Nothing but the Truth (74 page)
Jackson refrained from reading the next sentences aloud. They read: “Unfortunately, the markets in California and other states still remain somewhat undersupplied because of our continued inability to provide ethanol in sufficient quantity and, without the government subsidy program, at a profitable cost. However, research on this problem is ongoing. Currently, without goverment assistance, real costs of producing ethanol—including wages, refinery costs, tractor fuel to plant and harvest the corn— average about one dollar per gallon, or roughly twice as much as gasoline. Fortunately, governmental tax credits keep us competitive, but clearly, this is an area that needs improvement.”
But it was as though these lines had never been written. Jackson continued smoothly, his voice ringing with confidence.
“Ethanol profits next year will be in the range of a hundred million dollars, and if we can increase our production to meet the needs of the market, in the not too distant future, we can predict profits that may well reach half a billion dollars per year!”
Ellis Jackson waited as applause rocked the room. Finally, grinning broadly, he held up his hands and the noise subsided. The CEO leaned into the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he crowed triumphantly, “it’s been one hell of a year!”
On the following Saturday, the Hardy kids were spending one last day at their grandparents’ house.
Now, an hour before dusk, Dismas and Frannie were working mostly in silence, finishing up the last of the unpacking in their newly designed kitchen. Skylights, white cabinets, and fifty additional square feet they’d borrowed from the rooms at the back of the house gave the space an airy, open feel.
They had finally come around to accepting the Chinese position that disaster and opportunity derived from the same symbol. And so, retaining the original home’s footprint, they’d gone up. Over the first floor they’d added a new master bedroom and bath. This freed up enough space to convert their old bedroom into a family room. This meant no more television in the living room, a long-awaited goal—now rational and uninterrupted conversation might have a chance to transpire there.
Hardy had installed a new, enlarged fish tank—sixty gallons—into the wall between the kitchen and the family room behind it, so that it could be enjoyed from either side. He’d bolted an old marlin fishhook into the wall above the new stove and on it—in easy reach—hung his cast-iron pan, which glistened black with reseasoning and a fresh rub with olive oil.
They’d stored as much as they could in the back rooms during the construction, and over the past three days had done most of the heavy moving. Now, the new furniture graced the living and dining rooms. Three new ones and the one surviving Venetian glass elephant caravanned again on the mantel. The new bed upstairs sported a wedding ring quilt they’d discovered together in an antique shop on a family trip to Mendocino one weekend.
Tapped out, even with the insurance money, they were broke as newlyweds after the honeymoon.
Hardy finished stacking a load of dishes into one of the cupboards and turned around, surprised to find himself suddenly alone. He pushed open the door to the dining room and walked through it, passing the sturdy and graceful Shaker table and chairs. A dozen coats of lemon oil still hadn’t completely eradicated the smell of carbon from the sideboard, but the old piece was a comforting presence, some connection to what had been before.
The sun was low and its light streamed through the shutters in the bay windows, illuminating the living room. Frannie was sitting forward on the ottoman in front of what Hardy thought might become his reading chair, although it was still far from broken in, too new to tell.
“You okay?”
She smiled politely, quickly. “Just taking a break.”
Standing in the opening between the two rooms, he studied her face for a minute, then pulled a chair from behind him and sat so that he was facing her.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said.
Feet planted, elbows on his knees, Hardy took it in— the shining hardwood floors, the Navajo rug, the blond leather couch, a handful of tasteful new accessories, some art. With the addition over them, they’d been able to raise the ceiling to over nine feet. Frannie was right—it was a little eclectic, vaguely Santa Fe, but it all fit together well.
“We do good work.”
His phrasing struck her and the ambiguous smile returned, flitted, disappeared.
“What?” he asked.
“We do, you know. Do good work together.”
“That’s what I just said.”
“Yes, but the difference is that I mean it.”
He looked at her. “I do, too, Frannie.”
She hesitated, then stood up and walked to the shutters, where she stood for another minute before turning back to him. “Real life is going to start again here on Monday. Just the four of us.”
“I know that.”
“School, kids, all the household errands, your work. I don’t want to get where we were before.” She gestured around their new home. “If I don’t have you, I don’t want any of this—I mean it. I’d give it all away tomorrow if you start to feel now that you have to work every single minute to pay for it, if it’s too great a burden.”
His hands had gotten clenched. “It wasn’t the work.” He blew out through his cheeks. “The work was escape.”
“From what?” The next he barely heard. “From me?”
He lifted his shoulders, let them down heavily. “I don’t know. It was all of a piece. I think I forgot we were doing this together.”
This struck a chord and she broke a small laugh. “Well, at least we did that together. But, you know, I never did lie to you. I never have.”
“I know that.”
“Do you, really? Because it’s true.”
He considered it, let out a long breath. “I never really believed it, Frannie. It was just difficult to understand.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m so sorry for that.” She took a tentative step toward him. “So maybe we can start over? New house, new attitude.”
“I’ve been trying.”
She came the rest of the way to him. “I know. I have, too. But these past few months with Ed and Erin—they’ve been good. But it wasn’t the routine like the four of us at home. And I think the routine is what gets to you.”
Hardy eventually answered her. “You think right.”
“So it’s going to start again.”
He tried to make light of it. “Not till Monday.”
But she wasn’t giving it up. “So what are we going to do?”
Another sigh. “How about if you need to confide in somebody, you come to me?”
“I could try that. If you’d listen.”
“That sounds fair.” He met her eyes. “But how about, also, a little balance between kid things and adult things? I’m not asking for the moon here—say, seventy-thirty, maybe a date every couple of weeks?”
Frannie had to acknowledge his point. “I know. It got a little too much. That was me.” She straightened him up and sat on his lap. “But I’m still going to have friends, and some of them are probably going to be men.”
Now Hardy almost smiled. “I wouldn’t want to stop you. Friends are good. It’s possible I’ll have a few myself, females I mean. Though it’s not as likely as you and men.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Some women like that old, rugged look.”
“I don’t think it would be a looks thing. And what do you mean, old?”
“Well, not real old, more like mature, stately.”
“Stately. I like that.” He kissed her, well and good. When it stopped fifteen seconds later, he kissed her again. “Stately that,” he said.
“I believe I will,” she said.
And standing, taking his hand, she led him back past the dining room, through their kitchen, up the stairs to their new bedroom.
The next day, Sunday, a strong, sea-scented breeze blew in off the ocean, but the sky was a deep blue and the temperature was shirtsleeves.
All four of the Hardys and most of their friends and relatives had gathered to celebrate the move—Glitsky, his father, Nat, and his son Orel; David Freeman; Ed and Erin Cochran; Moses McGuire, his wife Susan Weiss and their son; Pico and Angela Morales and two of their kids; Max, Cassandra, and Ron Beaumont, and his girlfriend, Marie.
The Hardys’ backyard was a long and narrow strip of grass bordered by rose bushes. The area was between two medium-rise apartment buildings that, fortunately, caught the afternoon sun.
It was a potluck, and everyone except Freeman had brought a pot of something—chili, spaghetti, cioppino, Irish stew. All of it, with salads and breads and the pony keg of beer, was on the picnic table. Now, after the house tour and the oohs and aahs, the drinks and first plates of food, Glitsky gave Hardy a look and the two of them went inside the house to admire the crown molding. Or something.
In fact, they went all the way through the house and out onto the new porch, which was twice as wide as its earlier counterpart. Hardy sat on the new railing, but hadn’t gotten comfortable yet when the front door opened and David Freeman appeared, brandishing a cigar.
“I thought I’d just step outside for a smoke.”
“You already were outside, David,” Hardy said. “In the back.”
But the old man clucked at that. “Children. Secondhandsmoke. Hurts their young lungs. If you fellows want privacy, though . . .”
Hardy looked the question to Glitsky, who shrugged. It didn’t matter. “If you can keep a secret.”
“It’s my life’s calling,” Freeman responded, straight-faced.
“What?” Hardy was facing Glitsky.
“I’ve known about this for a couple of weeks now,” Glitsky said, “but I wanted to wait until today to tell you. Something about the symmetry of it all.”
“Notice how he strings it out,” Hardy said to Freeman.
“I was just admiring that,” the old man responded.
Glitsky rarely smiled, but Hardy decided that the expression he wore now would qualify as a decided smirk. “I will not beg,” he said soberly.
“It’s about Baxter Thorne.”
“All right,” Hardy conceded, “I might beg a little.”
Within a week of the election, during which time Glitsky’s search task force had been unable to unearth even a shred of evidence relating the Pulgas Water Temple attack to Thorne or to his company, the FMC offices in the Embarcadero had closed for good. Although police investigators had asked Thorne to stay in touch, two days after FMC shut its doors, he was gone without a trace or forwarding address.
Hardy didn’t know what he had planned to do with Thorne if he ever did catch up with him. Getting his wife and family resettled at the grandparents’ had kept him from seeking Thorne out until it was too late. By the time Hardy tried to contact Thorne again, the man had fled.
“There was an attempted burglary,” Glitsky said, “two weeks ago tomorrow at the Georgetown home of a senator from the great agricultural state of New Jersey, who had recently announced his decision to lead the fight against the exemption on federal fuel taxes on ethanol. No one was supposed to be home, but the maid had stayed behind and was sleeping in her quarters upstairs when the break-in occurred. She kept a loaded gun in the nightstand by her bed. You might have read about it.”
“Thorne,” Hardy said.
Glitsky nodded. “Unidentified for a couple of days, and by the time he was, it wasn’t news anymore. It wasn’t as if the senator’s wife shot him or something to give it a profile, so it was just another bad luck break-in. But since I’d put him on the wire as wanted for questioning, I got a call from Georgetown PD. Your man Mr. Thorne is no longer, as they say, among the quick.”
Hardy eased himself off the railing. “Well, there it is,” he said. Then, after a pause, “How come I’m not happier about this?”
“It’s a sad thing, that’s why, somebody dying.” Freeman was lighting up his cigar. “It’s always sad when somebody dies.”
The sun had gone down. Ron and Marie and the two kids waved and shouted their good-byes from the front gate on their way out and their laughter echoed back, bouncing off the apartment buildings, as they trekked to their car.
Hardy stood with his arm around Frannie on the porch. She leaned into him, said that if she were him, she’d feel pretty good about the Beaumonts.
“They seem happy,” he admitted.
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“No, I know.”
In fact, he knew more than Frannie did. In the immediate aftermath of his investigation, to satisfy his own curiosity, he’d followed up on Ron Beaumont’s story about his first marriage. The original custody hearing and eventual judgment had been big enough news in Racine, but the kidnapping itself had captivated most of the Midwest for a couple of weeks. It had been relatively easy to follow the story until it became by definition old news and disappeared from print.
Not so simple had been following the trajectory of Dawn’s life. In all the newspaper reports on both the custody hearing and the kidnapping, Max and Cassandra’s mother had been Dawn Brunetta. No one by that name lived anywhere near Racine any longer. Finally Hardy had called Ron and asked him if his ex-wife had used a professional name. Sure, he’d said—Amber Dawn.
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