Nothing but the Truth (8 page)

BOOK: Nothing but the Truth

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Hardy knew. Homicide inspectors didn’t want to waste their time—when the kill was no longer fresh, the scent disappeared. Suddenly, Hardy pulled the telephone around and punched for information. A minute later he hung up. “Unlisted, of course. If it were listed, I could just call and save myself an hour, but I wouldn’t want to do that now, would I?” He was on his feet. “I’ve got to go. Are you going to be around?”

Glitsky checked his watch—nine o’clock. “I was thinking about seeing Orel.” Glitsky was a widower with a fourteen-year-old son at home. He tried to make some time for him every day. Some. Now he looked across the desk into the worried face of his friend. “You get something, call me at home. Fair?”

Hardy pointed a finger—they had a deal—and hit the door running.

As Hardy drove out to the site of Bree Beaumont’s death, he realized that it was going to take some kind of miracle to get Frannie out of jail tonight. Even if he convinced this guy Ron, Frannie’s
friend
Ron, to divulge his secret, then what?

Glitsky had counseled him against calling on Judge Braun at her home, and he was right. It would only make matters worse, perhaps get Hardy his own contempt citation. He had to put it out of his mind, take things one step at a time.

But he kept getting distracted. He couldn’t understand it. How could Frannie have let this happen, degree by degree? Now the family truly had a problem that was going to impact both him and their children in a major way. And all because Frannie had simply gotten her back up. At any point, she could have done something differently and avoided this mess.

But she hadn’t, and that had something to do with Ron, something personal.

He didn’t want to follow that train of thought, which of course made it irresistible. What about if Frannie was simply a novice at covering her tracks, at making excuses? She’d never had to learn those tricks before because she’d never cheated before. They’d always told each other everything. But now, suddenly, with Ron (whoever the hell he was), with his dead—no, his
murdered
—wife, things had changed.

Frannie hadn’t even mentioned the subpoena?

Hardy couldn’t imagine getting a subpoena to appear before the dogcatcher, to say nothing of the grand jury, and not discussing every detail of it with his wife. What had he done? How was he connected? How should he act? What did it mean?

And yet Frannie had been summoned,
days ago,
to be a witness in a murder investigation and hadn’t mentioned it to him even in passing?

Didn’t want to bother him with it? He didn’t think so. He didn’t think that was it at all.

Something else was in play here.

He missed his left turn onto Broadway, immediately swerved—not in time—and swearing, slammed his hand on the wheel so hard that he thought he might have broken it. Finally, his insides curdled, he made the next left that presented itself five blocks later.

Why had he left Frannie at the jail? Allowed himself to be conned out to ask Ron Beaumont about his damned secret? He and Frannie had each other’s trust or they had nothing. Something was very, very wrong with the picture, with Frannie’s actions as well as her explanations for them. How could she have done this to all of them?

And, perhaps more fundamentally, what exactly had she done?

He opened his window to breathe in some of the cold, sea-scented air. It wasn’t just anger after all. He brought his hand to his chest and pressed. His heart was beating strongly all right, but he felt as if a piece of it had been nicked away.

When it gets down to North Beach, Broadway is famous for its strip shows and tawdry tourism. But after it moves out of the old Italian neighborhood, through the city’s longest tunnel, then across Van Ness Avenue, it begins to define the ridge of the escarpment that falls steeply down to Cow Hollow and the Marina. At this point, the avenue boasts some of the most impressive residential structures in San Francisco.

The palazzos of power brokers share the street with consulates and private mansions and estates. The mayor lives on Broadway; so does one of the state’s U.S. senators, the best-selling author west of Mississippi, the head of the country’s most profitable fashion house, the managing partner of the city’s largest law firm. Broadway is the legal address and occasional residence of the heads of three of the ten wealthiest families in California. Overlooking, from a great height, the spectacular panoramic view of the Bay and both of its famous bridges, Broadway—particularly its north side—seems as far removed from the mundane cares of working people as it is possible to get. And yet, Hardy reflected, this is where Bree Beaumont had been murdered.

He had gotten his emotions back in check and was in the grip of what he knew to be a dangerous calm—he was sure it was his body’s defense against his tendency to feel things too deeply, to fall prey to his emotions.

He would sometimes get this way at trial, his concentration focused down to a single point. He was going to do what he had to do and do it right. Later he’d reflect on it, curse himself, drink too much, laugh, get sick, whatever. But not now.

Now he’d act.

Double-checking the address, he pulled up and parked at the curb. Aided by his glance at the police report in Glitsky’s office, he was recalling the story he’d followed in the newspaper after it had broken. He’d known that the woman, Bree, had been Max and Cassandra’s mom, so it had been more than ordinarily compelling. But Frannie had—even then—never mentioned Ron. What Hardy remembered was that the mother of some of his kids’ classmates had been killed. Talk of politics. Big oil. Which meant big money. A beautiful young victim.

And somehow his wife now in the mix.

The Beaumonts lived on the top floor of this monster, the penthouse—twelve floors up. The brass surrounding the glass double-door entry was polished to a shine. Inside, the expansive marble foyer that opened onto the elevator banks seemed to shimmer under a couple of enormous chandeliers.

But there was no getting in—the doors were locked, as Hardy realized he should have expected at this time of night. There was a night bell to one side of the door, which he pressed, but nothing happened.

He suddenly noticed a light flickering over one of the elevators. Somebody was coming down. Turning away, he walked about halfway back toward his car, then did an about-face and waited until the couple came out of the elevator. He got to the door at the same time as they opened it going out and thanked them as he passed inside.

He rang another bell, this one from a bank next to the elevators, marked “Beaumont,” and waited. And waited. It was a school night at half past ten. The family should be home, if this were in fact home anymore after Bree’s death.

The elevator stood open before him and he stepped in, pressing the penthouse button. He didn’t really believe anything would happen—in luxury residences such as this one, the elevator doors on the upper floors would often open directly into a living area. You needed a card or a key to go with the button. Much to his surprise, though, the doors closed and he started up.

He stepped out into a dimly lit lobby, ten feet on a side, with a hardwood floor covered by a Persian throw rug. Through a west-facing window he could recognize the blinking lights on a tower of the Golden Gate Bridge. There was only one door in the lobby, and he was standing in front of it. But no one answered his ring, his knock. In a last gesture of futility, he grabbed at the handle.

And the door opened. “All right,” he whispered. “The kid gets a break.”

Behind him he heard the elevator door close, but he didn’t move forward immediately. He wasn’t fooling himself. This wasn’t a deserted residence. Aside from being a recent crime scene (although there wasn’t any police tape), it was somebody’s home, and entering it without invitation was trespassing. If he went in, he was putting himself at great risk. He might get himself confused for a burglar, always bad luck. If he got caught, he could be disciplined by the state bar, perhaps lose his license to practice law. Unlawful entry was a very serious matter.

But there were times that called for risk and this, he told himself, was one of them. His wife had never been in jail before either. If Ron Beaumont came home—or a building superintendent or security guard for that matter—while Hardy was inside, he would explain the situation. Technically, he wasn’t there to steal, so it wasn’t a burglary. Hardy would say he was worried there might have been another crime. But really, he didn’t care—he needed to find out where Ron might be, and the sooner the better.

In any event, fortified by his rationalizations—it was always good to have
some
story—he pushed the door all the way open, stepped inside, and switched on the lights.

His first sight of the place stopped him cold. He thought he remembered from the newspapers that Bree Beaumont had been a professor at UC Berkeley who’d gone into industry. That may have once been true, but if the first glimpse of their abode was any indication, the Beaumonts had left academic privation far behind.

He closed the door behind him and was standing in an enormous sunken living room out of
Architectural Digest.
Wealth seemed to infuse the air around him. Framed modern original art graced the walls, each piece tastefully illuminated by recessed lighting. There were two seating areas—couches in leather and wing chairs in brocaded silk. Elegant end tables, coffee tables, a writing desk, a pair of matching marble pieces on pedestals. Along his right side, the floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the glittering city below.

Following his eyes, he stepped up into a formal dining area—a granite table and six tubular chairs under an ultramodern lighting device. A spacious gourmet kitchen was to his left across a bar of a dark space-age material.

Beyond the table—the wine racks, the little seatingarea off the formal dining room—Hardy got to the drapes covering the back wall. He pulled them back a foot or two, the dim light from the living room now all but lost behind him.

French doors gave onto a balcony. He opened them and stepped out, noticing the red Spanish tiles, a small, round outdoor dining table and chairs, several plants. The balcony was neither large nor small, but the view made it magnificent. Facing due north, it was unimpeded for a hundred miles, especially on a night like tonight when a brisk breeze scoured the sky free of fog and haze.

It suddenly hit him—this was where Bree Beaumont had gone down. Walking to the edge of the balcony, he leaned out over the substantial cast-iron railing and looked down into what from this height appeared to be a square of light—the enclosed garden where she had lain undiscovered, apparently, for several hours. Stepping back, he sensed rather than felt a gust of wind out in front of him—it didn’t even rustle the plants on the ledge, though it did raise the hairs on his neck.

But he was wasting time out here, taking in the sights. He had to get something to lead him to Ron and then get out if he was to do Frannie any good, if tonight wasn’t already a wash.

He came back through the drapes into the sitting area off the dining room. In a moment, he’d passed through the kitchen into a hallway he’d ignored on his first pass. It led off the sunken living room to another wing, and on the first step in, he turned on the lights.

The room on his left had a blinking LED that caught his attention. On a desk sat the telephone answering machine. It was an office, and as such, it might have what he needed. Crossing the room, planning to check first the messages, then the Rolodex, then the computer, he heard a creak.

Frozen, he stood listening. A step back toward the hall. An unmistakable sound now, the front door opening. There was a shift in the light coming out of the living room into the hallway.

He had company.

There was no other option. Hardy cleared his throat loudly and went out to face whoever it was.

BOOK: Nothing but the Truth

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