John Lescroart - Nothing But The Truth

‘You don’t need any help?’

The look. ‘Da-ad.’

He watched his boy adjust the flame under the pan, throw in some butter, expertly crack five eggs into a bowl and whip them up. Hardy tried to remember when he’d begun making his own breakfasts – he must have been about Vincent’s age, but somehow he’d never assumed his younger child could be that competent. Not yet. Not for a long time. He was still a baby.

Vincent lowered the heat a fraction. ‘I like them a little runny, but I can take mine off first if you want them cooked dry. That’s how Mom and the Beck like ’em. Dry. But you know that. Mom says you always used to cook breakfast, so you’d know, wouldn’t you?‘

‘Yeah,’ Hardy said hoarsely. ‘Sure.’

At the stove, Vincent turned at the tone. ‘Hey,’ he said softly. ‘You OK, Dad?’

As the house started to wake up, Vincent went back to torment the girls and Hardy took his briefcase back to the dining room, where he could spread out a bit. He heard Erin in the kitchen, but she didn’t come around the corner to wish him a good morning.

The photos were not so daunting this morning – the items from Griffin’s back seat in sharp color focus – a Juicy Fruit gum wrapper. Two bullets. A ziploc bag, snack size, crumbs inside. Parking stub, Downtown Center Garage, dated 7/22/95 – three years ago! Assorted coins worth one dollar thirty-two. An Almond Joy, which Hardy bet would be pretty stale by now.

He forced himself to continue, but was getting convinced that there wasn’t going to be anything here. It was a garbage can. He flipped the photos and the rest weren’t any better – more stuff from the body of the car proper. Gilt paper with traces of chocolate – more candy. Several plastic lids from the tops of coffee cups and soft drinks. Sunflower-seed shells.

Glitsky had also thoughtfully provided a copy of the autopsy report on Griffin, as well as a final inventory of the personal belongings he carried on his body – a ring of keys, a Swiss Army knife, a half pack of Life Savers, two ballpoint pens, an empty ziploc bag.

It all looked like nothing to Hardy. Beyond that, he was reasonably confident that the lab had analysed every item listed here for fingerprints, oils, fluids, and whatever other tests they ran to find or eliminate suspects.

The following pages contained the same relative information from Phil Canetta and his vehicle and, aside from demonstrating that he was far more personally fastidious than Carl Griffin had been, provided nothing that Hardy could use.

Rebecca stuck her head out of the kitchen door, lit up in a smile. ‘Oh, there you are. I’m so glad you’re still here.’ She crossed over and gave him a kiss on the cheek, snuggled up against him.

He kissed her back. ‘I’m glad I’m still here too. Where’s Cassandra?’

She remained plastered against him. ‘She forgot to bring clothes, you know, but I told her she could borrow some of mine. She wanted to make sure that was OK.’

‘I’m sure that would be fine.’

‘Is she going to school? ’Cause she’s missed the last few days, you know.‘ Rebecca lowered her voice. ’She’s a little nervous, I think.‘

‘About what? Missing school?’

She shook her head. ‘She’s worried she’s going to have to move. She said you were helping them, but she’s still worried.’

‘She told you about that?’

‘Dad,’ Rebecca said seriously. ‘We tell each other everything. She is like my best friend.’ She checked to see that they were still alone. ‘She’s all worried about something else, too. Do you know Marie?’

Hardy nodded. ‘I met her yesterday. She seems like a nice lady.’

‘Well, why’s her dad with her when her mom only died like a month ago?’

‘Maybe they’re just friends.’

Rebecca’s expression was startlingly adult. ‘Dad. I’m sure. Cass thinks maybe her dad was already having an affair, before her mom died. She thinks that would be awful.’

‘Well…’

She whispered urgently. ‘You and Mom aren’t with other people, too, are you?’

Hardy pulled her close to him. ‘No, hon. We’re only with each other. Promise. And we’re going to stay that way.’

‘Cross your heart?’

He made an X on his chest. ‘Hope to die.’ He gave her a pat. ‘OK, now you’d better go tell her she can wear your clothes or you’re all going to be late for school.’

‘Oh!’ She all but ran to deliver the news.

Hardy’s eyes followed her out of the room. Then he glanced down at the pages on the table in front of him. Casually, he flipped through Canetta’s autopsy. All the technical minutiae of violent death, as it had been with Griffin – state of rigor, body temperature, contents of stomach, angle of bullet entry. It was all too familiar and too ugly.

He picked up the pages and tossed them back into his briefcase, and closed it over them. He stood, took a deep breath, and went into the kitchen to face the chill.

They all got to Merryvale a few minutes early, and Hardy went in, out of Cassandra’s presence, to explain the situation to Theresa Wilson. Lying, he told her that he expected and had been instructed to tell her that both Beaumont children would be back in school tomorrow. Since she and Hardy had last talked, he’d been retained by Mr Beaumont and they’d been watching Cassandra while a few last-minute legal maneuvers were carried out.

Max was staying with some other friends out of town and should be back in school by the next day. Hardy was sorry for any inconvenience, grateful for her forebearance, but Ron had been afraid of the police jumping to the wrong conclusions – as they had with Hardy’s own wife – and he hadn’t wanted to subject his children to that trauma and upheaval.

‘I understand,’ Mrs Wilson told him from behind the doors of her office. ‘I might have done the same thing myself. How is Frannie holding up, by the way? I read that she might be getting out of… her situation today.’

Hardy, going for the Academy Award for Best Actor, conveyed that he wasn’t happy about what had taken place with his wife, but he was no longer worried. Everything was under control. ‘I’m going down to pick her up right now,’ he said.

‘Well, then, you mustn’t let me keep you. God speed.’

Hardy walked across the parking lot and stopped by the door to his car. Back toward the school, cars were still pulling up and letting out other children. The fog, he realized, had only made a token effort this morning, and now there was even a hint of sunshine in the sky. He made out a small knot of kids standing by a bicycle rack, his daughter was among them. And Cassandra Beaumont.

Hidden in plain sight.

An objective observer would have concluded that the two men standing on the curb of Church Street were business associates working out some tedious details in their latest deal. Both were close to the same age, in good physical shape, and conservatively dressed in business suits – one of them an Italian double-breasted with a deep olive tone, the other a Brooks Brothers charcoal with a microscopic maroon pinstripe.

A closer look would uncover a different truth. Both of the strong, perhaps even handsome faces were landscapes of strain and fatigue. And the deal was not going well.

Listen:

‘I want to see her.’

‘Not until after you’ve testified.’

‘How’s this? I won’t testify until I do.’

Pin-stripe smiled coldly. ‘Maybe you’re forgetting that I’ve still got her. It’s pretty straightforward. You want to get your daughter back, I want my wife. We trade. That’s the deal. That’s the only deal.’

‘You son of a bitch.’

‘Maybe. But at least an honest son of a bitch.’