‘You’re sure?’ An apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I thought we had an appointment and I’m a little surprised.’
She punched a few more keyboard buttons and noticing his obvious concern softened visibly. ‘Maybe you got the day wrong?’
Hardy nodded. ‘Must have,’ he said.
So it was still early and he had noplace to be for a couple of hours.
Ron Beaumont was beginning to remind him of several clients he’d had in the past – they tended to lie and, when not held in custody, to disappear. It made him mad and crazy, but at the same time this behavior was so predictable among suspects that it didn’t necessarily force him to believe they were guilty of anything. They were just scared, confused, misguided. Except for those who were, in fact, guilty and on the run.
As he drove by Candlestick Point, Hardy was trying his hardest to stick with the rationalization that Ron had his children to protect. There was the further point that if Hardy had been able to locate him at his hotel, others with less benign intents – the DA’s investigators, for example – might be just as successful. And Ron hadn’t promised Hardy that he’d stick around for continued consultation.
Nothing had changed, he kept telling himself. He had until Tuesday to find who had killed Bree. And Frannie would remain locked up until then anyway.
By the time he took the 7th Street off-ramp by the Hall of Justice downtown, though, his pique had progressed into a fine fury. Ron Beaumont, the son of a bitch, had a million answers at his fingertips, and now Hardy was going to have to find them on his own, if he could. And meanwhile the clock kept ticking. He didn’t have the heart anymore for this cat-and-mouse nonsense. And especially not from someone who’d put Frannie where she was.
Force of habit almost led him to park across from the jail where he would visit Frannie and check back in with Abe’s office. At this time, late on a Saturday afternoon, there was actually a spot at the curb.
But he kept driving. He wasn’t going to leave any messages now with Glitsky to accompany his note on Damon Kerry’s fingerprints. The way he felt about Ron would spill over somehow and muddy the waters. He didn’t want Glitsky even glancing in Ron’s direction as a viable suspect if he could help it.
And Frannie? She was the reason he was doing any of this in the first place. And sure, he could go hold her hand again but it would use up two more precious hours. Frannie wanted him to save Ron and his kids and the price of that – for her -was going to be that her husband couldn’t come and console her every time he was in the neighborhood.
Truth be told, Ron’s disappearance had kicked up a renewed dust storm of anger at Frannie, too. And a smaller zephyr at his own gullibility, his continuing efforts in a cause in which he had at best a manufactured faith. He was doing all this for his wife, at her urging. He’d let her deal with the consequences. See how she liked them apples.
But he had to admit that there were developments in this case that didn’t depend on Ron Beaumont, that had piqued his interest on their own. The three men – Canetta, Pierce, and Kerry – who were in mourning over Bree’s death. Today’s MTBE poisoning. Al Valens lying. And always – three billion dollars.
Hardy was on automatic, some non-rational process having determined that he should go to his office. He still had two hours until Canetta was due to show up to trade information. The odds were in favor of David Freeman being around, working on Saturday. Hardy could bounce his discoveries and hunches off his landlord, a practice that was nearly always instructive.
If Freeman wasn’t there, he’d pore over the copies of Griffin’s notes that Glitsky had given him and see if some new detail caught his attention. It was a backup plan, but at least it was some plan.
And then suddenly the open curb at 5th near Mission called to him. One legal parking space downtown on a weekday qualified as a miracle, but seeing an entire side of 5th Street nearly empty was nearly the beatific vision. Fresh snow or a morning beach without footprints – you just ached to walk on it. He pulled over and came to a stop directly across from the Chronicle building.
It was a sign.
Jeff Elliot was the Chronicle columnist who wrote the ‘Citytalk’ column on the political life of the city.
When Hardy had first met him, he’d been a young, personable, fresh-faced kid from the Midwest who walked with the aid of crutches due to his ongoing battle with multiple sclerosis. Now, although still technically young – Hardy doubted if Jeff had yet turned thirty-five – the baby-faced boy sported a graying, well-trimmed beard. His chest had thickened and his eyes had grown perennially tired. Here in his office just off the city room, the old crutches rested by the door, almost never used anymore. Now, Jeff got around in a wheelchair.
But he was still personable, at least to Hardy, who over the years had been the conduit of a lot of good information and the subject of one or two columns. He and his wife had even been to parties at Hardy’s house.
Jeff had undoubtedly come downtown today after the water poisoning. Barring an assassination of the President or an eight-point earthquake, this was going to be tomorrow’s headline and there were political elements all over it.
But now that Hardy had stuck his head in his door, first things first. Jeff swung away from his computer and motioned him in. ‘Big D,’ he said. ‘¿Que pasa?’ Then he remembered and grew suddenly serious. ‘How’s Frannie holding up?’
Hardy made a face. What could he say?
Jeff shook his head in disgust. ‘I’d sue Braun, Pratt, Randall, the whole lot of ’em. Or kill them. Maybe both.‘
‘No options are out of the question.’
‘So you got my call at home?’
‘No. I’ve been out all day.’
This surprised Jeff. ‘Well, the message was that I was going to give this Frannie thing a couple of graphs on Monday, maybe get somebody’s attention. I thought you could give me a good quote.’
Hardy smiled thinly. ‘Nothing you could print in a family newspaper.’
Jeff looked a question. ‘So you didn’t get the message and yet you’re here?’
‘I saw a free parking place at the curb. Hell, the whole street. What could I do? I said to myself, “Self,” I said, “why don’t you have a little off-the-record chat with your good friend Jeff Elliot?” ’
This brought a smile. Long ago, Hardy had neglected to preface some remarks to Jeff that they were off the record. It hadn’t worked out too well, and since then Hardy had made it a point to include the words ‘off the record’ in every discussion he ever had with Jeff, even purely social ones.
Jeff smiled. ‘I was waiting for that.’
‘Plus,’ Hardy continued, ‘I thought it was possible you might know something I don’t.’
‘Probably. I’m good on the Middle Ages and Victorian England.’
‘Dang.’ Hardy snapped his fingers. ‘Neither of those. I was thinking more about Frannie, Bree or Ron Beaumont, this MTBE business.’ Hardy thought a minute. ‘Damon Kerry. Al Valens.’
Jeff cracked a grin. ‘You done? I think you left out my wife and a couple of senators.’
Hardy spread his palms in a frustrated gesture. ‘I can’t seem to get much of it to hang together.’
The columnist swung his wheelchair around to face Hardy. ‘In return for which I get the exclusive of the big secret Frannie’s gone to jail about?’
‘Nope, but you might get Bree’s killer before anybody else.’
‘Are you close to that? Everybody’s saying it’s the husband. Ron, is it?’
A shake of the head. ‘Abe Glitsky, whom you may remember is head of homicide, is definitely not saying it. And Abe be the man on this stuff.’