Hardy wanted to avoid assuming the worst about women and their secret affairs. It was too close.
Forcing his attention back, Hardy listened as Freeman asked about Jim Pierce. ‘Assuming he was sleeping with Bree, too.’
But having met the stunning Carrie Pierce during the day, this was difficult terrain for Hardy to negotiate. ‘His wife is a world-class beauty, David. I can’t see it.’
Freeman took the soggy cigar from his lips. ‘You know, Diz, Jackie Kennedy wasn’t exactly chopped liver. You know the basic difference between men and women around sex?’
‘Equipment?’
‘No, wise guy. Men want as many women as they can get. Women want the best man they can get. A fundamental truth.’
Hardy nodded. ‘I’ll write it down when I get home. But there’s one other name we’ve left out here that I thought you’d enjoy.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Canetta.’
Hardy succeeded in surprising Freeman so rarely that when he did so, as now, he derived a disproportionate pleasure from it. Now the old man’s eyes narrowed with interest. ‘So how are you playing him?’
‘I’m thinking he might tell me a lie. I’m thinking he’s too involved too soon.’
A satisfied nod. ‘You know, just when I think you’re getting soft…’
‘It’s a long shot,’ Hardy admitted. ‘But he walked a beat near her place, he provided security at some functions for both Pierce and Bree, he let her off on a DUI…’
Freeman’s bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘That’s real.’
‘Real enough. They also had several curbside conversations.’
‘Several?’A beat. ‘All of them curbside?’
‘That’s what he says. But he wants me to believe he was truly infatuated with her. And maybe he was. I don’t know.’
‘And so you put him to work to find her killer.’
‘Or to lead me away from looking at him.’
Freeman leaned back, pulled the cigar from his mouth, looked it over critically, and popped it back in. ‘Sweet,’ he said. ‘You need me here, you know I’m in.’
Hardy nodded. ‘I appreciate it, David. But let’s remember that whoever this is, the guy’s serious.’
A dismissive wave. ‘Serious, schmerious. I’ve told you a thousand times, I’m bulletproof.’
‘I’ve told you a thousand times, I hate when you say that.’
Freeman grunted. ‘Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.’
20
She was out again. Jim Pierce couldn’t face another society event, this one with adults wearing masks and other madness he didn’t even want to consider. Hallowe’en. He’d begged off, as he had nine times out of ten for the past half-dozen years, fed up to the teeth with these cock and tail parties whose function was to make sure that his friends knew he was their friend, and they would tell by the size of the check.
Friends? He was too rich. He trusted no one. He hadn’t a friend in the world.
The last one of these parties he’d attended – it had been a year before – had pretty much sealed his decision that he wouldn’t be part of that scene anymore. This one, even for San Francisco, had been revolting.
The financial and political elite of the city were in a big, open warehouse in the South of Market area. There was often some artsy-fartsy performance supposedly related to the fundraising entity at these affairs, and that night after everyone had had a few, the main event began.
A naked couple appeared suddenly on a black-lit stage. Awful, drum-pounding noise made conversation impossible. The woman began carving some kind of devil worship symbols into the man s back.
Pierce had been twenty feet away, trying to talk to the district attorney and the mayor before the drums took over. What they were witnessing wasn’t being done with mirrors. The blood flowed. And that was a mere preamble.
The woman had a bottle of Jack Daniel’s bourbon from which she drank. Then she poured it over the man’s new cuts and he screamed and screamed, writhing – but to the obscene beat – in real pain. The strobe lighting went red.
The drums increased. The man spread his legs and leaned over and – Pierce had trouble believing it still, though he had seen it with his own eyes – the woman shoved the neck of the Jack Daniel’s bottle…
Thank God Carrie hadn’t gone to that one – it might have given her a heart attack. But he’d gone, and that was enough. He was through.
The television droned in the small room under the stairwell. ESPN Sports Center. Twenty-four hours’ coverage. Weekends he’d catch a good percentage of it, though it mostly repeated every half hour, the same stuff and the occasional update. But it kept him up on sports, something he needed for his image – a regular guy at work.
Well, not a regular guy. One of the bosses, actually, but at least one of the accessible ones. He hit the mute button and stood up, unsteady on his feet.
He’d promised Carrie he’d get himself something to eat. She’d be home in less than an hour now, and all he’d done was drink – couple of Scotches and a bottle of Pinot Grigio. He’d better eat if he didn’t want to endure another round of the third degree.
Carrie had been going on and on lately – why wasn’t he eating? He ought to take better care of himself. This drinking every night wasn’t doing him any good either. What the heck was the matter with him? Maybe he should see a therapist. How come he wasn’t working out anymore?
How about a back rub, he wanted to say. A Lewinsky maybe. Ha! Never. Not even when they’d first started out and every single time had been such a precious meaningful gift of her beautiful self, back when she at least pretended she liked it. Not often, but if everything was perfect and he was romantic, whatever that meant. Then he might get lucky. Lucky with his wife. Somehow the concept seemed a little skewed.
In the bathroom, there he was in the mirror. He’d aged ten years in five weeks, he thought, although nobody else seemed to have noticed. He moved closer, slapped hard at his cheeks, but couldn’t feel them. Tugged a few times half-heartedly at his penis. Nothing.
They each had their own private boxes – Carrie’s jewelry safe in the floor of her upstairs closet, and Jim’s business safe, in his office where Carrie never went.
He went to it now. Behind the desk he lifted the corner of the Persian rug and pushed down on the two parquet tiles while he simultaneously held the button under the top right drawer. This freed the other six tiles so that he could pull them up.
In another minute he was sitting in his big chair at the big desk. He held the gun – butt and barrel – in both of his hands. After a minute, he turned the cylinder to make it click once, then spun it.
He brought it up to his face. Oil and cordite and something else. The potential to bring instant death. Could you actually smell that?
Closing his eyes, he was just going to feel it there with his senses – smelling, the cold metal, the power of it. A wave of dizziness then.
He leaned into it. With exaggerated slowness, he brought it up and around until no part of the weapon touched him except the end of the barrel, tight up against the center of his forehead.
Abe Glitsky was not having his best evening.
Of all holidays, Hallowe’en was his least favorite. But beyond that, as a cop, he sensed in his bones that this Hallowe’en – tonight – was shaping up to be a disaster. It had the big triple whammy going against it – a beautiful, almost balmy night; a Saturday; and, as an extra added bonus, a full moon.
Scientists might debate whether a full moon had an effect on human behavior, but no policeman ever wondered about it at all. It was an immutable fact, and when the moon was full and the night happened to be Hallowe’en, watch out.
Glitsky had listened to all the news reports about the Pulgas water poisoning, and still was more than half convinced that it had simply been a Hallowe’en trick. That’s the way Hallowe’en was – goofy little pranks involving razor blades and Ex-Lax and strychnine and now, in an exciting wrinkle for the new millenium, gasoline poisoning of the water supply.