that-then picked up his wineglass and took a sip. "I know what you're saying," he told her, "but if these guys were a real problem on that level, I've got to believe the FBI, with all of its resources, would have gotten some inkling of it. Wouldn't you think?"

"I would think that, yes. But then what?"

"Then I'd think they would have arrested somebody. That's what they do, Frannie. They find bad guys and put them away."

"Except if this one time they, in fact, didn't."

"Why wouldn't they?"

"For the same reasons you just gave me why they didn't tell the DA about these interviews you're pretty sure they had." She ticked them off on her fingers. "They didn't have to, they didn't want to, or they were ordered not to."

Hardy acknowledged the point with a small nod. "Well," he said, "I've got to believe there's a quantum difference between not turning over interview notes and not arresting someone they knew was a killer."

"Dismas." She put her fork down and met his eyes. "I never actually thought I'd say this, but you don't watch enough television. On The Sopranos, the FBI turn mobsters all the time and leave them in place for years, hoping to scoop up the big fish. Meanwhile, all these other people are getting beat up and killed. This happens in real life too. Everybody knows this."

He nodded again. "True. It just seems a ways off on this case. At least at this point when everything's speculation."

"Do me a favor, would you?"

"Anything, my love."

"If it moves beyond speculation, take a little extra care. If these people killed Nolan, they could kill you."

Hardy knew that she might be right, but so was he-this was a long way from being established. "I'm not a threat to the Khalils," he said. "I don't want to prove anything about what they did or didn't do. I just want to know if the FBI talked to them and didn't tell the Redwood City cops about it. So I don't think we have to worry too much about anything happening to me."

"Oh, okay," she said with an edge, "then I'll be sure not to."

Another of the changes in Frannie's life after her own children had moved out was that she had turned into a baby junkie, so after dinner, since they would be driving right by the Glitskys' flat on their way home anyway, she suggested that they should call their friends and see if they wanted company. Back a few years ago when Date Night had been truly sacred, especially during Rachel's first year, this postprandial visit had become a weekly ritual.

Now, while Frannie and Treya and even Rachel passed the infant Zachary back and forth with suitable enthusiasm in the living room, the two men sat on the steps overlooking their swingset project in Glitsky's small backyard and talked quietly, very quietly, about Charlie Bowen.

"You really think he's a homicide?" Glitsky was nowhere near as defensive as he might have been if either Bowen or his wife had disappeared on his watch, rather than on Marcel Lanier's. So Hardy's theories were interesting and maybe even fun to talk about, but they weren't-yet-Glitsky's problems.

"Not exactly," Hardy said. "It's just suddenly I'm finding myself a little more curious about what happened to the guy."