John Lescroart - Nothing But The Truth

Following his eyes, he stepped up into a formal dining area – a granite table and six tubular chairs under an ultra-modern lighting device. A spacious gourmet kitchen was to his left across a bar of a dark space-age material.

Beyond the table – the wine racks, the little seating area off the formal dining room – Hardy got to the drapes covering the back wall. He pulled them back a foot or two, the dim light from the living room now all but lost behind him.

French doors gave on to a balcony. He opened them and stepped out, noticing the red Spanish tiles, a small, round outdoor dining table and chairs, and several plants. The balcony was neither large nor small, but the view made it magnificent. Facing due north, it was unimpeded for a hundred miles, especially on a night like tonight when a brisk breeze scoured the sky free of fog and haze.

It suddenly hit him – this was where Bree Beaumont had gone down. Walking to the edge of the balcony, he leaned out over the substantial cast-iron railing and looked down into what from this height appeared to be a square of light – the enclosed garden where she had lain undiscovered, apparently, for several hours. Stepping back, he sensed rather than felt a gust of wind out in front of him – it didn’t even rustle the plants on the ledge, though it did raise the hairs on his neck.

But he was wasting time out here, taking in the sights. He had to get something to lead him to Ron and then get out if he was to do Frannie any good, if tonight wasn’t already a wash.

He came back through the drapes into the sitting area off the dining room. In a moment, he’d passed through the kitchen into a hallway he’d ignored on his first pass. It led off the sunken living room to another wing, and on the first step in, he turned on the lights.

The room on his left had a blinking light that caught his attention. On a desk sat the telephone answering machine. It was an office, and as such, it might have what he needed. Crossing the room, planning to check first the messages, then the rolodex, then the computer, he heard a creak.

Frozen, he stood listening. A step back toward the hall. An unmistakable sound now, the front door opening. There was a shift in the light coming out of the living room into the hallway.

He had company.

There was no other option. Hardy cleared his throat loudly and went out to face whoever it was.

‘Hold it right there!’

‘I’m holding it.’

He was standing in the hall’s entrance, his hands wide apart, palms out before him at chest height. He was looking at a man about his size wearing black slacks, tennis shoes, and a green windbreaker. The man was holding a gun as though he knew what to do with it, and this got his complete attention.

‘You’re Hardy?’

‘Guilty.’ He kept his hands in the air. It would be a bad time for a sudden movement to get misunderstood. ‘I generally let the guy with the gun talk first, but maybe I should explain why I’m here. Are you Ron Beaumont?’ The man looked down at the weapon, then put it back into its shoulder holster. ‘No. I’m Phil Canetta, a sergeant out of Central Station.’ He came forward. ‘You’re Glitsky’s pal.’ It wasn’t a question.

Hardy nodded.

‘I was at the station when he called – he said somebody might want to keep on eye on you. You were on your way over here, and might need some help.’ An aggressive look. ‘I didn’t expect you’d be inside.’

‘The door wasn’t locked. I tried it and it opened. I’ve got to find the guy who lives here. Do you know him? Beaumont?’

‘No. I saw him the day of the murder, that’s all. I did meet her a couple times.’ Hardy must have changed expressions, since Canetta went on to explain. ‘I do some moonlight security – convention work, parties. Caloco does a lot of that.’

‘And Bree would be at these things?’

He nodded. ‘Yeah.’ Then. ‘And when she was around, you noticed.’

‘I saw her picture in the paper. Good-looking woman.’

Canetta almost angrily shook his head. ‘Didn’t come close.’ Hardy wondered a little at the strong response, but Canetta was going on. ‘So where is everybody?’

‘I don’t know. I hope they didn’t run.’

‘Were they close to bringing him in, the husband?’

‘I think it’s crossed their minds. Are you helping out on this murder somehow?’

He’d touched a nerve. ‘Are you kidding? Station cops don’t investigate murders. This is my beat, that’s all. The day it happened, I got the call and showed up here, and secured the scene until Glitsky’s people showed. The professionals.’ He almost sneered the word, but then, maybe remembering that Hardy was Glitsky’s friend, he got back to business. ‘They must be at a movie, out to dinner, or something.’

The wall clock read almost eleven. Hardy shook his head. ‘It’s getting late for kids on a school night. But I don’t want to just assume Beaumont’s on the run, not when there’s so many other alternatives. Maybe this place freaks out his kids. Maybe they’re all with relatives.’

‘Does he have any?’

Hardy wished he’d copied the file that Glitsky had given him. It might contain some of these details. There was one other avenue, but Hardy wasn’t sure how to bring it up. He only knew he hated to leave before exploring it. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘there’s an answering machine in the office down that hall.’

‘Eight calls,’ Hardy remarked.

‘Popular guy.’

‘Either that or he hasn’t been here in a while.’

Canetta nodded. ‘I was going to say that next.’ He pointed to the machine. ‘Let’s hit that thing, see what it says.’

Hardy pushed the button.

Whatever else was going on, Ron Beaumont either hadn’t checked or hadn’t erased his messages since one oh seven p.m. on Tuesday, two days ago. It was one of those systems that announced the date and time of the calls, so Hardy and Canetta could place them exactly. The first was a man named Bill Tilton who wanted Ron to call back about insurance and left his number.

Canetta had come up beside Hardy, borrowed a pen from its holder on the desk, and was scribbling into a spiral pad. Hardy thought this was a bit odd, but maybe the sergeant wanted to be an inspector someday, get beyond station work. He also might simply want to solve a murder and rub it in homicide’s nose.

The machine kept talking. A woman with an Asian name – Kogee Sasaka? – called to remind Ron about their appointment, although she neglected to leave her number or the time or place of it, or what it was about.

James Pierce from Caloco. Asking Ron to call him back. There were some questions about Bree’s effects and he’d like to come up sometime and…

Another woman: Marie. Just calling to say hi.

Moving through Tuesday afternoon. Al Valens. Something about Bree’s files, some new data she had been working on.

‘Both sides of the fence.’

Hardy pushed the pause button. ‘What’s that?’

‘The first guy, Pierce, and this new one, Valens. He works with Damon Kerry.’ The candidate for governor. ‘His campaign manager.’

Hardy turned back to Canetta. ‘For a station cop, you’ve got a pretty good handle on this case, don’t you?’

A defensive shrug. ‘I read the papers. Whatever they say downtown, there’s no rule says we’re not allowed to think.’

‘So what do you think about these guys, sergeant – Pierce and Valens?’

A moment of hesitation, seeing if Hardy was playing with him, then deciding he wasn’t. ‘Something with Bree’s work, I’d guess. They’re on opposite sides in these gas additive wars.’

‘So what would they both want with Ron?’

A moment’s consideration. ‘He must know something.’