Nothing but the Truth (33 page)
Hardy waited, then realized Canetta needed some response. “I give up.”
Another second of suspense, then a smile. “His secretary quit over it. Marie couldn’t believe Tilton could be such a shit to Ron, who was the nicest—”
“Marie?” Suddenly Hardy heard it.
Canetta smiled. “That’s what
I
said. And Tilton goes, ‘Yeah, Marie Dempsey.’ ”
I
said. And Tilton goes, ‘Yeah, Marie Dempsey.’ ”
“The Marie from the phone messages?”
“As it turns out.” Canetta was almost beaming with childlike pride. “Marie is, was, his—Tilton’s—secretary.”
Hardy nodded in satisfaction. This was good. Two names to cross off. Insurance business. “You know, Phil, you really can do this. You want, I’ll put in a plug to Glitsky.”
“Naw. Fuck Glitsky and the suits. I don’t want to join ’em, but I wouldn’t mind beating ’em.” Suddenly Canetta pointed to Freeman, who’d been uncharacteristically silent, to his cigar. “By any chance, you got another one of those things?”
Freeman nodded, said sure, got up and disappeared back into the dark lobby.
“You sure he’s cool?” Canetta asked.
“Cool” was about the last word Hardy would ever use to describe Freeman, but he knew what Canetta meant. “He’s the smartest guy you’ll ever meet, Phil.”
Canetta threw a glance over his shoulder. “Maybe the ugliest, too.”
Hardy, keeping his voice low, had to grin. “Well, all of us can’t have everything. But you can trust him—that I guarantee. You don’t have to kiss him.”
A shudder traveled the whole length of Canetta’s body. “I’ll try to restrain myself. I bet I can.”
“Can what?” Another of Freeman’s many talents was his ability to appear out of nowhere. He had a handful of cigars, a bottle of red wine and glasses, all of which he kept a supply of in his office. He laid the cigars on the table. “Help yourself, Sergeant. I should have offered sooner. What did I miss?” He put down the glasses, started to pour all around.
But Hardy had a hand out. “None for me, David. I’m working.” And Canetta took the same road.
Freeman shrugged. He was working, too, but it was Saturday night. He could have a glass of wine—hell, a bottle of wine—and his brain would still hum along nicely, thank you, maybe even a little better than it was now. So would Hardy’s and Canetta’s, but David had learned long ago that you couldn’t tell anything to baby boomers. They were working. Working was serious. They couldn’t mix any fun in or they might—what? die? Christ, no wonder they all burned out.
But he sipped his wine and listened as Canetta went back to what he’d found. At least he’d lit his cigar, Freeman was thinking, although that, too, of course, would kill him. The sergeant was reading from his spiral notebook. “Kogee Sasaka has a massage place. Hands On. That’s the name. I checked with some guys at the station. Legitimate. No busts, no complaints. She gives massages, if you can believe it. Anyway, that was the appointment she called Ron about.”
Canetta flicked at his pages. “That was it. Tilton, Marie, and Kogee, wasn’t it? And you did Pierce, right?”
“And Valens, as it turned out.” Hardy filled him in on the hotel interviews, ending with Valens’s interesting fib about having called Ron.
“But Valens did call him.”
Hardy agreed. “Unless someone was doing a pretty damn fine impersonation.”
“So why’d he lie about it?”
The question hung while Freeman swallowed his wine. Finally, he spoke up. “That’s where you push,” he said simply. “Was the call about anything, or did he just leave his name?”
“No. Some report,” Hardy said. “Bree’s copy of something she was working on.”
“That she was working on
and
that Ron knew about,” Canetta said. “I still think that’s part of this. He realized it was important or valuable and he came back and got it.”
and
that Ron knew about,” Canetta said. “I still think that’s part of this. He realized it was important or valuable and he came back and got it.”
Hardy didn’t want the sergeant going off with a hard-on for Ron Beaumont. “I think Ron’s going to be hard to find, Phil,” he said.
“If he came back,” Canetta countered, “then he’s still close by, am I right?”
“If he came back.”
“That’s all I’m saying. If. And if I find him . . .”
“You’ll let me know. First. Before you do anything.”
A nod. “Absolutely.”
Canetta was gone. He told Freeman and Hardy that he thought he might see if Valens could be found tonight, get this lie he’d told Hardy straightened out. Canetta knew the city’s hotels like the back of his hand—Saturday night like this three days before the election, Kerry probably had five different appearances in various banquet rooms downtown. Shouldn’t be too hard to catch up with the candidate. And his campaign manager would be with him, easy to talk to. This homicide stuff—a child could do it.
Meanwhile, the two attorneys had written down the names of every person in the investigation and now they had a bunch of yellow pages from legal pads strewn around the table with the by now familiar names—Valens and Kerry, Pierce, Ron Beaumont. Even Frannie and Carl Griffin. The plan—Freeman’s, with his love of context, as he called it—was to fill in connections under each name and see if they could connect the dots.
“Okay,” Hardy said, “you don’t know anything about this. Where do you start?”
Freeman didn’t hesitate. “Griffin.”
A smile flitted at the edges of Hardy’s mouth.
“What’s funny?”
“Only that it never fails. I would have picked him last.”
Freeman chomped on his cigar, long since extinguished. “He was the first horse at the trough,
n’est-ce pas?
That alone.”
n’est-ce pas?
That alone.”
This, Hardy thought, was why Freeman was so valuable. His input always triangulated the evidence, brought different targets into sharper focus. “Okay, but Glitsky tells me he wasn’t working Beaumont the morning he got killed.”
“It wasn’t his case, or he wasn’t working it.”
“No, he drew the case, but he had some others, too. He was in the field on one of them.”
“How did Glitsky know that?”
“Griffin told him before he went out the morning he got it.”
“He
told
him.” Freeman snorted the word.
told
him.” Freeman snorted the word.
“Why would he lie?”
The old man squinted across the table. “Because you have been working all day and you’re tired and stressed out, I’ll just pretend you didn’t ask that. Now, do we know what the other cases were?”
It continued like that around the daisy chain. Details about Griffin’s death—time, location—that might not jibe with the other cases he’d been assigned. Valens’s lie about Bree’s report. Hardy felt a little uneasy as Freeman, on his own, put Bree together with Damon Kerry. Also with Jim Pierce. “Assume the worst, Diz. Life won’t disappoint you so much. Bree slept around, maybe a lot with different guys. It gives us more to work with.”
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. Halloween. 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 artsyfartsy performance supposedly related to the fund-raising entity at these affairs, and that night after everyone had had a few, the main event began.
A naked couple appeared suddenly on a backlit stage. Awful, drum-pounding noise made conversation impossible. The woman began carving some kind of devil worship symbols
into the man’s back
.
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.
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