John Lescroart - A Plague of Secrets

He’d just found a miraculous parking place around the corner on Tenth and pulled into it when his cell phone rang, his most recent client calling in a panic to tell him that the police had just shown up at her door again and she didn’t know what she should do. It was getting late and the kids were underfoot and Joel would be home soon too.

“Where are they now?” Hardy asked. “The cops?”

“Still out on the porch. I told them I had to talk to my attorney before I could let them come in and talk to me again, and Inspector Bracco said that that was fine but I should know that they’d identified what they think is the murder weapon and found out it was mine. I mean, registered to me.”

“Is that true?”

“I don’t know. It could be, I suppose. I had left a gun I bought a long time ago down at the shop, but I hadn’t seen it in years. I didn’t know it was there anymore, but I guess it was. Anyway, they said maybe I should talk to them here and now if I didn’t want to have to come downtown.”

“That’s a bluff,” Hardy said. “They can’t take you anywhere you don’t want to go without a warrant. And they can’t make you talk to them under any circumstances. Do they have a warrant?”

“I don’t think so. They didn’t say so.”

“Are they still out there?”

“Yes. I mean, it’s only been…” He heard her talking away from the phone. “That’s okay, honey, Mommy’s just…” He missed the rest of it, and then she was back with him. “I’m sorry, where were we?”

“Are Bracco and Schiff still there?”

“I think so.” A pause. “Yes, they’re just standing outside, talking.”

“Could you let me speak with Inspector Bracco, please?”

“Sure, if you think… just a second.”

“Darrel Bracco here. Who’s this?”

“Darrel, it’s Dismas Hardy. How are you doing?”

“Fine, maybe a little cold standing outside in the fog, but okay. Call me a mind reader, but Mrs. Townshend’s your client?”

“She is. I could be there in fifteen minutes. How does that sound?”

“Frankly, sir, it sounds like she’s got herself lawyered up.”

“Every citizen’s right, Darrel.”

“No question, sir, no question. Though as you know, it sometimes gives a cop pause.”

Hardy well knew. “Sometimes it should,” he said. “But I don’t think this is one of those times. Although I’ll tell you frankly I don’t know how much I’m going to let my client say to you until I’ve had a chance to talk to her a little more. Maybe not much.”

“Why am I not shocked?”

“Experience, Darrel. It’s a beautiful thing. Can I talk to Mrs. Townshend again?”

“Sounds like it’s your show. Here she is.”

“Maya,” Hardy said, “why don’t you ask the inspectors in and I’ll be there very shortly. But don’t answer questions until I get there. Is it really your gun?”

“It might have been. If they say so, I’m sure they’re right.”

Hardy wondered why she hadn’t seen fit to remember that detail in their earlier interview, but this wasn’t the time to bring that up.

“But what about Joel?” she asked.

“What about him?”

“He’s going to be coming home. I mean, maybe we could meet someplace else later. You and me and these people.”

“We could do that,” Hardy said evenly. “What time does your husband get home?”

“Sixish. Six-thirty. Usually. But sometimes not. It’s hard to predict.”

Hardy took a beat, checked his watch. “It’s just past four now. I’m sure we can get this all cleared up by five if I come right over.”

“But if Joel gets home early…”

“You’re going to have a hard time keeping this from him in any event. Maybe you want to get that part over with now. But meanwhile, I’ll be there in a heartbeat.”

“Or sooner if you could,” she said.

The two unknown guests in the living room-a man and a woman-stopped Joel Townshend in his tracks as he was coming in. He looked a question at his wife, who was sitting with them making small talk.

She had turned and now she stood up, wiping her hands nervously on her skirt. “Oh, Joel. You’re early.” Walking back to him, her face a map of her worries, she kissed him on the cheek, then turned to present the couple on the couch as they were getting to their feet together. “These are inspectors Bracco and Schiff. They have some questions about Dylan and BBW.”

Joel put on a welcoming smile, took a few steps forward, and shook hands all around. Thirty-five years old, tall and thin with short-cropped brown hair, he projected an easygoing, casual style only slightly belied by the perfectly tailored tan business suit, light yellow shirt, and brown and gold tie.

In fact, though, he gave no sign that these unexpected visitors bothered him in any way. They were guests in his house, and he was their host. End of story. “Please,” he said, “sit back down. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“That’s all right,” Debra Schiff replied. “You didn’t interrupt anything. We’re waiting for your lawyer anyway.”

Joel’s face clouded in confusion. “My lawyer?”

“Actually, mine.” Maya reached out and took her husband’s hand, facing him now, cutting off any further response. She added, “A friend of Harlen’s. He thought we ought to have a lawyer if we’re going to be talking to the police about a murder.”

Joel made a dismissive gesture and shook his head with a bemused humor. “That’s ridiculous. You know I love your brother, My, but sometimes he’s a bit too much of a drama junkie, don’t you think? I hardly believe we need a lawyer to tell these people the simple truth, do we? You didn’t have anything to do with Dylan’s death.”

“No, but-”

“Well, then? And now we’re making them wait here in their busy day. And for what?”

“Well, Harlen thought…” She tried a conciliatory smile. “Mr. Hardy will be here in just a minute anyway. He thought it was worthwhile me calling him and asking him to come by.”

In a bit of theatricality Joel cast his eyes to the ceiling. “Well, of course he did. You ask a mechanic if he thinks you need a brake job. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, guess what? You do. New pads all around, more brake fluid and lots of it, maybe balance the tires while he’s at it. Oh, and PS, that’ll be five hundred dollars.” He looked at the inspectors. “Am I right?”

Bracco wasn’t completely successful hiding his appreciation at this response. But he kept it low-key. “We’re not encouraged to argue when citizens say they want their attorney, sir,” he said. “But I think it’s fair to say they’re probably overused, especially in situations like this one, where your wife is not a suspect.”

“Well,” Joel said, “her brother’s a big, important city supervisor now and when he gets dumb ideas, nobody ever calls him on them.”

“I know Harlen pretty well, sir,” Bracco said. “I used to be his partner when he was a cop.” Now he broke a broad grin. “The ambition thing makes him a little cautious.”

“There you go,” Joel said. “Excessive caution. Sometimes it’s just unnecessary.” Still holding Maya’s hand, he gave it a little confident squeeze. “I’m sure my wife will be happy to talk to you. What do you want to know?”

“Joel.” Maya now squeezed his hand hard, warning him off.

“Really, My. Come on. This is silly.”

And the doorbell rang.

“There he is now.” Maya jumped as she let go of her husband’s hand and ran to the door.

Townshend watched her for a second, then turned back to the inspectors and shrugged with some exaggeration. “Fantastic,” he said.

Hardy, walking in to a cool reception at best from both the inspectors and the husband, didn’t make matters any better when, first thing after the introductions, he asked Maya if he could speak to her alone, or with her husband if she wanted.