John Lescroart - The Oath

Fisk considered that. "It got us a better cup of coffee than Ed's body shop."

"At least that." The message, especially welcome coming from Fisk, was a good one. They were finally working a righteous homicide, not a variant of hit and run. And the truth was that it wasn't the same at all. Now, without any real guidance, the job was to follow where their intelligence and instincts led them. They were gathering random information, that was all. And by definition much of it would be irrelevant. But some of it might be important-you just didn't know until you knew.

Without any discussion, Bracco turned west, toward Kaiser and Ann Kensing's house. Fisk, concentrating, sat in a deep silence for a couple of blocks. Then, "Darrel."

"Yeah?"

"What does a plane cost, you think?"

"I think it's one of those things where if you've got to ask, you can't afford it."

But his partner was a ball of surprises today. Something had started his engine over this investigation, and now he was obviously pursuing a train of thought. "No, not that. I mean just the upkeep alone-the hangar, the gas, monthly payments, insurance?"

"I don't know. I suppose it would depend on where you keep it, the size of the plane, all that. Why?"

Fisk shrugged. "I'm thinking about a million two. How far it goes."

This wasn't a hard one for Darrel. "If I had a million two, I'd be retired on the beach in Costa Rica. Where'd that figure come from?"

"That's what Ross makes a year." Bracco shot a glance of utter skepticism across the seat, and Fisk retorted, "Hey, that was the number in the paper-'CityTalk.' It's got to be true. But my point isn't how much money it is. It's whether it's enough."

This made Bracco laugh. "It's enough, trust me."

"Is it? Two mansions, a past marriage, which means alimony and probably child support. A new, young, party-giving society wife, kids in private schools, servants, airplanes, vacations."

"A million two, though." For Darrel Bracco, son of a cop, a million dollars might as well be a trillion. They were both unfathomably large sums of money, a lifetime's worth of money.

Clearly, though, not so for Fisk. "You ever read a book called Bonfire of the Vanities ?"

"Was that a book? I think I saw the movie."

"Yeah, well, the movie sucked, but it was a book first. Anyway, a cool thing in the book was this guy running down the list of his expenses, showing how impossible it was to get along on only a million dollars a year. And this was like ten years ago."

"He should have called me," Bracco said. "I could have helped him out."

"The point," Fisk pressed on, "is that maybe we just did learn something we can use from Aunt Kathy. Instead of concentrating on how rich Ross is, it might be smarter to think how poor he is. I mean, face it, if your expenses are greater than your income, you're poor, right? No matter what you make."

They stopped at Kaiser first and discovered that Mrs. Kensing had called in sick.

The rain that had been falling steadily since last night had found a new life. Monsoonlike, driven nearly horizontal by strong winds off the ocean, the drops pelted both inspectors as they stood on her front stoop. She answered the door wearing heavy gray socks, designer jeans, and a red, cowl-neck pullover. Bracco's immediate impression was that she hadn't slept in a couple of days.

Her shoulder-length blond hair was a mess. Without makeup of any kind, she appeared drawn and gaunt. Still, there was no hiding her attractiveness. Her eyes, especially, were deep-set, wide and compelling, almost electric blue. He'd never seen eyes quite like them.

Even after they'd introduced themselves, badges out, Mrs. Kensing simply stared at them until Bracco finally asked if they could come in. Nodding, she took a step back, opening the door as she withdrew. "I'm sorry," she said ambiguously, then waited another long moment before she brought the door closed behind them all.

The light was dim in the vestibule. They stood dripping on the woven cloth rug in the tiny area. "Maybe we should…" she said distractedly, and not finishing the sentence, led the way a few steps down a short hall, then to the right into the kitchen.

Overflowing onto the floor, a huge load of laundry lay piled on the table. Skirting that, she pulled out a stool. The counter still held dirty dishes from the morning-a milk and a juice carton, two boxes of cereal, some brown pear and banana slices on a cracked saucer. Finally she focused on them where they stood in the small humid room.

"All right. What?" The startling eyes flicked back and forth between the inspectors.

Bracco pulled out his tape recorder and put it on the counter in front of her. He cleared his throat and recited his name and the date, his badge number, the usual. He hadn't rehearsed what he was going to say, hadn't really considered what the woman's state of mind might be before she'd opened the door. But now he had to begin with something soon or, he sensed, she'd throw them both out. "Mrs. Kensing, Tim Markham and you were lovers, weren't you?"

She cleared her throat. "We used to be, but he broke it off. Twice."

"Why?"

"Because he was guilty about his family. Especially he didn't want to hurt his kids. But he didn't love his wife anymore. So he kept coming back to me."

"But he left you again, too? Isn't that right?" Bracco asked.

"Temporarily. He would have come back again."

"So why did he leave?"

"Because he had to try again with them. One more time, he said."

Fisk asked, "And when was that?"

"Last week. Late last week."

"And were you okay with that?" Bracco asked. "With his decision?"

"How could I be? I knew…" Her eyes were hard. "I knew he'd come back to me eventually, just like he always did. He loved me. I didn't see why he had to put everyone through it again. All the back and forth. I told him he should just separate. Make it clean."

"The way you did in your marriage?" Fisk asked.

If she took offense, she didn't show it. "Yeah, like I did. As soon as I realized I loved Tim and not Eric, I told him he had to move out. I mean, what was the point? I wasn't going to live a lie."

Fisk looked across at his partner. "And how did Carla take all this? His leaving her?"

"He never left her," she corrected him bitterly. "I was always on the side."

"But she knew about you? What then?"

"Well, she threatened him, of course. Said she'd leave him and take all his money. He wouldn't get visitation. That's why he went back."

"You mean this last time?"

But Fisk didn't wait for her to answer his partner's question. "You know that Carla and the children are dead, too?"

She went still for a beat. Then, "I saw that, but I turned it all off. I'm not interested in her. She doesn't have anything to do with me." She looked up at them in defiance. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. I don't care about her."

Fisk spoke up. "Maybe Carla didn't take him back? Maybe she was still mad at him?"

Suddenly she broke and raised her voice. " Aren't you listening to me?! It was done." The wind gusted and heavy drops pounded at the kitchen window. "He was going to tell her everything he'd done wrong in his life. Make a fresh start. What a fucking fool!"

"But did he in fact tell her?" Fisk asked.

"Who cares? What could it matter now? I never saw him again after he left me," she snapped. "I don't know what he did."

"And when was that?" Bracco asked more gently. "The last time you saw him?"

She slapped angrily at the counter. " Goddamnit! I don't care! Don't you hear me? What matters is I'm left here." She gestured despairingly around the cluttered, tiny kitchen. "Here. By myself."

Fisk asked abruptly, "Did you know that your husband treated Mr. Markham at Portola?"