‘Fascinating stuff,’ Glitsky said. He was going fast, to Hardy’s eye ignoring everything that wasn’t personal in Bree’s personal files, laying a slush pile of Bree’s professional work on the desk to his right, behind him. Hardy made some noise that might have sounded like asking for permission, got a grunt in reply, so grabbed a handful and walked out into the hallway, where he folded it all up and tucked it inside his jacket.
He then returned to Bree’s room.
Further evidence that Ron and Bree had lived separate lives, all right. Her bed was smaller, a double. It had a bright floral comforter and flounced pillows that matched. Even now, a month after her death, a woman’s scent of perfume and powder hung subtly in the air. Her bathroom was done in light salmon tones and was three times the size of Ron’s, with an oversized tub and make-up table, as much a woman’s bathroom as Ron’s was a man’s.
Back in the bedroom, Hardy stood at the bookshelves – floor-to-ceiling built-ins that covered half the back wall. Possibly it shouldn’t have surprised him after what he’d heard about Bree the ugly duckling from Damon Kerry, but the entire bottom shelf was filled with paperback romance novels. Next up was a half shelf of paperback commercial fiction, then a couple of shelves of hardbound literary fiction – almost entirely by modern women writers. Toni Morrison, Joyce Carol Gates, Barbara Kingsolver, Laurie Colwin, Amy Tan – a scientist with good literary taste, Hardy thought. Then a surprise – what looked to be a full set of Tony Hillerman. So Chee and Leaphorn had been in her consciousness, too. Maybe helping to spark the idealism that had driven her so strongly in her last months.
On the top shelf, though, at the end of the large section on travel books, next to a new copy of What To Expect When You ‘re Expecting, was the one Hardy thought he recognized and knew he wanted. He took the oversized book down and brought it over to the small reading chair next to the bed.
Her high school yearbook. Passages 81, from Lincoln High in Evanston, Illinois.
There were the usual autographs: ‘To the smartest girl in the world.’ ‘Chemistry would have beat me without you.’ ‘Who needs boys when you’ve got brains?’ ‘Lab rats rule!’
And then, from one of her teachers, the one Hardy needed: ‘To Bree Brunetta, my best student ever!’
He quickly turned through the seniors and found her – Bree Brunetta. Without the maiden name, he never would have been able to find, much less recognize, the ravishing Bree Beaumont from the uninspired and formal cap-and-gown photograph.
Bree Brunetta, at seventeen, had been slightly overweight with dark unkempt hair, bangs down over her eyes, braces, clunky glasses. The ugly duckling indeed, Hardy thought. There was a recent picture of Bree with the kids next to the bed and he looked at the smiling face with the shining blond hair, the cheekbones, the perfect mouth – it was hard to reconcile the two images.
He flipped through the rest of the book quickly. Bree had been an active and seemingly well-rounded student, a member of the Debating Society, the Science Club, the Chess Club. She played clarinet in the band and was the ‘features’ editor of the student newspaper. She was voted the Smartest Girl.
Hardy happened to notice one other detail, one of those cruel high-school moments that scar a kid for life. Bree was voted ‘least likely to get a date with Scott lePine,’ the Most popular Guy, Best-looking Guy, and Most Likely to Succeed. Whichever kids dreamed up that category must have thought it was hysterical. Hardy guessed Bree wouldn’t have thought so.
There were some letters on three-ring binder paper folded over in the back, and he was just opening one when he heard Glitsky’s steps coming quickly down the hallway. He folded the letters back and put them with the literature into his inside pocket as well. Then he closed the book as Glitsky appeared at the door to Bree’s room. His eyes had a haunted look. ‘I just got beeped. I’ve got to go,’ he said.
‘You mind if I stay behind a few minutes?’ Hardy asked.
‘Sure, no sweat. Just lock up when you leave.’ Glitsky shook his head. ‘Get real, Diz. We’re out of here. We’re not arguing about it, either, OK? Or making one of our clever remarks.’ He let out a long breath. ‘Somebody just shot another cop.’
24
The two-man arson team was still at his house when Hardy drove up. He parked semi-legally and came up on to where the lawn had been before stopping to get their attention. They were huddled over an area near what had been the front bay window. ‘How you guys doing?’
They both looked over at him with no interest, then held a quiet conference before one of them straightened up, and jumped down on to the porch’s foundation. ‘Your friend said to tell you he went to work. Otherwise, we’re going to be here a while.’
‘You got any idea what a while is?’
A flat glare. ‘Hours, not minutes.’
This was pulling teeth, but Hardy needed to get some information. ‘You finding anything?’ At this, the arson investigator spread his hands in a futile gesture, and Hardy cut him off. ‘You can’t tell me anything, can you? I might have done it, right? Set fire to my own house.’
‘People do it all the time.’
Hardy knew this was true. The man was doing his job, actually protecting Hardy’s interests. ‘OK,’ he managed to say mildly. ‘I was wondering, though, if I could go into the back and get a few things – clothes, toiletries, like that? Check my phone messages.’
In spite of what he’d told Valens, Hardy didn’t think the answering machine in the kitchen had been destroyed. Driving over here, it had occurred to him that it might be instructive to see what the tape held.
But to this inspector, whether or not Hardy had friends on the police force, he was a righteous suspect. He remained all business. ‘No, sir. I’m afraid not. There’s no electricity in any case. I don’t know if the captain made it clear to you, but this house is fire department property until we clear it to you.’
There was nothing to be gained from antagonizing the man, although maintaining his demeanor took a serious coefficient of his resources. He forced a patient smile. ‘No, I understand that. But I’d like to be able to make some plans. Can you give me any estimate how long that will be?’
Maybe Hardy had worn the inspector down, but it seemed for an instant as if there was a tiny thaw. ‘Safest guess will be tomorrow morning sometime.’ He paused. ‘Maybe about the time your reporter friend runs his column.’
No, Hardy realized. It wasn’t a thaw after all. It was a way to tell him that Jeff Elliot had been by, another unwelcome interruption to their task. Jeff had probably bothered them to distraction. ‘If we get done by dark, we’ll get it boarded up for the night. Somebody’ll be here tomorrow to let you back in… if we’re ready.’ It was a dismissal.
There wasn’t anything he could do.
On his private stool, right up by the front window, behind the bar at the Little Shamrock, Moses McGuire was nursing his Sunday Macallan on his private stool. He allowed none of the other bartenders either to drink or to sit, even for an instant, when they were working. His belief was that professional bartenders got paid to stand while they waited on customers – it showed respect. If they wanted to sit, he invited them to come around to the bar side and take a short break at some risk to their job security, but if they were behind the rail, they stood. And on either side of it, during their hours of employ, they were dry.
McGuire himself, though, as the owner, could do any damn thing he wanted. When he and Hardy argued about the unfairness of how he applied his rules, he would explode. ‘I’m a noble publican, not some goddammed wage-slave bartender.’ And since McGuire owned three-quarters of the place, his word was the law.