John Lescroart - Nothing But The Truth

Her eyes were bright with excitement. ‘Rebecca’s having a sleepover? I love sleepovers.’

And Max would have been invited, too, except her dad had told Hardy he needed a good night’s rest after last night’s terrors. Vincent was going to be disappointed, but he’d understand.

No. She didn’t have to go back in. Rebecca had extra toothbrushes. She could borrow some of her pajamas. It would be a blast.

But they had to hurry to get to Mr Hardy’s car, OK? They needed to get away before Max found out. Otherwise she’d have to stay here and miss the sleepover.

He stopped five blocks away and put in a gallon or two while Cassandra waited in the car. Inside the station, never taking his eyes off her, he dropped a quarter into a pay phone.

Marie’s voice was choked with tension, but he allowed her no time to speak, either. ‘I’ll be out front at eight fifteen as Ron and I discussed. Cassandra’s fine.’

Erin Cochran was as mad as he’d ever seen her, and Hardy thought it likely that compared to her husband Ed, when he got home from work, her anger would appear mild as the driven snow. But his concern for people’s feelings weren’t in his mix anymore. He was running on instinct and adrenalin, and if the people he loved had a problem with that or with him, they’d have to get over it. He didn’t have time.

‘I borrowed her,’ he said. ‘Just for one night.’

‘It’s not funny, Dismas.’

‘I don’t think it’s funny. I know it’s pretty damn serious.’ She had all but taken Hardy by the earlobe and dragged him inside from the backyard. The children, oblivious to any intrigue, were engrossed with a contraption they’d made up of an oversized cardboard container, ropes, some plastic lawn chairs, and a blanket. Erin threw an eye at them, making sure the adults hadn’t drawn their attention. Then back to Hardy. ‘I can’t believe you’re asking me and Ed to be part of this.’

‘It was the only way, Erin.’

‘I find that hard to believe. And if the police-’

‘Ron won’t call the police,’ Hardy replied, cutting her off. ‘He was going to run again and I need him tomorrow to get Frannie free.’ Now he looked out at the children. ‘Cassandra’s my guarantee he shows up.’

‘But you can’t-’

‘Erin!’ He put his hands, not quite roughly, on her shoulders. The harshness he heard in his own voice surprised him. But that, too, couldn’t be helped. ‘Erin, listen to me! I did it. It’s done. It’s one more night.’

He brought his hands down. Erin’s mouth trembled as she fought for control, couldn’t speak.

‘I’ve got to go,’ he said.

Hunched over, he sat on the low upholstered chair by the balcony in the penthouse. The drapes were open and when he raised his head he could see off to his left the sunset bleeding a bruised orange into the purple sea. Suddenly, visibility had returned between the cloud cover and the earth. Up at the north end of the Bay, he thought he could even make out individual cars on the Richmond Bridge.

What had he done? What had he done?

The thought assailed him. Ron had agreed. He was going to do it. He would be at Marie’s tomorrow morning so that Hardy could pick him up and they could go to the hearing. Hardy had convinced him that this was what he had to do. It was a done deal.

Except…

Hardy had no doubt at all. The conversion had been too swift and too unencumbered. Ron had made a decision, all right, but it wasn’t to show up in court. Instead, Hardy would arrive at the appointed hour in the morning and Ron and his children would be gone with no trace.

He needed the leverage of his daughter. There hadn’t been any other choice.

But if he were wrong.

His insides churned and his skin felt clammy. In front of him, his hands were clenched – the only way he could keep them from shaking.

Pushing himself up from the chair, he stood still, trying yet again to envision the struggle that must have occurred here. But nothing spoke to him. He crossed over to the French doors, unlocked them, pulled them open, and stepped outside.

It was all the same. The planters with their meager shrubbery. The small table and chairs, exactly as they’d been when he’d first come here. Three steps brought him across the slippery tiles of the balcony to the rough iron grillwork.

He tested its strength and found it solid. He wasn’t tempted to lean his body into it, but again, hands on the rail, he was drawn to peer over and down to the enclosed rectangle of garden below. The sensation – the height itself – was mesmerizing. It held him there while seconds ticked until finally the vertigo straightened him up.

Backing away, he shuddered, wondering at the primeval power of the urge to fall – death’s easy, frighteningly inviting availability with one instant of weakness.

Or assent.

It was unnerving.

The railing was wet from thirty hours wrapped in fog and he went to wipe his hands on his jacket. A foghorn boomed from down below and suddenly he stopped himself.

Rust stains. Fabric wash.

He turned his palms up. With the sun just down, the dusk had rapidly advanced, but there was still enough natural light to make out the faint striations.

For another long moment, he stood without moving. The switch for the light over the balcony was behind him and he turned around and flicked it. The rust wasn’t dark on his hands, but it had come off the grillwork sufficiently to be easily identifiable.

Again he crossed to the railing, but this time he squatted so that the top of it was at his eye level. Where he’d stood, the condensation had of course been cleared; but beyond that he thought he could make out where his hands had taken the rust. Swiping the arm of his jacket strongly over the area, the smooth and rugged Gore-tex caught in a couple of places, and then when he pulled it away, the railing had left a line of rust on it.

But far more importantly, the metal itself reflected what he’d done. The top thin layer of rust had wiped away. It was subtle, but unmistakable.

And it led to a similarly unmistakable and startling conclusion. If Bree’s body had been dumped over this railing with sufficient friction to leave rust stains on her clothes, two things should have been immediately apparent to even an inept and overworked crime scene investigator. The first was there would have been a noticeable if not obvious spot on the railing where the rust had been disturbed.

And the second, Hardy thought, would have even been more telling. His own space-age jacket had caught a couple of times when he’d swiped at the railing. Bree had been wearing cotton and wool, the threads of which would have snagged all along on the rough ironwork of the railing.

His brain was spinning as he stood again and looked down over the lights coming on in the city below. He didn’t have to go back and check any of his folders, the contents of his briefcase. He’d memorized most of that long ago anyway.

One of the most perplexing aspects of the crime scene investigation into Bree’s death had been its inability to produce even a shred of physical evidence to tie any suspect to events in this room, on this balcony. And now Hardy understood why that had been.

Fabric wash.

No trace of fabric on the railing.

David Glenn, the building superintendent, remembered him and said he could come in, but they had to keep it short. Glenn had to keep working. His friends would be showing up any time for cards and Monday night football and if the food wasn’t laid out, the shit hit the fan.

So they went to the clean, brightly lit kitchen where Glenn continued to arrange the cold cuts and cheeses, the breads and pickles and condiments. Hardy, who by now had pretty much given up on the idea that he’d ever eat regularly again, stood by the counter and tried not to notice the food.