John Lescroart - Nothing But The Truth

But the excuses and lies that he ran into every day in his criminal practice had honed Hardy’s natural cynicism into a sharp-edged and profound skepticism that cut a swath through normal human feelings, at least whenever the law was involved. Although he fought it in his home life and with his few close friends, he found that he didn’t take much at face value anymore. He tended not to believe interesting stories – there was always something else that didn’t get said.

Frannie’s explanations of Ron’s behavior – his easy skill with name change, for example; his successful kidnapping of his own children – only convinced Hardy that he was dealing with a very intelligent and resourceful criminal. One who had at the very least conned Frannie, and at the worst much more than that.

As if he needed more fuel to fire his rage.

They were at the Airport Hilton. Hardy had seen it before in people who were fleeing – the first instinct was to go to ground. Stay close. See which direction your pursuers took and then light out the other way.

Fifth floor, room 523. A ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign was affixed to the doorknob.

Hardy checked his watch. It was precisely nine sixteen. The sound of a television came from behind the door. Canned laughter.

He felt for the gun in his waistband, felt its reassuring presence, and left it where it was. He knocked.

Within a second, the television was turned off. And now behind the door there was only silence. He knocked again, almost tempted to call out, ‘Candygram.’ Instead, he waited, giving Ron every chance to do it in his own time.

Ron Beaumont held a finger over his lips, telling his children to make no sound. He crossed to the door of the hotel room. He, too, had a gun with him, but it was packed now in the false bottom of a suitcase.

He had to pray it wasn’t the police, or, if it was, that it was only one man. Then he might be able to talk himself a couple of minutes, enough time to get to his suitcase, do what he might have to do.

Hardy gave it another knock, harder. ‘Ron! Open the door!’ Another couple of seconds. Then, from behind the door, a firm voice, ‘We’re trying to sleep.’

Hardy leaned in closer, spoke with controlled urgency. ‘This is Dismas Hardy.’

Finally the door opened, but just a crack. Ron had turned off the lights inside the room and left the chain on. Hardy had to fight the impulse to slam his shoulder into the door and break the chain free.

Hardy spread his hands wide. No threat. Just open the door and let’s talk.

Ron Beaumont was a handsome man, though Hardy hated to admit it. Strong, angular features and clear, brown eyes set in cheekbones so chiseled that now, with his evening stubble, they looked like you could strike a match on them. An aquiline nose with a high bridge was perfectly centered over what Hardy supposed would be called a generous mouth. The full head of dark hair had a streak or two of gray at the temples, although the unlined face made that seem premature, or even dyed. Almost exactly the same height as Hardy’s six feet, he weighed at least ten pounds less, and none of it was soft.

The door was open and he moved to the side to let Hardy in.

All the way down from the Avenues to the airport, Hardy had indulged in fantasy, savoring the moment of confrontation when he, goddamit, made Ron ‘fess up to his responsibility to Frannie, to the damage he’d done. The other stuff, too, whatever it might have been – the true nature of their relationship, the alibi, whatever story they’d had to ’get straight.‘

Max and Cassandra skewed the dynamic immediately.

Ron’s kids as human beings in the center of this drama hadn’t made center stage before the lights went on in the hotel room. Before that, he was aware of their existence, of course, but they had been mere pawns in the chess game Hardy had been playing. The fact that they were here, now , taking up the same physical space as Ron whatever-his-last-name, changed everything.

Cassandra lit up when she saw him. ‘Mr Hardy. Hi.’ Natural as can be. Surprised and delighted at his appearance. Suddenly the name clicked with the face for Hardy, too. Cassandra was no longer a half-remembered presence in his daughter’s life, but one of the really good ones – polite, funny, able to speak in whole sentences.

He glanced at the boy, Max, now placing him as well. They’d both been to the house several times to play with his children, although Hardy hadn’t engaged either of them in meaningful dialogue.

It threw him to see it, but even now in this stressful environment, both remained obviously well-cared-for children, newly bathed and wearing pajamas.

‘Are you here to help us?’ Cassandra asked. She turned to her father, explaining. ‘Rebecca says that’s what her dad does. He helps people. He’s a lawyer.’

Ron didn’t seem as impressed with it as his daughter was, but the statement seemed to play into his plan and he didn’t miss the opportunity. ‘That’s right,’ he responded easily. ‘He’s here to see if he can help us out.’ A sideways glance, tacitly asking Hardy’s complicity at the outset, which Hardy couldn’t think fast enough to deny.

‘He’s trying to get us back home. It’s time you guys turned in, OK?’

A couple of minutes of small talk finally dwindled down before Hardy got strong handshakes from both of them as they were heading off to bed. And – the acid test – they both looked him in the eye.

It was a bit disorienting for Hardy to realize that these were well-adjusted children who appeared to love their father. If they were a bit reserved, Hardy had to remember that it was near their bedtime, they were in strange surroundings, and their stepmother had been murdered only three weeks before. He wouldn’t have expected giggling high spirits.

But he didn’t pick up any scent of people-fear, either of him or of their father, and that was always the inevitable companion to abuse.

It threw him off his stride. Whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this cozy domestic scene with father and loving children.

The gun rode heavily inside his belt, a stupid, clumsy, macho pretense. What had he been thinking? Shifting uncomfortably, pulling at his jacket to cover the gun, he felt a wave of disgust for himself.

Who was he kidding? He wasn’t some kind of gunslinger. It had been two decades since he’d been a cop. Now he was a lawyer, a paper pusher, a persuader. Words and strategy, the tools of old men like David Freeman.

And now Dismas Hardy.

All this was the thought of an instant, though. Ron was keeping things moving. ‘OK, you’ve told Mr Hardy goodnight enough times. Now march!’ Firm, good-natured, in control.

Amazingly, there was no argument. Chez Hardy, bedtimes were often the most difficult time of the day. Impatient, depleted parents struggling to get their exhausted children to admit that they were even remotely tired. The exercise would wind up turning into a war of wills that left all sides defeated.

But Max and Cassandra were up and moving. Another polite goodnight, stalling for that last precious second, both of them telling Hardy they were so glad he was here.

For the first time, Hardy noticed that they were in a suite, with a separate room for the kids, and Ron said he’d be back in five minutes, after he’d tucked them in and gotten them settled. But Hardy hadn’t come all the way down here only to have Ron and the kids slip out another door. So, feeling foolish, he nevertheless went and stood in the doorway to the bedroom, where he could watch in case the good father decided to bolt and run with his children.

But the bedtime rituals made it immediately obvious that this wasn’t on the night’s agenda. Apparently Ron had decided to accept Hardy’s unexpected presence and work within these new parameters.