John Lescroart - Nothing But The Truth

There was a nice clip of several dozen dead trout floating near the dump spot. The location of this school of fish – where the concentration of MTBE was several million times greater than it was at the pumping station for the city’s water supply – was simple luck, but Thorne found it particularly pleasing. It gave the impression that the whole lake had been polluted.

Kerry got a couple of great sound bites calling for an immediate moratorium on MTBE use, and this was echoed by one of the state’s senators and the mayor, God bless him, who had even gone further. ‘There is no reason to tolerate even for one more moment this dangerous and insoluble toxin in our gasoline where there is an environmentally safe and effective substitute so readily available, and by this I mean ethanol.’

Kerry’s opponent, by contrast, spoke from a location in Orange County and sounded to Thorne like an idiot. ‘It is not MTBE that has caused this terrible crisis any more than it is guns that kill people. People kill people, and people – criminals – have poisoned the San Francisco water supply. Gasoline without any additives would have produced the same effect, and no one is talking about making gasoline illegal.’

Police had no clues as to the identity of the individuals or the location of the headquarters of the Clean Earth Alliance, who claimed responsibility for the act, although when found, they would be charged with the murder of 53-year-old…

Thorne hit the mute button, sat back, and enjoyed a sip of his beer. All in all, he had to consider this a resounding triumph. There was, of course, no Clean Earth Alliance. His operatives had scattered to the four winds. Life was good.

But his smile faded with the new image on the screen – the house – and he reached again for the remote, bringing up the sound. ‘… determined that the cause of the fire was arson.’

The serious male anchor nodded sagely. ‘What makes this so interesting, Karen, is that this house was the home of Frannie Hardy, wasn’t it? The woman who is still in jail for refusing to testify regarding the husband of Bree Beaumont, the expert on gasoline additives who was murdered nearly a month ago.’

‘That’s right, Bill.’ The camera closed in on Karen. ‘It’s hard to believe that there is no connection whatever between Bree Beaumont’s murder, the MTBE poisoning at the Pulgas Temple, and the arson this morning.’

Thorne hit the mute again, his frown pronounced by now. Last night he had been both wired and a little drunk; he’d had perfect cover in the thick fog. He was also feeling godlike after the Pulgas thing had gone so well.

When would he learn? You might want it and love every minute of it, but you didn’t do things yourself. You hired experts to take care of operations. That was the safe way. Otherwise it was you who got interrupted, who had to improvise, who perhaps left physical evidence at the scene.

He sat, scowling, ruminating over the possibility that he had personally exposed himself now, perhaps even gotten himself implicated with Bree Beaumont, and that had never been his intention. He tried to remember if he’d known that Hardy’s wife was the blasted woman in jail. He just couldn’t dredge it up – not that it mattered now.

And the last problem, maybe the biggest problem, with screwing things up yourself was then sometimes you had to fix them yourself.

Sunday night, and Glitsky sprung Frannie again for a couple of hours. It was going to be the last chance to get away with that before the work week began, and she considered any single second outside of her cell well worth the trouble.

They were all still pretending that Frannie was going to be free on Tuesday, but Hardy, at least, knew it might not be so simple.

If Scott Randall didn’t cooperate, if Sharron Pratt didn’t relent under the mounting criticism in the press, if Frannie discovered another reason why she couldn’t reveal what Ron had told her – for example, if Ron simply reneged on releasing her from her promise – any of these could and would prolong the nightmare.

And in any event, Hardy was going to have to get a hearing scheduled to vacate the contempt charge. He was all but certain that this would not be a cake walk.

For two hours, Glitsky fielded calls from the dispatcher trying to get a fix on Damon Kerry’s location, provided information on the day’s events to the police beat reporter, and organized his utilization coefficients. Hardy and Frannie were together alone in the interrogation room off the homicide detail, the shades drawn and the door locked by a chair propped up under the doorknob.

Hardy made up an excuse so he could stop by his car and pick up the gun. He had no plans to go unarmed until this had passed. He knew Glitsky would disapprove – he might get himself in big trouble, hurt someone, and wind up on trial himself. But he took solace in the old saying, ‘Better tried by twelve than carried by six.’

Then they took Glitsky’s car and parked across the street from Kerry’s house. The plan was to wait until the limo pulled away so they’d get the candidate alone. But the limo had barely stopped when a short, stocky form emerged and began crossing the street toward them.

‘That’s Valens,’ Hardy said.

Glitsky moved, opening the driver’s door, gun drawn. ‘Stop right there,’ he ordered, ‘right now. Police.’

‘Police? Jesus Christ! What are you doing here?’

Hardy opened his own door and got out, but let the car remain between him and the others. He felt for his gun, riding in the small of his back, hidden under his jacket.

‘Hey.’ Valens held his hands out in front of him. The fog had finally lifted somewhat, and the voices seemed to carry like the ping of crystal. ‘I’m coming over to see who you are, OK? Two guys, dark car, middle of the night, get it?’

Glitsky was advancing toward the man. ‘We get it. Are you Al Valens? Is that Damon Kerry’s car?’

Valens nodded. ‘Yeah. And he’s in it, trying to sleep. He’s the Governor of California in about two days, OK?’

‘Sure,’ Glitsky responded. ‘But right now today I’m Lieutenant Abe Glitsky and I’m the head of homicide. I’d like to have a few words with Mr Kerry.’

‘Not possible.’ Valens shook his head emphatically. ‘The man has been running all day. He’s got twenty appearances tomorrow. He’s not available.’

Glitsky allowed himself a tight smile. He spoke in a conversational tone. ‘I’m not asking.’ He started for the limo.

But Valens wasn’t giving up that easily. He side-stepped into the lieutenant’s path. ‘You got a warrant? I want to see a warrant.’

Hardy was amazed. He had never seen Glitsky this patient, taking the time to politely answer someone who refused to get out of his way. ‘I don’t need a warrant to talk to him on the street, which is what I’m hoping to do.’ Glitsky stopped, and tried another tack. ‘Mr Valens, are you trying to tell me that Mr Kerry doesn’t want to cooperate with a police investigation into the murder of one of his consultants? You might want to ask him about that.’

Valens thrust out his chin. ‘Hey, don’t pull that crap on me. We have already cooperated with you guys every time somebody came around to ask. We’ve answered questions ’til we’re blue in the face. Now it’s late at night and this is pure straight-up harassment. I want to know what Republican money is behind you on this.‘

‘Please move to one side,’ Glitsky said.

Valens pointed a finger. ‘This is a mistake, lieutenant, I’m telling you. In two days, Damon gets elected and I get your badge, you hear me?’

Glitsky stopped walking, glanced around to Hardy, and came back to the campaign manager. ‘Here are Kerry’s options. He can talk to me or refuse to.’ Glitsky paused. ‘Listen to me, Valens, the reason I’m here in the middle of the night is to save him embarrassment. Nobody knows. I don’t want to make it public. But I will if I need to. Do you understand me?’