John Lescroart - The Oath

The hall curved left, then straightened, then curved again right. At last it opened into a round chamber dominated by a large above-ground pool filled with seawater, against the side of which leaned the substantial bulk of Pico Morales. Under an unruly mop of black hair, Pico's face was a weathered slab of dark granite, marginally softened by a large, drooping mustache and gentle eyes. He held an oversize, chipped coffee mug and wore the bottoms of a wetsuit, stretched to its limit by his protruding bare stomach.

In the tank itself, a man in a wetsuit was dealing with the shark, one of the largest Hardy had seen here-over six feet long. Its dorsal fin protruded from the water's surface and its tail fanned the water behind him. But Hardy had pretty well used up his fascination with sharks over the years.

The man who was walking the shark, however, was another matter.

"Ah," Pico said in greeting. "The cavalry arrives. Diz, Dr. Eric Kensing."

The man in the tank looked up and nodded. He was still working hard, and nearly grunting with the exertion, step by laborious step. Nevertheless, he was close to the edge of the tank himself, and he nodded. "You're Hardy?" he asked. "I'd shake hands, but…" Then, more seriously, "Thanks for coming."

"Hey, when Pico calls. He says you're in trouble."

"Not yet, maybe, but…" At that moment, as Hardy and Pico watched, the fish twitched and broke himself free from the man's grip, and he swore, then turned to go after it.

"Let it go," Pico snapped.

The man turned back toward the side, but paused for another look behind him. It was only an instant, but in that time the shark had crossed the tank, turned, and was heading back toward him, picking up speed. Pico never took his eyes off the shark and didn't miss the move. "Get out! Now! Look out!"

Kensing lunged for the side of the pool. Hardy and Pico had him, each by an arm, and hoisted him up, over, and out, just as the shark breached and took a snap at where he'd been.

"Offhand," Hardy said, "I'm thinking that's a healthy fish."

"Hungry, too," Kensing said. "Maybe he thought Pico was a walrus."

Hardy nodded, deadpan and thoughtful. "Honest mistake."

They were all standing at the edge of the tank, watching the shark swimming on its own.

Pico kept his eyes on the water, on the swimming fish. He'd had his hopes raised around the survival of one of his sharks before, and didn't want to have them dashed again. "You guys need to talk anyway. Why don't you get out of here?"

The Little Shamrock was less than a quarter mile from the aquarium. After the doctor had gotten into street clothes, they left Pico to his shark, still swimming on his own. Hardy drove the few hundred yards through a rapidly darkening afternoon. Now they had gotten something to drink-Hardy a black and tan and Kensing a plain coffee-and sat kitty-corner in front of the fire on some battered, sunken couches more suited to making out than strategizing legal defense.

"So," Hardy began, "how'd you get with Pico?"

A shrug, a sip of coffee. "His son is one of my patients. We got to talking about what he did and eventually he told me about his sharks. I thought it sounded like a cool thing to do. He invited me down one night and now, when I really can't spare the time, I still come when summoned. How about you? I heard you used to volunteer, too. I didn't think Pico allowed people to quit."

"I got a special dispensation." The answer seemed inadequate, so he added, "I got so I couldn't stand it when they all died."

A bitter chuckle. "Don't go into medicine."

"No," Hardy agreed. "I figured that one out a long time ago." He killed a moment sipping his pint. "But rumor has it you need a lawyer now." For the first time Hardy noticed a pallor under the ruddy complexion, the fatigue in the eyes.

"You know who Tim Markham is?"

Hardy nodded. "He got hit by a car yesterday, then died in the hospital."

"That's right. I was staff physician at the ICU when he died. And he was fucking my wife."

"So you're worried that the police might think you got an unexpected opportunity and killed him?"

"I don't think that's impossible."

"But you didn't?"

Kensing held Hardy's gaze. "No."

"Were you tempted?" Trying to lighten things up.

He almost broke a smile. "I used to fantasize about it all the time, except in my version, it was always much more painful. First I'd break his kneecaps, maybe slash an Achilles tendon, cut his balls off. Anything that would make him suffer more than he did." He shook his head in disappointment. "There really is no justice, you know that?"

Hardy thought he maybe knew it better than Dr. Kensing. "But justice or no," he said, "you're worried." It wasn't a question.

He nodded somberly. "If the police start asking about Tim. I can just hear me: 'Yeah, I hated him. You'd hate him, too. I'm glad he's dead.' I don't think so."

Hardy didn't think so, either, but all of this was really moot. "Let me put your mind to rest a little. It's my understanding that Markham died from his injuries, and if that's the case, you're not involved in any crime."

"What if somebody says I didn't do enough to save him? Is there such a thing as malicious malpractice or something like that? As a homicide issue?"

Hardy shook his head. "I've never heard of it. Why?"

"Because some homicide inspector named Bracco came by yesterday. And they're doing the autopsy today."

"I wouldn't worry about that. They autopsy everybody."

"No they don't. Especially if you die in the ICU after surgery. We did a PM at the hospital and I signed off on the death certificate-massive internal trauma from blunt force injury-but they hauled him off downtown anyway."

"He died of a hit and run," Hardy explained. "That's a homicide, so they do an autopsy. Every time."

But the doctor had another question. "Okay, but last night I met Bracco, checking out my car at Markham's place."

"Bracco?" Hardy shook his head, perplexed. "You sure he's San Francisco homicide, not hit and run? I don't know him."

"That's what he said. He had a badge."

"And he was checking out your car? Why were you at Markham's house anyway?"

"I knew Carla, his wife. I thought it would be appropriate to go by and give my condolences, to see if there was anything I could do." He let out a sigh. "You can't help it. You feel somehow responsible."

"So what was this cop doing with your car?"

Staring around the bar as though wondering how he got there, Kensing considered a moment, then came back to Hardy. "I think he was checking to see if it looked like my car had been in an accident, if I'd hit Markham. There were some other people there, too, before I left, visiting with Carla, other cars. I got the impression he had checked every one of them."

This seemed unlikely on its face. But then Hardy flashed back to the talk he'd had with Glitsky during their latest walk. The car police. This Bracco must have been one of the new clowns that was taking so much abuse in the homicide detail. "Well, in any event, from what I'm hearing, it doesn't sound like you've got any real problem here. You didn't kill him."

"But he died under my supervision, and it wasn't any secret I hated him."

"So, one more time, did you kill him?"

"No."

"He died of his injuries, right? Did you make them worse? No? So, look, you're fine." Clearly, the message still wasn't getting all the way through, so Hardy continued.

"Let me ask you this. What were the odds Markham was going to die even if you did everything right?"

"Which I did."

"Granted, but not the question."

The doctor gave it some real thought. "Statistically, once you're in the ICU, only maybe two in ten get out alive."

Truly surprised by the figure, Hardy sat back on the couch. "That's all? Two in ten?"