John Lescroart - The Suspect

"But never in a murder case."

Hardy embodied nonchalance. "Same rules, same procedures, same people in the courtroom. You'll get your sea legs and be fine. But let me ask you one."

Sighing again, she nodded. "All right. Shoot."

"You believe your man didn't do it, right? He's factually innocent. And forget about Wes. You don't have to explain why to me, if it's good enough for you."

"Okay. Yes. He's innocent."

"So use that. If he's innocent, what really happened? What's your theory on the case?"

Gina pursed her lips, looked into the middle distance. "She was expecting somebody. He came and they had a disagreement about something important. No, more than important-life-altering. Somehow she was going to ruin this guy's life. So he had to kill her."

Hardy contemplated that for a moment. "So she was having an affair?"

"Yes."

"Definitely?"

A beat, then, "Yes."

"Okay, then, there's your case. So here's ten cents of free advice: Prove it."

It was still dark out when Gina heard her morning Chronicle hit her front door and, since she wasn't sleeping anyway, reached out in her pajamas and brought it in. The end of the balmy spell, prefigured for the past several days by increasing winds and scudding cloud cover, was now reality enough that the paper was wrapped in plastic to keep it dry, and although the actual rain hadn't begun to fall, clearly it was going to be wet and cold.

Gina had stayed at the office with her discovery folders until nearly nine o'clock, then packed them up in her lawyer's briefcase. Thinking it might bring her luck and wondering all the while at the same time if it was a good idea, she had taken a taxi to the Rue Char-maine, the restaurant directly under David Freeman's old apartment on Mason, one block straight downhill from the Mark Hopkins Hotel that had been their favorite. Rick came out of the kitchen and showered her with attention. Then, in a custom long-established by David, Rick first determined what wine she'd be drinking-in this

case, a half bottle of Gevrey-Chambertin-and then brought her several small private special dishes that did not appear on the menu, to match the wine.

Home by eleven, wrestling with all that surrounded her case- Stuart, David, Juhle, Clarence, Caryn's phantom lover (and killer?)- she finally fell asleep sometime after 12:30, the last time she remembered glancing at her clock.

Until she was looking at it again at 4:15, wide awake.

When the paper hit the front door, it was the excuse she needed to throw off her covers. She knew she wasn't going back to sleep today. Might as well not fight it.

In her single-mindedness since Stuart had been arrested, Gina had neglected to do any grocery shopping, and now the pickings in her home were slim. She told herself that this wasn't smart if she was to have the energy she was going to need in court, but that wasn't going to help her this morning. Nothing remotely resembling a meal spoke to her from the pantry shelves. But she had one frozen teriyaki rice bowl left in her freezer, and not really in the mood for it, she nevertheless put it in the microwave and started the coffee going, six cups' worth.

Returning to the kitchen table, sitting down, opening the paper, she felt some undefined sense of relief that, at least for today, Stuart was off the front page. Although ironically enough, she thought, here was a picture of Jedd Conley and his wife on page three, at some fundraising event, with an accompanying article about his anticipated run for the U.S. Senate. He was still being coy and hadn't definitely committed, but obviously someone-one of Horace Tremont's political allies, no doubt-had floated the rumor to see how it played on the street. Judging from the article, it was going to play pretty well.

Thinking back to the night he'd put the make on her ten days before, Gina shook her head in a kind of disgusted wonder. She didn't hate or even dislike Jedd. In fact, to the contrary. But why, she wondered, was it always these guys with a kind of slippery personal morality who got drawn to high-level politics? And, all too often, elected?

It drove her nuts, which is why she rarely allowed herself to think about it. But seeing the story now in the paper, she resolved that if Jedd did decide to run, she wouldn't vote for him. Even if he was charming, sexy, discreet. It wasn't going to happen.

The timer on the microwave sounded as Gina finished the first section of the paper. She turned it over as she was getting up. Stirring the rice absentmindedly, she brought it over by the coffee machine, put it down and poured herself a cup with a spoonful of sugar. On automatic, coffee in one hand, rice bowl in the other, she returned to her seat at the table, noticing that outside, it was still dark.

The cup stopped halfway to her mouth and she put it back down softly, staring at the familiar name under the headline in the regional news that had caught her eye:

apparent suicide in foster city Police in Foster City are treating as a probable suicide the death, apparently by sleeping pills, of a woman found yesterday in her bed in the Harbor Creek Condominium complex. Kelley Gray Rusnak, 34 years old, and unmarried, had been a laboratory specialist for the San Bruno medical technology company, Polymed Innovations, Inc., for the past 11 years. When she failed to appear or call in her absence at work last Friday, and then this Monday, her employers became concerned and notified the police. William C. Blair, PII's president, said, "Kelley was one of our most reliable employees and when she didn't call in sick, we were very concerned that something bad must have happened."

Fully clothed when found, Ms. Rusnak, police say, appeared not to be the victim of foul play. Blair acknowledged that he had heard reports from the victim's colleagues that she had been depressed in recent weeks, and had recommended that she seek counseling. An autopsy is pending.

Funeral arrangements have not been announced but the family asks that in lieu of flowers, contributions be made to…

Gina knew that rain or shine or fog, Wyatt Hunt usually started his day early with a jog from the warehouse in which he lived near the Hall of Justice, out to the Embarcadero, then north to Maritime Park, and back. He didn't answer his phone at home when she called him, so she left a message and, her breakfast and coffee forgotten, ran to her room and got changed into her well-worn jogging outfit and tennis shoes. She would run across town, down California and Market, and cut him off. If she missed him, she'd go by his place.

She didn't miss him. At 6:15, Gina ran at his side, slowly enough through the light drizzle that they both could talk. "She was going to be one of my witnesses, Wyatt. She was one of the two people Stuart saw down the Peninsula. He wasn't fleeing from the arrest, but going down to talk to these people and find out what they knew about Caryn's business. I tried to subpoena her, but couldn't get the damn thing served."

"Well, now you know why."

"This has to be related to Stuart, and to the Dryden Socket somehow," she said. "She told Stuart something was seriously wrong with the product."

"So she killed herself over it? Why would she do that?"

"I'd be surprised if she did."

"But you just said…"

"I said the cops in the paper were calling it a probable suicide. I'm calling that pretty unlikely. I mean, two deaths in two weeks, and the women were partners in the same project? This doesn't raise a flag for you?"

They jogged on together. "It's a definite question," Wyatt said.

After a few more steps, he added, "I could look into it, but it would be an expensive fishing trip. And how's that helping Stuart in the here and now?"