The Oath (36 page)

She shrugged. “I could try, I guess.”

Bracco asked her about the time, wanting to narrow it down.

“I know just what time it was because when I stopped, when she almost hit me, and then I started running again, I checked my watch to see how much time I’d lost. It was twenty-five after six.”

This perfectly fit the timetable for Markham’s accident. “So let me ask you this, Lexi. Would you close your eyes for a minute and just try to visualize everything you can think of about the car or its driver—I know it was only a second—just tell us what you see.”

Obediently, she leaned back into the couch, scrunched between her mom and her dad. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. “Okay. I was on Lake, just running like, and then I usually turn up Twenty-fifth and cross over, so I got to the corner and there was this car maybe, I don’t know, a ways down the street, but coming to the stop sign, so I thought it would stop.”

“Was the car speeding, do you think?” Bracco asked.

“I don’t know. Probably not, maybe, or I might have noticed it more.”

“Okay.”

“But then I was off the curb like one step, and I heard the brakes go on, or the skid, you know that sound, whatever it’s called. So I turned and she was going to hit me, so I jumped backwards and was facing her. Luckily she stopped just as I was reaching out. You know, in case she hit me.”

“All right,” Fisk said gently. “So you’re leaning on the hood of the car. Is it damaged at all? Crashed in a little?”

“The light, yeah. I guess it would be the front, my left. I remember because I didn’t want to cut myself on the broken headlight.”

“Front right then, on the car.”

“Okay, I guess so.” She opened her eyes and seemed to be silently asking her parents if she was doing all right. A couple of nods assured her, and she closed her eyes again, but shook her head uncertainly. “I was kind of shaking then. It was pretty scary. But then I just got really mad and slammed my hands down on the hood again, really hard. I screamed at her.”

“Do you remember what you said?”

“You almost killed me. You almost killed me, you idiot. I said it twice, I think. I was really mad and screamed at her.”

“Then what?”

“Then she held up her hands, like it wasn’t her fault, like she was sorry.”

“Lexi,” Bracco said with urgency, “what did she look like?”

It was almost comical the way Lexi screwed up her face, but there was no humor at all in the room. “Maybe a little younger than Mom, I think. I can’t tell too good about adults’ ages. But dark hair, kind of frizzy.”

“Any particular hairstyle?”

“No. Just around her face. Frizzy.”

“What race was she?”

“Not black. Not Asian. But other than that, I couldn’t say.”

“How about what she wore? Anything stick out?”

“No. It was only a second.” She was showing the first signs of defensiveness. “We just stared at each other.”

“Okay, that’s good, Lexi,” Fisk said. “Thank you so much.”

But Bracco wasn’t quite done. “Just a couple more things about the car, okay? Would you call it an old car or a new one? How would you describe it, if you can remember?”

Again, she closed her eyes. “Not a sports car, but not real big, you know. Kind of like a regular car, maybe, but not a new one, now that I think about it. The paint wasn’t new. It just looked older, I guess. Not shiny.” Suddenly, she frowned. “The back lights were kind of funny.”

“The back lights?” Bracco asked. “How were they funny? How did you see them?”

“I turned right after I started running again. They kind of went out from the middle, almost like they were supposed to make you think of wings, you know?”

“Fins?” Fisk asked.

“Like on Uncle Don’s T-Bird,” Mrs. Rath volunteered. “You know how they go up in the back. They’re called fins.”

But she was shaking her head. “No, not just like that. Lower, kind of along the back, where you’d lift up the trunk. Oh, and a bumper sticker.”

“You are doing so good, Lexi,” Fisk enthused. “This is great. What about the bumper sticker?”

She closed her eyes again, squeezing them tight. But after a minute, she opened them and shook her head. “I don’t know what it said. I don’t remember. Maybe it wasn’t in English.”

At the day’s last light, the two inspectors made one last stop, at the stop sign at Lake and Twenty-fifth. They had already decided to send a composite artist specialist out to the Raths’ to work with Lexi. Fisk had a book at home with front and back views of every car made in America for the past fifty years, and he was planning on bringing that by, as well, to see if Lexi could give them a positive identification on the make and model.

They got out and walked from the stop sign back to the first streetlight. There was no sign of a skid mark, from which Fisk hoped to get something, perhaps a tire size. And then Bracco remembered. “The storm,” he said. “We can forget it.”

Kensing reached Hardy on his cell. It sounded as though he was in a restaurant somewhere. Jackman had already talked to him. He’d phrased the subpoena as a request. They wanted to proceed with dispatch on investigating Kensing’s list, and without his testimony, the grand jury would be left in the dark. Hardy thought cooperation here wouldn’t hurt them, and he’d okayed the new deal. But he wasn’t nearly as sanguine when Kensing told him about the search warrant. “Glitsky was there tonight? Looking for what?”

“I don’t think anything really. I think it was just to scare me, although they did take some of my clothes.”

“Why did they do that?”

“They said they were looking for blood. They probably found some.”

“Christ on a crutch.”

Hardy had meant to turn off his cell phone when he and Frannie had left the house on their weekly date. It was one of their rules, but he’d forgotten and then of course it had rung and he’d answered it, telling her he’d just be a sec. That had been nearly five minutes ago. Once he had Kensing on the line, he wanted to grill him at length about the discrepancy between Judith Cohn’s account of Tuesday night, when he hadn’t gotten home by at least one o’clock, and his own, which would have put him there by about 10:30.

But they wound up talking about the search, and then about tomorrow’s grand jury appearance. Then their waiter came up and gave him the sign and Hardy realized he really ought to hang up. They frowned upon cell phones here. Hardy did, too. Just not at this precise moment.

He squeezed in one more sentence. “But we really need to talk before you get to the grand jury.”

If either Glitsky or his inspectors talked to Cohn as Hardy had done, they’d get the message to Marlene Ash and Kensing’s appearance tomorrow in front of the grand jury wouldn’t be pretty. With his multiple motives and Glitsky’s animus, the squishy alibi might just be enough to get him indicted. At least he ought to know his girlfriend’s story, or he’d get bushwhacked.

So they were meeting tomorrow at Kensing’s at 8:15.

Now Frannie raised her glass of chardonnay, clinked it with his. “That sounded like a pleasant conversation,” she said.

Hardy ostentatiously turned off his cell phone, put it in his jacket pocket. “Honest mistake, I swear,” he said. “Which is better than the one Kensing made when he talked to Abe, or when he lied about when he got home last Tuesday.”

Frannie stopped midsip. “I don’t like to hear about clients who lie to you.”

“It’s not my favorite, either. In fact, as a general rule, I’d put lying in my top ten for what I’m not looking for in a client.”

“And Abe just now searched his house?”

Hardy dipped some sourdough bread into a shallow dish of olive oil, pinched sea salt over it all. “I got that impression.”

“Last night Abe seemed to think it might not be Kensing after all.”

“Right. But last night we were all hot over Mrs. Loring, and we knew for a fact that Eric wasn’t around when she was killed, so it looked like he was completely in the clear. But today, unfortunately, it turns out that these other deaths at Portola might have nothing to do with Markham or his wife. Basically, it looks like nobody in the universe that could have killed Mrs. Loring even knew Carla Markham, much less went to her house. In which case, they’re unrelated.”

“In which case, your client gets back on Abe’s list.”

“If he ever really left. But you know Abe. He likes to start with a big list, then whittle it down.”

“You’re saying he’s got a lot of other suspects?”

“Sure. It’s still early.”

“How many?”

“Two, maybe three others.”

Frannie whistled softly. “Big list. Anybody else Abe likes as well as Kensing?”

Hardy held his menu and looked down at it, then up at her, grinning. “But enough about the law. I’m going with the sand dabs tonight. There is no fish more succulent than a fresh Pacific Ocean sand dab, and they do them great here. Lemon, butter, capers. Out of this world. You really ought to try them.”

K
ensing was in a business suit, sitting at his kitchen table. He had poured some coffee for both of them, but the cups sat cool and untouched.

Hardy sat between the table and the sink. He had pushed himself back a little so he could cross his legs, and now his ankle rested on its opposite knee. “So you told Glitsky this last night, too?”

“Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I? It’s the truth. Jesus Christ, Diz, why do we keep going back over this? There’s nothing to talk about!”

Hardy drew a breath, collected himself, let the breath out. It was possible, he supposed, though doubtful, that Judith had remembered the wrong night. “As a matter of fact, there is, Eric. The reason I can’t get over it is that you never told me that Dr. Cohn was here that night, sleeping over. This is hard for me to fathom since she could have corroborated your alibi.” His voice grew harsh. “And then we could just leave it. Or is it time to find yourself another lawyer?”

Kensing’s eyes did a quick dance, came to rest. “She was asleep when I got home.” He paused, scratched his fingernail across the table. “As it turns out, I didn’t wake her up. So she wouldn’t have known I was there. I wanted to keep her out of it.”

Hardy waited to see if Kensing would ask the obvious question, but when it didn’t come, he supplied it. “Aren’t you interested in how I found out she’d been here?”

No answer.

“I talked to her and I asked her, how about that? Last night. And she was asleep when you got home, you’re right. Although it wasn’t ten thirty, was it? It was after one in the morning. Are you going to tell me she’s lying?”

Kensing ran a bluff for about five seconds; then all the air left him in a rush. His shoulders sagged, his head hung down. He stood up and walked over to the sink, out of sight behind Hardy, who didn’t turn to keep an eye on him and suddenly felt the hair on his neck stand up. A selection of kitchen knives hung off a magnet strip on the wall back there. Kensing could pull one off and slash with it before Hardy could move a muscle.

He whirled.

His client wasn’t even facing him, and Hardy felt a moment of something like shame. Kensing was leaning with his hands on both sides of the sink, staring out the window. He finally spoke in a hoarse whisper. “I’ve been clean and sober for seven years, Diz. Seven years, a day at a time. You know how long that is?” He chuckled bitterly. “The answer is you don’t. Nobody does. So last Tuesday, the man who ruined my marriage and took my kids from me shows up in my unit, and three hours later he’s dead. Just dead. An act of God as far as I know. Finally some justice, finally something fair. But then between Carla and Driscoll, there’s bedlam in the hospital. Then Ann comes to see me and she’s raving, talking about me
killing
him, and for a minute I actually wonder if I didn’t do all I could to keep him alive.”

He stopped, ran water into a glass, drank it off, and wiped his mouth with his hand. “Anyway, somehow I made it through the rest of that day, going over to Carla’s, trying to find a place for this…this
thing
that had happened. Then that cop, Bracco, outside at Carla’s, and more talk as though somebody had done this to Tim. But then I was gone, free from it, driving home at last. I even got all the way here, parked just up the street a ways. I saw the light on and knew Judith was here.”

A deep sigh. “Then I walked down to Harry’s and had a drink. A double actually. Scotch and soda. Just sitting there savoring it, the most delicious thing I’d tasted in forever. Then another one, drinking to the good Mr. Markham’s health, the beauty of it. God, it was so beautiful.” He came back to the table and sat. “Then
another
one, this one for all the lost nights and my babies and Annie and all the
shit
I’d taken from her. And a couple more for Parnassus and what my life had turned into, a sham of healing people with minimum care, pretending that I was some paragon of virtue and knowledge. One more because the whole thing’s a lie and I’m a fraud. Then the rest because I’m a drunk and a loser and that’s all I am. So finally, when I try to order one more, the bartender, God bless him, cuts me off. It’s closing time. He’ll even give me a lift home if I need it.”

“You think he’d remember you?” Hardy asked.

“Without a doubt. But if this gets out, I lose my job. And I won’t get another one soon.”

Hardy considered it for a while. “You realize this is your alibi for a murder, Eric.”

Kensing was adamant. “It can’t come out.”

A flat gaze of frustration. “Then you better hope Glitsky hasn’t talked to Judith.”

“If he has, I’ll tell him she made a mistake. It wasn’t that night.”

The rest of the conversation was simpler. It took place in the lobby of the Hall of Justice. Both men had had some time to cool off on their respective rides downtown, although Hardy had come to the unsettling realization that now Judith Cohn had no alibi for the time of Carla’s death. But he wasn’t going to bring that up to his client, not this morning. He had other, more pressing concerns.

He started the conversation by reminding Kensing that there was no physical evidence tying him either to Markham’s death or Carla’s. Trials were about evidence. If the prosecutor found herself getting too carried away with motives and possible motives, Hardy told Kensing that he should politely answer the questions. He didn’t have to be confrontational. Don’t argue. Keep it on point. “And the point, Eric, is to take yourself off the list of viable suspects.”

The lecture continued. Hardy once again admonished his client to tell the truth about even the most seemingly damning of situations—between him and Markham, Markham and Ann, him and Parnassus. Tell the whole truth, especially about his trip to the bar on the night of Carla’s death. Eric could believe it or not, but the truth was the best friend of the innocent. And further, protecting the secrets of witnesses was precisely what the grand jury was all about.

“You’re telling me they don’t leak?”

Hardy hated to admit it, but he did. “No. Everything leaks, Eric, from time to time. But the grand jury really doesn’t leak often. If you’re low-key and explain the situation, don’t call undue attention to it, it will flow right by, after which you’re not a suspect anymore.” He really needed to drive this home. “Why should the grand jury care if you stopped by for a few drinks at a bar after a stressful day? Okay, you’re an alcoholic and not supposed to drink—but murder, not alcoholism, is the crime.”

Hardy needed to make him understand this crucial point. They were standing off alone by the wall engraved with the names of slain policemen. It was already after 9:00 and Kensing had to be upstairs by 9:30. The volume in the cavernous lobby was picking up with the increased traffic—cops and lawyers and a steady stream of the public, which sometimes did seem vast and unwashed, especially here. Hardy moved a step closer to his client, into his space, backing him against the wall, locking him in his gaze.

“Listen to me, Eric. You’re an intelligent man, but right now you are letting fear and lack of focus hurt you. I don’t blame you for being worried. It’s a scary time, but don’t let it blind you to the way you’re going to strike those nineteen grand jurors. You’re a doctor, an upstanding citizen, a voluntarily cooperative witness in a murder. You can’t be a suspect because you simply were not at Carla’s when she was shot. You were somewhere else—
where that was specifically
isn’t going to matter. Once the jurors hear that, the psychological advantage is all yours. Where you were when you weren’t killing Carla Markham won’t even be newsworthy enough to leak, no more than what color tie you’re wearing. There’s really only one person that gives a shit if you went to that bar and had a drink, and that’s you. So don’t let the prosecutor in there—Marlene Ash—don’t let her paint you as a killer. That’s not who you are. In truth, and in fact.” Hardy actually poked his finger in Kensing’s chest. “Get it inside you. Believe it. Act like it.”

But his client still wasn’t quite with him. “And you’re willing to risk my career over it?”

Hardy considered and answered in a level tone. “If you go up there with something to hide, it’s going to be all over you like a stink and the jurors will smell it. And when inevitably it comes out, you’ve committed perjury, which is a felony. Go up there an innocent man, that’s how you’ll walk out. If they catch you in a lie, and Glitsky will if you give him time, you’re probably indicted. Then you’ve perjured yourself, you’re still a drunk, and maybe a murderer to boot. Where’s your career then?”

Marlene Ash had a double agenda but there was no doubt at all about which one she was going to pursue first today. She had Abe Glitsky’s prime suspect for a murder at the table next to the podium where she stood. While she respected Clarence Jackman’s opinion and the deal they’d both made with Hardy, she didn’t for a moment believe that one of the staff doctors in the Parnassus Physicians’ Group was in possession of any insider knowledge about bogus billing at the corporate level. So she was going for the murder indictment.

Over the past few days, she’d put in long hours going over printouts of computer files supplied by Parnassus, mostly about Kensing, his estranged wife, and their relationship with Tim Markham. It had been anything but pleasant. Without question, the two men had hated each other. Ironically, Marlene thought, and only from reading one side of the correspondence, Kensing seemed to become bolder and more threatening as the relationship between his ex-wife and Markham flowered. Markham appeared to be bending over backward to give Kensing what he wanted—the subtext being that Kensing would expose them.

And now, in spite of her ammunition, Ash couldn’t seem to make a hit. She’d had Kensing now for an hour and he’d cordially rebutted each of her assaults with reasonable responses that rang true.

He hadn’t been worried about losing his job under Markham (as the correspondence had made clear). The relationship between Markham and his wife was insulation against that. In fact, Markham’s death had actually imperiled his employment. He was currently, under Dr. Ross, on administrative leave, proof that in a way Markham had been his reluctant protector, and not a threat at all.

He had once felt rage for Tim Markham and his wife. Certainly. Who wouldn’t? But as a matter of fact, he was in a satisfying relationship at the moment. In retrospect, he realized that his wife leaving him had been an opportunity, albeit a painful one. There was no anger anymore. If anything, he was doing better than Ann. The divorce was proceeding amicably. They were sharing visitation.

Ms. Ash was misinformed. There had been no fight last weekend. Ann had had an accident. He had filed no charges against her, and she’d brought none against him. She was hurt and angry and wanted to lash out because Tim Markham had left her the week before. Her rage was understandable, his nonexistent. He took the kids until she was back home. He and Ann had talked for several hours just two days ago. The police had regrettably misunderstood.

Again, Ms. Ash was misinformed. He had never admitted killing Tim Markham. No, of course he hadn’t. He wasn’t sure what Ann thought she’d heard. She had probably misunderstood. He hadn’t wanted to discuss her testimony with her in advance because his lawyer had told him not to.

He readily admitted that the Baby Emily case had exacerbated the already strained relations between him and Parnassus. There he had simply done the right thing, and doing so had angered the money people in his company. This was a recurring theme in medicine everywhere—money versus care. He was a doctor, and made no bones about where he stood on the issue. Did this, he inquired, make him guilty of something?

He had come here voluntarily. He could take the Fifth Amendment, yet did not. He wanted to clear the air, clear his name, so he could get back to his life, his patients.

“All right, then, Dr. Kensing,” Marlene Ash said at last. “You were the last person to see Carla Markham alive, were you not?”

“I can’t say, ma’am. I’d assume that would be her murderer.”

A snicker rippled across the jurors.

“When did you leave the Markham house on the night of Mr. Markham’s death?”

“At a little after ten.”

“And you told Lieutenant Glitsky you drove straight home, isn’t that true?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s what I told the lieutenant.” He took in a breath, then came out with it. “But that was not true.” He had his hands locked on the table in front of him, and addressed himself to the jurors. “Lieutenant Glitsky interrogated me on this issue. I didn’t want to tell him where I’d been. When I talked to my lawyer, he told me that today I would be under oath. He told me my testimony would be protected and you would keep my secret. I’m sorry I lied to the lieutenant, but I didn’t go straight home. The truth is, I’m an alcoholic and…”

Fisk and Bracco had decided that their priority was to collect the facts that they’d been unable to gather previously. To do this most efficiently, they should split up. Bracco had drawn Brendan Driscoll, called him from the Hall of Justice, made an appointment. The suspect seemed enthusiastic.

Driscoll had dressed for the interview—pressed dress slacks, shining wing tips, coat, and tie. When he opened the door, Bracco’s first question was if he was going someplace.

The answer surprised him. “Don’t I know you?”

“I don’t think so, no.” He held up his badge. “Inspector Bracco. Homicide.”

“Yes, I know. Come in, come in.”

They went into the living room, off to the left of the hallway at the front of the duplex. It was a bright space, made more so by the slanting sun through the open windows, the white-on-white motif. Water bubbled soothingly from a Japanese rock sculpture in the corner.

Bracco was suddenly, intensely uneasy. He could not place the other man’s face, but there was an unmistakable recognition, a shift in the dynamic between them. Driscoll indicated one of the chairs, then sat kitty-corner all the way back on the couch, almost lounging, one arm out along the top of the cushions. Bracco got out his tape recorder, turned it on, and placed it on the glass tabletop, next to a large, flat tray of raked white sand and smooth stones.