John Lescroart - Hard Evidence

Hardy laughed. ‘Whoa. I don’t think we’re there yet. What about the ring?’

Pullios shrugged, mercifully straightening up. ‘The ring’s a detail. Maybe his friend Farris was wrong, or lying. Maybe Nash only wore it sailing. Who knows?’

Hardy put his feet down and stood up. ‘That’s just it. If nobody knows -’

She shook her head. ‘Dismas, this is too good. You’ve got to grab these when they come around, which, believe me, isn’t often. Mega-rich victim, corporate intrigue, the paper’s already on it. This could make a career.’

Hardy remained casual, motioned to his stack of folders. ‘I think until I clear some of these, my career is on hold.’

She slid off the desk, adjusting her skirt, which entailed leaning over again. If body language talked, Hardy thought, this woman was yelling from the rooftops. He didn’t get it.

‘Well, it’s your decision,’ she said.

It was that rare San Francisco treasure, a truly warm day. Hardy had decided to walk down to Fifth and Mission without calling first. He wanted to be outside, and going to see Jeff Elliot was an excuse more than anything else.

Jane had reached Hardy during the morning, and the two of them were having lunch at noon at Il Fornaio. Hardy reasoned he could pass a pleasant hour until then, putting in some nonbillable time.

Now he stood in bright sunlight on the steps outside the Chronicle Building. Jeff Elliot hadn’t been at his desk, and the guy who sat next to him told Hardy he thought Jeff had said something about going down to the Marina and did Hardy want to leave a message. He did.

Walking down Howard toward the Ferry Building and the Bay, hands in his pockets and tie loosened, Hardy drank in the smells of truck fumes and pork bao, of tar and roasting coffee. Whenever he passed an alley, about every half block, the heavy odors of urine and garbage would overlay the city smell, but even these were, in their own way, mnemonic and pleasant – Paris when he was in college, Saigon later. He found himself whistling, marveling at the new skyline with the Embarcadero torn down after the Big One, the World Series quake.

He decided to keep walking along the waterfront. Gulls sat on guano-stained pilings, occasionally lifting off with a squawk. Three or four of the docks were unfenced, and a few Orientals squatted fishing with long poles. The Sausalito ferry came in with a deafening honk of its horn, spewing out a carefree river of tourists. Hardy went with the current, letting it carry him inland with the flow. He turned uptown, noticed the time and hailed a cab to take him the last ten blocks.

Jane was in a banquette in the dining area behind the bar. There was a tulip glass of champagne on the table in front of her. She had cut her dark hair very short, but Jane always managed to look good. As a buyer for I. Magnin, she always hovered at or near the top of haute couture , six weeks ahead of everybody else. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

‘Ivoire de Balmain,’ he said. It was the perfume he’d always bought her on Christmas. He didn’t think it was a coincidence she was wearing it now.

‘You have a good nose.’ She kissed him again, quickly, on the lips. ‘It’s good to see you.’

‘It is,’ he admitted.

He ordered a club soda and found out Jane was seeing a younger man, an architect named Chuck.

‘Chuck, Chuck, bo-buck, bo-nano-bano, bo-fu…’

‘Dismas.’ She put a shushing finger to his lips.

‘I’ve always wanted to do that,’ he said.

‘I’m sure you have.’ She gave him an amused look. ‘He’s a wonderful guy.’

‘I’m sure he is. It’s a wonderful song, too. You can’t do it to Dismas, you know. Dismas, Dismas, bo-bismas… it just doesn’t scan,’ The club soda arrived.

‘Club soda is a change,’ Jane said.

Hardy sipped. ‘Change is my life right now. If I have my old usual couple of beers for lunch, you can forget about the afternoon. I tried it a few times. Bad idea.’

She sipped her champagne. ‘So you’re really back at prosecuting?’

‘I am.’

‘And you like it?’

He lifted his shoulders. ‘Sometimes. It’s more b.s. than I remember, but it’s all right.’

They waded through another five minutes of small talk before they ordered – calamari for Hardy, quattro formaggio calzone for Jane. Hardy broke down and decided to have some wine, so he and Jane ordered a half bottle of Pinot Grigio.

When the waiter had gone, Hardy said, ‘So you’ve seen your dad?’

She nodded. ‘You were right. There’s definitely something.’

‘That’s what I thought. Frannie says it’s a woman.’

Jane took that in, sipped at her champagne. ‘Why did she say that?’

Hardy told Jane about the jade paperweight, how Andy had demanded he take it. ‘Frannie said seeing it every day reminded him of his broken heart, so he had to give it away.’ He held up a hand. ‘Her words – she’s more melodramatic than I am.’

‘I also think she’s right.’

‘Did he say that?’

‘He didn’t deny it. I asked him point blank if he was all right, if something was bothering him.’

‘And what’d he say?’

‘He said he’d just become more aware of mortality lately, that nothing lasts forever.’

‘This is not exactly headline stuff, Jane.’

‘I know. It just seemed evasive, the way Daddy’s always been about his personal life. So I asked if something specific had triggered all those feelings, you know. He said a friend of his had died and he just had to accept it. I asked who, and he said I didn’t know him, it didn’t matter.’

‘He said you didn’t know him ?’

She shook her head. ‘But I don’t think he meant that, meant it was a man.’

It occurred to Hardy that, impossible as it might seem, Andy Fowler could be gay. In San Francisco, you never knew. ‘But if that’s what he said…?’

‘No. There was a pause before he said that. Something, anyway. Then he patted my hand and thanked me for being concerned, but that he could work all this out himself, he was a big boy.’

The food came, the wine ritual. Hardy dipped some fresh bread in a little bowl of olive oil on the table. Jane cut into her calzone and let the steam escape.

‘What I think,’ she said, ‘is it might have been someone he’s ashamed of being involved with, maybe the wife of one of his friends, something like that.’

‘And she broke it off?’

‘Either that, or he couldn’t go on with it anymore. Can’t you just hear one of them saying it? “We’ll just pretend the other one died.” I can imagine Daddy taking that tack.’

‘Yeah, that flies.’

‘It’s a problem when you’ve always been perfect. You can’t even let your daughter see anything else. Even when I told him that whatever it was, I’d still love him.’

‘You told him that?’

‘Of course. I would.’

‘No, not that you would. You told him you suspected it was something he might be ashamed of?’

‘Not in so many words.’

Hardy was thinking Andy Fowler didn’t need so many words. He was a subtle and intelligent man, accustomed to dealing with nuance every day on the bench. He could imagine Jane’s forthright approach scaring him off, driving him back further within himself, if that’s where he was.

Hardy chewed on the delicious bread, filled his mouth with wine and sloshed it around. ‘Well, whatever it is, you think we can do anything to help him out? He talked about a vacation.’

Jane half smiled. ‘Sure. Daddy’s idea of a vacation is not bringing work home for the weekend. You know any women he might like?’ But she tossed the idea away. ‘No. I can hardly see Daddy allowing himself to be set up.’