John Lescroart - The Oath

"Yeah, I knew that. I saw him right after." Her gaze sharpened. "Why is that important?"

"Markham had broken up your marriage. Maybe he still hated him."

"Yeah, but so what?" She shook her head wearily. "This all shook out two years ago. It's ancient history."

The inspectors shared a glance. "You're saying he wasn't still bitter?" Fisk asked.

"Sure he was bitter. He made no bones about hating Tim. He always…" She hesitated. "Why?"

Fisk told her. "We're trying to find out who killed him, Mrs. Kensing. I know you'll want to know that, too."

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, killed him? He got hit by a car."

"No, ma'am, he was killed," Bracco said.

"You didn't know that?" Fisk asked harshly. "Didn't you read the paper this morning?"

"Yeah," she answered in a voice heavy with sarcasm. "I got my kids off to school, then had the maid bring in the paper with my coffee and bonbons. She hasn't gotten to the laundry or the dishes yet." Dismissing Fisk, she turned to Bracco. "You're saying somebody ran him over on purpose?"

Bracco shook his head. "It wasn't the accident," he said. "He was killed at the hospital. Somebody shot him up with potassium."

Her eyes flashed with the onset of panic. "I don't know what you're saying."

Fisk took a step toward her. "You're a nurse and you don't know about potassium?"

"Of course I know that. What about it with Tim, though, with his dying?"

"It's what killed him," Bracco replied. "Really."

Slowly, the news seemed to register. "In the hospital?" Then slowly, as the thought congealed, her face changed by degrees until finally it was contorted with rage. "That son of a bitch. That miserable motherfucker." She looked from one inspector to the other, her rasping voice filled with conviction. "You can stop looking," she said. "I know who killed him."

Kensing was working at the Judah Clinic and didn't seem inclined to return calls, so Hardy decided that he'd simply show up, hoping that his unexpected appearance would help convey the air of urgency he was beginning to feel. So he ventured out into the teeth of the storm and made it to the clinic in time to spend another half hour in the crowded waiting room before Kensing, in his white smock and stethoscope, came out to see him. The doctor told him he couldn't get away, even for a few minutes.

His doctor work was more important. He was swamped here, as Hardy could see. And anyway, wasn't their appointment supposed to be for tonight?

Hardy tried to make him understand the reality they both faced, but the doctor couldn't seem to accept it.

"I don't see how it's any different than it was yesterday," Kensing replied. He made a helpless gesture with his hands.

"Everything about it is different," Hardy explained with a patience he didn't feel. "Yesterday, nobody thought Markham was murdered, so it didn't matter that you hated him. Now it does. A lot. So you've got motive, means, and opportunity. It's bad luck to have all three of these around a homicide, trust me."

But he dismissed Hardy's concerns with a shake of his head. "We covered all this on the phone this morning, didn't we?" He put an arm on Hardy's sleeve. "Look, I appreciate your concern, but I've got to keep things moving here at the clinic or we won't even get to talk tonight. Sorry you had to come all the way down, but this won't work."

Hardy closed some space between them and lowered his voice. "That's what I've been trying to tell you. We're not going to talk tonight, Doctor. At least not with the police. I canceled the interview."

Kensing showed a little pique. "Why'd you do that?"

"Because I'm your lawyer and it's my job to protect you."

"I don't need protection. Once they hear what I've got to say, especially if I give it to them voluntarily, they'll cross me off their list."

"Really? And you know this because of your vast experience in criminal law, is that it?" Hardy was right in his client's face. "Listen to me. I promise you-you have my solemn word-that they will not do that. Don't kid yourself. Like it or not, you are a murder suspect. They won't be looking for reasons to let you off. They'll be looking for reasons to bring you in. And I'm not going to give them a chance to do that. You and I need a lot more time together. A lot more. Like most of the weekend."

Kensing shook his head. "I don't know about that. I've got Giants tickets for Saturday. I've got my kids and I'm taking them."

"That's really swell," Hardy said, "but you're not taking anybody anywhere if you're in jail. The point is you and I need to block some time. This is serious stuff, okay?"

In the waiting room over Kensing's shoulder, a baby began to wail.

Kensing checked his watch, frowned, looked over at the crying infant. "All right," he said, gesturing toward the noise, "but this is serious, too. What I do." He offered a professional smile. "Maybe Sunday, though, how'd that be?" Giving Hardy a conspiratorial pat on the back, he turned and disappeared through the door that led to the doctors' offices.

Hardy, who had walked a block and a half from the parking lot, felt the squish in his soaking shoes, the chill in his pants, damp below the knee. After Kensing left, he sat down for a minute in one of the plastic chairs, then combed his wet hair with his fingers, stood up, and buttoned his raincoat for the walk through the squall back to his car.

"Just checking on my investment," Hardy said when Moses McGuire looked up in surprise from behind the Shamrock's bar. He was the only person in the place.

"What investment? I gave you your quarter in trade, in case your memory fails you, which it never does. You drinking?"

Hardy hadn't had a drink in the daytime in six months, but between his failure to talk with anybody at the hall, Freeman's attitude, the weather, and his recent debacle with Kensing, he was ready to try anything to change his luck or his timing. "You got any Sapphire behind the bar?"

Though McGuire disapproved of gin in any form, he didn't have to ask Hardy how he wanted it. Up, dry, chilled glass. As he was pouring, he asked, "You all right? Frannie okay?" He had pretty much raised his little sister, Hardy's wife, by himself, and he still felt protective.

"We're fine. I had an appointment near here that didn't work out. Nothing to do with Frannie." He sipped his martini, nodded appreciatively. "This," he said, "is perfect."

Moses, whose own Macallan scotch, neat, was a permanent fixture in the bar's gutter, lifted his own glass, clicked it against Hardy's, and raised it to his lips. "That," he replied, "is gin and dry vermouth and ice. This "-holding up his own glass-"is perfect. But I accept the compliment with grace and humility. Why didn't you have him come to your office?"

"Who?"

"Your appointment. I didn't know you made house calls."

"I don't. This one seemed important."

"Well, to one of you, at least."

At that truth, Hardy nodded ruefully. "Then again, maybe I just needed an excuse to break up the routine."

Moses pulled up the stool he kept behind the bar. "I hear you," he said. "You want to plan a road trip? We leave now, we could be in Mexico by nightfall."

"Don't tempt me." Hardy lifted his drink, sipped at it, spoke wistfully. "Maybe I could pull the kids out of school…"

"I wasn't thinking of bringing the offspring with us."

Hardy noted the tone, looked at the battered face across the bar. "You and Susan okay?"

"At least we're not getting divorced, I don't think." He drank some of his scotch. "But sometimes I'm sure it's only because we made a deal that the first one to mention the D word gets the kids. I hear Mexico's warm this time of year."