John Lescroart - Nothing But The Truth

But there wasn’t much Hardy recognized written under it. There was either a B or an R, then 805. A time? ‘NCD!!!’

Then, a new line. ‘Herit., TTH.!!!’ And a phone number.

Those damn three exclamation points – they clearly meant something significant, but Hardy for the life of him couldn’t figure out what NCD was. TTH could only mean Tuesday Thursday, but what, in turn, was that about?

Hardy checked his watch. Still too early, before eight o’clock, but he went to his desk and called the number next to ‘Herit. TTH!!!’ anyway.

It was a woman’s voice in a heavy Asian accent and Hardy nearly hung up, frustrated for even wasting this much time. This note must have referred to one of Griffin’s other cases after all. But Hardy heard out the recording. ‘Many thank you for calling Heritage Cleaning. Office hours are Monday to Friday, eight thirty to six. Please leave message and call back.’

‘And the case breaks wide open,’ Hardy muttered to himself as he hung up. ‘Now we know where Griffin did his laundry.’ He went back to the couch, to the notebook.

Still on 10 01, the inspector evidently spent part of the day talking to the crime scene and forensics people downtown. There were scribblings Hardy took to be about Strout, Timms, Glitsky. Then, further down, another maddening three exclamation points – ‘fab. wash,’ ‘r. stains!!!’

He shook his head, nearly getting all the way to amused at the prosaic truth. More laundry.

By Friday, Griffin was checking alibis. Apparently he had spoken to Pierce, JP, and perhaps his wife, CP. ‘Time checks?’ Evidently referring to Pierce’s alibi.

The weekend intervened.

Then on Monday, more alibi checking, this time with Kerry. And here Hardy consulted his own notes for corroboration. ‘SWA 1140, SD.’ Southwest Airlines to San Diego around noon. That checked. But what had Kerry done before being picked up to go to the airport? Griffin’s notes didn’t give a clue.

A few lines down the page, and apparently still under Kerry, there was another number: 902. If it were a date, it was over a month out of synch, so Hardy assumed it must be a time. And if it were a time, it would comport very closely with the hour of Bree’s death.

So what had Griffin discovered about Kerry’s whereabouts at nine o’clock? And why so precisely?

It had to be a phone call, Hardy reasoned, but where were the phone records? He flipped quickly through the few pages, but was sure he would have noticed them sooner if they’d been there, and sure enough, they weren’t.

He chewed on possibilities for a couple of minutes, then got up again, went to his desk, and picked up the phone.

‘Glitsky, homicide.’

‘Hardy, bon vivant , scholar, champion of the oppresse-’

‘What?’ Glitsky growled.

‘I’m guessing Kerry called Bree or vice versa on the morning she was killed.’

‘Great minds.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Kerry’s got both a residence and a cell phone. I checked already. I got a rush call in on both phone records this morning, to see if maybe he didn’t sleep in late like he said he did. I’m waiting for the fax.’

‘So what about Griffin? Did any phone records turn up under that back seat?’

‘Not yet. I stopped by the garage again coming in. They’d barely got it cleaned out, much less catalogued.’

‘But Griffin must have gotten the phone records, right? Don’t you guys do that?’

‘I would hope so,’ Glitsky said, ‘though I wouldn’t bet the ranch on it.’

‘So where are they?’

‘They’d be with the stuff you have if he’d filed them.’

‘Uh huh. See if you can guess whether they are.’

Glitsky sighed. ‘His desk is cleaned out, Diz. It’s all somewhere. Stuff related to his cases supposedly got forwarded to the new teams.’

‘Maybe they were in one of the bags in the trunk, tagged already?’

‘Then they’d be downstairs in the evidence lockup’. Another sigh. ‘ You think there’s some possible phone connection to Kerry?’

‘It’d be sweet if there was.’ Hardy hesitated. ‘I’m really starting to like the good candidate.’

‘I told you last night, I might even vote for him.’

‘That’s not how I meant “like.” ’

‘No,’ Glitsky said. ‘I know what you meant.’

After he hung up, Hardy went back to his couch and his notes. He had come now to the last full day of Griffin’s life, and under Sunday found what he’d been hoping for: ‘Box T, Embarc.2, 10/5, 830. Burn, or Bwn. $!! -??’

He had earlier assumed that this might be a reference to a post-office box in one of the highrises along the Embarcadero. Now he saw it in a different light. It wasn’t Box T. It was Bax T.

Baxter Thorne. As he read it now, Hardy realized that the note referred to an eight thirty a.m. meeting at Thorne’s Embarcadero office.

Hardy stared at the cryptic note. Here, finally, was Thorne connected to Bree in Griffin’s investigation. Had the inspector in fact gone to question Thorne on the morning of his death? Had they then taken a little drive?

Suddenly a detail kicked in. He bolted upright and checked his watch. It had at last gotten to eight o’clock, a little after. Jeff Elliot had told him he was setting a meeting with Thorne first thing this morning, and at it he planned to bait and switch him into a corner.

Half joking, Hardy had warned Jeff to make sure he didn’t go alone. Now there was no joke about it.

He called Jeff’s home and got no response. At the reporter’s personal number at the Chronicle , he left a message, then checked the general switchboard. No. Mr Elliot hadn’t come in yet. Would he care to leave a message?

In a flash, Hardy was grabbing his jacket. At the office door, he stopped still, then turned and went back to his desk.

In thirty seconds, armed, he was flying down the stairs, pausing for a second at the reception desk. ‘Is David in yet?’

Phyllis replied in her usual icy fashion. ‘Not as yet. I haven’t heard from him at all this morning.’

‘Is he at court?’

The gimlet eyes fixed on him. ‘I wouldn’t know, Mr Hardy. I haven’t heard from him.’

‘Oh, that’s right.’ Hardy thought it was kind of sad that someday he knew he was going to kill Phyllis. ‘I think you said that.’

‘Twice.’

‘Right.’ He couldn’t help himself. ‘So I guess he’s not in?’

Although it was fifteen or twenty blocks from his office to the Embarcadero, there was no point in trying to drive. Between the morning traffic and parking when he arrived, it would take longer than walking.

So Hardy was breathing hard from the forced march. In spite of that, he was also chilled from the fog and painfully aware of a gnawing in his stomach – he hadn’t eaten since mid-afternoon yesterday, those tasty few bites of lukewarm tortilla pie at Glitsky’s.

The directory listed the Fuels Management Consortium on the twenty-second floor and the elevator had him there in seconds. The office was anything but threatening. Lots of glass – they were floating in the clouds up here. Modern furniture, partitioned workstations, piped new-age music. The hum and bustle of a busy workplace.

‘Can I help you?’The receptionist was a very young woman, perhaps even a teenager, with a warm smile.

Hardy returned it, fantasizing briefly about what it would be like to have a cheerful presence to greet people in place of Phyllis. ‘Is Mr Thorne available?’

‘I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting right now. I can take your name, though. Did you have an appointment?’

‘No, no appointment. Can you tell me, is he by any chance with Jeff Elliot? A Chronicle reporter?’