John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

"Frannie, they found her guilty. That part's over."

Her fingers felt good against his scalp now. "I say she did not kill Larry and her boy."

"I can't prove she didn't. She did kill Ned-"

"That was different."

"Not so different," he said. "Ned's dead. Larry's dead-"

Frannie stood up and walked over to the fireplace. She spent a minute rearranging the small herd of brass elephants that liked to graze there. "I still say you're thinking too much like a lawyer. You're thinking what arguments you can make."

"That's kind of my job, Fran."

She faced him. "I'm not attacking you, Dismas. I'm telling you she did not do it. That's reality, not law, not what the jury found."

"It’s one reality, Fran. Yours."

"Damn it! Listen to me. You want to argue and fight about words, you go ahead. But there's a major thing you're forgetting."

"Oh? What's that?"

"Sure, go ahead, get mad. That's a real help."

Hardy was mad. He had gotten up, found himself standing by the couch with his fists clenched. He closed his eyes and took a breath. "Okay, I'm sorry. What am I forgetting?"

"If Jennifer didn't do it, somebody else killed them, and did it for a reason."

Hardy was shaking his head. "I've been all through the possibilities there – by myself, with Terrell and Glitsky and Freeman and the whole known universe."

"Then you missed something."

"Except if Jennifer did do it. How about that?"

Frannie didn't budge. "She didn't. I think you know it and I know I know it. Powell got it wrong both ways."

"I don't know that."

Frannie was heading back through the dining room. "I feel like a glass of wine. Several. You can join me or not, I don't care."

"The hit man?"

The mood had mellowed some. It was ten-thirty and they'd finished most of a bottle of Chardonnay. Hardy had run all the people with motives by Frannie, and finally they had arrived at Frannie's suggestion that one of these people, although armed with an alibi for his or her personal time, had hired someone to kill the family.

Hardy shook his head. "Don't you suspect a professional hit man would bring his own weapon? You ever hear of a hit man shooting somebody with their own gun?"

Frannie had her legs over his on the couch. She sipped her wine. "I don't know. It's not exactly my area of expertise."

"Plus, how did he get in or out?"

"Maybe he just walked. Is there a back door? A window? All I'm saying is it had to be someone. Someone besides Jennifer."

"The problem is, Fran, even if I agree, this takes us back to police work. And they didn't find anybody else. No hit man, no nobody."

"Maybe Abe…"

Hardy shook his head. "Abe is a good guy but he's done on this one. Everybody's done. It's down to me."

Frannie finished her wine. "And you don't have a lawyer argument that's going to save Jennifer, do you?"

"No. She won't-"

Frannie shushed him. She knew all that, she reminded him. "Okay, then. There's only one option left."

"I'm listening."

"You've got to find out who killed them."

Hardy sensed that he and Walter Terrell weren't friends anymore. He had reached him by telephone at the homicide detail before nine the next morning, and they had had a brief discussion. After Hardy had introduced himself, saying he just had a couple of quick questions, Terrell had replied, "Why don't you take your questions to somebody who gives a shit?" And then the inspector had hung up.

Hardy held the receiver for a long minute, until it started to beep at him. Okay, he thought, I can take a hint.

He had a problem – nobody was going to talk to him. Terrell was the first indication, but as he sat flipping though the interview folders and copies of police reports on his desk, he realized that he had about run out of folks who might be willing to give him the time of day, much less a substantive interview.

Tom and Phil DiStephano – forget it. Nancy – too scared, and rightly so. The Romans – he could go get in Cecil's face, but there was no leverage even if he had a grounded suspicion, which he didn't. There was Sam, the gay receptionist at the Mission Hills Clinic, but that could get awkward and was still once removed from any even remotely potential suspect.

Hardy went downstairs again, watched more World Series action, drank a cup of coffee and schmoozed with Phyllis. David Freeman was in his office this morning but had a client with him and Phyllis wouldn't interrupt, not that Hardy wanted her to. It looked like another murder case. By the way, he'd been working while he'd been at home – she had typed the first papers on the Witt appeal this morning.

The ever-spinning wheels of the law depressing him, Hardy went back upstairs. He threw darts – 20, 19, 18. The numbers falling, the clock ticking.

The only human being left was Ali Singh, the office manager at YBMG. Hardy thought he'd take him out to lunch, see if there was any other avenue he hadn't explored regarding Larry Witt's work. Maybe he had stolen another doctor's patients? Singh's avowal that Larry had been popular with his fellow workers – on reflection – just didn't seem to be possible. The man had been difficult with everyone, and all work environments created frictions. At least it was worth a shot. Not to mention that it was the only shot Hardy had.

Except that Singh no longer worked there.

"Do you have a forwarding number?"

The efficient voice said they weren't allowed to give out that information, which Hardy had somehow known was coming.

"It's very important."

The voice was sorry. There was nothing it could do. Hardy's karma on a negative course.

"Okay, then, how about this? How about I give you my name and number and you call Mr. Singh and ask him if he'd like to call me back?"

"I may be able to do that," the voice said. "I'll check."

Assistant District Attorney (and candidate for Attorney General) Dean Powell and his boss Chris Locke were having lunch together at a corner table fifty-two floors above San Francisco in the Carnelian Room at the top of the Bank of America Building. Powell had asked for the lunch.

The special was Santa Barbara rock shrimp risotto, and both the attorney and his boss the DA had ordered it. Powell had decided he wanted a half bottle of Meursault to go with it. Locke wasn't having any until it was poured, and then he allowed himself to be talked into a glass. They did not click their glasses together.

The upcoming election was now less than two weeks away, and Powell was leading the pack of contenders in the latest poll by four percentage points. After a few minutes of chatter about that, Powell came to the point, filling Locke in on Hardy's visit to his office, the one he had promised not to talk about.

When he had finished, Locke said, "He's only been with Freeman how long and he's pulling this? 'Course, he's capable of doing it all on his own."

Powell nodded. "It's pretty transparent." He stabbed a shrimp. "He tells me his client won't let him bring it up but nevertheless it's the truth and I'm a cretin if I don't believe him."

"Still, though, Dean, this issue has been floating around since the beginning."

"Of course. There's little doubt the woman was hit a few times. But it's nowhere in the record."

"Yes, it is, Dean. At least once."

"Not with Larry. Not with the second husband."

A bit annoyed, perhaps only impatient, Locke snapped, "I know who Larry is." Then, "What's he doing with it? Hardy, I mean?"

"Well, that's just it – he says Jennifer has forbidden him to bring it up in open court."

"He say why?"

Powell shrugged. "She says it gives her a reason to have killed Larry and she didn't do it."