John Lescroart - Nothing But The Truth

Humoring him, Freeman nodded imperceptibly. ‘Sure.’

‘All right, I’ll tell you. It’s that I am such a shitty father and care so little about my children that I forgot the most important holiday in their young and precious lives. It never hit my radar all day. Can you imagine? What else could I possibly have been thinking about?’

Freeman nodded again. ‘It’s the Nineties. Guy like you, you can’t not be an insensitive cretin. Nothing to do but ignore it.’

Freeman was right. There wasn’t any point bitching about Hardy’s priorities. They were what they were.

He was that nineties’ pariah, the linear, logical, fact-burdened, classically trained human. Even worse, some wiring flaw had predestined him to be more oriented toward justice than mercy. The rest of his San Francisco world was sensitive and child-centered and politically correct and of course the children’s fun on Hallowe’en was much more important than any work Hardy might ever have to do.

He would just have to get over it.

In some countries, say Kosovo or Rwanda, Hardy was pretty sure many fathers didn’t take time out every day to play with their children. Their goal – and he felt the same about his own – was simple survival. He wondered if kids in these countries considered their fathers insensitive.

The soul-wrenching truth of it was that Hardy cared more about his wife and children than about any job . Than about anything, for that matter. But this – today, what he was doing, was not some job. This was real life – his and Frannie’s and the kids’ real lives in a real crisis. Just like Ron Beaumont’s kids and their lives.

And yet somehow both of his kids had assumed he’d zip on back to the Avenues and take them out trick or treating. It frustrated him beyond his ability to articulate. Young they might be, but could they really be unaware of the gravity of this situation? Of how much he treasured them? Of the reason behind every breath he took? Could they be that blind?

If they were, where had he failed them?

The old man swung his legs down to the ground, put his elbows on the table. ‘What did you mean? You know they’re related but don’t know how? This water poisoning and Frannie? Is that what you’re saying?’

Hardy was accustomed to Freeman’s brain – it tended to take leaps in any direction that looked promising – but even so, it took him a second. And the segue, though abrupt, was just as well. It put him back on his work, on what he had to do, and the feeling part of it be damned.

When he’d made everything safe and secure again, it would have been worth it, and they could either understand why he’d done it and the way he’d done it or not. But either way, it would be done.

He nodded at Freeman. ‘And while we’re on it, possibly the election this Tuesday.’

Out in the lobby, they heard a harsh buzzing sound. ‘That would be Canetta,’ he said. ‘My appointment. You want to stick around, I won’t kick you out.’

‘Are you kidding me? You couldn’t if you tried.’

‘Bill Tilton was, in fact, listed.’

They had gotten settled back in the smoky, dim room. Introductions made. Freeman brought up to speed. The landlord’s presence, Hardy sensed, only grudgingly accepted by Canetta. But the sergeant had information and he wanted to show off what he’d found. ‘This isn’t so tough,’ the sergeant said. ‘I could do this.’

‘Sounds like you already did, Phil.’ Hardy would give Canetta all the strokes he needed to keep him pumped up.

But Canetta seemed to be motivated on his own. ‘He’s an agent with Farmer’s Fund Life Insurance. I called from the station so when he called back he’d know I was legitimately the police.’

‘Smart,’ Hardy said. He raised his eyes to Freeman, silently telling him to shut up. ‘And he did call back?’

‘Wasn’t even an hour. So I asked him direct. Told him this was a murder investigation and we needed his cooperation. What’d he call Ron about? He said the company was a little sticky with the payout on Bree, her being murdered and all. On the side, Tilton tells me the claims guy doesn’t want to send a check – we’re talking two big ones – until it’s pretty damn clear Ron didn’t kill her. So I kept him yakking and he said it’s the first time he’s had this situation and it’s made things ugly around his office. Now, this next, you’re going to like this.’

Hardy waited, then realized Canetta needed some response. ‘I give up.’

Another second of suspense, then a smile. ‘His secretary quit over it. Marie couldn’t believe Tilton could be such a shit to Ron, who was the nicest-’

‘Marie?’ Suddenly Hardy heard it.

Canetta smiled. ‘That’s what I said. And Tilton goes, “Yeah, Marie Dempsey.” ’

‘The Marie from the phone messages?’

‘As it turns out.’ Canetta was almost beaming with childlike pride. ‘Marie is, was, his – Tilton’s – secretary.’

Hardy nodded in satisfaction. This was good. Two names to cross off. Insurance business. ‘You know, Phil, you really can do this. You want I’ll put in a plug to Glitsky.’

‘Naw. Fuck Glitsky and the suits. I don’t want to join ’em, but I wouldn’t mind beating ‘em.’ Suddenly Canetta pointed to Freeman, who’d been uncharacteristically silent, to his cigar. ‘By any chance, you got another one of those things?’

Freeman nodded, said sure, got up and disappeared back into the dark lobby.

‘You sure he’s cool?’ Canetta asked.

Cool was about the last word Hardy would ever use to describe Freeman, but he knew what Canetta meant. ‘He’s the smartest guy you’ll ever meet, Phil.’

Canetta threw a glance over his shoulder. ‘Maybe the ugliest, too.’

Hardy, keeping his voice low, had to grin. ‘Well, all of us can’t have everything. But you can trust him, that I guarantee. You don’t have to kiss him.’

A shudder traveled the whole length of Canetta’s body. ‘I’ll try to restrain myself. I bet I can.’

‘Can what?’ Another of Freeman’s many talents was his ability to appear out of nowhere. He had a handful of cigars, a bottle of red wine and glasses, all of which he kept a supply of in his office. He laid the cigars on the table. ‘Help yourself, sergeant. I should have offered sooner. What did I miss?’ He put down the glasses, and started to pour all around.

But Hardy had a hand out. ‘None for me, David. I’m working.’ And Canetta took the same road.

Freeman shrugged. He was working, too, but it was Saturday night. He could have a glass of wine – hell, a bottle of wine – and his brain would still hum along nicely, thank you, maybe even a little better than it was now. So would Hardy’s and Canetta’s, but David had learned long ago that you couldn’t tell anything to baby boomers. They were working. Working was serious. They couldn’t mix any fun in or they might – what? die? Christ, no wonder they all burned out.

But he sipped his wine and listened as Canetta went back to what he’d found. At least he’d lit his cigar, Freeman was thinking, although that, too, of course, would kill him. The sergeant was reading from his spiral notebook. ‘Kogee Sasaka has a massage place. Hands On. That’s the name. I checked with some guys at the station. Legitimate. No busts, no complaints. She gives massages, if you can believe it. Anyway, that was the appointment she called Ron about.’

Canetta flicked at his pages. ‘That was it. Tilton, Marie, and Kogee, wasn’t it? And you did Pierce, right?’

‘And Valens, as it turned out.’ Hardy filled him in on the hotel interviews, ending with Valens’ interesting fib about having called Ron.

‘But Valens did call him.’