John Lescroart - The Oath

Glitsky heard it all out, then told Bracco to take the tape directly to the DA's office for transcription. Somebody would still be there, and if they weren't, call somebody at home and get them down here working on it.

When Bracco had gone, Glitsky pulled an arrest warrant form out of his desk and started to fill it out, but after the first few lines, his hands stopped as though of their own accord. This was new and unambiguous evidence-true-and probably strong enough by itself to arrest Eric Kensing. But given the overwhelming, multiple motives and all the political repercussions of the Parnassus question, Glitsky thought the better part of valor would be to hold his horses until the morning and go to Jackman to make the final call.

The only remaining question in his mind was whether he should include Carla's name-and the kids'-on the warrant.

When Hardy dragged himself through the front door of his dark and quiet house at 11:15, he wondered if he'd have the energy left to make it up the stairs to his bedroom. Maybe he should just let himself collapse on the couch here in the living room.

There was still a glow from the embers in the fireplace. He put down his briefcase, hit the wall switch for the dim overheads, then shrugged himself out of his raincoat and suit coat and crossed the room. On the mantel, Frannie's new-since-the-fire collection of glass elephants caravanned around several potted cacti. He'd gotten into the habit of rearranging them almost every day-it was a chess game without rules or a board that served as some kind of connection between him and his wife. Nonverbal, somehow positive, and every little bit helped. Between the kids, her school, and his work, he sometimes thought they almost needed to make an appointment to say hello. Without their formal date nights, they would lose track of each other completely. So he made a few moves with the elephants.

The embers collapsed in a small shower of sparks. Hardy put an arm up against the mantel, rested his head on it. After a minute, he found himself on the ottoman, his elbows on his knees, staring blankly into the last of the glow.

"I thought I heard the door." Frannie was wrapped in a white turkish towel bathrobe they'd bought in Napa on their last getaway weekend almost a year before. She came across to where he made a space for her, squeezed in next to him, rubbed her hand over his back.

"What are you doing up?" he asked.

"Moses and Susan only left a few minutes ago," she said. "I was awake."

"Moses and Susan? What were they doing here?"

"And Colleen and Holly. Evidently you told him we'd baby-sit for them tonight so they could go out." It was half a question. "Which was a nice thing for them, but next time you might want to let me know. Especially if you're not going to be here."

He hung his head, shook it wearily. "What can I say? I'm an idiot. I'm sorry."

"Sorry's good." Her hand kept moving across his back. She wasn't mad, though perhaps would prefer if he could remember commitments he'd made that involved her. "But it's all right," she continued. "It went fine. It was lucky I was home, that's all. Abe called, by the way. And some woman named Rebecca, who said it might be important."

Earlier in the day, he might have felt some spark of interest. At the moment, it only felt like more work. "She's a nurse at Portola I talked with today. This new case." He was still furious that Glitsky had gone behind his back to interview his client. He tried to keep the anger out of his voice. "What did Abe want?"

"He said you'd know."

Hardy gave it a second. "He lied." Did he want to get into a long explanation? But her hand felt good on him. They were together. He leaned slightly into her. "He took a statement from my client after I told him not to. Full court press, guns blazing. Maybe he found out my guy didn't do it and wants to say he's sorry. But I doubt it."

"He must think your client did something." This was always an issue. Since Hardy had begun working as a defense attorney, she remained uncomfortable with the fact that her husband consorted not only with people accused of crimes, but often with those who had actually committed them. When the charge was something like a DUI or some kind of thievery or fraud, it wasn't so bad. But when it was murder, Frannie tended to worry on the not unreasonable theory that anyone who had killed once might get angry with somebody else-say, their attorney-and do it again. "So did your client do it after all?"

"He says not," Hardy said simply. "But who doesn't?"

"And you believe him?"

"Always." He faced her. "My problem is Abe. I've got no idea what he's doing."

"That's probably what he called about. To explain."

"I'm sure." Not, Hardy thought. He glanced at his watch. "I'm tempted to call him right now and wake up his sorry ass." He sighed wearily. "What was the other call? Rebecca? The nurse? She said it might be important?"

He could see that Frannie hated to admit it again-she'd already done her duty by telling him once. Clearly, she hoped he'd forget. But no. Hardy didn't forget much about his work-only baby-sitting deals he'd made with relatives. It was Frannie's turn to sigh. "She said no matter what time it was."

"I guess that would include now, huh?"

"I thought you might want to come to bed sometime."

"I'll try to keep it short."

He felt something go out of her. "I left her number by the phone," she said, standing up. "Have you had anything at all to eat?"

He shook his head. "My client's finally started to figure out he's in trouble, but it was all I could do to get him to talk to me on the phone. It was originally supposed to be his night for his kids. He thought the thing with Glitsky was going to take like a half hour. I asked him when he thought we could get a few minutes, maybe talk about some things so I didn't have to find them all out from third parties. So he says he doesn't know-he's got his kids this weekend, too. He works a million hours a day. But I had him with me on the phone. There wasn't going to be any other time. So I told him to call his ex-wife, change his plans, tell her not tonight. We had to talk."

Frannie was just looking down at him. She'd crossed her arms over her chest, her body language expressing it all-disappointment, disapproval. Sadness. "There's leftover spaghetti in the refrigerator," she said.

"I don't know if it's anything," Rebecca Simms said.

"That's all right," Hardy said. "If it's keeping you up, it's probably worth talking about." He sat at his dining room table, his yellow legal pad in front of him, the portable phone at his ear. He'd poured himself a glass of orange juice and drank half of it off in a gulp. "Did you remember something about Dr. Kensing?"

"No, not exactly that. Not that at all, really."

Hardy waited.

"I've been thinking about how I should say this, since I don't really know anything specific, not for sure. I just went back on the floor after we talked and I guess the whole discussion we had-you know? The general conditions here?"

"Sure. I remember."

The line hummed empty for another few seconds. Then Rebecca blurted it out. "The thing is, everybody on the staff knows something is really wrong here. The nurses, I mean. Probably some of the doctors, too. But nobody really talks about it. It's more a feeling, like a ghost is hovering over the place or something."

Hardy closed his heavy eyes. She sounded like she meant it literally. Terrific, he thought. The woman he picked at random in the hospital cafeteria, although she'd seemed like an intelligent person by the light of day, was in fact a nutcase and now she had his home phone number. Frannie was right-he shouldn't have it on his business card.