All of which Hardy got to see in his seven-block walk back to North Point from the parking space he finally located after circling the lake four times. As he went, Hardy found himself considering the possibility that the ducks were inadvertently being fed bits of duck from Chinatown – the odd smear of duck paté, maybe some seared duck cracklings, or breast slices from someone’s salad – and that this cannibalistic feeding would someday give rise to the dreaded Mad Duck Disease, which wouldn’t be discovered yet for another twenty years, by which time it would be too late. Today’s trendy duck eaters would be dropping like flies.
He’d let his mind wander as a defense to the sense of intimidation he’d felt when he’d first identified the house from the address Canetta had provided. But now he was here, before the imposing, black, solid metal gate, and there was nothing to do but push the burton. A pleasant, contralto, cultured female voice answered. ‘Yes. Who is it?’
Hardy told her. Said he was afraid it was about Bree Beaumont again. He was sorry. Keeping his role vague, since he really didn’t have one.
She hesitated, then asked him to please wait. For a moment, he thought he might have gotten lucky, and he put his hand on the knob, waiting for the click as it unlocked. Instead, an impatient male voice rasped through the speaker. ‘Who the hell is this? I’ve already talked to you people half-a-dozen times. I’ve talked to the grand jury. When are you going to let me have a little peace? I swear to God, I’m trying to cooperate, but I’m tempted to ask for a warrant this time. This is getting a little ridiculous.’
But the gate clicked, and Hardy pushed it open.
For all the imposing nature of his house, and even with the impatient tone in his voice, Jim Pierce came across as a nice guy. He opened the front door before Hardy was halfway up the walk. ‘Do they change investigators downtown every five minutes nowadays? No wonder you people aren’t getting anywhere.’ Hardy squinted in the bright sunlight. Pierce wore a white polo shirt with a colorful logo over the left breast, a pair of well-worn but pressed khakis, tassled loafers with no socks. ‘I’m just watching the game. Notre Dame, USC? The Irish are eating them for lunch. You like football?’
‘I used to like Notre Dame back when Parsegian coached,’ Hardy said. He was on the porch stairs and Pierce was already a step into the dark interior of the house. ‘You ought to know I’m not with the police.’
Pierce stopped and turned back. ‘I thought Carrie said it was about Bree… oh, never mind.’ It was his turn to squint. Hardy stayed outside, framed in the doorway. ‘So what can I do for you? What’s this about?’
Hardy introduced himself as a lawyer doing some work for Bree’s husband, Ron. ‘You called him last week.’
A flash of surprise. ‘I did?’
‘Yes, sir, I believe so.’
The expression held as – apparently – he tried to remember. ‘All right, then, I must have. Did I say what it was about?’
‘You asked him to call you back. Something about Bree’s effects. Did you ever hear back from him?’
Pierce didn’t have to think about it. ‘No.’
‘Can I ask you what you wanted?’
The nice-guy image was fading slightly. Pierce was getting tired of fielding questions about Bree. ‘One of my duties involves community relations,’ he said. ‘I think she took a lot of boilerplate with her when she left – form letters, standard language PR materials, disks. It would be helpful to have it back.’
‘So why didn’t you ask her for it when she was alive?’
‘I did. She wasn’t very well disposed toward the company after she left. I thought Ron might be a little more… malleable.’ By degrees, Pierce had moved back to the doorway, and now stood perhaps two feet from Hardy, his hand back on the door, by all signs ready to say goodbye.
But something stopped him. ‘Now how about if I ask you one?’
‘Sure.’
‘As a lawyer, what are you doing for Ron? The police don’t have suspicions of him, do they?’
‘They’re eliminating suspects right now and he’s one of them. Maybe I can find something to get them off him.’
‘So you don’t think he killed Bree?’
Something in his tone set off bells. Hardy cocked his head. ‘You do?’
‘No. I didn’t say that.’
‘That’s funny. That’s what it sounded like.’
‘No.’ He sighed again, this time the weariness unmistakable. ‘Lord, where will this end? I don’t know who killed Bree. I’m still having a hard time believing anyone could kill her, that someone purposely ended her life.’
Hardy suddenly noticed the pallor under Pierce’s ruddy cheeks – lack of sleep, time spent indoors. The darkened house. He put it together that, like Canetta, Pierce was in a kind of mourning. Another guy laid out by Bree’s death.
The woman certainly had cut a swath.
‘If you had to guess, Mr Pierce, why was she killed?’
A blank look, his mind no longer on Hardy. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I realize that you can’t talk about what you told the grand jury…’
Suddenly Pierce seemed to realize they were still in the doorway. ‘I’m sorry. Where are my manners, keeping you standing out here? Come on in.’
Hardy stood a minute inside, his eyes adjusting. Now that he’d asked him in, Pierce seemed uncertain what to do next. He motioned to a large bowl on a table next to the door. ‘Help yourself to some candy, if you’d like. Almond Roca. The best.’
Hardy thanked him and took a couple, unpeeling the gold wrapper on one of them as Pierce led him back through the foyer. It wasn’t just the Almond Roca – ‘the best’ seemed to be the underlying theme of the place. Formal living areas, one-of-a-kind furniture, ten-foot ceilings. They bypassed the winding staircase. The television droned in a small room and Pierce poked his head in. ‘Halftime,’ he said, and kept walking.
The last door on the right opened into a modern kitchen, where a woman sat at the island counter. Facing away from them, reading a magazine, she half turned as they entered.
‘Excuse us, Carrie. Mr Hardy, my wife.’ Then, explaining. ‘He’s not with the police after all. Mr Beaumont’s attorney.’
She got off her stool and stood, extending a cool, firm hand. A nod of the regal head, holding on to Hardy’s hand an instant longer than was customary. Mrs Pierce was no child, no recent trophy wife – she appeared to be just to either side of forty – but Hardy decided immediately that she was not just very attractive, but almost disturbingly beautiful. Widely set, startling blue eyes dominated the face of a northern Italian goddess. He estimated she was wearing two thousand dollars’ worth of tailored casual wear that emphasized the slim waist. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe style that highlighted the sculpted bones of her face. Simple designer gold earrings dangled from what seemed to be designer earlobes and a wide gold necklace graced a flawless expanse of finely pored, honey-toned skin over the rise of a deep and dangerous cleavage. ‘Have they charged Mr Beaumont?’ she asked in her cultured voice, a pretty frown clouding her perfect brow.
‘Not yet.’ Hardy hoped he wasn’t stammering. ‘I’m trying to keep that from happening. I was just asking your husband why he thought Bree Beaumont was killed.’
‘Or why he’s a suspect?’ Carrie Pierce said it matter-of-factly. ‘He was Bree’s mentor from the beginning, that’s why. They worked closely together and of course people talked. People tend to be jealous, not to believe that men and women who work together can be friends without…’ A brief look of distaste. ‘I mean, the world doesn’t really turn around sex, after all.’
Hardy thought it was good coloration for Carrie Pierce to believe that. He doubted that any man had ever looked at her and not thought about sex. But if she wanted to retain a sense of her value as a person outside of that context, she’d better believe that there was more.