‘When was he killed?’ Hardy asked. ‘Carl.’
Glitsky was still getting used to it, and Hardy couldn’t blame him. If this was what had happened, the proximity of Griffin’s murder scene to the homes of the suspects in Bree’s murder was an egregious oversight for homicide to have missed. Glitsky was back sitting down at the table. He cupped his hands in front of his mouth and blew on them. ‘It was a Monday. Somebody reported the body mid-afternoon, say two thirty. Forensics had him dead an hour, an hour and a half.’
‘So. Lunchtime.’
Glitsky made a face. ‘He hadn’t eaten. Except some chocolate.’
Abe’s son Orel was just getting back from trick or treating, if that’s what he’d been doing, as Hardy was at the door on his way out. Glitsky had been on the phone for the past twenty minutes leaving messages with his inspectors to make it to the hall the next day, and with the crime scene unit to make sure that Griffin’s car got another careful going-over in light of what might be these new developments. If Hardy knew Abe, and he did, all of this was going to go on awhile, with the coroner, the various labs, and so on. He didn’t feel any great need to hang around. It was after ten by now and he was exhausted.
But he couldn’t go home yet – he really had to go by Erin’s and at least kiss the kids goodnight. So now he was in the Cochrans’ living room and his own son Vincent was asleep with his head on Hardy’s lap. Rebecca was curled up on his other side, still awake – Hardy was going to do an experiment someday and see how many days his daughter could go without any sleep, but for now he was contented enough with her quiet form snuggled next to him. At least she’d know he’d come by on Hallowe’en after all.
Both the kids had gone out in Erin’s sheets as ghosts. The elaborate costumes Frannie had made for both of them – Cinderella for the Beck and Piglet for Vincent were lost to the insanity of the past couple of days.
But at least they’d had their holiday night. Their respective caches of candy were already sorted in piles on the rug. The wonderful Erin had made it all work, and for this Hardy was more than grateful.
She’d also mixed a shaker of manhattans - it had been a long day for everybody, and they’d spent the last twenty minutes having a nightcap and catching up on Hardy’s progress, ending with the potentially blockbusting discovery about Carl Griffin’s death.
But Erin had a clear focus on her priorities – this might be a fascinating turn of events, but if it wasn’t about Frannie and getting everyone’s life back to normal, she wasn’t interested. ‘This policeman was before anything happened that involved Frannie, wasn’t it, Dismas?’
‘By a couple of weeks.’
‘Well, then, how can they keep her-’ A glance at the Beck, who was hanging on every word. ‘How can they keep her where she is?’
Hardy saw her point, but it wasn’t any help. ‘She’s in for fighting with a judge, Erin. That’s all it comes down to. My guess is whatever happens with the investigation, they’ll let her go Tuesday morning.’ He said it easily but harbored an uneasy fear that it might turn out not to be true. With Ron’s disappearance, all bets might be off.
‘She’s OK, though, isn’t she, Daddy?’ See? The Beck might be quiet, but she never sleeps.
Arm around her, he patted his girl. ‘She’s fine, Beck. In fact, maybe I can see… do you want to talk to her?’
‘Oh, Daddy, so much!’
Gently, he moved Vincent’s head off him on to the couch. The long shot had just occurred to him, but the idea might work. ‘Let’s give it a try.’
He got the jail’s number and called the desk, gently reminding the deputy about the deli lunch he’d provided for them that day – sure, the guy had heard about it. What could he do for Mr Hardy?
He could let his wife in Adseg use the phone and call out to talk for a minute to her kids. And after a brief hesitation, the deputy said he’d see what he could do.
Five minutes later, the phone rang at the Cochrans‘. Hardy was nervous as he picked it up. ’Frannie?‘
Hearing her voice, he realized he should have gone to see her again tonight when he’d passed right by on the way to Jeff Elliot’s. Twenty times a day wouldn’t be too much. He should forget all this faux police work. Glitsky was on it now and it would move along on its own. ‘How are you holding up?’
He heard her take in a breath, and knew she was summoning her strength to answer. ‘Pretty good,’ she said with a cheer so false it made him sick.
The Beck was unable to restrain herself, in her excitement pulling at his leg, the cord, whatever was near by. He figured it wouldn’t be a good time to reprimand her for it. ‘Listen, I’ve got somebody here who wants to talk to you.’
‘OK, but come back, please.’
Hardy handed the phone to the Beck and stood there listening to the details of the past two days, the questions she’d had to endure at school, when was Mom coming home, what were they doing to her down at the jail – all his precious daughter’s thoughts and worries that Hardy hadn’t been able to take time for.
Vincent woke up and was groggily leaning against him, sucking his thumb although he’d stopped doing that six months before. ‘Is that Mommy? I need to talk to Mommy.’ Too sleepy to cry, but leaning in that direction.
So the kids both got to talk. Then Erin – was there anything Frannie needed her to do tomorrow, for school on Monday? She shouldn’t worry, Grandma was on the job.
There wasn’t any criticism of Hardy stated or implied, but he knew. He knew. He was good at some things, and at others hopeless. And now he felt keenly that the father role, the one that perplexed and frustrated him so often if not always lately, had become a victim to his need to figure things out, to keep busy, to win.
The priority was wrong – he felt it in every bone.
But what else could he do? He could give lip service to David Freeman’s input, to Glitsky’s machine, but he knew and cared more about this investigation than Freeman and Glitsky combined. Like it or not, he was the prime mover. Lives – and not just his family’s – now depended upon him and what he did next.
Finally, his turn came again as Erin corraled both of the kids back to bedrooms, to bedtime.
He told Frannie that he loved her, but he couldn’t leave it at that. He might hate himself for it, but he had to find out more. ‘I’ve got to ask you, have you heard from Ron today?’
‘No. How could I? They’d don’t let anybody call me here.’
‘No, I know that.’
‘Well, then.’
Hardy told her. Ron had disappeared from his hotel.
He listened to her breathing for a minute. ‘Why would he do that? I thought – didn’t you say? – he asked you to help him. What does this mean?’
‘I don’t know. I was hoping maybe you could tell me.’
‘No, unless he just got scared for the kids again.’
‘But why wouldn’t he have left some message with me?’
‘I don’t know that either. Maybe he will.’
‘Maybe,’ Hardy said flatly. ‘I hope so.’
A silence hummed on the line. ‘Dismas?’
‘I’m here.’
‘I’ve told you everything I know. Really. I don’t know where he is, what he’s doing.’
If he didn’t completely believe it, he felt at least he had to accept it. ‘OK.’
Another silence preceded the tremulous voice. ‘Tell me you believe me, Dismas. Please. I need you to believe me.’
‘Of course,’ he said with deliberate ambiguity. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, OK? Bright and early.’
‘That would be good,’ she said. Then, ‘Dismas?’
‘Yes.’
He waited.
‘I love you,’ she said.
His knuckles were white on the phone. He knew he was being imprecise. ‘Me, too.’
He finished two solid manhattans with Erin and Ed and they talked about the water poisoning and the poor middle-aged hiker from the water temple who had finally died from his injuries. Erin got Hardy a blanket and a pillow and told him he should stay here on the couch and have breakfast with his children in the morning. They were missing him, if he couldn’t tell.