Nothing but the Truth (9 page)
“Hold it right there!”
“I’m holding it.”
He was standing in the hall’s entrance, his hands wide apart, palms out before him at chest height. He was looking at a man about his size wearing black slacks, tennis shoes, a green windbreaker. The man was holding a gun as though he knew what to do with it, and this got his complete attention.
“You’re Hardy?”
“Guilty.” He kept his hands in the air. It would be a bad time for a sudden movement to get misunderstood. “I generally let the guy with the gun talk first, but maybe I should explain why I’m here. Are you Ron Beaumont?”
The man looked down at the weapon, then put it back into its shoulder holster. “No. I’m Phil Canetta, a sergeant out of Central Station.” He came forward. “You’re Glitsky’s pal.” It wasn’t a question.
Hardy nodded.
“I was at the station when he called, said somebody might want to keep an eye on you. You were on your way over here, might need some help.” An aggressive look. “I didn’t expect you’d be inside.”
“The door wasn’t locked. I tried it and it opened. I’ve got to find the guy who lives here. Do you know him? Beaumont?”
“No. I saw him the day of the murder, that’s all. I did meet her a couple times.” Hardy must have changed expressions, since Canetta went on to explain. “I do some moonlight security—convention work, parties. Caloco does a lot of that.”
“And Bree would be at these things?”
He nodded. “Yeah.” Then, “And when she was around, you noticed.”
“I saw her picture in the paper. Good-looking woman.”
Canetta almost angrily shook his head. “Didn’t come close.”
Hardy wondered a little at the strong response, but Canetta was going on. “So where is everybody?”
“I don’t know. I hope they didn’t run.”
“Were they close to bringing him in, the husband?”
“I think it’s crossed their minds. Are you helping out on this murder somehow?”
He’d touched a nerve. “Are you kidding? Station cops don’t investigate murders. This is my beat, that’s all. The day it happened, I got the call and showed up here, secured the scene until Glitsky’s people showed. The professionals.” He almost sneered the word, but then, maybe remembering that Hardy was Glitsky’s friend, he got back to business. “They must be at a movie, out to dinner, something.”
The wall clock read almost eleven. Hardy shook his head. “It’s getting late for kids on a school night. But I don’t want to just assume Beaumont’s on the run, not when there’s so many other alternatives. Maybe this place freaks out his kids. Maybe they’re all with relatives.”
“Does he have any?”
Hardy wished he’d copied the file that Glitsky had given him. It might contain some of these details. There was one other avenue, but Hardy wasn’t sure how to bring it up. He only knew he hated to leave before exploring it. “You know,” he said, “there’s an answering machine in the office down that hall.”
“Eight calls,” Hardy remarked.
“Popular guy.”
“Either that or he hasn’t been here in a while.”
Canetta nodded. “I was going to say that next.” He pointed to the machine. “Let’s hit that thing, see what it says.”
Hardy pushed the button.
Whatever else was going on, Ron Beaumont either hadn’t checked or hadn’t erased his messages since one-oh-seven p.m. on Tuesday, two days ago. It was one of those systems that announced the date and time of the calls, so Hardy and Canetta could place them exactly. The first was a man named Bill Tilton, who wanted Ron to call back about insurance and left his number.
Canetta had come up beside Hardy, borrowed a pen from its holder on the desk, and was scribbling into a spiral pad. Hardy thought this was a bit odd, but maybe the sergeant wanted to be an inspector someday, get beyond station work. He also might simply want to solve a murder, rub it in homicide’s nose.
The machine kept talking. A woman with an Asian name—Kogee Sasaka?—called to remind Ron about their appointment, although she neglected to leave her number or the time or place of it, or what it was about.
James Pierce from Caloco. Asking Ron to call him back. There were some questions about Bree’s effects and he’d like to come up sometime and . . .
Another woman: Marie. Just calling to say hi.
Moving through Tuesday afternoon. Al Valens. Something about Bree’s files, some new data she had been working on.
“Both sides of the fence.”
Hardy pushed the pause button. “What’s that?”
“The first guy, Pierce, and this new one, Valens. He works with Damon Kerry.” The candidate for governor. “His campaign manager.”
Hardy turned back to Canetta. “For a station cop, you’ve got a pretty good handle on this case, don’t you?”
A defensive shrug. “I read the papers. Whatever they say downtown, there’s no rule says we’re not allowed to think.”
“So what do you think about these guys, Sergeant, Pierce and Valens?”
A moment of hesitation, seeing if Hardy was playing with him, then deciding he wasn’t. “Something with Bree’s work, I’d guess. They’re on opposite sides in these gas additive wars.”
“So what would they both want with Ron?”
A moment’s consideration. “He must know something. ”
“About her work?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. That’s what I read. It was her work.”
“That got her killed? That means it probably wasn’t Ron.”
“I don’t know. Maybe not.” Canetta shrugged with what Hardy thought was an exaggerated nonchalance. “Which brings us back. Maybe Ron knows something.”
“I wonder if he knows what it is.”
Canetta nodded. “Or finally figured something out. If it was her work. Maybe that’s why he ran, if he did.”
Hardy knew next to nothing about gas additives or the wars related to them. His concern was limited to his wife at the moment. But if Canetta needed to air his theories, it wouldn’t hurt to listen. He pushed the play button again.
They’d gotten to Wednesday morning now, yesterday. Deja vu as Hardy heard Theresa Wilson’s voice again, from Merryvale. The Beaumont children hadn’t yet arrived at school and she was calling Ron to find out why, where they might be.
Hardy hit pause. “So if we assume the kids were at school and got picked up Tuesday, he left right after that.”
Next up was Marie for the second time.
The last voice. “Hi Ron. You know I told you about this subpoena I got? I’m worried. I’m sure they’re going to want me to talk about you and Bree. We need to get together to keep our stories straight. But don’t call here after about six-thirty. I’ll try to reach you again when I can talk. Are you there? Ron?” The tape went silent.
“Keep our stories straight,” Canetta said into the vacuum. “That doesn’t sound very good, does it?”
Hardy turned to him, his voice flat. “That was my wife.”
Canetta fixated on Frannie’s telling Ron that they had to keep their stories straight. To Hardy, the most telling line had been when she told him not to call after six-thirty—not to call, that is, after Hardy might be home. Again the truth jolted him—it had been no simple oversight that had kept her from mentioning the subpoena to him. She wanted to keep her relationship with Ron hidden, and this realization, though maybe predictable, hit him like a jab to the solar plexus.
But it wouldn’t be smart to share his reaction with Canetta. The point was that there were no hints on the answering machine about Ron’s disappearance. Hardy wasn’t going to locate him, not tonight, and that meant he wasn’t getting Frannie out of jail.
To Hardy, it was obvious that Canetta was consciously resisting the urge to talk about Frannie’s involvement. The sergeant cursorily rearranged a few items on the desk. When he’d stalled long enough, he straightened up, turned around, cleared his throat. “Well, since we’re here, we might as well make sure nobody’s dead in the other rooms. What do you say?”
They walked down the hallway and turned into the first of the bedrooms, a child’s room with a twin bed made up neatly with a white lace bedspread. There was a collection of dolls on the bed, a decent-sized pile of Beanie Babies in the corner. On the wall, stenciled roses in half a dozen colors bloomed on the powder-blue sponge-painted wall.
Canetta walked directly across the room and opened the top dresser drawer. “Look at this.” Hardy came up behind him. Except for a couple of pairs of socks, there wasn’t anything to see. “They’re gone,” Canetta observed. “We’d better be, too.”
On the way out, Hardy made sure the front door was locked behind them. The two men rode down the elevatorin an awkward silence, then crossed the lobby and stepped outside.
“What’s your plan now?” Canetta asked.
Hardy didn’t know. It was late and nothing had worked. He shrugged. “Try to find him. See if his kids are in school. If not, tell Glitsky, I suppose. If he’s on the run ...”
A silence fell and Hardy sighed.
“Your wife?”
A nod. “They’ve got her locked up at the county jail. The two of them, Frannie and Ron, he told her some secret . . .” Again, he just trailed off. It sounded so lame. “She told me he’d never let her stay down there if he knew she was in jail, but it was his secret to tell, not hers. She promised him.”
Canetta had no solace to offer. Hardy could see what he was thinking and didn’t blame him. “Well, good luck.”
He drove around for a while, trying to decide to visit the jail again, go home and sleep, wake up a judge. Everything felt wrong. Finally he wound up on Sutter Street, where he worked.
Upstairs in his office, Hardy called and woke up Glitsky at home. The lieutenant agreed that Ron Beaumont’s disappearance, if that’s what it was, increased his profile as a murder suspect. It didn’t help Frannie either. Finally, Glitsky promised that he would get in early tomorrow and talk to Scott Randall, maybe try to pull a string or two at the jail, but he didn’t hold out much hope.
After he hung up, Hardy thought a moment and seriously considered a night raid on Braun’s house, maybe getting David Freeman to accompany him, make his case to the judge. But he knew he’d only make things worse with any kind of spontaneous act in the mood he was in.
He had to think, develop a plan, stay rational. But the thought of his wife lying on one of the jail cots, surrounded by scum, terrified and unprotected, made this a tall order.
It took very little imagination to see her there, curled under the thin fabric of the institutional blanket. Smells of disinfectant, sounds of desperation. Wide-eyed and sleepless on the unyielding mattress, wondering what she’d done, how it had happened. What tomorrow would bring.
Four days!
Hardy suddenly sat upright with the realization. Braun had given her four days. She couldn’t do four days, even in AdSeg. He knew his wife, or thought he did. Four days in jail would cause a lot of damage that would be a long time healing.
Hardy suddenly sat upright with the realization. Braun had given her four days. She couldn’t do four days, even in AdSeg. He knew his wife, or thought he did. Four days in jail would cause a lot of damage that would be a long time healing.
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