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Hardy hit the button shutting off the alarm. Throwing off the covers, he forced himself to sit up lest he give in to the urge to lie back down, just for a minute. Frannie murmured something from behind him, and he felt her hand brush against the small of his back. Reaching around, he squeezed it quickly, then let go and stood up.
The house felt dark. He stood a minute, summoning the will to move. Outside, a fresh gust rattled the windows. The storm, still blowing.
After he'd showered and shaved, he pulled on his pants and a shirt in the bathroom so he'd be as unobtrusive as possible. He didn't remember distinctly, but he must have had a rough night's sleep. He still hadn't quite gotten to fully awake. Frannie hadn't yet stirred, either-he thought he'd go downstairs and bring a cup of coffee up for her. That way they would get a few minutes of peace together before the daily marathon of getting the kids off to school.
In the kitchen, he turned on the light and fed his tropical fish. The long hallway to the front door seemed especially dark as well, but he'd already concluded that it was the weather, so he didn't give it any more thought. When he opened the door, he noted with satisfaction that the Chronicle had made it up onto the porch-by no means a daily occurrence. Maybe it was a sign. He was in for a lucky day.
But God, he thought, it was dark.
He'd often expressed his belief that one of the greatest of modern inventions was the automatic coffee machine that began making your critical morning brew about the time that your alarm went off, so that when you got to it, it was ready for you. But when he got back to it, he stopped, frowning. The carafe was empty. Worse, the little green "program" light was still on-when it went into "run" mode, the light turned red. What was going on? He distinctly remembered preparing the coffee last night before he'd gone up to bed, and now he leaned down, squinting, and checked the clock.
4:45.
Turning around, he looked up at the large clock on the kitchen wall. Same time. Finally, he thought to consult his watch, and got the third corroboration. It was quarter to five on Thursday morning and he was wide awake, dressed up and nowhere to go. And for no particular reason other than that somebody had obviously reset his alarm. When he found out which kid it had been, there would be hell to pay. He had half a mind to wake both kids up now, identify the culprit, break out the thumb screws.
But so much for his run of good luck. And he still had to wait for his damn coffee to brew. With nothing to do now except kill time, he angrily opened the paper and threw it down on the dining room table. Sitting down, he noticed that yep, it was still dark.
At least now he knew why.
Then he noticed the headline: "HMO Chief's Death Called Murder." With the subhead about potassium, he had all he needed to know, although he read the whole article. His new client appeared only once, as the attending staff physician at the ICU, but once was enough. Hardy started to worry.
The accompanying article on Markham 's family ratcheted his concern up even further. The paper characterized the event in ambiguous terms, hinting that the evidence seemed to implicate the wife in murder/suicide-another senseless American tragedy, the reason for which might never be known. But in his guts, Hardy felt that Markham 's death being ruled a murder made any conclusion about the how and why of the family's slaughter decidedly premature.
When he finished the second article, he sat in contemplation for several minutes. Then he got up and poured a cup of coffee, came back to the table, and read Jeff Elliot's column.
CityTalk
by Jeffrey Elliot
AS MEDICAL DIRECTOR OF PARNASSUS HEALTH, the beleaguered HMO that is under contract to insure the city's employees, Dr. Malachi Ross has been under a lot of pressure over the past months. From his original and eventually overturned refusal to allow prescriptions of Viagra as a covered expense to the much more serious Baby Emily incident at Portola Hospital, his business decisions have come under almost continuous fire from any number of consumer, public interest and watch-keeping organizations, including this newspaper. Now, in the wake of the death on Tuesday of Parnassus CEO Tim Markham, and Ross' election to that position by the Parnassus board, it looks as though his real troubles may have only just begun. (As this column goes to press, the Chronicle has learned that Mr. Markham's death has been called a murder by police investigators.)
Early last week, as one of his last official acts, Mr. Markham presented the city with a bill in excess of $13 million for previously undiscovered outpatient care at various neighborhood clinics. A source at the DA's office describes the paperwork on these billings as "at the least, irregular," and quite possibly "fraudulent." At the same time, Parnassus has applied for a rate increase of $23 per month for every covered city employee, which if approved represents an extra hit of nearly $700,000 a month to the city's budget.
At the same time, the woes of Parnassus and of its flagship hospital, Portola, continue to grow. In an interview on Tuesday evening, Dr. Ross admitted that the medical group is mired in a deep cash crisis, although he characterized the nonpayment of some Parnassus doctors as a voluntary loan program. Another source-a doctor within the group-had a slightly different take: "Sure," he said. "It's voluntary. You volunteer to loan your salary back to the group, or you're fired."
Nevertheless, Ross remained confident that Parnassus can weather this crisis. "The goal is maximum wellness for the most people," he said. When asked if he saw any conflict between the group's business interests and the needs of its patients, Ross replied, "The company needs to sustain itself so it can continue doing its work."
Because it conducts business with the city, Parnassus ' finances are a matter of public record. Last year, the average staff physician with Parnassus had a salary of $98,000. The average executive board member, of which there are thirty, sustained himself to the tune of nearly $350,000 including bonuses, per person, for a total expense to the company of approximately $10.5 million. As CEO, the late Mr. Markham had the highest salary in the group-$1.4 million, and Dr. Ross was next, drawing $1.2 million in salary and performance bonuses.
Imagine how well he'd do if Parnassus was not going bankrupt.
Glitsky was in the elevator, and when the door opened on the fourth floor, he was looking at Dismas Hardy, who said, "I was just at your office. You weren't there."
"You're kidding." Glitsky stepped out into the lobby. "When?"
"Just now."
"I wasn't in my office?"
"No sign of you."
"One of the things I've always admired about you is that keen eye for detail."
The two men fell into step together, heading back toward the homicide detail. "What's another one?" Hardy asked.
"Another what?"
"Thing you've always admired about me. One implies there are more."
Glitsky glanced over at him, walked a few steps, shook his head. "On second thought, that's the only one. Keen eye for detail."
At homicide, inside Glitsky's office, Hardy took one of the fold-up chairs in front of the desk. He looked around critically. "You could use some art in here," he said. "It's a little depressing."
"I like it depressing," Glitsky said. "It keeps meetings short. Speaking of which"-he pointed at his overflowing in-box-"that is today's workload and I'm behind already. What can I do for you?"
"My keen eye for detail tells me that you're not in much of a sociable mood this morning, so I'll get right to it. I take it Bracco is one of your car police."
"That would be accurate." He reached for his in-box. "Well, drop by anytime. It's been a real pleasure."
"I've got one more. What do you know about Tim Markham?"
Glitsky stopped fiddling with paper, cocked his head to one side, and frowned. "Who are you representing?"
"Eric Kensing."
"Swell. When did that happen?"
"Recently."
Glitsky sat forward in his chair and brushed a hand over his scar. "As I recall, the last time I talked to you about a case at this stage, I lost my job for a couple of weeks."
"True. But it was the right thing to do." A year before, Glitsky had been put on administrative leave after he'd shown Hardy a videotape of his client's questionable confession before the DA's office had cleared it for discovery purposes. "And you know what Davy Crockett always said? 'Be sure you're right, then go ahead.'"
"I always thought that was the stupidest thing I'd ever heard. The jails are full of people who think like old Davy. Genghis Khan, I believe, had the same motto."
"And a fine leader he was. I've just got a couple of quick questions. They won't get you fired. Promise."
"Ask one and let me decide. And quickly, if that's possible, though history argues that it isn't."
"Is Kensing in trouble?"
Glitsky nodded in appreciation. "That was pretty good for you." A shrug. "Well, no matter where we stand on charging Markham's murder, I'm betting your client is one guy who's definitely going to need a lawyer on the malpractice side alone. Aside from that…" Glitsky threw a glance over to the door-closed. He came back to Hardy. "I suppose he told you he's got a motive." He paused, then gave it up. "He was also the last person with the family."
"You mean Markham's family? The paper implied that it was the distraught wife."
"Yeah. I read it." Glitsky sat back. "I think you've had your question."
"You think it wasn't the wife? And if it wasn't, it was the same person who did the husband?"
"I don't think anything yet. I'm keeping an open mind."
"But if my client's a suspect for Markham, then he's-"
Glitsky stopped him. "We're not talking about this, Diz. You're way over your quota for questions. That's it."
"Okay. This isn't a question. I talked to Kensing this morning before I even left the house. He wants to talk to you."
"Sure he does. And I'm the queen of Bavaria. You're going to let him?"
"I told him it was a dumb idea. I was even a little adamant. But maybe you've heard, doctor knows best. He figures you'll hear his story and leave him alone. He's a witness, not a suspect."
"Is he talking immunity at this stage?"
"No, nothing like that. He didn't do anything wrong. He's a witness."
"And the best defense is a good offense."
Hardy shrugged. It wasn't his idea. He knew Glitsky might take it that way, but he thought that his job at this point was to mitigate Kensing's discomfort and arrange the talk on his schedule. "So how about my office, close of business?"
Glitsky considered, then nodded. "Okay. Doable."
"And he's a witness, not a suspect."
"I believe you've mentioned that a few times."
"Though you haven't said you're okay with it."
"There's that eye for detail again," Glitsky said. Then, sitting back. "He is what he is, Diz. I'm afraid we'll just have to see how it plays out."
After leaving homicide, he went down to Jackman's office to see if he could come upon any potentially helpful scrap of news regarding his new client. It wasn't likely, but the DA was relatively inexperienced in criminal matters and might inadvertently drop something if he and Hardy were simply two friends, casually schmoozing.
At Jackman's outer office, Hardy stopped in the doorway. Treya, on the telephone saying "Yes, sir" a lot to someone, smiled a greeting and held up a "just a sec" finger. Hardy came in, walked over, and kissed her on the cheek, then sat in the chair next to Jackman's door. Treya continued with her proper responses in her modulated, professional voice, but she rolled her eyes and made faces in the midst of them.
Watching her, Hardy broke a grin.
When Glitsky's first wife had died, Hardy would never have believed that anyone could have approached Flo as an equally compatible mate for his best friend. But in a little less than a year, Treya had won him and Frannie over. Not only competent and confident, Treya's sense of humor went a long way toward blunting Abe's razor edge.
At last she hung up. "The mayor," she explained. "Always wanting my opinions on the issues." Then, a questioning look. "Did you have an appointment? Is Clarence expecting you? I don't have you down."
"No. I'm just dropping by, seeing if he had a minute to chat."
"I don't think chat's on his agenda today. He just had me tell hizzoner he wasn't in." She smiled sweetly. "Maybe you would like to do it the normal way and schedule something?"
"I would, but I'm not sure when I'll be back at the hall."
"Here's an idea, Diz. You could plan to be. Others have been known to."
"But Clarence and I go way back. We're pals."
"He feels the same way."
"I just hate to see the spontaneity go out of our relationship."
Treya nodded sympathetically. "So does Clarence. He frets about it all the time. I'll put you down for tomorrow at three. You can talk about it then." The phone on her desk rang and, waving Hardy good-bye, she picked it up.
Back at his office, Hardy phoned the aquarium and discovered that Francis the shark was still alive and swimming under its own power. But Pico still wasn't admitting victory. "He hasn't eaten a damn thing. Swimming's one thing, but he's also got to eat."
"How do you know it's a he?"
"How do you think I got to be curator here? Could it be the Ph.D. in marine biology? The ability to tell males from female fish? One of those?"
"I always figured it was affirmative action of some kind. What are you trying to feed it?"
"Fish food." Pico was clearly done with Hardy's input on the subject. "Can we talk about something else? How'd it go with Eric?"
Hardy's brow clouded, his tone grew serious. "I've got one for you. How well do you know him?"
"Pretty well. He's been our family doc for years. We used to be closer-socially, I mean-before he and Ann broke up. Why?"
"Do you think he could kill anybody?"
Pico snorted. "No way." A pause. "You want to hear a story, what he's like?"
"More than anything if it makes him look good."
"Okay, you remember when Danny first started having his problems?"
"Sure." Pico's eldest was seventeen now, but ten years before, he'd been diagnosed with leukemia. Hardy remembered some of the high drama surrounding the diagnosis and treatment, which had resulted in bone marrow transplants and, ultimately, remission. "Was that Kensing?"
"Yeah. But what maybe you don't know is that he made the tentative diagnosis long before some board would have approved the treatment he ordered. They said it was way too expensive. They wanted to wait, have him take more tests, like that. So what did Eric do?"
"Tell me."
"He didn't think we could wait. If we waited, Danny might die. So he lied."
"To who?"
"The HMO. When's the last time you heard about a doctor risking his paycheck to save a patient? Well, Eric did. He made Danny's records appear that the leukemia was more advanced than it was. If he was wrong and it cost his HMO big bucks for nothing, sorry. But if he was right, Danny lives." Pico checked his voice back a notch. "Anyway, so that's who Eric is, Diz. Check it out. He does this kind of stuff all the time. Christ, he makes house calls. He walks my sharks. You ask my opinion, the guy's at the very least a saint, if not a certified hero."
But when Hardy hung up, a thought nagged at him. Pico's story had a downside. Kensing might be a saint and a hero, but a good cross-examiner could make the point that he had also proven himself capable of a sustained and elaborate fraud. He falsified medical records, possibly cheating his own employer out of maybe thousands of dollars. And if he did it once with Danny Morales, the odds were good that he'd done it with many other patients. And that at least some of those times, the odds were good that he'd been wrong.
David Freeman's enormous office was panelled in a burnished and ancient dark wood. Burgundy drapes framed the two windows, in the center of which presided the lion's claw-footed, leather-topped desk, most of its forty-eight square feet of surface cluttered with papers, files, ashtrays, in-and out-boxes, paperweights, celebrity photos, a couple of telephones. The fully stocked wet bar also featured a temperature-controlled wine cellar, Anchor Steam beer on tap, two cigar humidors, and an espresso machine. A couple of seating areas gave clients-and opposing attorneys-a choice between a formal or informal setting. On the floor, Persian rugs. On the various pedestals and tables, knickknacks from half a century of rich and grateful clients. A Bufano sculpture of St. Francis of Assisi blessed the room from one corner. A selection of original John Lennon erotic lithographs added a counternote. In a Byzantine-style glass case, a selection of alleged murder weapons ("alleged" because their respective owners all got acquitted) testified eloquently and mutely to Freeman's skill in the courtroom. The fact that David could acquire them from prosecutors and police after he'd won the case was further testament to his popularity.
Hardy crossed a leg over a knee and sipped from the demitasse of espresso, then put it back on the arm of the sofa. His landlord had brewed himself a cup, as well, and brought it over to his desk, where he blew on it once and, engrossed in some paperwork, drank it off in a gulp, replacing it carefully in the exact center of its little porcelain saucer. For another full minute or more, Freeman didn't look up, but turned the pages in front of him, occasionally making a note, occasionally muttering a phrase or two to himself, arguing or agreeing with what he was reading.
As he watched him work, Hardy couldn't help but be struck again with the man's almost childish energy and enthusiasm. Freeman was seventy-six years old. He'd been practicing law for fifty years and though he'd seen it all, there was still precious little about it that didn't energize him. He came into his office every day of the week by about seven o'clock and when he didn't go to court, which he did as often as possible, he stayed at his desk until late dinnertime, then often returned for a nightcap or two while he whipped out a quick twenty pages of memos or correspondence.
It seemed to Hardy that the old man had shrunk three or four inches in the eight years they'd been associated, and put on fifteen pounds. He could almost braid his thin, long, white hair. If he let them grow, he could probably do the same with his eyebrows. A downright slovenly dresser-"juries don't trust good clothes"-he favored brown suits, many of them picked up in thrift stores, whether or not they fit perfectly. He never had them pressed. He smoked and/or chewed cigars constantly, and drank at least a bottle of wine, himself, every day at the office, and probably most of another for lunch and then again at dinner. He never exercised. The skin of his hands and face was mottled with liver spots. Today, he had bloodstains around his collar from where he'd cut himself shaving. Looking at him, Hardy thought he was the happiest, and possibly the healthiest, person on the planet.
And he didn't miss a trick. "You feeling all right, Diz? Getting enough sleep?"
Hardy thought he'd been looking right at him, but he hadn't noticed him look up. There was no point in getting into it, the mistake with his alarm clock, the whole question of children in one's life. If Hardy started whining, Freeman would only say, "You made that bed. Get over it." So Hardy left it at, "Postlunch slump is all. Plus, I got up early."
"I hope it was billable," Freeman said. He pointed across to his bar area. "You want another cup, help yourself. Meanwhile, speaking of billable, I'm at your service, but talk fast. I'm due in federal court in forty minutes. The appeal on Latham, God bless his wealthy murdering heart. So what got you up?"
Hardy gave him an abridged version of his meeting with Dr. Kensing, and the old man clucked disapprovingly. "You talked to a new client for more than an hour, even de facto took his case, a possible murder suspect, and the subject of your fees never came up?"
In the world of criminal law, you collected your fees up front. Hardy had experimented a time or two with being less than rigorous on that score and had discovered that the conventional wisdom turned out to be true. If you were successful and got your clients off, they didn't need a lawyer anymore, and why should they pay you? On the other hand, if you failed and they went to jail, why should they pay you for that, either? So you usually wanted to casually mention the word "retainer" within about six sensitive minutes after saying hello.
Freeman the kind mentor was merely reminding him. "This is why, my son, I'm afraid you're going to die impoverished and there is really no excuse for a good lawyer to die poor."
"Yes, sir. I believe you've mentioned something like that before. Anyway, I emphasized to Glitsky that he's a witness, not a suspect."
"Ah." Freeman nodded genially. "The good lieutenant wants to get to know him a little better, is that it?" The old man pulled himself up straight behind the desk and summoned his courtroom bellow. "Are you out of your mind?" He got his voice back under control. "A witness, not a suspect? He's a prime suspect! And I'll tell you something else. Kensing sure as hell thinks he is. Why do you think he wanted to get a lawyer onboard? In fact, the more I think about it, the more I like him."
"You've never met him."
"So what? You've only met him once. Are you trying to tell me that you know he's not guilty of murder?"
"He injected Markham with potassium?"
"Or ran him over. Maybe both."
"David-"
"Why not? The dead guy was screwing his wife, which is the oldest motive in the world."
"So after waiting two years, he killed him?"
His worldview intact, Freeman sat back, serene as Buddha. "Happens every day. Seriously, Diz. What about this doesn't work for you? It looks pretty good to me. Solid enough, anyway, for an indictment, easily for an arrest. You know how that works."
Seeing it now through Freeman's eyes, he was forced to concede that his client in fact did have motive, means, and opportunity to have killed Tim Markham. In his day, Hardy had won many grand jury indictments with any two of them, occasionally with only one.
And now he'd brokered this stupid little meeting with the head of homicide in a few hours. Kensing might show up here in the office and if more evidence had come to light, Glitsky might serve him with a grand jury subpoena, or even arrest him on the spot.
And all Hardy had done for Kensing to date had been to send him off to work with some low-watt advice and a little kneecap humor. He realized now that the familiar settings of the aquarium and the Shamrock and the two men's mutual friendship with Pico Morales had gotten him off on the wrong foot here, temporarily blinding him to the realities Kensing faced. What had he been thinking?
Suddenly he was on his feet. "Excuse me, David," he said. "I've got to get out of here."
"I have this incredible sense of de´ja` vu," Glitsky said.
"Didn't we already do this?"
"That was this morning," Hardy replied. "New opportunities abound if we but have the courage to face them."
The lieutenant leveled his eyes at his friend across his desk, then zipped open the side pocket of his all-weather jacket, pulled out a few disks of some kind of white stuff, broke off a piece, and popped it into his mouth. "Want some of this rice cake? It's awful." He looked at it for a long moment before he pitched it into the wastebasket.
"What happened to the peanuts?" Hardy asked. For years, one of Glitsky's desk drawers was the homicide detail's peanut receptacle and the lieutenant would often carry a few handfuls around with him. "I could eat a few peanuts."
"Too much cholesterol, or fat, or one of those. I forget which."
"So on top of the heart stuff, you got CRS, too?"
Glitsky sat back, folded his arms, and stared. "I'm not going to ask."
"Okay, fine. If you don't know, you don't know. And if you guessed wrong, you'd just say something negative anyway. But it's never too late to change, you know. Accentuate the positive."
"Latch on to the affirmative." Glitsky's voice was the essence of dry. "I've got another one for you. Let's call the whole thing off."
Hardy's brow clouded. "Different song. And notice, a negative theme again. But this time, as it turns out, precisely what I had in mind."
"What's that?"
"Well, I regret to inform you that my client will not be available for our interview this evening after all. This case is just too hot for me to let him talk. However, if you'd like to give me inquiries in writing, I'd be happy to try and get you any information you require."
Glitsky chortled. "And if you'd like to kiss my toes, perhaps I shall become a ballerina. It's been my dream."
The two men looked benignly at each other. Glitsky finally broke the impasse. "All right," he said. "What's CRS?"
Hardy paused for dramatic effect. "Can't…remember…shit." He grinned. "One sad day, you won't ask."
Glitsky had made it clear that the respective performances of Bracco and Fisk yesterday during the interview of Anita Tong left something to be desired, so much so that he'd forbidden them to talk directly to any of the other witnesses Tong had mentioned. Specifically, they were not to approach Eric Kensing or anyone at Parnassus headquarters. If they developed new leads for themselves and found anyone else on their own, they could use their judgment. Provided they immediately reported back to homicide-daily-with any results.
The lieutenant had even suggested that, since it was their area of expertise, maybe it would be an effective use of their time to visit some body shops and car washes, follow up on patrol sightings of suspicious vehicles in the projects and neighborhoods. Fisk accepted this assignment with relative good humor, tinged possibly with acceptance and even relief, but after a couple of hours of it, driving around in a continuous steady rain, Bracco lost his patience.
"Goddamnit, this isn't a hit and run anymore, Harlen! Glitsky told us to build a case, and we're probably gonna break some eggs making any kind of decent omelette out of it. But I'm damned if I'm driving around anymore looking for a fucking car all this miserable day. That's not what killed him anyway."
They had come up from the Mission and now were stopped at a red light on Van Ness near city hall. Fisk, huddled down in the passenger seat with his arms crossed against the chill, was shaking his head. "Glitsky said look for the car. Don't mess with Kensing."
"Okay, but how about his wife? She's fucking Markham, you know she's in this somehow."
This made Fisk uncomfortable. "I don't know. That's pretty close to Kensing, don't you think? Besides, where is she?"
"Up on Anza, behind USF. I've got her address."
"How'd you find that?"
"I called information and asked." He grinned over at his partner. "Believe it or not, it works. She lives like four blocks from the Kaiser on Masonic. I played a hunch and called there. Sure enough. You ever notice how all doctors' wives are nurses? I say we go talk to her."
Fisk still didn't like it, but after a beat he brightened. "You know the other night you dropped me at Tadich's? I mentioned the case to my aunt Kathy, and she said the whole Parnassus mess had been really hard on Nancy Ross. She felt so sorry for her."
"Nancy Ross?"
"Malachi's wife."
"I don't know Malachi Ross," Bracco admitted.
Fisk allowed a small smile. "Parnassus," he said. "With Markham gone, he runs it now. You didn't read 'CityTalk' today? It was pretty interesting."
"Are you turning into a cop on me, Harlen? So your aunt knows his wife?"
"Pretty well, I think. She knows everybody."
"It's something." Bracco pointed. "And even as we speak, city hall looms on the right." Abruptly making up his mind, he pulled directly over to the curb. "Let's go say hi."
Kathy West showed no sign of sharing any of her nephew's genes. Maybe, Bracco thought, she was the wife of the blood relation to Harlen. In her mid-fifties, with a no-nonense, stop-and-start demeanor and frail bone structure, her little bob of gray-peppered hair, she reminded Darrell Bracco of nothing so much as a sparrow. A friendly, really intelligent sparrow.
The office of the city supervisor on the second floor was small-tiny-but pleasant. There was an antique desk, built-in bookshelves, a row of windows along the west-facing wall. When her nephew and his partner showed up unexpectedly, they didn't appear to be interrupting anything. She greeted them both warmly, then sent her administrative aide, a well-dressed obsequious young man named Peter, for some coffee.
After a few minutes of small talk and a quick cook's tour of her workspace-three desks in an outer cubicle, a cramped library and file room-when the coffee arrived, she closed the door to her office behind them and they all sat. "So," she began, "I'm assuming you're here to talk about Parnassus. Wasn't that 'CityTalk' column devastating? I don't see how Malachi Ross will be able to face his employees today, to say nothing of his board. Well…" She stopped, expectant.
Bracco stepped into the breach. "Harlen said you knew Mrs. Ross. I wonder if you could tell us a little about her before we go and interview her."
"Why would you want to do that? Surely she isn't any kind of a suspect?"
Fisk replied frankly, "We're on what you might call a short leash with Lieutenant Glitsky. This is our first real case and I think he wants us to work in from way outside. Not spook any important witnesses with naive questions."
"Parnassus may be part of the motive, if there is one." Bracco's tone was confident, as though he'd done this kind of thing a hundred times before.
"But Nancy Ross?" West asked. "Was she even there when Markham died? She would have had to be at the hospital, wouldn't she?"
"She's not a suspect," Fisk reiterated. "We're just interested in the personal side of Parnassus, if you will. The players. If there might be anything there."
"Well…" She put her cup down. "I really don't know Malachi Ross at all, although of course we've met several times. Nancy, on the other hand, I know fairly well. She is a lovely person. Very active, socially, I mean. She also volunteers with the Opera Board, the Kidney Foundation, several other charities, many of a medical nature." West narrowed her eyes slightly. "I may as well tell you that politically, as well, she's been a friend. So I'm afraid I'm not going to be a very good source of dirt."
"We're not looking for dirt," Bracco assured her. Though the idea that there might be some dirt was appealing, this wasn't the venue to pursue it. "Was she a nurse, by the way?"
West shook her head no. "I don't believe Nancy has ever worked for a living. I mean, at a real job. She's never needed to. She comes from money."
"But even when her husband was young? To help out?" Bracco asked.
West laughed. "When her husband was young, Inspector, Nancy was a baby. She's Dr. Ross's second wife. I'd be surprised if she's thirty-five." A cloud crossed her brow. "Her parents weren't altogether taken with the marriage. I remember hearing that the money from that source dried up. They didn't like the idea of Nancy being a trophy wife for an older man, and they cut her off entirely. I mean her money. Not that it mattered, as it turns out. Malachi does very well"-she shook her head in commiseration-"as the entire city now knows."
Harlen finally thought of a question. "Does she do anything with her husband? For Parnassus?"
The supervisor shook her head. "I don't really think so, not specifically with the company. But she entertains all the time, and I suppose to some degree that's part of his business."
"All the time?" Bracco asked.
A nod. "I don't know how she does it with the small children-she's got her twin girls, I think they're about six-but I suppose with the nannies…" She collected her thoughts a moment. "But back to your question, I'd guess she throws a really lavish party once a month, with smaller affairs-charity do's-two or three times a week."
Bracco wasn't familiar with the lifestyle, and didn't seem to understand it. "This would be most weeks?"
"I'd say so. When she's in town."
"As opposed to where?"
"Well…" She smiled and opened her palms in front of her. "Wherever she wants to go, I'd suppose. They have a second place-really stunning, I've been there, seven or eight thousand square feet-right on the lake at Tahoe. And I know they-or she and the girls-they Christmas at Aspen or Park City. They have their own plane, I believe."
Darrel Bracco jogged through the rain with his partner, got to his car and into his seat. When Harlen was buckling up beside him, he caught his eye. "Wow."
"Real money," Fisk agreed. "Real live money."
"Their own airplane? I'd like my own airplane."
"How could you pay for the gas to go anywhere, though?"
"Yeah, there's that." Bracco pulled out into the traffic. The rain continued as though it would never end, drifting in sheets before them. It was nearly noon, and still dark as dusk, and after a bit, Bracco's expression closed down to match it. "But we knew they were rich to begin with, didn't we? I don't see what else it gets us."
Fisk considered that. "It got us a better cup of coffee than Ed's body shop."
"At least that." The message, especially welcome coming from Fisk, was a good one. They were finally working a righteous homicide, not a variant of hit and run. And the truth was that it wasn't the same at all. Now, without any real guidance, the job was to follow where their intelligence and instincts led them. They were gathering random information, that was all. And by definition much of it would be irrelevant. But some of it might be important-you just didn't know until you knew.
Without any discussion, Bracco turned west, toward Kaiser and Ann Kensing's house. Fisk, concentrating, sat in a deep silence for a couple of blocks. Then, "Darrel."
"Yeah?"
"What does a plane cost, you think?"
"I think it's one of those things where if you've got to ask, you can't afford it."
But his partner was a ball of surprises today. Something had started his engine over this investigation, and now he was obviously pursuing a train of thought. "No, not that. I mean just the upkeep alone-the hangar, the gas, monthly payments, insurance?"
"I don't know. I suppose it would depend on where you keep it, the size of the plane, all that. Why?"
Fisk shrugged. "I'm thinking about a million two. How far it goes."
This wasn't a hard one for Darrel. "If I had a million two, I'd be retired on the beach in Costa Rica. Where'd that figure come from?"
"That's what Ross makes a year." Bracco shot a glance of utter skepticism across the seat, and Fisk retorted, "Hey, that was the number in the paper-'CityTalk.' It's got to be true. But my point isn't how much money it is. It's whether it's enough."
This made Bracco laugh. "It's enough, trust me."
"Is it? Two mansions, a past marriage, which means alimony and probably child support. A new, young, party-giving society wife, kids in private schools, servants, airplanes, vacations."
"A million two, though." For Darrel Bracco, son of a cop, a million dollars might as well be a trillion. They were both unfathomably large sums of money, a lifetime's worth of money.
Clearly, though, not so for Fisk. "You ever read a book called Bonfire of the Vanities?"
"Was that a book? I think I saw the movie."
"Yeah, well, the movie sucked, but it was a book first. Anyway, a cool thing in the book was this guy running down the list of his expenses, showing how impossible it was to get along on only a million dollars a year. And this was like ten years ago."
"He should have called me," Bracco said. "I could have helped him out."
"The point," Fisk pressed on, "is that maybe we just did learn something we can use from Aunt Kathy. Instead of concentrating on how rich Ross is, it might be smarter to think how poor he is. I mean, face it, if your expenses are greater than your income, you're poor, right? No matter what you make."
They stopped at Kaiser first and discovered that Mrs. Kensing had called in sick.
The rain that had been falling steadily since last night had found a new life. Monsoonlike, driven nearly horizontal by strong winds off the ocean, the drops pelted both inspectors as they stood on her front stoop. She answered the door wearing heavy gray socks, designer jeans, and a red, cowl-neck pullover. Bracco's immediate impression was that she hadn't slept in a couple of days.
Her shoulder-length blond hair was a mess. Without makeup of any kind, she appeared drawn and gaunt. Still, there was no hiding her attractiveness. Her eyes, especially, were deep-set, wide and compelling, almost electric blue. He'd never seen eyes quite like them.
Even after they'd introduced themselves, badges out, Mrs. Kensing simply stared at them until Bracco finally asked if they could come in. Nodding, she took a step back, opening the door as she withdrew. "I'm sorry," she said ambiguously, then waited another long moment before she brought the door closed behind them all.
The light was dim in the vestibule. They stood dripping on the woven cloth rug in the tiny area. "Maybe we should…" she said distractedly, and not finishing the sentence, led the way a few steps down a short hall, then to the right into the kitchen.
Overflowing onto the floor, a huge load of laundry lay piled on the table. Skirting that, she pulled out a stool. The counter still held dirty dishes from the morning-a milk and a juice carton, two boxes of cereal, some brown pear and banana slices on a cracked saucer. Finally she focused on them where they stood in the small humid room.
"All right. What?" The startling eyes flicked back and forth between the inspectors.
Bracco pulled out his tape recorder and put it on the counter in front of her. He cleared his throat and recited his name and the date, his badge number, the usual. He hadn't rehearsed what he was going to say, hadn't really considered what the woman's state of mind might be before she'd opened the door. But now he had to begin with something soon or, he sensed, she'd throw them both out. "Mrs. Kensing, Tim Markham and you were lovers, weren't you?"
She cleared her throat. "We used to be, but he broke it off. Twice."
"Why?"
"Because he was guilty about his family. Especially he didn't want to hurt his kids. But he didn't love his wife anymore. So he kept coming back to me."
"But he left you again, too? Isn't that right?" Bracco asked.
"Temporarily. He would have come back again."
"So why did he leave?"
"Because he had to try again with them. One more time, he said."
Fisk asked, "And when was that?"
"Last week. Late last week."
"And were you okay with that?" Bracco asked. "With his decision?"
"How could I be? I knew…" Her eyes were hard. "I knew he'd come back to me eventually, just like he always did. He loved me. I didn't see why he had to put everyone through it again. All the back and forth. I told him he should just separate. Make it clean."
"The way you did in your marriage?" Fisk asked.
If she took offense, she didn't show it. "Yeah, like I did. As soon as I realized I loved Tim and not Eric, I told him he had to move out. I mean, what was the point? I wasn't going to live a lie."
Fisk looked across at his partner. "And how did Carla take all this? His leaving her?"
"He never left her," she corrected him bitterly. "I was always on the side."
"But she knew about you? What then?"
"Well, she threatened him, of course. Said she'd leave him and take all his money. He wouldn't get visitation. That's why he went back."
"You mean this last time?"
But Fisk didn't wait for her to answer his partner's question. "You know that Carla and the children are dead, too?"
She went still for a beat. Then, "I saw that, but I turned it all off. I'm not interested in her. She doesn't have anything to do with me." She looked up at them in defiance. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. I don't care about her."
Fisk spoke up. "Maybe Carla didn't take him back? Maybe she was still mad at him?"
Suddenly she broke and raised her voice. "Aren't you listening to me?! It was done." The wind gusted and heavy drops pounded at the kitchen window. "He was going to tell her everything he'd done wrong in his life. Make a fresh start. What a fucking fool!"
"But did he in fact tell her?" Fisk asked.
"Who cares? What could it matter now? I never saw him again after he left me," she snapped. "I don't know what he did."
"And when was that?" Bracco asked more gently. "The last time you saw him?"
She slapped angrily at the counter. "Goddamnit! I don't care! Don't you hear me? What matters is I'm left here." She gestured despairingly around the cluttered, tiny kitchen. "Here. By myself."
Fisk asked abruptly, "Did you know that your husband treated Mr. Markham at Portola?"
"Yeah, I knew that. I saw him right after." Her gaze sharpened. "Why is that important?"
"Markham had broken up your marriage. Maybe he still hated him."
"Yeah, but so what?" She shook her head wearily. "This all shook out two years ago. It's ancient history."
The inspectors shared a glance. "You're saying he wasn't still bitter?" Fisk asked.
"Sure he was bitter. He made no bones about hating Tim. He always…" She hesitated. "Why?"
Fisk told her. "We're trying to find out who killed him, Mrs. Kensing. I know you'll want to know that, too."
Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, killed him? He got hit by a car."
"No, ma'am, he was killed," Bracco said.
"You didn't know that?" Fisk asked harshly. "Didn't you read the paper this morning?"
"Yeah," she answered in a voice heavy with sarcasm. "I got my kids off to school, then had the maid bring in the paper with my coffee and bonbons. She hasn't gotten to the laundry or the dishes yet." Dismissing Fisk, she turned to Bracco. "You're saying somebody ran him over on purpose?"
Bracco shook his head. "It wasn't the accident," he said. "He was killed at the hospital. Somebody shot him up with potassium."
Her eyes flashed with the onset of panic. "I don't know what you're saying."
Fisk took a step toward her. "You're a nurse and you don't know about potassium?"
"Of course I know that. What about it with Tim, though, with his dying?"
"It's what killed him," Bracco replied. "Really."
Slowly, the news seemed to register. "In the hospital?" Then slowly, as the thought congealed, her face changed by degrees until finally it was contorted with rage. "That son of a bitch. That miserable motherfucker." She looked from one inspector to the other, her rasping voice filled with conviction. "You can stop looking," she said. "I know who killed him."
Kensing was working at the Judah Clinic and didn't seem inclined to return calls, so Hardy decided that he'd simply show up, hoping that his unexpected appearance would help convey the air of urgency he was beginning to feel. So he ventured out into the teeth of the storm and made it to the clinic in time to spend another half hour in the crowded waiting room before Kensing, in his white smock and stethoscope, came out to see him. The doctor told him he couldn't get away, even for a few minutes.
His doctor work was more important. He was swamped here, as Hardy could see. And anyway, wasn't their appointment supposed to be for tonight?
Hardy tried to make him understand the reality they both faced, but the doctor couldn't seem to accept it.
"I don't see how it's any different than it was yesterday," Kensing replied. He made a helpless gesture with his hands.
"Everything about it is different," Hardy explained with a patience he didn't feel. "Yesterday, nobody thought Markham was murdered, so it didn't matter that you hated him. Now it does. A lot. So you've got motive, means, and opportunity. It's bad luck to have all three of these around a homicide, trust me."
But he dismissed Hardy's concerns with a shake of his head. "We covered all this on the phone this morning, didn't we?" He put an arm on Hardy's sleeve. "Look, I appreciate your concern, but I've got to keep things moving here at the clinic or we won't even get to talk tonight. Sorry you had to come all the way down, but this won't work."
Hardy closed some space between them and lowered his voice. "That's what I've been trying to tell you. We're not going to talk tonight, Doctor. At least not with the police. I canceled the interview."
Kensing showed a little pique. "Why'd you do that?"
"Because I'm your lawyer and it's my job to protect you."
"I don't need protection. Once they hear what I've got to say, especially if I give it to them voluntarily, they'll cross me off their list."
"Really? And you know this because of your vast experience in criminal law, is that it?" Hardy was right in his client's face. "Listen to me. I promise you-you have my solemn word-that they will not do that. Don't kid yourself. Like it or not, you are a murder suspect. They won't be looking for reasons to let you off. They'll be looking for reasons to bring you in. And I'm not going to give them a chance to do that. You and I need a lot more time together. A lot more. Like most of the weekend."
Kensing shook his head. "I don't know about that. I've got Giants tickets for Saturday. I've got my kids and I'm taking them."
"That's really swell," Hardy said, "but you're not taking anybody anywhere if you're in jail. The point is you and I need to block some time. This is serious stuff, okay?"
In the waiting room over Kensing's shoulder, a baby began to wail.
Kensing checked his watch, frowned, looked over at the crying infant. "All right," he said, gesturing toward the noise, "but this is serious, too. What I do." He offered a professional smile. "Maybe Sunday, though, how'd that be?" Giving Hardy a conspiratorial pat on the back, he turned and disappeared through the door that led to the doctors' offices.
Hardy, who had walked a block and a half from the parking lot, felt the squish in his soaking shoes, the chill in his pants, damp below the knee. After Kensing left, he sat down for a minute in one of the plastic chairs, then combed his wet hair with his fingers, stood up, and buttoned his raincoat for the walk through the squall back to his car.
"Just checking on my investment," Hardy said when Moses McGuire looked up in surprise from behind the Shamrock's bar. He was the only person in the place.
"What investment? I gave you your quarter in trade, in case your memory fails you, which it never does. You drinking?"
Hardy hadn't had a drink in the daytime in six months, but between his failure to talk with anybody at the hall, Freeman's attitude, the weather, and his recent debacle with Kensing, he was ready to try anything to change his luck or his timing. "You got any Sapphire behind the bar?"
Though McGuire disapproved of gin in any form, he didn't have to ask Hardy how he wanted it. Up, dry, chilled glass. As he was pouring, he asked, "You all right? Frannie okay?" He had pretty much raised his little sister, Hardy's wife, by himself, and he still felt protective.
"We're fine. I had an appointment near here that didn't work out. Nothing to do with Frannie." He sipped his martini, nodded appreciatively. "This," he said, "is perfect."
Moses, whose own Macallan scotch, neat, was a permanent fixture in the bar's gutter, lifted his own glass, clicked it against Hardy's, and raised it to his lips. "That," he replied, "is gin and dry vermouth and ice. This"-holding up his own glass-"is perfect. But I accept the compliment with grace and humility. Why didn't you have him come to your office?"
"Who?"
"Your appointment. I didn't know you made house calls."
"I don't. This one seemed important."
"Well, to one of you, at least."
At that truth, Hardy nodded ruefully. "Then again, maybe I just needed an excuse to break up the routine."
Moses pulled up the stool he kept behind the bar. "I hear you," he said. "You want to plan a road trip? We leave now, we could be in Mexico by nightfall."
"Don't tempt me." Hardy lifted his drink, sipped at it, spoke wistfully. "Maybe I could pull the kids out of school…"
"I wasn't thinking of bringing the offspring with us."
Hardy noted the tone, looked at the battered face across the bar. "You and Susan okay?"
"At least we're not getting divorced, I don't think." He drank some of his scotch. "But sometimes I'm sure it's only because we made a deal that the first one to mention the D word gets the kids. I hear Mexico's warm this time of year."
"It's always warmer than here."
They both looked out the picture window, where the rain continued in sheets. The cypress trees that bordered the park were bent over halfway in the wind.
Abruptly, Hardy stood up. He pushed his unfinished martini to the edge of the bar.
"You leaving so soon?" McGuire asked him. "You just got here."
Hardy pointed to his drink. "If I finish that, and I desperately want to, I'll never leave."
"Fortunately, you don't have to."
"No, I do have to. I've got work and the devil's trying to give me an excuse not to do it. But I've got an idea for you and Susan. Why don't you get somebody to cover for you here and bring the kids over tonight. We'll take 'em. You guys go out. How's that sound?"
"It could work," McGuire said. "Though it isn't Mexico."
"Yeah, but what is?" Hardy laid a friendly punch on McGuire's arm. "Think about it."
Standing in front of the grand jury after a working lunch with Clarence Jackman and Abe Glitsky, Marlene Ash was in her element. The nineteen citizens gathered before her in the Police Commissioner's Hearing Room on the fifth floor of the Hall of Justice, one floor above Glitsky's office and two above Jackman's, cared mightily for justice to be done. They might appear to be a hodgepodge of humanity-certainly both genders and most of the ethnic populations in the city were represented here today-but Marlene knew that these people sitting now before her, and the others like them on juries (and not just grand juries) all over the country, were the backbone of the legal system she worked within. Without them, the "average" good citizen, justice would be an empty concept, the social fabric would tear.
So she played fair with them, respecting their intelligence and experience. "Ladies and gentlemen of the grand jury," she began. "On Tuesday, April 10, Timothy Markham began his customary, invariable morning jog. When he got to Twenty-sixth Avenue, here in the city, he was run down by a green, early model American car. The driver fled the scene in his vehicle.
"But the car accident is not what killed Mr. Markham.
"Instead, after he'd been somewhat stabilized after surgery at Portola Hospital, and as he lay helpless in his hospital bed, a person or persons as yet unknown injected his body with an overdose of potassium.
"Potassium is a common medication. It is readily available in emergency rooms and intensive care units. But potassium can kill when administered in large doses. And such a dose was given to Mr. Markham.
"That same night, his wife, Carla, and their three children died of gunshot wounds in their home. We have convened here today to take evidence to determine the identity of the killer or killers in this series of brutal deaths."
All eyes were glued on her. Most of the members had pads on the desks in front of them, ready to take notes. "The medical examiner has ruled that Carla Markham's death by gunshot is a possible suicide, but this is still a matter of uncertainty. Lieutenant Glitsky, the chief of the homicide detail, will be testifying here for you in a few moments. He will be conducting a parallel investigation into that aspect of the case, and he may decide to his satisfaction that in fact Mrs. Markham killed her family and herself, or he may arrest a suspect before you have gathered enough evidence to issue an indictment." She paused and met a few eyes among her jurors. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. In the meanwhile, the city has received a bill in the amount of thirteen million dollars for services…"
Hardy wasn't exactly sure what had brought him to Portola in the first place. He'd vaguely wanted to talk to someone in administration, he thought, but nobody would talk to him. He hadn't made an appointment-it was becoming his theme for the day. Everybody was busy, all the health care professionals and administrators were dealing with the fallout from the week's horrors within the hospital itself, to say nothing of the upheaval under the corporate umbrella. They had no time for impromptu meetings.
This whole day ought to teach him to rein in his boyish enthusiasm, he told himself as he squished down the hallway on his way to the lobby and out. He was just steeling himself for the dash outside when he noticed a sign that directed people to various locations, one of which read CAFETERIA.
Realizing that if he didn't ask no one could say no, he turned back and followed the arrows. It was long past lunchtime, and the place, while not deserted, wasn't crowded, either. Hardy grabbed a muffin and a cup of coffee, paid the cashier, and stood waiting for his muse to speak. Alone, at a table by a window, a woman in a nurse's uniform sat reading a book, and he began to walk toward her.
Closer up, he pegged her as between thirty and thirty-five. Nice looking, light brown hair worn short, medium build. "Excuse me," he said.
She kept her eyes on her book and held up a finger. After finishing her paragraph, she looked up. "Yes? Can I help you?"
Welcome words. But Hardy didn't know what if anything he expected to discover here by talking to her. But he'd never know if he didn't start. "My name is Dismas Hardy. I'm Dr. Kensing's lawyer. Do you mind if I sit down for a minute?"
A flicker of distrust faded as quickly as it had appeared. She lifted her shoulders, dropped them, and said, "Sure, but why? Am I in trouble?"
Hardy pulled a chair around across from her. "I don't think so. Should you be?"
It flustered her. "No! I mean, you said you're a lawyer. Usually aren't people in trouble when lawyers come visit them?"
"Now that you mention it, I suppose they are. This isn't one of those times, though." He handed her a business card and while she looked at it, he asked her name.
"Rebecca," she said. "Rebecca Simms."
"That's my daughter's name. We call her 'the Beck.'"
She nodded, somehow reassured, and she looked down again at the card. "Dismas? Is that right?"
He nodded. "The good thief on Calvary. Also the patron saint of murderers. I often wonder what my parents were thinking."
"So is Dr. Kensing in trouble?" she asked.
Hardy temporized. He blew on his coffee, set it down untouched in front of him. "The short answer is yes."
"Because of Tim Markham? Them calling it a murder?"
Hardy was thinking he'd picked the right table. "Exactly."
She shook her head disgustedly. "But that is so ridiculous. Murder. Please."
"Ridiculous in what way?"
"Well, I'm not saying it must have been an accident. Someone could have deliberately given him the wrong dose, I suppose. But we use potassium all the time in the ER."
"Are you an ER nurse?"
"Sometimes," she said. "We rotate a lot. I've been in there my share of times."
"And is the potassium pretty readily available?"
"Sure, to any medical person. It's right there behind the nurses' station."
From Hardy's perspective, this was good news if only because it gave more people-besides his client-access to the drug. "So in your opinion, an overdose of potassium wouldn't have to be deliberate? Or malicious?"
"No. They're usually not, in fact."
"They happen a lot?"
"Sometimes." She didn't seem too worried about it. "I remember we had one on this Saturday night near the end of last summer, there were some shootings in the Addition, and I think a car crash or two. Anyway, the ER was a madhouse, you can imagine. The doctor's yelling out orders right and left. One of the shot guys was bleeding out, his heart was failing, and he needed fluids with potassium, so he got one dose and before the doctor came back to him, somebody had given him another one, thinking it was the first."
"So what happened? Did he die?"
"No. The doctor recognized what was happening immediately. So he shocked him, then pumped him with insulin and glucose, and he came out."
"So why, do you think, didn't they use that on Mr. Markham?"
"I don't know. I wasn't there. They'd have had to recognize the problem first, right? I mean, in my case with the shot guy, the doctor was right there, ordering potassium. Maybe Dr. Kensing didn't know. Or didn't put it together soon enough. What does he say?"
Hardy showed some frustration. "He's been busy. Until it made the news, he thought Markham had just died from the accident."
"People do, you know. Just die."
A curt nod. He knew. It was coming up on the birthday of his long-gone son, Michael. With an effort, he shook the clutch of the memory. "One of the reasons I came out here today was to get a sense of the place, of general conditions here. I've heard rumors that some doctors are unhappy with the administration. Patients are getting turned away. Then there was that whole Baby Emily thing."
Her eyes widened with recognition. "That was Dr. Kensing, too, wasn't it? He's the one who admitted her. I knew there was something I remembered when you first mentioned him. That was it."
Hardy played smart, as though he'd known this about Kensing all along, although it was the first he'd heard of it. "Did he get in a lot of trouble for that?" Suddenly, reflexively, Rebecca turned her head, focusing over Hardy's shoulders to the corners of the room behind him. With a little frisson of electricity, he realized that his questions had somehow put her on her guard. "What is it?" he asked.
She exhaled heavily, scanned the room again, checked her watch and her book. Finally, she came back to him. "You never really know with these kinds of things, I mean what really happened. But you wouldn't have believed the memos, all the stupid…" She huffed another time, got herself back under control. "Anyway, everybody talked all about it for weeks, of course. All of us-the staff-even the doctors, you know, and it's not so common that we all agree on anything-we all thought he'd done absolutely the right thing. I mean, this was a baby. What was he supposed to do? Let them leave her over in County without her mother?"
"And I take it the administration didn't like it?"
She laughed harshly, then leaned across the table, and answered in a whisper, "I heard they actually fired him, which is when he went to the newspapers-"
"Excuse me." The laundry list of what Hardy didn't know about his client continued to grow, and to astound him. He and his client had to talk. Really. But he couldn't bother about that now. "You're telling me that Dr. Kensing broke the story, too? To the papers?"
She nodded. "He never admitted it, but everybody knows it was him. I think it's only a matter of time now before they really fire him, even if they have to make up a reason. Not that he's alone."
"What do you mean?"
She made sure again that no one had come within earshot. "I mean most people here are scared of losing their jobs, of either doing something or not doing it, either way. It's really bad." She frowned. "So are they going to charge Dr. Kensing with this murder? That would be awful."
"I don't know," Hardy said. "They might."
"Because Mr. Markham was going to fire him?"
"That could be a motive, yes." Another one, Hardy was thinking. But he asked, "You're sure it was Markham who wanted to fire him?"
"Sure," she said. "He ran the whole show here. Who else?"
"Glitsky, homicide." "Who is this?"
"What did I just say? This is Abe Glitsky, San Francisco homicide. Who's this?"
"Jack Langtry. Abe? Is this really you?"
"Yeah, it's really me, Jack. What's going on?"
"This is really weird. I just hit redial on Carla Markham's cell phone. She called homicide before she died?"
"Where are you now?"
"Downstairs. Evidence lockup."
"Don't move. I'm on my way."
Langtry was waiting in his office in the bowels of the hall. With him was another of his crime scene investigators, Sgt. Carol Amano. He had put the phone on the middle of the desk all by itself, almost as though it were some kind of bomb. He'd already ordered complete phone records on the Markham house and on this cell phone. He'd also called Lennard Faro at the lab and requested that he join them ASAP.
Glitsky was down here with them, pacing as he talked, which was something he rarely did. Langtry realized that his adrenaline was way up. "Okay, but let's consider other possibilities," Glitsky was saying. "It was in her purse. Maybe one of our guys couldn't get to a phone and called back in here while we were doing the house."
"No way." Amano wouldn't even consider it.
Langtry, too, was shaking his head. "I agree. Not a chance, Abe. You saw who we had on the scene. Me, Len, Carol, the other guys, we're talking the 'A' team. Nobody's taking a phone out of a purse at a homicide scene and using it to call home. It just couldn't happen. But assuming we've got what it looks like here, she called homicide. So what does it mean?"
"It would be helpful to know when," Glitsky said.
"We could have that in a few hours if we're lucky," Langtry replied. "But I think we can assume it was after she left the hospital and before the crowd started showing up at her place."
"Probably while she was driving home," Amano added.
Glitsky processed that for a second. "Which was before anybody knew about the potassium. Before we knew it was a murder."
"Maybe she knew it was a murder," Amano said with a muted excitement. "Maybe she did the murder and was calling to confess, then changed her mind."
"Was she at the hospital, Abe? When he died?"
"Yeah," Glitsky answered distractedly.
"Okay, then," Langtry said. Catching Glitsky's expression, he asked, "Why not?"
"I don't know."
"Maybe he broke up with her again." Amano clearly liked the idea. "He was leaving her for good. She went into a jealous rage…"
Glitsky was shaking his head. "And then luckily he got hit by a random car, giving Carla the opportunity to ride in the ambulance with him and then kill him with potassium at the hospital? After which she went home and entertained all of her friends for six or seven hours before finally killing herself and her kids? This doesn't sing for me, people. It doesn't even hum."
The two CSI inspectors shared a glance. "Do you have another theory?" Langtry finally asked.
Glitsky's scar was tight through his lips. "No. I don't like theories. I don't know what time she made the call, or why she made it, or if anybody in the detail picked up. She might have seen the accident, for all I know."
Amano walked over to the door and looked out down the hallway. Then she turned. "Here comes Faro."
A few seconds later, the snappily dressed and diminutive forensics inspector bopped into the office, said hi all around, asked what was up. When he heard about the cell phone, he nodded thoughtfully. Certainly, he thought, it was significant, but what it meant exactly he didn't want to hazard a guess. Like Glitsky, Faro liked it when evidence led to a theory, instead of vice versa. "But I do have some news."
"Hit me," Glitsky said.
"Well, two things. On the trajectory-we're talking Mrs. Markham here, the head wound-back to front."
Glitsky repeated the words, then asked, "So the gun was behind her ear, and the slug went forward? Strout say how often he's seen that with self-inflicted wounds?"
Faro gestured ambiguously. "You know him better than me, sir. He said sometimes."
"Helpful."
"I thought so, too. But the other thing. She was left-handed."
"How'd Strout get to that?"
"He didn't. I got it. There was a collection of lefty coffee mugs at the house, you know the kind-'Best Mom in the World,' 'Queen of the Southpaws'-that kind of thing. Also, she'd addressed some envelopes and the writing slants like a lefty."
"But the gun was in her right hand?"
"Near it," Faro corrected him. "But yeah. Anyway, the GSR"-gunshot residue-"results might give us a better hint if she in fact fired the thing, but they won't be in for a few more days."
"Okay, Len. Thanks." Glitsky's scowl was pronounced. "Well, thanks to all of you. Anything new comes up, I want to hear."
Glitsky wasn't about to join in the guessing games out loud, but this latest evidence all but convinced him of what he'd been tempted to believe from the start. Carla Markham's death hadn't been a suicide at all. She wouldn't have shot herself with the wrong hand and at an unusual angle. She wouldn't have shot the dog. Or her teenage children.
And this meant that someone had killed her. He didn't as yet know why, but the call to homicide on the day of her death made it likely that she'd seen or suspected the murderer of her husband.
Glitsky had the door to his office closed. He was drumming the fingers of both hands on his desk, trying to stop himself from this premature conjecture. He told himself that he didn't know enough yet to form any consistent theories, let alone any conclusions.
But one consideration wouldn't go away. If someone had in fact killed Carla, he was convinced that it was the same person that had killed her husband. He had no idea of the motive for the wife, but he didn't need that. He already had a suspect with a strong motive for the husband. And means. And opportunity.
It was time to squeeze him.
Kensing arrived home from work to find Inspector Glitsky waiting at his front door, tucked in out of the fall of rain. He greeted him politely, but seemed a little confused. "I thought Mr. Hardy had canceled this meeting."
Glitsky shrugged in a noncommittal way. "Sometimes lawyers don't want their clients to talk to the police. Usually it's when those clients are guilty. He told me you wanted to talk to us." Glitsky wasn't pushing. "I thought we might save each other some time, that's all."
After a moment's reflection, Kensing invited Glitsky up into his condo without ever thinking to ask him for a warrant. He lived in a two-bedroom converted condominium across from Alta Plaza, a park in the Upper Fillmore. The unit took up the entire floor in a stately, older, three-story building. It sported classic high ceilings, exposed dark beams, hardwood floors. A huge bay window with three panes of watery ancient glass overlooked the park, and Glitsky stopped to look out of them for a moment, to comment on the rain.
A few minutes later, after he'd boiled some water for tea for the lieutenant, the doorbell rang again. It turned out to be the inspector he'd spoken with outside of the Markham house-Bracco-and another man who introduced himself as Fisk. He let them both in, too, and asked if they would like something to drink.
Glitsky had brought a portable video camera to go with the small tape recorder that he set on the kitchen table. When the audio tape was rolling, he told Kensing again for the record-as he'd mentioned on the stoop-that he understood from talking to Mr. Hardy that the doctor wanted to get the police interview out of the way. "You can, of course, decline to talk," he continued in a friendly manner, "or postpone the meeting until Mr. Hardy is available, but we know how busy you are. We all are, to tell the truth. As I said downstairs, we just thought it might be easier to get this done now, early in the process."
Kensing nodded. "That's what I told Mr. Hardy. I don't have anything to hide."
But the low-key, courteous lieutenant wanted to nail it down, and added, "You're sure you wouldn't prefer to have Mr. Hardy here?"
"No, it's fine. I think he's being a little overprotective anyway. It doesn't matter. Him being here or not isn't going to affect what I say. I don't mind."
"Thank you," Glitsky said with great sincerity. He knew that he was getting Kensing to talk without his attorney being present, and that this was legally proper. The right to remain silent belongs to the suspect, not to his lawyer. Kensing could remain silent if he so chose, but equally, he could decide to talk. "We appreciate it very much."
He seated Kensing in front of the camera, turned it on, and began: "All right, then, Doctor. Three two one. This is Lieutenant Abraham Glitsky, SFPD, badge number one one four four…" He continued the usual litany, identifying the case number, his witness, where they were, who else was present. Finally, Glitsky cast a quick glance at his two acolytes. He had a yellow pad out on the table in front of him, and he consulted it briefly, then got down to it. "Dr. Kensing," he began, "did you sign Mr. Markham's death certificate?"
Kensing adopted a rueful expression. He could see what was coming. "Yes, I did. Although in a situation like this one, my signature is provisional."
"Provisional. What does that mean?"
"It means in lieu of an autopsy. It can be overridden, as it was in this case, by the medical examiner." With no sign of emotion, he spelled it out. "Often, especially when a patient has been hospitalized, the cause of death is apparent, and there's no particular call for an autopsy. Although Mr. Hardy told me that hit-and-run homicides are always autopsied."
"He's right. But you didn't know that before he told you?"
"No."
"And Mr. Markham's cause of death was apparent to you, was it?"
"Yes. At the time. He'd been hit by a car and sustained major internal injuries with massive bleeding. It was a little surprising that he even made it to intensive care."
"So you did not expect an autopsy to be performed?"
"I never thought about it."
"All right. Doctor, are you familiar with the symptoms of potassium overdose?"
"Yes, of course. Basically, in layman's terms, your heart stops beating effectively."
"And your treatment?"
He shrugged. "If we know it's potassium, we inject glucose and insulin, then defibrillation-shock-with CPR."
"And there was no way you could have recognized the true cause of Mr. Markham's problem, which was the potassium?"
"No. I don't see how."
"Okay." Glitsky consulted his notes, seemed to be gathering himself for another salvo. "Now, Doctor, you knew Mr. Markham well, isn't that true?"
"I knew him for a long time. He was my boss. How well I knew him is another question."
"Yet it's the one I asked. Isn't it true that he and your wife had a relationship that contributed to the breakup of your marriage?"
Kensing swallowed, but his mouth was dry as sand. He began to think that agreeing to this interview might have been a serious mistake.
Forty-five minutes later, they finally finished with the personal stuff. Glitsky didn't even pause a moment before moving on to a rather sharp grilling about Kensing's role in the Baby Emily matter, the Parnassus response.
"And Mr. Markham fired you?"
"Not really. He did warn me, though, that there would be serious repercussions if he found out that I'd been the leak to the press."
"And were you?"
Kensing tried to smile, but it came out crooked. "I'd rather not say, if that's all right."
Glitsky took that as a yes, and decided he didn't need the information.
"And where did that discussion with Mr. Markham take place?"
"He called me to his office. We talked there."
"And did he subsequently discover that you had been the leak?"
"I don't think so. I never heard that he did." Another weak and harmful attempt at levity. "He never fired me, so I guess not, huh?"
Glitsky, inexorable, moved on. Kensing had just admitted that, besides Baby Emily, there had been "a few" other issues on which he and Parnassus hadn't agreed. Kensing volunteered that he often prescribed drugs that were not on the formulary.
"In other words," Glitsky clarified, "drugs the company didn't approve."
"It wasn't that so much," Kensing explained. "The drugs I prescribed were fine. In fact, they were better." Kensing drew a paper towel, already damp with sweat, across his forehead. "The company's policy is that we physicians prescribe drugs from the formulary, that's all."
"And you made it a habit not to use this list?"
"Not a habit. When I thought it was appropriate." He felt he needed to explain. "The generics are not always exactly the same, chemically, as the proprietary, so they're not always as effective. Or they'll have other problems."
"Like what?"
"Any number of things. You'll have to take it twice as often, or it might have undesirable side effects, like indigestion. So in some cases, or when I'd had a bad experience with a certain generic on the formulary, I'd go with the proprietary."
"And Parnassus has a problem with this?"
He shrugged. "It costs them money."
"Could you explain that?"
"Well, the way it works at Parnassus is that most patients have the same copay, I think it's ten dollars, no matter what the drug costs. So if a proprietary costs thirty dollars and the formulary's generic costs ten, the company loses twenty dollars for every proprietary prescription that it fills."
"And you would prescribe these proprietary drugs regularly?"
"When it was appropriate, yes. My job is to save lives, not the company's money."
"And did you have more words with Mr. Markham about this practice?"
By now, Kensing's hands were visibly shaking. He took them off the table, put them into his lap. For the past grueling hour or so, he wished that he'd listened to his lawyer and taken his advice not to talk to these men. But having started the interview, he didn't know how to go about trying to stop it. Finally, he tried. "If you don't mind, I'd like to be excused for a moment," he said.
But Glitsky wasn't inclined to let him go to the bathroom, even if only to gather himself. "In a bit," he said crisply. Then repeated his question. "Did you have words with Mr. Markham on this drug issue?"
"No, I did not. We did not speak."
"Since when?"
"About two years ago."
"Two years ago? And yet the Baby Emily affair was in the past few months and you said you spoke to him then."
Kensing wiped his whole face with the paper towel. "I thought you meant about this prescription issue. When we talked about that."
When the police finally packed up their equipment and left, Kensing sat shaking on his living room couch for a long while. Eventually, he decided he'd better call Hardy, see about some damage control. Outside, it had nearly come to night, and the rain continued to pour down his front window.
Hardy was still at his office, trying to catch up on his other clients' work. Kensing then told him what had happened, that the interview had been really, really unpleasant, a mistake after all. "I think they must really believe I had something to do with this," he concluded.
There was a long silence, and when it ended, Kensing was completely unprepared for Hardy's fury. "Oh, you think so, Doc? The lieutenant in charge of homicide interrogates you for two hours about a murder that's on the front pages every day, that might be connected to a brutal murder of a whole family, and you've got motive, means, and opportunity and you think maybe, just maybe, they might think you're a righteous suspect. You studied anatomy, didn't you, Doc? Does everybody else have their head up their ass or is it just you?"
Kensing just sat there looking at the receiver in his hand. He felt a rush of blood to his head, and then physically sick. He thought he might throw up. His knuckles were white on the phone. His throat was a barren desert, constricted. After a few more seconds, unable to get a word out, he hung up.
When Hardy called Kensing back twenty minutes later to apologize for his outburst, he didn't find himself fired, as he'd half expected. Instead, his client apologized back to him, ending with his observation that Glitsky "might really think I killed Tim."
About time he got that message, Hardy thought. But he only said, "It'd be smart to assume that." But he had called his client back for another reason besides the apology. If he was still defending the good doctor, he had some pertinent questions to ask him. "Eric, I went by Portola today and talked to some nurses there. What do you think are the odds that the overdose was accidental?"
"Basically, in this case, zero. Why?"
Hardy ran down Rebecca Simms's theory about the occasional inadvertent overdose. When he'd finished, Kensing repeated what he'd said before. "No. It wasn't that."
"How do you know?"
"I was there. Markham wasn't even on potassium. He was stable. Relatively, anyway."
"So," Hardy asked simply, "what's that leave? Who else had access to him?"
"Carla, I suppose, technically. Maybe Brendan Driscoll earlier. Ross, a couple of other doctors. The nurses."
"How many nurses?"
"You'd have to check the records. I don't know. There's usually two, sometimes three. I think there were two." The enormity of it seemed to hit him for the first time. "You're saying one of those people killed him, aren't you?"
"That's what it looks like, Eric." He refrained from adding, "Either one of them or you."
"Jesus," Kensing said weakly. "So what do we do now?"
Hardy hesitated for just an instant. Trace awkwardness remained from the earlier outburst. But he went ahead. "This may seem a little prosaic after what you've been through tonight, Eric. But before things go any further, we've got to talk about my fees."
"Can't you just bill my insurance?"
Neither man laughed.
Hardy waited out a reasonable silence, then said, "You might want to get where you can be comfortable. This is going to take a while."
Glitsky wanted to debrief the car police after the Kensing interrogation at his condo, so although it was late, he drove back downtown. Now he was back at his desk, waiting for Fisk and Bracco so they could talk about what, if anything, they'd learned, how they were going to proceed on this investigation. Outside his door, five of his other inspectors were hanging around catching up on their paperwork. Someone had brought in a pizza, the smell of which was driving Glitsky crazy since he was supposed to go light on the food groups that used to be his favorites, which included cheese and grease.
What was keeping those guys? He'd thought they were right behind him. Finally he heard some laughter out in the detail and got up to check it out. He thought it entirely possible that somebody had Krazy Glued Fisk to his chair.
Glitsky gave up the good fight and grabbed a slice of pizza from Marcel Lanier's desk, and put half of it in his mouth before he could change his mind. When he had swallowed enough of it so that he could talk, he asked what was so funny.
Lanier was a veteran of the detail, and he leaned back in his chair with his feet crossed on his desk. His hands were linked behind his head. "Just the DA's office sent up another crazy today, and I finally figured out a way to help him without sending him to the FBI."
Glitsky knew that a regular feature of life in the city was the abundance of bona fide lunatics-folks who generally lived on the streets and heard voices, thought they were possessed, communicated with aliens. Occasionally, one of these people would take their concerns to the public defender's office, which would in turn direct him to the police station downstairs in the hall. There, the desk would nod sympathetically and forward him to the DA's office, which always sent him to homicide. Most of the time, homicide sent him over to the FBI, where God knew what happened to him.
"…but today I had this great idea," Marcel was saying, "and told this poor gentleman what he had to do was braid together a string of paper clips-I gave him a whole box, it took him like an hour-until it reached from his head to his feet. Then he had to attach it to his hair and let the other end drag on the floor, and that would stop the voices."
"And why would it do that, Marcel?" Although Glitsky wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.
"Because then he'd be grounded." He held up his right hand, laughing again with the other inspectors. "I swear to God, Abe. He walked out of here a cured man."
"You're a miracle worker, Marcel. That's a beautiful story. Can I have another slice of pizza?" Glitsky turned to go back to his office, but stopped as Bracco appeared in the detail's doorway. One of the guys behind him sang out, "Car fifty-four, where are you?" to the enjoyment of the other inspectors.
Glitsky made a face of disapproval, pointed at his new young inspector and then to his office. When Bracco was inside, standing at-ease as he did, Glitsky waited at the door another minute. "You guys take the scenic route or what? Where's Harlen?"
"He's, uh, he's not here."
Glitsky closed the door behind him. "I got that far on my own, Darrel. The question was where he is, not where he's not."
"I don't know exactly, sir. He had an appointment."
"He had an appointment?"
"Yes, sir. One of his aunt's fund-raising-"
Glitsky interrupted him. "Were you under the impression that you had an appointment here with me? Weren't my last words to you something very much like, 'See you back at the hall'? Did you think I meant like tomorrow morning?"
"No, sir. He said he had to go and he'd already put in his hours for the day, sir."
Glitsky's scowl deepened for an instant and then, suddenly, he found himself chuckling. "'His hours for the day.' I love that. What planet's that boy from? All right, sit down, Darrel, if you haven't got your hours quota filled up yet. I'll deal with Harlen tomorrow. Lord." After Bracco was seated, he pushed his own chair back from his desk, rested his hands over his belly, and put his feet up. "So what's your take on Dr. Kensing?"
Bracco sat the same way he stood, with a ramrod-straight back. Using only the front half of the chair's seat, he kept his hands entwined on his lap. "I guess he's got motive to burn-and who else has any reason to kill Markham?-but without any hard evidence, no jury would convict him, I don't think."
"I agree."
"I think he sounded guilty, if that means anything," Bracco opined. "I think he thought he was smarter than us and could direct the way it would go tonight."
Glitsky allowed the trace of a smile. "I flatter myself I may have disappointed him."
"So what do we do?"
"For the moment, I'd be interested in a minute-by-minute account of how Dr. Kensing spent his day last Tuesday, and I mean from when he woke up."
"You think it's him?"
Glitsky nodded. "I'd like more physical evidence, but even without it, he was there, he hated and maybe feared Markham, he had every opportunity. Sometimes that's all we get."
Bracco seemed to be wrestling with something. Finally, he came out with it. "If he did kill Markham, are you thinking he also killed the wife?"
"I'm deeply skeptical of the notion that she killed herself. Let's put it that way." He told Bracco about the cell phone in her purse with its call to homicide, the back-to-front trajectory of the slug, the wrong-handedness with the gun.
"She called homicide? On her cell phone? When was that?"
"Six o'clock." Langtry had left the message on Glitsky's voice mail. Information might be slow in coming, but it was showing up, and that's what counted.
"So while everybody was at her house…?"
"Yep. And nobody was here in homicide. She didn't leave a message."
"Six o'clock was about when Kensing got there, wasn't it?"
Glitsky nodded. "From what I can tell. Pretty close."
A silence descended.
Again, Bracco hesitated, considering whether to talk. Again, he decided he must. "You know, we talked to Kensing's wife today and-"
Glitsky raised his eyebrows. "When was that, and why?"
"Well, remember you said you'd rather we didn't interview certain witnesses. We didn't want to get in your way, so we stayed around the edges. We went to see Harlen's aunt, then Ann Kensing."
The lieutenant brought his hands up and rubbed them over his eyes. Then he met Bracco's eyes over the desk. "I shouldn't have given you the impression that I didn't want you to talk to people, Darrel. You can talk to anybody you want. This is your case."
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
"But I want you to report to me every day. Before you go out, after you get back in."
"Yes, sir. But if I may-"
"You may. You don't have to ask that. What?"
"Are we still going on the assumption that the original hit and run was an accident? Harlen still wants to look for cars. I mean, somebody hit him. Maybe it was on purpose."
Glitsky's gaze was level, his voice reasoned and calm. "At this point, I'd be surprised if it wasn't an accident, but I wouldn't have predicted Markham's family would get shot, either. Why? You got some kind of lead on the car?"
"No, sir. I just wanted to be clear on whether we should drop it entirely or not."
"If that moment comes, Darrel, it will be clear to you. Until it is, keep your options open. Now can we go back to what you were going to say, about Mrs. Kensing?"
Bracco took a second or two dredging it up, and finally he spoke with a kind of reluctance. "Well, she sort of said she thought he admitted it, but Harlen and I didn't think she really meant that. She was very upset, pretty unaware of what she was saying."
Glitsky stopped chewing his pizza and took a long beat. "She said who admitted what?"
"Kensing. Killed Markham."
"She said he told her that?"
"Yeah, but really, I don't think…you had to have been there. She was just screaming, crazy upset."
Glitsky pulled at his ear, doubting what he'd just heard, wanting to be absolutely sure he was getting it right. "Are you telling me that Ann Kensing told you that her husband said he killed Mr. Markham? He said this to her face?"
"Yes, sir. That's what she said, but…"
"And you've not gotten around to telling me this before now?"
"You were already set up with the camera and ready to go, sir, and if you remember we didn't get any time alone together before you started. So we thought we'd wait until we-"
Glitsky seemed to be fighting for control. "Didn't this strike either of you as important information?"
Bracco shifted uncomfortably. "Well, my understanding was we weren't supposed to give much credit to hearsay, which was what it was, really. At least we thought."
Fingers templed at his lips, Glitsky lowered his voice to keep himself from raising it to a scream. "No, Darrel. Actually, that would be an eyewitness testimony to a confession, which is almost as good as admissible evidence gets. Did you by any chance have a tape running?"
Sure enough, on the tape, Ann Kensing came across as hysterical, even raving. The tirade was laced with obscenity, with crying jags and breakdowns, with a screaming keening and insane laughter. But there was no question about what she'd heard, what it meant. She'd told Bracco and Fisk that the only reason she hadn't gone to the police the day before is because she believed the hit-and-run accident had killed Tim Markham. As soon as she realized he'd been murdered, and how he'd been murdered…
"Listen to me! Listen to me! I'm telling you he told me he'd pumped him full of shit. That's exactly what he said. Yeah, full of shit. Those words. Which means he killed him, didn't he? It couldn't mean anything else. I mean, nobody else knew then, did they? Not before the autopsy. Oh, you bastard, Eric! You miserable, miserable…"
Glitsky heard it all out, then told Bracco to take the tape directly to the DA's office for transcription. Somebody would still be there, and if they weren't, call somebody at home and get them down here working on it.
When Bracco had gone, Glitsky pulled an arrest warrant form out of his desk and started to fill it out, but after the first few lines, his hands stopped as though of their own accord. This was new and unambiguous evidence-true-and probably strong enough by itself to arrest Eric Kensing. But given the overwhelming, multiple motives and all the political repercussions of the Parnassus question, Glitsky thought the better part of valor would be to hold his horses until the morning and go to Jackman to make the final call.
The only remaining question in his mind was whether he should include Carla's name-and the kids'-on the warrant.
When Hardy dragged himself through the front door of his dark and quiet house at 11:15, he wondered if he'd have the energy left to make it up the stairs to his bedroom. Maybe he should just let himself collapse on the couch here in the living room.
There was still a glow from the embers in the fireplace. He put down his briefcase, hit the wall switch for the dim overheads, then shrugged himself out of his raincoat and suit coat and crossed the room. On the mantel, Frannie's new-since-the-fire collection of glass elephants caravanned around several potted cacti. He'd gotten into the habit of rearranging them almost every day-it was a chess game without rules or a board that served as some kind of connection between him and his wife. Nonverbal, somehow positive, and every little bit helped. Between the kids, her school, and his work, he sometimes thought they almost needed to make an appointment to say hello. Without their formal date nights, they would lose track of each other completely. So he made a few moves with the elephants.
The embers collapsed in a small shower of sparks. Hardy put an arm up against the mantel, rested his head on it. After a minute, he found himself on the ottoman, his elbows on his knees, staring blankly into the last of the glow.
"I thought I heard the door." Frannie was wrapped in a white turkish towel bathrobe they'd bought in Napa on their last getaway weekend almost a year before. She came across to where he made a space for her, squeezed in next to him, rubbed her hand over his back.
"What are you doing up?" he asked.
"Moses and Susan only left a few minutes ago," she said. "I was awake."
"Moses and Susan? What were they doing here?"
"And Colleen and Holly. Evidently you told him we'd baby-sit for them tonight so they could go out." It was half a question. "Which was a nice thing for them, but next time you might want to let me know. Especially if you're not going to be here."
He hung his head, shook it wearily. "What can I say? I'm an idiot. I'm sorry."
"Sorry's good." Her hand kept moving across his back. She wasn't mad, though perhaps would prefer if he could remember commitments he'd made that involved her. "But it's all right," she continued. "It went fine. It was lucky I was home, that's all. Abe called, by the way. And some woman named Rebecca, who said it might be important."
Earlier in the day, he might have felt some spark of interest. At the moment, it only felt like more work. "She's a nurse at Portola I talked with today. This new case." He was still furious that Glitsky had gone behind his back to interview his client. He tried to keep the anger out of his voice. "What did Abe want?"
"He said you'd know."
Hardy gave it a second. "He lied." Did he want to get into a long explanation? But her hand felt good on him. They were together. He leaned slightly into her. "He took a statement from my client after I told him not to. Full court press, guns blazing. Maybe he found out my guy didn't do it and wants to say he's sorry. But I doubt it."
"He must think your client did something." This was always an issue. Since Hardy had begun working as a defense attorney, she remained uncomfortable with the fact that her husband consorted not only with people accused of crimes, but often with those who had actually committed them. When the charge was something like a DUI or some kind of thievery or fraud, it wasn't so bad. But when it was murder, Frannie tended to worry on the not unreasonable theory that anyone who had killed once might get angry with somebody else-say, their attorney-and do it again. "So did your client do it after all?"
"He says not," Hardy said simply. "But who doesn't?"
"And you believe him?"
"Always." He faced her. "My problem is Abe. I've got no idea what he's doing."
"That's probably what he called about. To explain."
"I'm sure." Not, Hardy thought. He glanced at his watch. "I'm tempted to call him right now and wake up his sorry ass." He sighed wearily. "What was the other call? Rebecca? The nurse? She said it might be important?"
He could see that Frannie hated to admit it again-she'd already done her duty by telling him once. Clearly, she hoped he'd forget. But no. Hardy didn't forget much about his work-only baby-sitting deals he'd made with relatives. It was Frannie's turn to sigh. "She said no matter what time it was."
"I guess that would include now, huh?"
"I thought you might want to come to bed sometime."
"I'll try to keep it short."
He felt something go out of her. "I left her number by the phone," she said, standing up. "Have you had anything at all to eat?"
He shook his head. "My client's finally started to figure out he's in trouble, but it was all I could do to get him to talk to me on the phone. It was originally supposed to be his night for his kids. He thought the thing with Glitsky was going to take like a half hour. I asked him when he thought we could get a few minutes, maybe talk about some things so I didn't have to find them all out from third parties. So he says he doesn't know-he's got his kids this weekend, too. He works a million hours a day. But I had him with me on the phone. There wasn't going to be any other time. So I told him to call his ex-wife, change his plans, tell her not tonight. We had to talk."
Frannie was just looking down at him. She'd crossed her arms over her chest, her body language expressing it all-disappointment, disapproval. Sadness. "There's leftover spaghetti in the refrigerator," she said.
"I don't know if it's anything," Rebecca Simms said.
"That's all right," Hardy said. "If it's keeping you up, it's probably worth talking about." He sat at his dining room table, his yellow legal pad in front of him, the portable phone at his ear. He'd poured himself a glass of orange juice and drank half of it off in a gulp. "Did you remember something about Dr. Kensing?"
"No, not exactly that. Not that at all, really."
Hardy waited.
"I've been thinking about how I should say this, since I don't really know anything specific, not for sure. I just went back on the floor after we talked and I guess the whole discussion we had-you know? The general conditions here?"
"Sure. I remember."
The line hummed empty for another few seconds. Then Rebecca blurted it out. "The thing is, everybody on the staff knows something is really wrong here. The nurses, I mean. Probably some of the doctors, too. But nobody really talks about it. It's more a feeling, like a ghost is hovering over the place or something."
Hardy closed his heavy eyes. She sounded like she meant it literally. Terrific, he thought. The woman he picked at random in the hospital cafeteria, although she'd seemed like an intelligent person by the light of day, was in fact a nutcase and now she had his home phone number. Frannie was right-he shouldn't have it on his business card.
"Well." Hardy was ready to end the conversation. "I don't know if a feeling-"
"No, no." She cut him off. "That's not it. It's…what I'm saying is that people are dying here."
Hardy had picked up his juice glass and now he put it down. His fatigue was suddenly gone. "What do you mean, people?"
"Patients. People who shouldn't die."
"What kind of patients?"
"Mostly old, I think. Mostly in the ICU."
"But you're not sure?"
"No, not a hundred percent." He could hear the exasperation in her voice. "That's what I said at the beginning. I'm not sure."
"Okay," he said, hoping to keep her moving along this trail. "That's all right. I'm interested."
"But nobody's really sure of anything, or saying if they are…"
"Right. But I'm more interested in general conditions there anyway. It doesn't have to be specific-the low morale and so on…"
"Well, all of that's true, too, the tight money, the job insecurity, all that. But really, when we were talking I couldn't put my finger on exactly what it was, until tonight when I got home and it hit me…"
"What did, though?" This was pulling teeth, but they seemed to be loosening.
She paused a moment. "It sounds stupid to even say."
"Can you try? I won't think it's stupid, no matter what. Promise."
A longer pause. "Well," she said, "if people keep dying when they shouldn't…"
Hardy finished for her. "Maybe somebody's killing them."
"Yes." The relief in her voice was palpable. "That's what I was trying to get at. That's what it is."
"Do you have any idea who it might be?"
"No. Well, maybe, I don't know. As I said, I don't even know if it's true. But the first one I heard about was maybe a year ago, a man had had a stroke, but it was one of those situations, you know, where the family was hoping he'd recover, the prognosis was okay if he came out of his coma, and they didn't want to pull the plug. So they were waiting. Everybody thought he'd be long term, but then two days into it, he suddenly died."
"Okay," Hardy said. "But doesn't that happen?"
"Sometimes. Sure."
"It doesn't necessarily mean somebody killed him."
"No, of course not." She went silent again for a long beat. "If it was that one man, everybody would have probably forgotten about it by now. But he was something like the third patient to die in as many months. So one of the ICU nurses mentioned it in the nurses' lounge. There's this one weird little guy who works up there, a nurse actually. Rajan Bhutan is his name. He was on duty for all of them."
"Somebody thinks he might be killing patients?"
"No, not really. I don't even know why I mentioned that. I mean, nobody thought about it at the time, but then…it kept happening."
"It kept happening," Hardy repeated. "How often?"
"I don't know. I really don't know. But often enough." He heard her breathe out heavily, the load off.
But Hardy put another one right on. "Do you know if anyone's gone to the police about this? About this man Rajan?"
"No. I don't know. If someone had, wouldn't we have heard?"
"You'd think so."
"And…" She chopped off the thought.
And Hardy jumped on it. "What?"
"Nothing." A pause. "Really, nothing."
"Rebecca, please. You were going to say something."
The decision took a while. "Well…let's just say that it would be hard to keep working if anybody went to the police or the newspaper or anything. I mean, look at Dr. Kensing and Baby Emily. Imagine if it got out that Portola was killing its patients. There's a culture there that's"-she sought the word-"self-protective, I guess."
"Most cultures are," he said. "But I don't know if I can believe it about this. You're saying the administration wouldn't want to know if one of their staff is killing patients?"
"Oh, they'd want to know, all right. They just wouldn't want anybody else to know. It's like bad doctors."
"What's like bad doctors?"
A little laugh. "Well, basically, there are none."
"What does that mean?"
"It means every doctor on the staff is great until they're transferred to, say, Illinois. They get great references, maybe even a raise and moving expenses. Why? Because there are no bad doctors."
"And no whistle-blowers."
This was a sobering statement, and Rebecca Simms reacted to it. Her voice went hollow, nearly inaudible. "And I'm not being one now, Mr. Hardy. I've got three children and my husband and they all need me to keep this job. I don't know anything for certain. I just thought it might help you to know the general conditions, as you called them. We know Mr. Markham was killed, don't we? Maybe that changes something."
"Maybe somebody could go to the police."
"I don't think that's going to happen. I mean, what would they say?"
"They'd say what you just said to me."
"But it's all so nebulous. There isn't any…there's no real proof…"
"There would be bodies." Hardy refuted her in his calmest voice. "They could autopsy the bodies. Haven't they done postmortems anyway? At least on one or two of them?"
"I don't know. I don't think the families usually…" She trailed off, repeated that she just didn't know. "Anyway, you're not part of this. I mean here at the hospital. Maybe you can do something."
Hardy realized that this was as good as it was going to get, at least for tonight. "Maybe I can," he said. "I'll try, anyway." He thanked Rebecca for the call. "You were right. It was important. And I don't think there's really any reason for you to be afraid. I'll keep you out of whatever I do. You were brave to call me."
He heard the gratitude in her voice. "Thank you," she said. "You're a good man. I'm sorry it was so late."
When he hung up, he remained at the table, unmoving, for a long while. He hadn't been able to keep the phone call very short after all, and no doubt Frannie was by now asleep. Even if she wasn't, the mood would have passed, had already passed by the time she went upstairs. Rebecca Simms had called him a good man, but he wasn't feeling much like one at the moment.
Eventually, he finished his juice, got up, and took the glass into the kitchen, where he rinsed it in the sink. He was drying it when he heard a recognizable something behind him. He turned to see his son, one foot resting on the other one, squinting at him in the doorway. "Hey, bud," he said quietly. "Whatcha doin'?"
Vincent wasn't quite a teenager yet, but most of the little boy in him was recently gone. Now his hair was buzzed short and his ears stuck out, while the frame that had tended to a round softness had become lanky, nearly skinny. "I couldn't get to sleep."
Hardy came over, bent down to him. "You haven't been asleep yet all night?"
The boy sat on his knee, threw an arm around his neck. "No. I'm having bad dreams."
"What about?"
"Where you keep disappearing. We're all in this forest and you're just going off for a minute to do something, and then we wait and wait until Mom says she's going to go looking for you, but we beg her not to go because then she won't come back, either, but then she goes and the Beck and I are left there, and we start calling after her, which is when I wake up."
Hardy didn't have to use much imagination to come up with the underpinnings of this scenario, although Vincent certainly wasn't using it as a guilt trip. He hoped he wasn't that sophisticated, yet. If it was his sister, Hardy wouldn't have been so sure. He pulled him closer, which at this time of night his son would still accept. "Well, I'm here," he said comfortingly, "and if you woke up, that means you were asleep, doesn't it? Which means you could get to sleep after all, couldn't you?" The lawyer, arguing, making his point.
"I guess so," Vincent said.
"Come on, I'll tuck you back in."
But Vincent's bed, in the room behind the kitchen, hadn't been slept in at all. He pointed to the back of the house, Hardy's old office. "I'm in the Beck's room. Mom said it was okay."
They got to the connecting door and Hardy noted the heap of blankets next to his daughter's bed. "Why are you in here?" Hardy thinking it was no wonder his son wasn't sleeping soundly on the hardwood floor.
"You know the Beck. She gets scared," Vincent whispered.
Hardy knew. Fanned by her school's various "awareness" programs, Rebecca's profound and random fears-about death, teen suicide, stranger abduction, AIDS, drug addiction, and so many more-had reached crisis proportions about a year before. "I thought we'd worked most of those out. What's she still afraid of?"
"Just the dark, mostly. And being alone sometimes." Interpreting his father's heavy sigh, Vincent hastened to add, protecting her, "It's not every night. She's way better than she was."
"Good. I thought so. Do you have a futon or anything to lay on under those blankets?"
"No. I sleep good just on the floor."
"I see that," Hardy said. "Except for the bad dreams and being awake at twelve thirty." But Hardy spoke in a conspiratorial, not critical, tone. The two guys in the house had their own relationship-they had to stick together. "Let's get you something, though, okay?"
So they grabbed cushions from the chairs in Vincent's room and put them on the floor. As he got settled, Hardy pulled the blankets over him. "You could probably get in your own bed now and the Beck wouldn't notice."
But he shook his head, happy to be important. "That's okay. She needs me here sometimes. Girls do, you know, Dad."
Hardy rubbed his hand over his son's buzz cut. Vincent wasn't meaning to twist the knife in his heart-he was honing his little man chops, which hopefully someday he would put to better use than his father did. "I know," Hardy said. His hand rubbed the bristly head again. "Are we still not kissing each other good night?" This nightly ritual had ended only a couple of months before, just after Christmas, but occasionally when Vincent's guard was down, or nobody else in the family was around, he'd forget that it wasn't cool to kiss Dad anymore. Tonight Hardy got lucky, and figuring it was going to have to be one of the very last times, held onto the hug an extra millisecond. "Okay, get some sleep, Vin."
"I will now. Thanks, Dad."
"You're welcome."
"Want to hear a joke?"
Hardy, halfway to his feet, summoned his last unit of patience. "One," he said.
"What do you get when you turn an elephant into a cat?"
"I don't know."
"No, you've got to try."
"Okay, I'm trying. Watch. My eyes are closed." He silently counted to three. "Okay, I give up. What?"
"You really don't know? An elephant into a cat? Think."
"Vin…" He stood up.
"A cat," Vincent said. "You turn an elephant into a cat, you get a cat. Get it?"
"Good one," Hardy said. "You ought to tell it to Uncle Abe. He'd love it."
For reasons that eluded him, he stalked the house front to back several times, rearranged the elephants yet again. Then he sat for a while in the living room, until he was fairly certain that Vincent had dozed off. He came all the way into the Beck's room again, leaning down over the cushions and then the bed to make out the dim outlines of his children's faces, calm and peaceful now in sleep.
He eventually, finally, made it up to the master bedroom. There he double-checked the alarm to find that it was still-again?-set for 4:30. He would have to issue a home edict making his alarm clock off limits except for him and Frannie. He moved it ahead two hours.
In bed, with his wife breathing regularly beside him, he wondered briefly about all the subliminal communication going on in his house, among his family. He and Frannie with the elephants, the Beck's now unspoken but still clearly upsetting fears, Vincent's last joke an obvious attempt to keep his father in the room another few seconds, although he would never simply ask. The dynamic, suddenly, seemed to have shifted and Hardy, at least, felt adrift, moving among the rest of them with a kind of gravitational connection, but nothing really solid, holding them together.
He lay awake now, echoes of his son, unable to sleep despite his exhaustion. His memory had dredged up a contradiction that now gnawed at him. Earlier in the day, Rebecca Simms had derided the idea that someone had killed Tim Markham in the hospital. It was ridiculous, she'd said. It must have been an accident.
Or he'd simply just died, which, she'd reminded him, "people do." But by tonight, such deaths-unexplained possible homicides-had become common, a regular feature during the past year or more at Portola. He wanted to call her back and clarify her position-maybe he'd broken through the culture barrier at the hospital where criticism wasn't tolerated and then forced her to consider the unthinkable with Markham, and it had awakened other ghosts.
But the facts of the deaths alone-if they were facts, if they could be proven-were staggering in their implications, and not just for his client, although Kensing was going to be in the middle of whatever transpired. For Hardy, it would mean more hours, greater commitment, escalated involvement; less time with his wife, less connection with his children, less interest in the daily rhythms of his home.
It also meant that he was truly putting himself in harm's way. If someone, whether it was this Rajan Bhutan or someone else at Portola, had in fact killed again and again and if Hardy was going to be involved in exposing those crimes, then he was going to be in that person's sights.
He turned again onto his side, and might even have drifted off into a semblance of a dream state, where he was swimming in turbulent waters with some of Pico's sharks circling, snapping at him, closing in. Then something-some settling of his house, a random noise outside-sent a surge of adrenaline through him and he threw his covers off and sat bolt upright in bed. His breath came in ragged surges.
It woke Frannie up. "Dismas, are you all right? What time is it?"
"I'm okay. I'm okay." But he really wasn't. That largely unacknowledged yet pervasive fear that Rebecca Simms had described at Portola seemed to be stalking him, as well. Even the familiar darkness in his own bedroom felt somehow sinister, as though something terrible lurked hidden just at the edge of it.
He tried to laugh off the imaginings for what he told himself they were-irrational terrors in the wake of a nightmare. But they held their grip. Finally, feeling foolish, he switched on his bedlight for a moment.
Nothing, of course. Nothing.
Still, it took a long while before his breathing became normal. Eventually, he let himself back down and pulled the covers over him. After a minute, he turned and settled spoon fashion against his wife.
Before his brain could start running again, sleep mercifully claimed him.
Kensing finished his morning rounds at Portola's ICU and walked out to the nurses' station. Waiting for him there was the tall and thin figure of Portola's administrator, Michael Andreotti, who wanted a private word with him. They walked silently together down one long hallway, then took the elevator to the ground floor, where Andreotti led the way into an empty conference room next to his own office in the admin wing, and then closed the door behind them.
By this time, Kensing had a good idea of what was coming, but he asked anyway. "So what's this about?"
There was no love lost between the two men, and the administrator wasted no time on niceties. "I'm afraid that the board has decided to place you on leave for the time being."
"I don't think so. They can't do that. I've got a contract."
Andreotti more or less expected this response. He had the paperwork on him, and he handed over the letter. "It's not my decision, Doctor. As I said, the board has decided."
Kensing snorted derisively. "The board. You mean Ross. Finally seeing his chance."
Andreotti felt no need to respond.
"What's his excuse this time?"
"It's clearly explained in the letter, but there seem to be too many questions involving you related to Mr. Markham's death."
"That's bullshit. I didn't have anything to do with that."
Andreotti's mouth turned down at Kensing's unfortunate use of profanity. "That's not the board's point. There is the appearance." Andreotti was in bureaucrat mode. He might as well have been a mannequin. He was only there to deliver the letter and the message, and to see that the board's will was implemented.
"What appearance? There's no appearance."
Andreotti spread his hands. "It's really out of my control, Doctor. If you want to appeal the decision, I suggest you call Dr. Ross. In the meantime, you're not to practice either here or at the clinic."
"What about my patients? I've got to see them."
"We've scheduled other physicians to cover your caseload."
"Starting when?"
"Immediately, I'm afraid."
"You're afraid. I bet you are." Kensing's temper flared for an instant. "You ought to be."
Andreotti backed up a step. "Are you threatening me?"
Kensing was tempted to run with it, put some real fear into this stooge, but starting with Glitsky's visit last night, he was beginning to get a sense of how bad things could really get with this murder investigation, this suspicion over him. Some reserve of self-protectiveness kicked in. "This is wrong," was all he said. Glancing down at the papers in his hand, he turned on his heel and walked out.
It wasn't yet 9:00 in the morning. The storm had finally blown over. The sky was washed clean, deep blue and cloudless.
Kensing was back at his home, in the living room of his condominium. He moved forward and forced open one of the windows, letting in some fresh air. Then he walked back to his kitchen, where Glitsky had skewered him last night. The lieutenant's teacup was still in the sink. It was one of a set he'd inherited from his parents after his dad had died, and now he abstractedly turned on the water to wash it, then lifted the dainty thing carefully. There was a window over the sink, as well, and Kensing simply stopped all movement suddenly, staring out over the western edge of the city, seeing none of it.
The cup exploded in his hand, shattering from the force of his grip.
He looked down in a cold, distracted fury. The blood where the shards had cut him ran over his hand and pooled in the white porcelain saucer amid the broken fragments in the bottom of the sink.
Jeff Elliot had his home number from the Baby Emily days, and called him twenty minutes later. He'd been hounding Parnassus for stories lately, and he'd heard the news about the administrative leave this morning, probably not too long after Kensing had gotten it himself. Elliot offered to let him tell his side to a sympathetic reporter who was covering the whole story soup to nuts. He could come right by if Kensing could spare an hour or so.
When he arrived, Elliot wheeled himself into the kitchen. He'd been here before during Baby Emily, and knew his way around. After he sat, his first comment was about the several Band-Aids on Kensing's hand.
"I was trying to slash my wrists in despair. I guess I aimed wrong." The doctor laughed perfunctorily and offered an explanation. "Don't pick up a butcher knife by the blade. You'd think I'd have learned that by now somewhere along the way." Deftly, he changed the subject. "Hey, I loved your article on Ross, by the way. You captured him perfectly."
Elliot nodded in acknowledgment. "What motivated that guy to become a doctor in the first place I'll never know. He seems to care about patients like the lumber companies care about the rain forests." But then he got down to business. "So they finally laid you off?"
Eventually, they got around to personalities at Parnassus, the players. Elliot said he'd been talking a lot with Tim Markham's executive assistant, a bitter, apparently soon-tobe-jobless young man named Brendan Driscoll.
"Sure, I know Brendan. Everybody knows Brendan."
"Apparently he knows you, too. You had heated words in the hospital?"
Kensing shrugged. "He wouldn't leave the ICU when Markham was there. I had to kick him out. He wasn't very happy about it."
"Why was he even there if he's just a secretary?"
"Bite your tongue, Jeff. Brendan's an executive assistant and don't you forget it."
"So what's his story? Why's he so down on you?"
"It must be a virus that's going around. I'm surprised you haven't caught it. But the real answer is that Brendan's one of those hyperefficient secretaries, that's all. His job is his whole life. He'd been with Markham since before he came on with Parnassus. Anyway, he scheduled every aspect of Markham's life. Including Ann, although let's leave that off the record."
"Your wife, Ann?"
He nodded. "She…now she really doesn't like him. But Brendan's one of those people who identifies so completely with their boss that they really come to believe they can do no wrong themselves. I'd take him and anything he says with a grain of salt."
"Well, I did for my purposes. But he could hurt you. He wants everybody to know how close Markham was to firing you, how you were true enemies."
"Well, he's half-right there," Kensing replied. "We didn't get along. But he wasn't going to fire me. In fact, if anything, he was on my side. He knew what he'd done to me with Ann. If he fires me, what's it going to look like? I'd sue him and the company for a billion dollars, and I'd win. And he knew it."
"So what were all the reprimand letters about?"
A shrug. "Markham covering his ass with the board, that's all. He's trying to keep costs down, get those uppity doctors like me in line, but they just won't listen. Especially me, I'm afraid. I've got a bad attitude. I'm not a team player. But Tim couldn't touch me."
"But that's changed now? With Ross at the helm?"
Kensing's expression grew more serious. "Ross is a big problem. In fact, I should tell my lawyer there's a good argument to be made that killing Markham was the worst thing I could do if I wanted to keep my job. The truth is that Markham was the only thing that stood between me and Ross. Now he's gone. If I listen real carefully, I can even now hear the ice beginning to crack under me."
There was the faint sound of a key turning in a lock, and a door slammed behind them. Kensing was halfway to standing up when they heard a woman's voice echoing out of the hallway. "Somebody could sure use a good fuck about now. Oh!"
A mid-thirties Modigliani woman with frizzy hair was standing in the entrance to the kitchen. Seeing Elliot at the table, she brought her hand to her mouth in a cliche´ of surprise. "Oh shit." She turned to Kensing with a "what can you do" look and threw her hands up theatrically.
"Well, this might be a good time for introductions." Kensing was up now, and moving toward the woman. "Judith, this is Jeff Elliot, from the Chronicle. Jeff, meet Judith Cohn."
"Sorry," she said to the room. "I'll just sink through the floor now."
"I'll get over it," Elliot said. "Occasionally I could use one myself."
It turned out that Cohn wasn't Ross's biggest fan, either.
"That son of a bitch. He can't just lay you off," she said, fuming. "You should've just stayed there working."
Kensing was standing by the sink again and he shook his head. "Andreotti had a call in to security. They showed every inclination to escort me out if I didn't want to go alone."
Cohn stood up in the kitchen, walked to its entrance, slapped the wall, and turned back to face the men. "Those fucking idiots! They can't-"
Elliot suddenly snapped his fingers and interrupted her. "Judith Cohn? You're the Judith Cohn?"
She stopped, her eyes glaring in anger and caution. "I must be, I guess. Is there another one?"
But Elliot didn't shrink. As a reporter, he was used to asking questions that made people uncomfortable. "You're Judith Cohn from the Lopez case?"
"That's me," she answered in cold fury. "Infamously bad diagnostician. Perhaps child killer."
Kensing came forward. "Judith," he said with sympathy. "Come on."
Suddenly, the spunk seemed to go out of her. She came back to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair, and sat on it. "That's not going to go away, is it? And I guess you're right, maybe it shouldn't."
"It wasn't you," Kensing said. "It wasn't your fault."
"Whoa up," Elliot said. "Wait a minute!" He was leaning back in his wheelchair, focusing on first one of the doctors, then the other. Finally he settled on Cohn. "Look, I'm sorry, your name just clicked. I wasn't trying to be accusatory."
Cohn's face was hard and bitter. "But the name clicks, doesn't it?"
"It wasn't that long ago," Elliot said apologetically. "I'm a newspaperman. I remember names." He scratched at his beard. "And the kid's name was Ramiro, right?"
"We're not opening this can of worms again, Jeff. The topic's not on the table."
But Cohn raised her hand to stop him. "It's all right, Eric. It's past now."
"Not so long past. Markham sure wasn't over it."
"He is now." Cohn obviously took some comfort in the thought. "Actually, this might be a good time to tell somebody the facts." She turned to Elliot. "You know the basic story, right? This kid goes to urgent care with his mom. He's got a fever, sore throat, funky-looking cut on his lip."
Elliot nodded, recalling. "Some other doc had seen him a couple of days before and told him he had a virus."
Kensing spoke up. "Right. So this night, Judith is at the clinic, swamped. Overwhelmed, really. She sees Ramiro and sends him home with some amoxicillin and Tylenol."
"And two days later," Elliot concluded, "he's in the ICU with the flesh-eating disease."
Kensing nodded. "Necrotizing fasciitis."
Elliot remembered it all clearly now. The flesh-eating disease was always news, and when there was a local angle, it tended to get everybody worked up. So he'd heard of it, and had even heard the rumors about Judith Cohn's-among many others'-alleged part in the tragedy. The official story didn't include her by name, however, and Elliot's own follow-up inquiries at the hospital were met with what he'd come to expect-the typically evasive Parnassus administrative fandango that left all doctors infallible, all administrative decisions without flaw. He'd never gone to press because he'd never felt he had it exactly right.
But Cohn was telling him now in a voice heavy with regret. "They're right. I should have recognized it."
Kensing shrugged. "Maybe the first doc who saw him could have, too. But neither of your diagnoses are what killed him."
"What do you mean, Eric?" Elliot asked.
"I mean that at every step in the treatment, Parnassus took too long deciding what they could afford to do to save him. Ramiro didn't have the right insurance. There was a glitch on one of the forms in his file. Was this test covered? Was the oxygen covered? Who was going to pay?" He angrily shook his head. "Long story short, they were counting pennies all the way, and it compromised his care. Fatally."
Cohn's eyes had gone glassy, the memory still painful to her. Elliot asked her gently, "You didn't treat him at all after his initial visit to the clinic?"
"No. I never saw him again. Except at his funeral."
Kensing took it up. "But did that stop Markham from singling her out within the physicians' group as the primary point of failed care?"
"That's the impression I got," Elliot admitted. "But nobody would go on the record."
"Everybody got that impression," Kensing said. "Of course, what it really was, was Markham looking for a scapegoat. He himself had been the point man for the lame explanations of what we were not doing and why. Judith was his way to take the heat off him. Fortunately, the physicians' group went to bat for her."
"At least enough so I wouldn't lose my job," she added with real bitterness. "The only consolation is that I saw Luz-the mother?-at the funeral. She seemed to understand. She didn't blame me. She blamed Markham."
"Markham?" Elliot asked. "How did she know Markham even existed?"
Cohn obviously thought it was a good question. "You remember that puff piece they did on him in San Francisco magazine? It was lying out everywhere in the system that that poor woman went with her sick boy. Markham's happy face and how he cared so deeply for his patients. She still had the cover with her at the funeral. She showed me."
"And you want to know the supreme irony there?" Kensing asked. "It wasn't Markham either. In fact, they'd all been Ross's decisions. Ross is the chief medical director. He makes those calls. The truth is that Ross lost that kid single-handedly, and nobody seems to have a clue."
A silence settled. After a minute, Elliot spoke. "Do you live here, Judith?"
"She stays over sometimes," Kensing answered quickly, then added, "Why?"
"I was wondering if she was here last Tuesday morning."
It was Judith's turn to ask. "Why?"
Elliot felt he had to tell them that in talking with the hospital staff, checking the records, he had discovered that Eric had been well over an hour late for work on the morning Markham had been hit.
Kensing closed his eyes, squeezed his temples with one hand, looked across at Elliot. "I don't even remember that. Was I? And what would it mean if I was?"
"It would mean you didn't have an alibi for the time of the hit-and-run accident." Elliot turned to Judith. "And you could corroborate the time he left for work."
"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" she said. "Now someone thinks Eric drove the hit-and-run car, too?"
"No one necessarily thinks it," Elliot said. "I've just heard the question, that's all."
"What idiots," Judith said.
"Well, idiots or no," Elliot said, "you ought to appreciate what other people might be saying."
"I think I'm getting a feel for it," Eric answered wearily.
"Tuesday night I was here," Judith said. "Does that help?"
"Yeah," Kensing said, "but that was midnight." He turned to Jeff. "I stopped by the Markhams'. Judith was asleep when I got home."
Cohn gave the subject a minute's more reflection, then shook her head. "Come on. You're in the hospital, working your normal job, which means you're not some criminal. You're a regular person with a decent career. Suddenly an accident victim comes in and there's a good chance he's going to die. Now it turns out that you know this person. Not only that, but he's somebody you hate enough to want to kill. To kill! And just like that he's delivered to you and you decide on the spur of the moment to take this tremendous and probably unnecessary risk and make sure he dies where they might be able to trace it back to you." Judith sat straight up, dripping ridicule. "Please."
"Except that from what I hear, that's essentially what happened," Elliot said soberly.
Hardy's morning had been awful. He'd slept fitfully with Rebecca Simms's news percolating somewhere in his unconscious. Unknown dead people featured in several half-remembered dreams, and he was up and out of bed before 6:00. After the kids were off at school, damned if he'd call Glitsky for the company. He'd walked briskly alone for an hour, to the beach and back, but he hadn't warmed up first so the exercise had left him feeling tight and old. One of Freeman's clients had parked in his space under the building, and by the time he went to get his car back from where he'd parked it on the street, he'd gotten a ticket. Finally, just before lunchtime, after a morning of reviewing bills and other mail he'd ignored for the past week, and before he left the office to go to the Chronicle building, he placed a call to homicide when he was fairly sure the lieutenant would be at lunch. And sure enough-his first stroke of luck the whole day-Glitsky had been out.
Now he sat on a low filing cabinet in the cubicle that was Elliot's office on the ground floor of the Chronicle building. His frustration with Kensing surfaced in an over-formal tone. "I confess to being somewhat surprised to learn at this late date that he has a girlfriend. We talked last night on the phone for hours. I asked him to tell me everything important about his life he could think of, and he never mentioned her."
"Judith," Elliot said. "Really pretty. But maybe it's not an important relationship. Maybe it's one of those modern things where they just have incredible sex every couple of hours, but otherwise don't even like each other. Wouldn't that be horrible?"
"Awful." Hardy remained somewhat distracted. "Do you know when they got together?"
"No. Why?"
"Because it'd be nice to know if she was in the picture before he and Ann separated. Maybe his wife leaving didn't break his heart after all."
"You should ask him."
"I will, but it'd be swell if he volunteered some of this stuff. I didn't even know he was the leak on Baby Emily."
"Was he?" Jeff's open face was the picture of innocence.
But Hardy hadn't stopped by the Chronicle to talk about his client. He wanted to know if Elliot had heard any rumors about a rash of unexplained and unexpected deaths at Portola.
"No." But the thought of it, of the story in it, lit up the reporter's eyes. "How big a rash?"
"I don't really know. My source wasn't sure of the details, or really even of the bare facts. But she seemed pretty levelheaded, and she was definitely scared."
"So what did she say?"
Hardy gave him a fairly accurate recounting of his talk with Rebecca Simms. About halfway through, Elliot pulled a pad around and began taking a few notes. When Hardy had finished, Elliot said he'd like to talk to her.
"I can ask her," Hardy replied, "but I got the feeling that even talking to me made her nervous. Evidently the administration at Portola likes to keep a tight lid on their internal affairs. People who talk become unemployed pretty quick."
"Okay, so help me. Where do I look?"
They both came up with it at the same time. "Kensing."
Jeff closed the door to his cubicle and put on the speakerphone. Kensing told him that yes, Judith was still there, but she'd worked the night shift at the clinic and had gone in to bed. He was just hanging out, he said, windows open, reading a book. It was the first one he'd read in maybe a year. Max Byrd's Grant. Fantastic. The best first sentence he could remember reading anywhere. "'Start with his horrible mother.' Isn't that great?"
Elliot agreed that it was a fine line. But he'd called because Dismas Hardy was here with him in his office and they wanted to ask him about something. When Hardy had finished with Rebecca Simms's story of unexplained deaths at Portola, Kensing was silent long enough for Elliot to ask him if he was still there.
"Yeah. I'm thinking." Then, "I can't say the idea hasn't crossed my mind. But people are always dying in the ICU. I mean, they don't get in there until they're critical to begin with. So what you're asking, I take it, is whether people died who shouldn't have died, right? Are we off the record here, Jeff? I don't need any more bad press right now."
"Okay. Sure." Jeff wasn't crazy about agreeing, but under the circumstances there was nothing else he could do.
"While we're being formal," and Hardy no longer had any intention of being anything but formal in his relations with this client, "this conversation isn't privileged, either. Just so you know."
"All right. So what are you suggesting? Some kind of rampant malpractice? Or something more serious?"
"I'm not suggesting anything," Hardy said. "I'm asking if anything has struck you."
"Well, I'd be surprised if we've filed many eight-oh-fives. I'll go that far."
"What are those?" Hardy asked.
"Reports to the state medical board. When a doctor screws up seriously enough for the administration to suspend his clinical privileges for more than thirty days, then the hospital's supposed to file an eight-oh-five with the state. They're also supposed to forward it to the National Practitioner Data Bank, which is federal-and never goes away. You get listed in the data bank, your career is toast."
"So why don't these things get turned in?" Hardy asked.
"You're a lawyer and you're asking me that? You're a doctor and some hospital writes you up, what do you do? You sue the bastards, of course. You're a patient who finds out your hospital hired a bad doc, you sue the hospital. Everybody sues everybody."
Elliot couldn't resist. "I always assumed you lawyers loved that part," he said to Hardy.
But Hardy was hearing something else altogether. "Are you telling me, Eric, that Portola's got these doctors, and knows it, and they're not filing these reports?"
"Let me answer that by saying that we have people on the staff whom I would not personally choose as my own physician."
"So what really happens when some doctor messes up?" Hardy asked.
"Couple of things. First, you notice I mentioned the magic thirty-day suspension from clinical privileges. So instead you get grounded for twenty-nine days. Ergo no eight-oh-five, right? You're within the guidelines. And no national database."
"Are there any Portola doctors on this database?" Jeff was always chasing the story. "How can I find out?"
"You can't." Kensing's voice was firm. "The public can't get access to it, for obvious reasons. Although prospective employers can. In any event, there's another way reporting doesn't happen. It's probably more common."
"And what's that?" Hardy asked.
"Well, the eight-oh-fives are based on peer reviews."
"Other doctors," Elliot said.
"Right. And there's some feeling among doctors, especially now at Portola, that we're all in this shit storm together, so we better protect one another. If one of our colleagues isn't making the right medical decisions, okay, you go have an informal discussion, mention the standard of care we all strive for. But we're all under this intense financial pressure, we're all working too hard all the time, the bottom line is we're not ratting one another out."
"Never?" Hardy asked.
"Maybe with some egregious lapse-I'm talking inexcusably gross fatal error-and maybe even more than one. But anything less, you're not going to get a peer review at Portola that recommends an eight-oh-five. Most hospitals in the country, I'd bet it's close to the same story."
In the cubicle, Elliot and Hardy looked at each other. "What about other causes of death?" Hardy asked. "Maybe intentional deaths?"
This gave Kensing pause. "What do you mean, intentional?"
"Maybe pulling the plug early, something like that." Hardy considered, then added, "Maybe something like this potassium."
"You're talking murder, aren't you?" No answer was called for. "Do I think that's been going on at Portola?"
"Do you?" Hardy asked.
"Only in my most paranoid moments."
Elliot jumped in. "Do you have many of those, Eric?"
Kensing sighed audibly. "There was another patient in the ICU at the same time as Markham. Did you both know that?"
"I thought there were several," Hardy said.
"That's true. What I meant was that there was another patient who died."
"Who was that?" Hardy's every instinct knew that he was on to something, and that this was part of it.
"His name was James Lector. Seventy-one, never smoked. He'd developed some complications after open-heart surgery and we had him on life support for a couple of weeks, but he was off that and responding to treatment. His vital signs had been improving. I was thinking of moving him out in a few days."
"And he died?" Hardy said.
"Just like that. No reason I could see. Just…stopped."
"I would never reveal a source," Elliot said. "I'd take your name to my grave."
Hardy ignored him. "So besides this man Lector," he asked, "how many would you estimate? Deaths you couldn't explain?"
"Actually, I started keeping track last November. This little logbook I have."
They waited.
He continued. "I thought I'd go back and see if there was a pattern. Maybe something to get them off my back."
Elliot asked him why he started keeping track. "I don't know exactly. I guess now that you ask, I wanted my own ammunition for when they finally got around to firing me. I didn't think anybody was killing patients on purpose, but we were losing patients we shouldn't have-like the Lopez boy, Jeff. So if fiscal policies were affecting medical care, I wanted to come back at them with that. I more or less just thought the place was going to shit and I wanted some record of specifics."
This time, the silence hung for a while. Finally, Hardy asked, "How many, Eric?"
"Not including Tuesday," Kensing said. "Eleven."
Whatever the special at Lou the Greek's would turn out to be today, Hardy didn't have a taste for it. He was hoping he could just stick his head through the door and survey the room to see if it contained Wes Farrell.
But no such luck.
Smack in the middle of the lunch hour, the place was wall to wall, three deep ordering drinks. The law continued to be thirst-making work, Hardy noted. He pushed himself into the crowd, got through the crush by the bar, and made a quick tour of the room, exchanging the occasional pleasantry with a familiar face, but mostly moving. If Farrell wasn't here, he didn't want to be, either. Not least because he didn't want to run into Glitsky.
He was still pissed off.
Hardy's call to Farrell's part-time secretary had luckily caught her at her desk and she'd told him her boss was scheduled to be in court all day. She wasn't sure if it was muni, superior, or federal, but she'd guess muni, which meant the Hall of Justice. So Hardy's hunch was lunch at the Greek's, and it turned out he was right. Wes had scored a back booth, invisible from the front door. He shared it with a large, nearly full pitcher of beer and a couple of guys who, in jeans and work shirts, were not dressed to impress any judge Hardy had ever heard of.
Sliding in next to Farrell, Hardy asked how he was doing. "So good I ought to be twins." Wes introduced everybody around the table. It turned out that his two companions-Jason and Jake-were father and son, which Hardy had guessed as soon as he'd sat down. The boy, Jake, maybe twenty years old, was Farrell's client. They were celebrating (hence the beer) because Jake's arresting officer hadn't shown up at his preliminary hearing this morning. Since he was the state's chief witness, the prosecution had dismissed all charges. Hardy had better manners than to ask what those had been.
So, they both insisted, Wes was a hero.
"He's always been one of mine," Hardy agreed. "In fact, that's why I'm here now." He turned to Wes. "Something important's come up. Can I steal you away for a few minutes? You guys mind?"
Just so long as he left the beer, everything was cool.
They worked their way to the side door-less crowd to get through-and out into the alley where now, just past noon, cans of garbage basked, baked, and from the smell, ripened in warm sunshine. Farrell blinked in the brightness, took a deep breath, and frowned. "I think somebody must have died near here. What's up?"
Hardy was ready, reaching for his inside coat pocket as they walked up toward Bryant and some good air. "I've got a list of names here and I was curious if any of them looked familiar to you."
Farrell took the piece of paper, glanced down at it. "What's this about?"
"Your favorite hospital."
A quick look up, then back at the list. Hardy saw his eyes narrow. He stopped and came up again. "Okay. I give up."
"Anybody you know?"
"One of 'em. Marjorie Loring."
"She's one of your clients with the Parnassus lawsuit you're filing, isn't she?"
"Not exactly. Her kids are. She's dead herself."
"I know. So's everybody else on that list. Did they do a postmortem on her?"
They'd stopped in some shade in front of the bail bondsman's office at the entrance to Lou's. Farrell squinted into some middle distance, trying to remember. Then he shook his head. "They always do. But they probably didn't spend much time on it. They knew what she died of."
"And what was that?"
"The big C. She was another one of those 'whoops' cases, as in, 'Whoops, we should have really got around to looking at that a little bit sooner.'"
"But when she died? Was it before her kids expected her to go?"
"They didn't know how long it would be exactly." But he pursed his lips, a muscle worked in his jawline. Hardy let him dredge it up. "Although it was, yeah, pretty quick if I recall. One of those, 'You've got maybe three months, unless it turns out to be three days.'"
"Three days?"
"No, no, figure of speech, one of my few flaws. I exaggerate. I think it was like a week, two weeks, something like that."
"And it was supposed to be three months?"
Farrell shook his head. "But you know how that works, Diz. It was three months outside, maybe as much as six. The reality turned out to be less. It happens all the time. It might even have been a blessing."
Hardy could accept that on its face. But not if somebody hurried the process along. "Do you think Mrs. Loring's family would agree to ask for an exhumation?"
Even with the preamble, the question shocked him. "What for?"
"A full autopsy."
"Why? You think somebody killed her?"
"I think it's possible."
Suddenly Farrell's gaze focused down tightly. A few years older than Hardy, a little softer in the middle, Wes usually affected an air of casual befuddlement. Some might even have read this as incompetence, but Hardy knew he was nobody's fool. A couple of years before, he'd electrified the city's legal community with his defense of another lawyer, a personal friend accused of murdering his wife. The case was considered unwinnable even by such an eminence as David Freeman. But Farrell had gotten his client off with a clean acquittal. Now he was giving Hardy his complete attention. "What about the other ten people on your list? Same thing?"
Hardy didn't want to exaggerate. "Let's say there are similar questions. I want to talk to my client before we go any further, of course, but after I do…" He let it hang.
Farrell backed into the last wedge of shade. "Last time we talked you didn't have a client," he said.
"I've got one now. You know Eric Kensing?"
"And you want to call him before I talk to the Lorings because…?"
"Because for some of these names," Hardy indicated the list, "he was on duty in the hospital when they died. Before we exhume Mrs. Loring and find out she didn't die of cancer, I'd be happier knowing Dr. Kensing wasn't on the floor taking her pulse at the time."
Farrell admitted that that would be bad luck. "So they haven't arrested him yet, I gather?"
"At least not as of a half hour ago, but things could change even as we speak."
Farrell narrowed his eyes. "You're talking Abe?"
Hardy nodded, spoke curtly. "He seems a little fixated."
"Abe's not dumb."
"No, he's not, but he took Kensing's statement last night, then left. No arrest. I guess what I'm trying to do is buy my client some time. Abe might get carried away in his enthusiasm. If Kensing gets arrested or indicted, he's never going to work again. And I've got friends who think he's a hero."
Wes chuckled, jerked a thumb toward Lou's. "Those two yahoos at the booth in there think I'm a hero. That doesn't mean anything." Then, "Did your boy do it?"
"Early on, he said not." Hardy left it at that.
Farrell's eyes shifted from side to side. This turn in the conversation-the objective fact of the guilt or innocence of a client-threatened to breach a largely unspoken rule among defense attorneys. But suddenly Hardy knew why Farrell had brought it up. The friend of his, for whom he'd won such a stunning acquittal, in whose innocence Wes had believed with his whole heart, turned out to have been guilty after all. "If you want to be sure," he said, "you'd damn well better find somebody else who did it."
Hardy cracked a tiny smile. "Okay, then, that's who I'm looking for. But my first line of defense is to find out if these Portola patients who are dying before they should are any part of this Markham thing."
"How do you propose to do that?" Farrell's expression reflected his deep skepticism. "Certainly Marjorie Loring couldn't…" He stopped, softened his look. "Maybe I just don't get it," he offered. "Let's pretend her kids let us dig her up in the first place, which is a wild assumption, by the way. So Strout agrees to do an autopsy, also not a sure thing. So then they find, say, that potassium killed her. How in the world does that help your client?"
"Well, right off, if he wasn't there…"
Farrell waved that off. "Okay. He wasn't there when Lincoln was shot, either. But it doesn't mean squat about Markham. And then what if it wasn't potassium?"
Hardy had admitted these problems to himself, and had gotten to a marginally satisfying answer. "If some other patient at Portola, unconnected to Markham, is another murder-especially if Kensing wasn't around when it happened-it might make somebody like Glitsky think he's missing something. He might want to fill in more blanks before they arrest Kensing. At this point, it's mostly delay, frankly, but I'm out of other great ideas."
"Well, delay's always a fine tactic, if it works." Farrell, clearly, still wasn't convinced. "But if your man thought these were questionable deaths, why didn't he ask for full autopsies originally?"
"I asked him the same question."
"That's 'cause you're a smart fellow. And what'd he say?"
"Basically, that all the deaths were expected anyway, and from expected reasons. It wasn't like these were people in the prime of health who suddenly died. They were dying people who died. Just a little early. The hospital ran postmortems. Sure enough, they were all dead." Hardy shrugged. "Essentially he put it down to just a general degradation in care at Portola." He moved closer and whispered conspiratorially, "But listen up, Wes. The point is that if anybody at Portola killed Marjorie Loring, you win no matter what."
"And that's because…?" He stopped because he suddenly understood. He could bring a slam dunk lawsuit on behalf of Marjorie Loring's children. There would be no need to prove general negligence or some other malpractice issue. He could begin billing immediately again. If Marjorie Loring didn't die of natural causes, but was a homicide committed in the hospital, Wes stood to make a pile in a very short time by doing comparatively very little. "I'll talk to her kids," he said. "See what we can do."
Treya looked up from her desk to the wall clock. She broke a genuine smile and rose from the chair. "Dismas Hardy, Esquire, three o'clock, right on the button. Clarence is expecting you, he'll be right with you, but he's got someone in with him for just another minute. Are you coming from upstairs?" she asked. Meaning Glitsky's detail.
"No."
"So you haven't talked to Abe?"
"Not yet. Frannie told me he called last night, but I got home late."
"He really wants to talk to you."
"And I him, of course. Maybe you could make us an appointment?"
"Isn't he coming down for this one? I know Clarence asked him."
This didn't strike Hardy as good news, but he covered his reaction with a smile. "Good. Maybe we can chat afterwards."
He sat and waited, aware of his nerves and his still-smoldering anger. He'd spent countless hours here in the DA's office-from back when he'd been a young assistant DA himself through his recent trials as a defense attorney. In well over ninety percent of those hours, there'd been conflict between himself and the person on the other side of that door. Since Jackman's appointment as DA, that had changed. Now in a few minutes, he knew he was about to go back where he belonged, on the defense side. It was perhaps going to be a subtle shift, and hopefully cordial, but a real one nonetheless.
Jackman's door opened. Marlene Ash was inside. Now that he thought of it, he should have expected that Jackman would have asked her, too. She was, after all, going to prosecute Parnassus and, in all likelihood, his client.
"Diz, how you doin'?" Jackman boomed. "Come on in, come on in. Sorry we're running a little late."
He came through the door, smiling and smiling. "If you and Marlene aren't finished," he began, giving them every chance, "I don't mean to rush you. I'm sure Treya and I can find some way to pass a few more pleasant minutes."
Jackman smiled back at him. Everybody was still friends. "Marlene thought she might want to stay a while, if you don't mind. There were a couple of things she wanted to run by you. Did Treya tell you I've asked Abe to stop by? And here he is."
Glitsky and Hardy sat on either end of the couch-neither words nor eye contact between them. Marlene still sat in her chair, Jackman pulled another one up. A nice little circle of friends around the coffee table.
Hardy got right down to it. "I understand that in the wake of Mr. Markham becoming a potential murder victim, you've decided to convene a grand jury. I hear that they are investigating not just Markham's death, but the whole Parnassus business situation. In fact, I think it was even my idea, originally, before anybody died. I just wanted you all to know that I really don't expect any huge public display to recognize my contribution here, although a tasteful bust in the lobby downstairs or a small commemorative plaque in the corner at Lou's might be nice."
Glitsky's scar was an unbroken line through his lips. "The man could talk the ears off a water jug."
Sitting back, Hardy extended an arm out along the top of the couch, affecting a relaxed pose that he didn't feel. "As my friend Abe points out, I'm a believer in communicating." He directed a pointed glance at Glitsky, then came forward on the couch. "I understand what some of you would like to happen next. I talked to Dr. Kensing about an hour ago. He told me that his wife now claims he admitted killing Markham." Hardy finally faced Abe. "I figure that's what you must have called me about, to give me a heads-up that you were bringing him in."
Glitsky said nothing.
Hardy continued. "But of course, since you interviewed my client despite my explicit request that you not do so, perhaps you were prepared to dispense with a courtesy call, too."
A muscle worked in Glitsky's jaw. The scar stood out in clear relief.
He went on. "I think the only reason he's not already in jail is because you decided to wait until Clarence was ready to sign the warrant." The expressions around the room told Hardy that he'd pegged it exactly. "But that's not why I'm here," he said. "I'm here to keep my client out of jail."
Glitsky snorted. "Good luck."
"I'm not going to need luck. If all you've got is the wife's story, you don't have any case that'll fly in front of a jury. You must know that."
Marlene took this moment to get on the boards. "According to Abe, we've got plenty to go with, Dismas. If the man's killed five people, he shouldn't be on the streets."
"Marlene, please. Let's not insult each other's intelligence. Dr. Kensing had no motive in the world to harm the family."
"That you know," Glitsky said.
Again, Hardy turned directly to face him. "Am I to assume that means that you have discovered one?"
Jackman cleared his throat and answered for Glitsky. "We assume, Diz, that the murders of Markham and his family are related. I think you would agree with that as a working hypothesis, wouldn't you? But that's really not germane. Dr. Kensing has plenty of motive for Markham. Plus means and opportunity."
"But no evidence, Clarence. No real evidence. It's mostly some motive."
"Don't shit a shitter, Diz," Marlene said. "First, we don't have some motive, we've got a ton of motive and nobody else has any. Second, we know when Markham was killed and Dr. Kensing was right there. Moreover," she went on calmly, "Markham got killed by drugs administered through an IV, and your client is not exactly a janitor. He's got access. So we've got motive, means, and opportunity and not the slightest doubt about these facts."
Hardy repeated his mantra. "But no physical evidence. No direct evidence. Nobody saw him do it and no physical evidence shows he did it. You can prove that maybe he did it, but maybe he didn't, and that, I need hardly remind you, is reasonable doubt."
"His wife says he admitted it," Glitsky growled. "That's evidence. Kensing told her he pumped him full of shit a day before the autopsy, before anybody knew he was murdered. Oh, you didn't catch that detail yet?" Glitsky cleared his throat. "I called you last night. I thought maybe we could talk about that. Maybe you didn't get the message."
"I told you not to interview my client," Hardy shot back. "Maybe you didn't get my message." Hardy fought to control his temper. This wasn't the way to get what he wanted. He turned to Ash. "So his wife, who hates him, says he killed her lover. That's it? You'll never convict on that."
But Ash remained calm. "I believe, with the rest of the evidence, that in fact I might, Dismas."
"'Might' is not particularly strong, Marlene."
"You want to help us do better, is that it?" Glitsky's tone was glacial.
"As a matter of fact, I have a suggestion that might have that effect," Hardy said. "I won't pretend that Dr. Kensing isn't my main concern. I know you're about to arrest him. Hell, maybe you've already got your warrant." Hardy waited, but no one admitted that. Which meant maybe it wasn't too late. He sucked in a breath. It was party time. "I'm going to do a little preamble," he began.
"Surprise!"
Hardy ignored Glitsky, made his pitch directly to Jackman. "Look. Let's say you bring in Kensing and charge him with murder. Abe could arrest him today. I'll even grant you that the wife's statement would almost certainly get you an indictment if you put her before the grand jury. In either case, you'd have to give me discovery, of course."
Discovery included everything about the prosecution-physical evidence, exhibits, testimony, police reports, and so on. The defense had the absolute right to the prosecution's case. This was Law 1A, but Hardy didn't think it was a bad idea to remind everybody that one way or the other he was going to see all the evidence they had anyway. It was automatic.
"But you haven't arrested him yet," he continued, "or brought him before the grand jury. So he's not been charged, and therefore there's no compulsion for you to share anything with me yet."
"Is the preamble over?" Glitsky asked.
Hardy didn't even acknowledge the interruption. He kept his eyes on Jackman. "What I propose is a horse trade." He pressed ahead quickly. "What you really want is Parnassus, Clarence. You know it, I know it, everybody here knows it. You want to find out where the rot is and cut it out, but you've got to be careful you don't cut it so badly that you kill it. If Parnassus goes belly up, the people who'll take the biggest hit by far are the city employees. Now this would be legitimate bad news for a lot of good people, but it's the worst possible political scenario for you, Clarence, if you want to keep this job and continue the good work you've started."
Jackman's mouth turned down slightly in distaste. Hardy didn't think it was only over his brownnosing. He'd hit a nerve, as he hoped he would.
"All right. So how does your client fit in?" Jackman asked.
"He fits because everything's mellow over at Parnassus only so long as you're looking for whoever killed their CEO. They're all expecting you to do that. So the corporate types won't see your people showing up and go rushing out to shred their files, and whatever other obstructions they'll come up with. But once you arrest Kensing, you've got no pretext."
He stopped to let the notion sink in, but Marlene didn't have to wait. "With all respect, Diz, that's bullshit. The grand jury can look anywhere they want, anytime they want. It's got nothing to do with your client."
"I'm not arguing with that, Marlene. You can arrest him and continue to investigate at Parnassus. You have every right. Still…" He went back to Jackman. "Here's the city's health care provider, already reeling from near bankruptcy, terrible cash flow problems, subzero morale, and now the loss of its chief executive. If word gets out that you're trying to shut the place down-"
"That's not our intention," Marlene said.
But Hardy shook his head. "It doesn't matter. If you arrest Kensing and then continue poking around, that's what it's going to look like. Which means the shit's going to hit the fan. You all know this town. Everything gets exaggerated. Everything's an issue. What's going to happen when it looks like lots of city workers aren't going to have medical care? It will not be pretty."
All this was well and good and possibly true, but Glitsky wasn't buying it at all. "And the way we avoid this potential catastrophe is we don't arrest your client?"
"Only until the grand jury can do its job. Say thirty days."
"Thirty days!" Glitsky was apoplectic. "Are you out of your mind? If he killed Markham, and my evidence says he did, he likely killed his whole family, too. I don't care if it brings down the whole federal government, the man belongs in jail."
Hardy turned to Ash. "The case sucks, Marlene. You arrest him and you know what's going to happen. Parnassus goes in the toilet and after it does, if Kensing beats the case at trial, you guys all go with it."
But with all the arguing, Jackman still hadn't lost the thread. "You mentioned trading, Diz. You're asking us to give you thirty days…"
"And your discovery," Hardy added.
Glitsky threw up his hands and stood up. "How 'bout a chauffeur, too? Maybe some massage therapy?"
Hardy kept ignoring him.
The DA's face was lost in concentration. "All right, for purposes of this discussion, and your discovery-"
"Not a chance! No way we do this, Clarence. I'll go bring him in on a no-warrant before that happens."
Jackman filled his large chest with air. He had Glitsky by an inch or two and thirty pounds and all of it was never more visible than it was now, when it was clearly so tightly controlled. His voice, when it came, was a deep bassoon of authority. "That you will not do, Lieutenant!" He took another slow breath, then continued in a conversational tone. "You've had ample time before this to arrest Dr. Kensing without a warrant, Abe. But you're the one who brought me into this decision loop, and now it's mine to make. I hope that's abundantly clear."
Glitsky couldn't find his voice. He stared around the room in open disbelief if not downright hostility. Jackman ignored him and turned to Hardy. "Thirty days and discovery in return for what?"
"In return for his testimony in front of the grand jury."
The sense of anticlimax was palpable. Glitsky was shaking his head in bewilderment that Hardy had wasted all of their time and effort for so little. Marlene's face reflected a similar reaction. Even Jackman folded his arms over his chest and cocked his head to one side. But his eyes, at least, still probed.
Hardy felt the topic wasn't closed. "Look, Clarence, as it stands now, when you get Kensing in front of the grand jury, I'm going to tell him to take the Fifth. You'll be lucky if you get his name. This way, you've got Marlene here-" He turned to her. "Imagine this. You've got your primary murder suspect answering any question you might have without his lawyer there. It's a prosecutor's dream."
But she was unconvinced. "It's not my dream, Diz. You'll just have more time to give him a story, which he'll stick to." She looked to her boss. "This won't work, sir. He's not offering anything, really."
"But I am, Marlene. Think about this. I'm offering an insider's look inside Parnassus, exactly what you all need."
"We can get that anyway, Diz."
"Where? From who? Everybody else who works there is going to be covering for themselves or their employer. Even the other doctors."
"That's not true. The grand jury will protect them, no matter what they say in there. That's exactly what it's for, Dismas. So people can talk freely."
"It's what it's designed to do, right, Marlene. But it doesn't always work that way. You won't find too many doctors who are going to want to help you in your efforts to cut off the source of their paychecks. But even if all you want is to go after my client on Markham, you've got him all to yourself for as long as you want. No relevance issues, no inadmissibility, no defense objections, total open season."
Marlene's stare was unyielding.
Glitsky had moved over to the doorsill and was leaning against it, a sullen statue. "What if he kills again?" he asked. "His own wife, for example. I'd feel pretty bad if she died. Wouldn't you?"
Jackman broke in between them. "It seems to me he's had ample opportunity to kill his wife if he wanted to, Abe."
"But now, with her statement, he's got a better reason to."
"So we protect her," Jackman said. "Or move her. Or both. And it seems to me that Dismas has a point. If only out of self-preservation, Kensing isn't going to do anything while he knows that he is our chief suspect in another murder."
Hardy knew that in some ways, Jackman's inexperience was showing. Murderers rarely acted rationally. But, he thought cynically, that's what politics was about. The inexperienced taking control. He'd take some self-serving self-deception if it kept his client out of jail.
Jackman turned again to Glitsky.
"Marlene and I were talking about these very issues before Dismas got here, Abe. We agreed then that the Parnassus investigation will take on a very different cast as soon as we make an arrest on Markham. And we were trying to strategize to address the problem. It seems to me now that Diz's solution might have merit."
Glitsky's scar was a tight, thick rope down through his lips. "The man's a murderer, Clarence."
Jackman wasn't going to fight about it. If anything, he was judicious and calm, nodding patiently. "He may be, of course. But as we've said here, I really don't believe he's a danger to the community. Now I don't want to close the door to revisiting that assessment. Daily, if need be. But in the meanwhile"-he turned to Hardy-"I'm inclined, Diz, to accept your assessment on Parnassus. I don't want them spooked. I don't-"
The concession speech was interrupted by the door slamming-hard-behind Glitsky as he stormed out.
Beyond his client's freedom and the prosecution's discovery, Hardy had originally intended to make yet another request to the DA. It was normally supposed to be Jackman's call, and by asking his permission, Hardy might continue to succeed in his little charade that cooperation was, in fact, his middle name. But Glitsky's abrupt withdrawal had cast a pall over those who'd stayed, and he decided that to ask for more would be pushing things.
But the other item of business remained. And the more he thought about it, the less it seemed to matter if he asked Jackman's permission first. He needed an answer and needed it now. His client was still in big trouble. And he wasn't really going behind anybody's back by asking John Strout. If the medical examiner found anything as a result of Hardy's request, he would report it to Glitsky and Jackman anyway.
Hardy wasn't hiding anything-his motives or his actions. Or so he told himself.
He walked out the back door of the hall along the covered outdoor corridor that led to the jail on the left and the morgue on the right. The air smelled faintly of salt water, but he also caught the scent of flowers from the huge commercial market around the corner. He was feeling as though he'd accomplished quite a bit during the day. When he was done with Strout, he'd try to remember to buy a bouquet for his wife, even his daughter. It was Friday evening. The weekend loomed long and inviting, and maybe he and his family could fashion some quality time together if they worked at it.
It turned out that Strout was cutting up someone in the cold room at the moment, but the receptionist told Hardy he shouldn't be too long. Did he want to wait? He told her he thought he would.
The medical examiner's regular office-as opposed to the morgue-was a veritable museum of ancient and modern weapons and instruments of torture. Always an interesting place to visit, the room made no concession to safety. All of Strout's bizarre stuff was out in the open to admire and hold and, if you were foolhardy enough, to try out. If one of his city-worker assistants ever became disgruntled, Hardy thought, he could have a field day going postal here-stab a few folks with switchblades or bowie knives, blow up others with hand grenades, shoot up the rest with any number of automatic weapons from the arsenal.
Hardy sat on the bench at the garrote-red silk kerchief and all-considering his victory upstairs and pondering both the wisdom and the odds for success of his next move. The important thing, he reminded himself again, was to keep his client out of jail. He knew that between Glitsky's constant press, Marlene's handling of the grand jury, and Kensing's difficult and unpredictable behavior, the thirty days Jackman had promised him could evaporate like the morning fog. Hardy had to have something more, in spite of the risk that what he was about to suggest might in fact strengthen the case against his client.
He realized that it came down to a gamble, and this made him uncomfortable. But he didn't feel he had a choice. The noose was tightening around his client's neck. His guts told him that it was worth the risk. But if he was wrong…
"You want, I can get that snot rag around your throat and tighten it down just a little bit. I'm told it's quite effective for the libido." Strout was referring to the garrote, and even more grimly to erotic asphyxia, the heightened orgasm which occurred during hanging and some other forms of strangulation. "Seems to be all the rage these past few years, 'tho my own feelin' is that it just plain ain't worth the trouble. But maybe I'm wrong. Lots of folks seem to give it a try. Anyway, how y'all doing?"
The two men made small talk for a couple of minutes while Strout shuffled his messages. After he'd gotten behind his desk, and Hardy had moved to a different chair, they got down to it.
When Hardy finished, Strout scratched around his neck. "Let me get this straight," he said at last. "You're comin' in here as a private citizen askin' me to autopsy another Portola patient who died the same day as Mr. Markham?"
"If you haven't already done it."
"What's the subject's name?"
"James Lector."
Strout shook his head. "Nope, haven't done it. But they do an automatic PM at the hospital. You know that?"
"And they never miss anything, do they?"
This was a good point, and Strout acknowledged it with a small wave. "How close was the time of death to Markham's?"
"Within a few minutes, actually."
"If I take a look, what exactly would I be lookin' for?"
"That I don't know."
Strout took off his horn-rims, blew on them, put them back on. The medical examiner had a mobile, elastic face, and it seemed to stretch in several directions at once. "Maybe I don't see what you're gettin' at. If you're sayin' Glitsky thinks your client killed Mr. Markham, then how's it s'posed to help your client if another body turns up with potassium in it on the same day?"
"It won't," Hardy agreed. "I'm hoping it's not potassium." What he did hope was that James Lector was unexplained death number twelve. It wouldn't clear Kensing, but it might take some of the onus off his client for Markham's death. "Either way," he continued, "isn't it better if we know for sure what Lector died of?"
"Always," Strout agreed. He thought another moment. "And why would I want to order this autopsy again?"
Hardy shrugged. "You decided that Lector was a suspicious death, dying as he did within minutes of another homicide in the same room at the same hospital."
The medical examiner's head bobbed up and down once or twice. He pulled a hand grenade that he used as a paperweight over and spun it thoughtfully a few times on his blotter. Hardy watched the deadly sphere spin and tried not to think about what might happen if the pin came out by mistake.
Finally, Strout put his hand on the grenade, stopping it midspin. His eyes skewered Hardy over his glasses. "You're leavin' somethin' out," he said.
"Not on purpose. Really."
"If I'm doin' this-which I'm not promisin' yet, mind you-then I want to know what you're lookin' for, and why."
Hardy spread his hands, hiding nothing. "I think there's some small but real chance that James Lector is the latest in a series of homicides at Portola." This made Strout sit up, and Hardy went on. "So Lector's death may or may not have been natural, and may or may not have been related to Tim Markham's," he concluded. "But certainly if Lector was murdered and died from a different drug than Markham, then there's a lot more going on at Portola than meets the eye at this stage."
"But again, it wouldn't do much for your client."
"Maybe not, John, but I need to find some evidence of other foul play where I can make an argument that my client wasn't involved. And don't tell me-I realize that doesn't prove he didn't kill Markham. At least it's somewhere to start, and I need something."
Strout was considering it all very carefully. "You got the Lector family's permission?" he asked. "When's the funeral scheduled?"
"No and I don't know. If you ordered an autopsy, we wouldn't need the family to…" This wasn't flying and he stopped talking. "What?"
"I believe I mentioned that there's already been a PM. If they got a cause of death they're happy with and I say I want another look at the body, it's goin' to ruffle feathers, both at the hospital and with the family. 'Specially if like the funeral's tomorrow or, say, this mornin' and we got to dig him back up." But something about the idea obviously had caught Strout's interest. If somebody was getting away with multiple homicides in a San Francisco hospital, it was his business to know about it. "What I'm sayin' is o' course we could do it without anybody's permission if I got a good enough reason, which I'm not sure I do. But any way we do it, it'd be cleaner if we asked nice and got an okay from the family."
"I'll talk to them," Hardy said.
"Then I'll make a gentlemen's deal with you, Diz. If it gets so it doesn't make anybody too unhappy, we'll do this. But if the family makes a stink, you're gonna have to go to court and convince a judge to sign an order. I'm not gonna do it on my own."
Hardy figured this was as good as it was going to get. He didn't hesitate for an instant. "Done," he said. "You'll be glad you did this, John. Ten to one you're going to find something."
Strout's expression grew shrewd. "Ten to one, eh? How much you puttin' up?"
Hardy gave it some thought. "I'll go a yard," he said.
"A hundred bucks? You lose and you'll owe me a grand?"
"That's it."
"You're on." Strout stuck out his hand and Hardy hesitated one last second, then took it.
It was Friday afternoon, the best time to do it. Joanne announced his appointment in her pleasant, professional voice. She, of course, knew all about it, having typed the termination papers, but she would do nothing to give it away. Also present, kitty-corner from his desk at the small conference table, was Costanza Eu, Cozzie for short, the Human Resources director at Parnassus. This was going to be, had to be, strictly by the book. Malachi Ross, behind his desk when Driscoll came in, didn't get up.
"Brendan." He didn't bother with much of a welcoming smile. "Have a seat."
Driscoll was within a spit either way of forty. Meticulously groomed, he sported a carefully trimmed mustache in an unusually attractive, somehow asymmetrical face. With his powerful physique and his short dark hair dyed a discrete blond at the tips, he could have been sent from central casting to play a young, slightly sinister CEO in any daytime soap opera. From his carriage, no one would surmise he was a mere secretary or-as Markham had always called him-an executive assistant. Today he wore a muted blue tie and a black pin-striped business suit, and he wasn't a step inside Ross's door when he cast a quick eye at Cozzie and knew what was up.
He didn't take the proffered seat. Instead, he approached it and put his hands on the backrest. "I was hoping I'd have the opportunity to clean up Tim's files before we got to this," he said. "Though of course I understand. But I'll do what I can in the next two weeks."
Ross made an elaborate expression of disappointment. "I don't think that will be necessary, Brendan. I've decided, and the board has agreed, that you won't be required to stay on after today." He had the thick envelope on the desk in front of him, and he picked it up. "We've included a check in lieu of your two weeks' notice, and on top of that what I think you'll find to be a very reasonable severance. Due to your long tenure with the company, as well as Mr. Markham's high regard for your services, the board has approved seven months of your full salary and five more months at half, as well as of course your fully vested pension, and letters of recommendation from myself and several other members of the board. You'll also have the option to remain enrolled in the employee health plan."
Driscoll stood rooted, his mixed emotions playing on his face. Eventually, he nodded and swallowed, accepting the fait accompli. "Thank you, Doctor. That's very generous. I assume you'll be wanting my keys and parking pass and so on."
Even as he said it, he had his wallet out, then reached into his pockets. After he'd placed all the required items on Ross's desk, he stood at attention in front of it for another long moment. Finally, he cleared his throat. "I kept his calendar mostly on the computer at my desk, although there's an incomplete hard copy in my top right drawer. I haven't gotten around to calling all of his appointments yet. There's also some unsent correspondence and I believe a few internal memos. If you'd like to send someone back with me, I'd be happy to print out…"
But Ross threw a glance, prompting Cozzie to speak up. "That won't be necessary, Brendan. We'll be going through all that material in the coming weeks. Standard procedure is we'd prefer to have you escorted from the building directly when you leave this meeting." She smiled with all the warmth of a cobra. "We understand that this can be a little disconcerting, but I'm sure you understand that it's nothing personal. Some people…" She let it hang, then shook her head and continued. "The contents of the closet by your desk, including your sweater and other personal goods, are boxed up just outside. Security will help you with them."
Some of the starch had gone out of Driscoll's bearing. He turned back to Ross. "What are you going to do about Mr. Markham's personal files? He left very specific instructions that I should…well, of what I should do if…"
"We'll take care of them," Ross said reassuringly. "Don't you worry. As you know, Mr. Markham left descriptions of his projects and detailed instructions for the board against just such a tragic event as this." Ross rose halfway out of his chair and smiled perfunctorily. "I did want to thank you again for your loyalty and discretion. And now, for your cooperation."
It was a dismissal, and at Ross's invisible sign, Cozzie was on her feet, coming around the table with a line of inane chatter, guiding the clearly shell-shocked Driscoll back toward the door. "You've got a beautiful day to start your new life, I must say that. Look at that blue out the windows. I don't remember the last time I've seen the sky so clear. And to think after the storm the last few days…"
Firing Brendan Driscoll, that officious little mouse, had been the first, albeit tiny, ray of sunshine in his life since Markham's death. No sooner had Cozzie left his office than he rose from his desk, went over to the wet bar, and poured himself a viscous shot of frozen vodka from the bottle of Skyy he kept in his freezer. The no doubt heart-wrenching departure scene with Driscoll in his reception area played itself out in about ten minutes while he savored his drink. Joanne buzzed him to say it was over. Driscoll was out of the building.
Ross strode from his office, made some lame joke to Joanne, and turned right down the carpeted hallway. Floor-to-ceiling glass on his left made him feel almost as if he were walking in the air-the bay sparkled below him, while the Bay Bridge, already jammed up with traffic, seemed close enough to touch. Sitting at Driscoll's former desk, out in Markham's reception area now, he experienced a strange and momentary sense of dislocation. In a couple of weeks, he realized, Joanne would be sitting out here and he would have moved to the gorgeous suite behind him. It was the very pinnacle of the greasy pole he'd been climbing for what seemed all of his adult life.
At every step, he'd done what he had to do to get here. There was no question-as the board had affirmed-that he was the best equipped to handle the job. And now, with Markham's micromeddling and needless hypocrisy a thing of the past, he believed he could turn the business side around in a matter of months. If only he could keep the company afloat until then.
He thought it was eminently doable. He had ideas. Sending the city that $13 million bill for its past outpatient copays had been one of them, although admittedly merely a stopgap measure. Short term, he had the city over a barrel. And long term, his plans would stop the bleeding and get Parnassus back to financial health.
While he waited for the screen to come up on the computer, he pulled out the drawers of Driscoll's desk one by one and nodded in satisfaction. They'd done a good job cleaning them all out. He fully expected to find the hard files behind the locked door of Markham's old office. Ross intended to come in over the weekend and review every page of that material. But in the meantime, he had an hour before close of business, and another hour after that before his dinner appointment, and he wanted to make sure that Driscoll's computer contained nothing of an embarrassing nature.
Long ago, before cash had been such a problem, Ross had purchased a state-of-the-art computer system that he still considered one of his most astute investments. The customized business program he'd ordered allowed unlimited access to all files for certain employees, such as Cozzie and himself, who were given what they called "operator privileges." This allowed Ross's Human Resources department to keep tabs on nearly everything that went on. The system's security programs could count actual keystrokes per hour so the department could know which secretaries were underutilized or, more typically, just plain lazy. Likewise, if an employee spent too much time on the Internet, or wrote a screenplay or love letter on the company's time, Cozzie would know about it by the end of the week, when the reports came out. She would then review these reports with Ross, and together they would decide which person they would discipline, for everyone was guilty of something. It was, Ross believed, a beautiful thing-make laws governing all behavior, then enforce them selectively against people you don't like.
Only Brendan Driscoll, perhaps the worst offender in the company, had managed to thwart the system. He wrote love letters, short stories, and poetry on his computer, he visited porn sites on the Internet. When Markham was traveling, he would sometimes talk to his friends on the telephone for half the day (for of course the phones were integrated to the computer system, as well). But Driscoll got away with it all because Markham wouldn't let him go.
But now Ross sat at his terminal. Driscoll had a password for his personal files, but Ross had his own "operator privilege" password, and it trumped Driscoll's. He typed in his own initials and password, a secondary directory came up, and Ross involuntarily, unconsciously broke a tight smile.
The Mandarin Oriental Hotel, one of the crown jewels of San Francisco, presented a look and feel of restrained opulence that Malachi Ross found appealing. It was also within easy walking distance of his office, and taking the leisurely stroll on this glorious evening was even more pleasurable than usual. After the grueling few days he'd just spent-not only in the immediate wash of Markham's death, but dealing with fallout from the "CityTalk" broadside-he'd take any comfort he could, wherever he could get it.
There had been some comfort back at Parnassus-more on Eric Kensing in Driscoll's computer files than he would have thought possible. There was correspondence about his wife, Ann, Markham's responses to what appeared to be intimations of a kind of (at least) emotional blackmail that Kensing had used to keep his job, memos to file, references to cash payoffs, private reprimands, ultimatums. Amazing! He'd printed it all out and told Joanne to deliver it to the district attorney by messenger.
He printed out a few other files, as well. These he put in his own briefcase, then deleted the originals from the computer.
Nancy and the girls were up at Lake Tahoe for the weekend. He'd told her she ought to have their pilot Darren fly them on up without him. He'd been working around the clock all week as it was, and in all likelihood that schedule would continue through the weekend and for the foreseeable future.
He'd told her on Wednesday night. They were in their bedroom getting ready to go out to dinner. The door was open to the hallway. They could hear the girls just outside, playing with Bette, their nanny. Nancy gave him a quick pout. She would miss him terribly, especially that way. Glancing at the open door, the voices twenty feet away, she unzipped her skirt and, stepping out of it, dropped it to the floor. Turning her back to him, she leaned over and rested her elbows on the antique Italian writing desk by the end of their bed. Over her shoulder, she smiled in that "I dare you, we've got maybe two minutes" way she had, and whispered urgently, "It would be easier to go if you gave me something to remember you by."
"Good evening, Dr. Ross, and welcome again to Silks. You look like you're enjoying a particularly pleasant memory."
He snapped out of his reverie, smiled perfunctorily. "Hello, Victor. Nice to be here again."
"Right this way," the maître d' intoned. "Your guest has already been here for a few minutes."
His guest was Ron Medras, a very well put together, athletic, mid-forties senior vice president with Biosynth, which until about eight years ago had been a small drug manufacturing firm. It had carved out a nice, survivable niche producing generic, mostly over-the-counter knockoffs of aspirin, Tylenol, baby's cold and flu formula, and anti-inflammatories. At about that time, caught up in the feeding frenzy for mega-earnings and exploding stock prices that were overtaking the Silicon Valley, Medras and several other like-minded executives at Biosynth decided that three-bedroom homes in Mountain View or Gilroy were all well and good, but six-bedroom mansions in Atherton or Los Altos Hills, all in all, were better.
Biosynth knew it could easily produce equivalent, or near-equivalent, product of the stuff that was making billions and billions of dollars for Merck, Bristol-Myers Squibb, Pfizer. What it didn't have was marketing, aggressive marketing to big clients-hospitals and HMOs. Instead, it merely worked the chain drugstores that comprised the bulk of its sales. That would change.
Tonight, Medras was on a typical sales call. Ross was not his biggest client by a long shot, but he remained an important one. This was because there was often resistance when a new drug of any kind came on the market, and Ross had been willing over and over again to list Biosynth's new products on the Parnassus formulary nearly as soon as they were in production. This often had a snowball effect. San Francisco wasn't a huge market, but it had very high visibility. That made it plenty big enough for Biosynth's purposes. When Medras went to companies ten or twenty times the size of Parnassus, he'd be able to say to them: "This stuff is so good the main health care provider in San Francisco has listed it on its formulary." And, either impressed or reassured, the other medical directors would buy.
A couple of preprandial drinks accompanied ten or fifteen minutes of expressions of regret and sympathy from both men over the loss of Tim Markham, remembrances of good moments with him, praise for his vision, leadership, personality. But in this phenomenal setting, with an hors d'oeuvres plate of perhaps the best sashimi in the Western Hemisphere, it was difficult to sustain a somber mood. By the time the wine steward offered Medras a tasting sip from the bottle of '89 Latour that they'd ordered to go with their Asian lamb chops, they'd moved along to more enjoyable topics. They passed a pleasant hour discussing their golf games, new toys (Medras had just leased a new Saratoga aircraft), investment tips and opportunities.
Ross had developed a taste for hazelnut in the form of Frangelico liqueur, and he was enjoying his second snifter with his coffee when Medras finally got around to what they'd both come to talk about. Biosynth had been developing a new product for the past year or so. Top secret up until now, it had been waiting for FDA approval, and Medras had it on good authority that the good word would be coming down in the next month or so. The company had gotten ahold of a process that enabled them to make insulin at one-fifth of what it now cost to produce.
Ross put down his snifter. "Are you talking one-fifth as in twenty percent?"
Medras nodded, avarice lighting his eyes. "And we would pass the savings along directly to you."
Ross quickly did the math in his head. "A dollar a dose? Copays would cover that by themselves. It would move the whole item from the red to the black."
"Yes. We believe it would. Although, of course, there are some issues."
"There always are." But Ross knew that if a company such as Parnassus came onboard in a big way, many of these problems could be mitigated. Complaints about possible rare side effects, for example, might not be forwarded to the government. And if the new insulin made it to his formulary, its credibility could be nearly instantaneous.
"I wanted to let you know about this," Medras went on, "because the sales force will be calling on your medical staff over the next couple of weeks. We'd like to have enough samples out there, with enough history, so that when we go on sale for real, people feel comfortable with the product, doctors and patients alike. This is really an incredible breakthrough, Malachi. It could really make a difference."
Ross believed him, although he didn't have to. The FDA would make sure. And if somehow it failed anyway, Ross didn't consider it his job to be the FDA's watchdog.
He had his own mission, which was demonstrating that good medicine and profit were not incompatible. The relationships that he and other like-minded medical executives forged with Biosynth and other similar companies were helping to make universal health care a reality. Lower-cost insulin was but one example of hundreds. Someone had to ram it down people's throats, if need be. There really was no other way, and simply no such thing as a free lunch.
Reassured that his new product would appear on the Parnassus formulary as soon as the FDA approved it, Medras paid the bill, finished his own coffee, and said goodbye. After he'd gone, Ross stayed at the table to finish his Frangelico. The room was coming alive now with well-dressed couples and foursomes and he sat back for a last moment to enjoy this perk of his position. Then he reached down by his right foot and picked up the thin leather briefcase that Medras had left for him. He pushed his chair back a few inches, enough so that he could open the briefcase on his lap. Inside were three wrapped bundles of hundred-dollar bills, a credit card-style room key, and a page of Biosynth letterhead on which Medras had written a room number.
Five minutes later and forty-two floors above the city, Ross carried the briefcase with him as he exited the elevator and crossed the enclosed glass walkway that joined the two towers of the Mandarin Oriental. It was full dark now and the city lights glittered far below him. He always stopped here, enjoying the sense of vertigo, of floating above it all.
When he got to his door, he inserted the card, knocked, and pushed the door open.
"Mr. Ross?" A voice sweet as music, cultured and mellifluous. Naked, she appeared from the bedroom around the corner, a young and very pretty Japanese woman. Ross's eyes fastened on a small tattoo of a dagger over her right breast. It pointed straight down and ended with its tip at her nipple, which was pierced by a tiny gold ring. "Hello," she said, with a respectful bow. "I am Kumiko. Come. Let me help you with your clothes."
Something weird was happening with the weather again-the night had become nearly balmy.
Bracco and Fisk were parked in the street in front of Glitsky's. Bracco was behind the wheel; his window was down and he rested his elbow on it. He was chewing a toothpick that he'd picked up from the counter at the sandwich shop on Clement where they'd bought their Reubens and Dr Peppers.
Fisk had his window down, too, and fidgeted in his seat. He slurped the last of his drink. "He's not coming. This is stupid."
Bracco turned his head. "You don't have to stay. I'll just tell him you had someplace to go. You can take the car. I'll get home somehow. You've got a family, Harlen. So does he. He'll understand."
"He didn't seem all that understanding this morning."
This was true. Glitsky had come to Harlen's desk first thing and loudly offered to transfer him to any other department immediately if he didn't want to be in homicide anymore. Homicide inspectors didn't cut out early. Did Inspector Fisk understand?
Although now, Fisk thought, it wasn't early. It was nine damn o'clock. "He's not expecting us, Darrel, I don't care what he told you. He left work early and pissed off and now he's out for the night, maybe the weekend."
"So go." Darrel took the keys from the ignition and flipped them into his partner's lap. "But I'm staying."
Fisk slammed his hand on the outside of the door. "I can't go alone, is my point. If we both go, okay, we say we tried. But if it's just me and you're still here…"
Bracco still had a lot of his Dr Pepper left, and he put the straw to his mouth. When he took it out, he swallowed and said, "He told me to report every day. In person."
"Yeah? Well, he's not here, if you haven't noticed. He wasn't in the detail when we checked in. He doesn't expect you to hunt him down to report. He obviously forgot all about us."
A shrug. "Maybe."
But Fisk continued to rave. "What if he died, then what? Would you go report at his gravesite? There's exceptions to things, you know."
"This is the first day, Harlen. You don't make exceptions on the first day you're doing something. That makes them the rule." He looked up in his rearview mirror, saw some headlights turn into the street. "Here comes somebody."
Fisk turned all the way around in his seat. "It's not him."
"Five bucks says it is."
"You're on."
Furious at what he had taken to be Jackman's and Ash's usurpation of his arrest prerogative, as well as Hardy's scheming lawyer games at his expense, Glitsky hadn't been in the mood for any more work today. They could all go to hell.
By the time he got home, he'd decided to take the whole weekend off as well. He pitched his beeper and cell phone into the dresser next to his bed, then saw Orel's note reminding him that he and Raney had both left directly after school with their snowboard club for one last chance to maim themselves before the summer. So no kids for the weekend. He really was taking it off.
When Treya got home, he asked her if she was up for a night on the town. He didn't have to ask twice. They went to a Moroccan place on Balboa, where they sat on the floor and ate with their fingers, washing everything down with sweet, hot tea that the waiter poured from the height of his waist down to the cups on the floor, never spilling a drop. Good theater.
The night was so beautiful that they decided to walk to Ocean Beach. On the way back, something about their hips remaining in contact made them decide to head back home.
A free spot at the curb just four driveways from their place had them both thinking it was their lucky night, all the stars aligning to give them some privacy and peace. Glitsky's arm was over Treya's shoulder, hers around his waist.
"Don't look now," Treya said. Two men had just stepped out of their car and were walking toward them. She whispered, "Let's hope they're punks thinking about mugging us. We can kill them quick and get inside."
"They're punks, all right," Glitsky answered sotto voce. Then, a little louder, "Gentlemen. Out for an evening stroll?"
"You said to report every day, sir," Bracco explained.
"If this isn't a good time…" Fisk made it clear he didn't think it was, either.
"No, this is a great time, Harlen."
"A great time," Treya agreed, nodding at Fisk. "A terrific time."
Glitsky touched her arm. "I don't believe either of you know my wife. Treya. Inspectors Fisk and Bracco."
"Enchante´," she said in a passable French accent. Her smile possibly appeared sincere. "I've heard so much about you both."
On the one hand, Glitsky was marginally happy that Darrel Bracco took him so literally. On the other, he didn't want his men getting into the habit of dropping by his place. But now it was a done deal. His romantic night with his wife continued as she sat next to him on the couch. Bracco and Fisk were on chairs they'd carried from the small, small kitchen.
"This is Parnassus then?" she asked sweetly. "Does anybody mind if I stay?"
There were no objections.
Bracco had placed his little notepad out on the coffee table in front of him. He regularly checked his notes. "We began at the hospital, first thing. Did you know Kensing was late for work Tuesday morning? An hour late."
"No," Glitsky said. "I don't know anything about what Kensing did that day. But why do you think that's worth mentioning, if he was?"
"The car," Fisk replied. "Where was he at the time of the accident?"
"The original accident?" Glitsky asked. "With Markham?"
"Are you still considering that part of the murder?" Treya asked. "I thought once they found the potassium, you pretty much ruled that out."
Actually, Glitsky had given it short shrift from the outset, and still did. But he realized that these guys had a bias and didn't want to dampen their newfound enthusiasm. "We're keeping an open mind on all theories at this point," he told her in their secret code. He came back to the inspectors. "So did you ask Kensing where he'd been?"
"No, sir," Bracco replied. "We haven't talked to him again ourselves, but last night he never mentioned it when you were questioning him. It seems like it might have crossed his mind."
"He told people that morning that he'd had car trouble."
Cars again. Glitsky nodded, noncommittal, but privately convinced that they could bark under this tree forever and it wouldn't get them a thing. "How about after Markham got to the ER? What was it like there? Busy? What?"
Bracco was ready with his answer. "Actually, it was a pretty slow morning. They had a kid who needed stitches in his head and a lady who'd fallen down and broken her hip. But they had already been brought into the back when the ambulance pulled up."
"The back?" Glitsky asked.
"Yeah. There's a waiting area when you first come in; then when they see you, they take you back to this big open room with lots of portable beds and a medical station-where the nurses and doctors hang out, in the middle. That's where they brought Markham as soon as he got there, then into surgery, which is down the hall a ways."
"There's a half-dozen surgery rooms on that floor," Fisk added. "Every one of them has a supply of potassium and other emergency drugs."
"There's also potassium at the station near the portable beds."
"Okay." This was nice, but Glitsky had already deduced that there must have been some potassium around someplace. As before, these two inspectors had no doubt gathered a lot of information. Their problem was in recognizing which of it was useful. If he wanted to get it, he realized he'd have to ask the right questions. "When they let Markham in, was his wife with him?"
They looked at each other, as if for confirmation. "Yeah. Outside and then while they prepped the operating room for surgery. Maybe ten minutes."
"Then what? When he went to the operating room?"
Another shared look, and Bracco answered. "She was in the waiting room when he got out; then she moved up to ICU's waiting room."
"Okay," Glitsky said. "But was she alone by the central nurses' station by the portable beds at any time? Is what I'm getting at." There was no way, he realized, that they would have pursued that question, so he went right to another. "How was she taking it? Did anybody say?"
Fisk took the lead. "I talked to both of the nurses that had been there-"
"How many are on the shift usually?" Glitsky interrupted.
"Two at night, which is ten to six. Then four during the day."
"So there were four on duty? Where were the other two?"
Bracco came to his partner's rescue. "With the other two patients, sir. Because one of the ER docs had been late that day, they were short a doc at the start of the shift. They'd prepped one of the other ORs for the hip, and one nurse was waiting for the surgeon with the lady there. The other one stayed with the kid and his mom and the doc sewing his head."
"Okay." Glitsky thought he had the picture finally. Two doctors, four nurses, three patients, two visitors. He turned to Fisk. "So you talked to Markham's nurses about how the wife seemed? Male or female, by the way? The nurses?"
"Both women," Fisk replied. "And yes, sir, I asked them both how she was." Glitsky was still waiting.
Treya read her husband's impatience and asked nicely, "And how was that, Inspector?"
"Distraught," Fisk answered. "Very upset. Almost unable to talk."
"They both said that?"
"Yes, sir. They agreed completely."
"Crying?"
"Yes, sir. I asked that specifically. She was crying quietly on and off."
Glitsky fell silent. Bracco had been listening intently to this exchange, and consulting his notes, decided to put in his own two cents' worth. "I talked to one of the nurses, too, sir, a Debra Muller. She walked with Mrs. Markham when they were bringing Markham into the OR and then back to the waiting room, where she-Muller-spent a few minutes holding her hand. Anyway, Muller, the word she used was 'shell-shocked.' Mrs. Markham kept repeating things like, 'They can't let him die. They won't let him die, will they?'"
Glitsky was thinking a couple of things: first, that of course Mrs. Markham could have been a good actress, but this didn't sound like a woman who was planning to kill her husband in the next couple of hours. Second, if Nurse Muller had accompanied her from the portable bed area to the surgery and back, then she hadn't been alone to pick up a vial of potassium from the medical station in the center of the room. But he wanted to be sure on that score. "So she didn't wait in the portable bed area?"
"No, sir. Outside in the waiting room, and then upstairs by the ICU."
"All right," Glitsky said. "Let's move along. How long was Markham in the OR?"
Fisk cast a grateful eye over to Bracco, who'd taken not only good notes, but some of the right ones. "A little under two hours," Darrel said, then volunteered some more. "And by the time he'd come out and gotten admitted to the ICU, some of the Parnassus executive staff were there. Malachi Ross, the medical director. Also Markham's secretary, a guy named Brendan Driscoll, who evidently got in a bit of a discussion with Dr. Kensing."
"About what?"
"Access to his boss."
"Markham? He was unconscious, right? Did he ever regain consciousness?"
"No, sir."
"Then why did he want to see him? This Driscoll."
"Nobody seems to know." Bracco's disappointment over his failure to find out was apparent. "But he did get in, though."
Glitsky leaned forward. "Driscoll? Was in the ICU? For how long?"
"Again," Bracco answered, "nobody knows for sure. But when Kensing found him in there-"
"You're telling me he was alone?"
"Yes, sir. Evidently. And when Kensing found him in there, he went batshit and kicked his ass out."
Glitsky replied with an exaggerated calm. "I don't believe 'to go batshit' is a legitimate verb, Darrel. You're saying Kensing and Driscoll had an argument?"
"Short, but fairly violent. Kensing physically threw him out."
"Of the ICU? Of the hospital?"
"No. Just the unit. Intensive care. But Driscoll was still around when Markham died."
"People remember him?"
"Yep. He lost it entirely. Just sobbing like a baby."
"Okay. And what was your source for this later stuff? Did the OR nurses come up?"
"No," Fisk replied. "There's another nurses' station outside the ICU."
"I've got the names," Bracco added. "There are at least twelve regular ICU nurses, three shifts, two a shift, but they run two weeks on, then two off. It's pretty intense, evidently."
"Hence the name," Treya commented dryly.
Glitsky squeezed her hand. He went on. "But you're telling me that even with all that help, sometimes the ICU is empty, right? Except for the patients?"
"Right." Bracco was off his notes and on memory again. "Everybody's on monitors for heartbeat and blood pressure and kidney function and who knows what else. The doctors and nurses go in regularly, but it's not like there's a nurse there in the station all day. They've got other jobs-keeping up supplies, paperwork, taking breaks."
Glitsky considered that. "Can they see anyone who goes in or comes out of the ICU from their station?"
"Sure, if they're at it. It's right there."
"So who came in and went out?"
Bracco turned a page or two of his notepad and read, "Besides Kensing, two other doctors, Cohn and Waltrip. Then both nurses-I've got their names somewhere back-"
"That's all right. Go ahead."
"Then Driscoll, Ross, three members of the family of another patient in there. They were there for morning visiting hours. I could get their names."
"Maybe later, Darrel, if we need them. What time did Markham die, did you get that?"
Again, Bracco was ready. "Twelve forty-five, give or take."
"So Markham was in the ICU maybe four hours?"
"That's about right. Maybe a little less."
Another thought occurred. "Ross went in, too? Why was that?"
"I don't know," Bracco said.
"But he's a doctor, you know," Fisk added. "He's got the run of the place. He was in there with Kensing right after they got him up from OR."
After a moment of silence, Glitsky finally nodded. "Okay. That it?"
Bracco flipped a page or two, then lifted his head and looked across at Glitsky and Treya. He brought his head back up and nodded. "For today, sir." Then he added, "I'm sorry we interrupted your night for you."
"Don't be silly," Treya said quickly, standing up. Then wagged a finger at them, joking. "Just don't do it again."
Glitsky took her lead and was on his feet. "Working late's part of the job." He had meant it sincerely as a simple statement of fact, but as soon as the words were out, he realized from Fisk's expression he took it as another Glitsky reminder of his failings as a cop.
Which wasn't fair. These two inexperienced inspectors had finally done some investigative work. They'd stayed late to make their report to him. They were trying hard. They had worked a long day. Glitsky knew that a kind word to them wouldn't kill him. He tried to put some enthusiasm into his voice. "That's a good day's work, guys. Really. Keep at it," he said. "One thing, though. Tomorrow morning, make sure you get your tapes into transcription ASAP. I want to get all this into the record."
The two men froze, threw a concerned glance at each other.
Glitsky read it right. "You did tape all these interviews, didn't you?"
Hardy remembered to buy the flowers. Beautiful bouquets, too, both of them. Baby pink roses for his daughter, the Spring Extravaganza for his wife. They were next to him on the passenger seat of his car even as he drove around looking for a parking place in his neighborhood. He didn't think there was much chance that Frannie and the Beck would appreciate them much just now, since they were probably both asleep.
It was ten minutes until midnight.
He'd left Strout's office in high spirits. The warm night, the fragrant air, a true sense of accomplishment. He'd cut a great deal for his client with Jackman, convinced the medical examiner to autopsy James Lector as soon as he cleared the way for it with his family. He called Frannie on his cell phone and told her he didn't think that would take more than an hour, and then he'd be home. Maybe on the way he could also pick up some fresh salmon and they'd have the first barbecue of the season.
And back at his office the good luck had held. Lector's death notice was in yesterday's Chronicle, and it named the next of kin, who were listed in the phone book. Hardy called the eldest son, Clark, reached him at his home on Arguello, halfway out to Hardy's own. He made an appointment for when he got there. Perhaps most astoundingly, he only had one message on his answering machine-Pico with the sad news that Francis the shark finally hadn't made it. He just thought Hardy would want to know.
But even Pico's disappointing news couldn't bring him down. In fact, he was half tempted to call him back at the Steinhart and invite him and his family over at the last minute for the salmon barbecue, cheer them all right up. Then he remembered that he'd done pretty much the same thing with Moses and Susan the night before, and he reconsidered. Maybe it should just be his family, together, for tonight.
But after the first half hour with Clark and Patti Lector, and James's widow, Ellen, he called Frannie again and told her he was sorry, but it might be a while. The Lectors were not in favor of an autopsy. It was going to be a long, hard sell. He'd try to get home as soon as he could, but she might want to go ahead with the kids and not wait on him for dinner. There was no anger, not even real disappointment in her voice when she'd told him it was all right. The only thing he thought he discerned was a bone weariness, and in some ways that bothered him more than if she'd thrown a fit.
He finally found a parking spot three long blocks from his house. Bedraggled bouquets in hand, he undid the latch on his picket fence, closed it back behind him, then in five steps crossed the walk that bisected his tiny front lawn. At long last, he'd succeeded in getting the Lectors' permission, but only after tomorrow's service, which would not end with Mr. Lector's body in the ground at the family's burial plot in Colma, but rather on John Strout's metal table at the morgue.
Dragging himself up his front steps, he vowed that he had had enough of this getting home at all hours. He had to change something, not just for himself, but for his children, his wife, his marriage.
Of course, no light shone anywhere. He let himself in quietly, although the wood had swollen with the warm weather, and he had to push the door to get it closed. Tomorrow, he thought, he'd fix that-plane it true. Working with wood was something he'd once been good at, even passionate about. Then maybe he'd do some more household chores. Spring cleaning. They could open all the windows and let the air blow out the last of the winter's must, maybe put on some old Beach Boys, or the Eagles, and turn it up loud, get that peaceful easy feelin' going while they all worked together putting the house into summertime shape. Unplug all the telephones.
Flicking on the hall light, he stepped into the living room and dropped the flowers into his reading chair. Frannie's note was under one of the elephants on his mantel, just where she knew he'd see it when he got in.
"Dismas. Decided to take the kids to Monterey for the weekend. Back late Sunday afternoon. Fran."
No "dear," no "love," not even "Frannie."
He crumpled the note in one hand, leaned against the mantel with the other. His head dropped as though he'd been struck.
By 8:00 the next morning, Hardy was on the road.
He didn't know in which of the dozens if not hundreds of hotels and motels they'd be staying, but if Frannie and the kids were in Monterey, he considered it a dead lock that they'd hit the aquarium first.
The place wouldn't open for another fifteen minutes, but already a long line of visitors stretched up the hill from the entrance. He started there, got to the end, then found a low wall across the street on which he could sit, keeping an eye on the line as it grew while he waited.
He'd seen no coastal fog as he'd driven down Highway 1, and there was no sign of any now. Normally Monterey was as fog-bound as San Francisco, but clearly it was going to be a postcard day-soon he wouldn't even need the light jacket he was wearing.
They came around the corner two blocks uphill. The kids were in the midst of some of their typical goofiness-even from this distance, Vincent's giggle carried down to him, then Rebecca's scream as she lunged back at him. Frannie walked a few steps behind them, head down, tolerant or uninvolved, her hands shoved into the pockets of a Stanford sweatshirt. She was in shorts and running shoes, and with her long red hair down and loose, she could have easily passed for the other kids' older sister, maybe eighteen or twenty years old.
Hardy stood up by his low wall, continuing to watch their approach. The kids were playing like puppies, poking at each other, tickling and laughing. This silliness often if not always drove Hardy crazy at home, especially in the past few months. Suddenly, at this remove, he could view it a little more objectively. His children were doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing. They were good kids suddenly on a surprise vacation, and they were having a great, appropriate, carefree, and healthy time with each other.
What, Hardy wondered, was his problem that he couldn't enjoy them more?
Now Rebecca had her arm around Vincent's shoulder-they were almost exactly the same height. Suddenly Frannie skipped a couple of quick steps downhill and caught up with them with a joyous yell, a tickling goose under each of their ribs. "Gotcha!" More screams, more laughing, the kids turning back on their mother now, darting in and out of her reach while she parried and thrusted to keep them away. Hardy almost couldn't imagine the level of pure fun they all seemed to be having.
He started crossing the street as Vincent broke away after his latest raid. They'd now come down to about a block from Hardy, and his son stopped and stared down at him. After a beat, the recognition became certain, and he screamed in what seemed complete abandonment and happiness. "Dad!" Five seconds later, he plowed into Hardy at full speed, arms and legs all around him. Then a real hug before Hardy put him down. "I didn't think you were coming. Mom said you were too busy."
"I decided not to be."
Rebecca, too, ran down and threw her arms around him. "I'm so glad you're here, Daddy. It's such a perfect day, isn't it? I can't believe how beautiful it is here. I am so happy."
"Me, too." Hardy held her for a moment, then raised a hand, sheepishly greeting his wife. "Hi."
She had her arms crossed. "Hi."
Rebecca, who never missed a thing, asked, "Are you guys mad at each other? You're not getting divorced, are you?"
"Never," Hardy said, still holding his daughter. "Even if we were mad, we wouldn't get divorced."
"You're sure?"
"Jeez, Beck." Vincent didn't have much patience for his sister's paranoia. "How many times they got to tell you? They're not getting divorced." He whirled on his parents. "Right?"
"Right," Hardy said.
Frannie still hadn't ventured a word on the subject, but suddenly the expression of frustrated bemusement that she'd been holding shifted, and she walked the remaining few steps to where Hardy stood with his arms around the Beck. "I love your father very much," she said, planting a kiss on his cheek, "and we will never get divorced, ever." She gave him a long look. "Although someday I might have to kill him."
His daughter's jaw dropped, her eyes wide in terror. "Mom!"
"Joke, Beck. Joke." For his parents' benefit, Vincent rolled his own eyes at his sister's stupidity. "Like she's really going to kill Dad." Suddenly, then, seeing an opening, he poked at her with a finger again. Immediately, with a squeal of delight, she spun out from Hardy's embrace, after him down the hill.
Leaving Hardy and Frannie, standing there.
"Do you want me here?" he asked.
"Of course. Although I wish it didn't have to take kidnapping your children to get your attention."
"I wish that, too. But I guess sometimes it does."
"I don't think you're hardwired for that. Maybe you could work on it."
"That's what I'm doing, believe it or not. I'm trying. Even as we speak," he added. Then he shook his head. "I'm sorry."
She put an arm around his waist, started walking down the hill. "I'll get over it."
Bracco lived in three converted rooms over a stand-alone garage behind his father's house out in the Sunset District, on Pacheco Street.
He'd been pulling long hours this past week, so this morning he slept in. After an hour on free weights, he'd done some jogging and eaten five bananas with most of a box of Wheaties. Now, showered and dressed, Darrel sat with his father at a wooden table by an open window in the kitchen. The back of the house had a southern exposure and sunlight washed half the table. From time to time, a wisp of breeze would ruffle the lace curtains at the window.
Angelo Bracco had once looked a lot like his son, and there was still a resemblance in the face. But he'd lost his wife six years before-she'd cooked him healthy meals and also kept him interested in looking good. After she was gone, he went back to meat and potatoes. Then he started driving for the mayor, sitting all day. In these past few years he'd bulked up to where his five-foot, nine-inch frame carried around two hundred and twenty pounds. This morning he was wearing a form-fitting T-shirt. After they'd had their first sips of coffee, Darrel decided to say something. "You know, you wanted, you could use my weights sometimes. They're just sitting out there."
His father chose not to answer directly. "I saw you go out this morning. How far'd you run?"
A shrug. "I don't know. Five miles maybe. It was a good day for it."
"Couldn't resist, huh? Feel the burn, is that what they say?" Angelo sipped his coffee. "If I ran five miles, I'd drop dead."
"You probably would, but you don't start there. You work up to it."
He saw that his son meant well, and nodded in acceptance. "Well, maybe I will."
"I'd walk with you if you wanted. You got to start doing something, Dad. Lose a little of that." He pointed at the belly. "They say walking is as good as running."
"For what? You believe that?"
Darrel had to break a smile. "No. But it's a start. But the weights…I mean, there's lots of things nowadays. You could join a club, even."
This brought an outright laugh. "Maybe I'll walk, okay. Really. I'll think about it. But a club is out, okay? If I'm going to be in that much pain, I don't want anybody else to see it." He sat up straighter in his chair, sucked his gut in marginally, then let it back out. "So is that why you knocked at my door? To preach me the benefits of working out?"
"No," Darrel said soberly. "I just happen to notice my old man's put on some weight and it's probably not doing him a whole lot of good, that's all. Maybe I'd like him to stay around a while longer, okay?"
"Okay."
"So what I came over for is Harlen."
"What about him?"
"Well, here it is Saturday and we're both scheduled off, which I've got no problem with if nothing's happening. Except now we're in the middle of this homicide and we've got witnesses to interview if we're going to get anywhere, which it seems like we might if we keep at it. But he's got his family and it's Saturday…I only just now talked to him."
"So what's your problem?"
"My problem is we're partners and I don't want to cut him out, but I want to go talk to some people."
"So call him again, tell him what you're going to do, and go do it."
"That simple, huh?"
His father nodded. "It usually is."
"Today's date is April 14, 2000, Saturday. The time now is twelve twenty hours. This is Inspector Sergeant Darrel Bracco, star number one six eight nine. I am currently at a residence at 2555 Lake Boulevard. With me is Mrs. Jamie Rath, DOB 6/12/58. This interview is pursuant to an investigation of case number 002231977."
Q: Mrs. Rath, how well did you know Carla Markham?
A: She was my best friend. I've known her since our girls were in kindergarten together.
Q: And when was the last time you saw her?
A: Last Tuesday. I went to her house when I heard what happened to Tim.
Q: How late were you there?
A: I left around nine thirty, quarter to ten.
Q: And who outside of the Markham family was still there when you left?
A: Dr. Kensing was still in the living room. But the rest of us left in kind of a knot.
Q: Did you know Dr. Kensing before that night?
A: I knew of him, but we hadn't met. I know Carla seemed surprised when he arrived.
Q: Why was that?
A: Well…it was just awkward. He and Mr. Markham didn't get along, and then him being the doctor that day. Of course, this is before I knew that Dr. Kensing had killed Tim.
Q: I don't think we know yet that he killed Mr. Markham.
A: Well, I do. And I think he almost expected Carla to thank him for getting rid of him. Except what Dr. Kensing didn't know is that they'd patched it up.
Q: You're saying that prior to his death, Mr. and Mrs. Markham hadn't been getting along, is that it?
A: That's fair to say. But then, just this last weekend,
Carla told me that they patched things up. Tim bared his poor little psyche-told her all about his affairs, his job problems, the incredible stress, the creep. So she was hopeful. Again. That's where they were on Tuesday, and it's why she couldn't believe he was gone, so suddenly. It was like whiplash.
Q: Did she appear depressed to you? Any suggestion she might commit suicide?
A: No way. I've known Carla for nine years, Inspector.
For the last two of those, she's been getting used to the idea of living without Tim. Why? Because she was going to leave him someday anyway. She knew that.
Q: But you just said they'd patched things up.
A: This time. But who knew for how long? Tim would fail again eventually-that's just who he was-and she'd wind up leaving him. She knew that, I'm sure, deep down. So it might have filled her with disappointment that he died, or even broken her heart at some level, but there had to be some relief there, too. And no way in the world would she kill herself over it.
Kensing walked up the six steps and pushed at the button next to the door of his old house on Anza Street. He still thought of it as his house and it made him sick to see how far Ann had let the place go. The once bright and appealing yellow paint had faded to a jaundiced pallor and was peeling everywhere. The white trim had gone gray. The shutter by the window nearest him hung at a cockeyed angle. The window boxes themselves had somehow misplaced even their dirt, to say nothing of the flowers he'd labored to establish in them. Back when he and Ann were good, they'd always kept the house up, even with all the hours they spent at their jobs. They'd found the time.
Now he looked down and saw that the corners of the stoop had collected six months' worth of debris-flattened soda cans, old newspapers and advertising supplements still soaked from the recent storm, candy wrappers, and enough dirt, he thought, to make a start of refilling the window boxes.
Where was Ann? Dammit, if she was still asleep, he was going to have to do something, although what that might be he didn't know. She should be awake at least to feed the kids. He pushed at the bell again, figured it must have stopped working, so he knocked. Hard. Three more times with his fist, shaking the door. He was turning to leave when he heard her voice.
"Who is it?"
"It's Eric, Ann. Open up."
"Didn't you get my call?" she asked. "I called two hours ago."
"Hi, Dad," his nine-year-old yelled from inside.
"Terry, you be quiet!"
"Hi, Ter. Hi, girls. You there?"
He heard sounds from both of them, Amber and Caitlin.
"Stop that!" his wife yelled at the girls, then talked again through the door. "I left a message telling you not to come." This was one of Ann's favorite tricks. Although she knew that Eric had a cell phone and beeper, she'd only call at his condo and leave a message he wouldn't get. Then she could be mad at him for being unreachable.
"Well, I never got it. Did you try the cell?"
"I didn't think of it. I thought you'd be home."
"Well, it was a nice morning. I went out for breakfast."
"With your girlfriend, I suppose."
He didn't feel the need to answer that. Instead, he tried the knob. "Come on, Ann. You want to open the door?"
"I don't think so. No."
"Well, that's going to make it a little tough for me to take the kids out to the ball game, isn't it?" His schedule allowed him only rare visits with his children during the week, so he made it a point to take them on weekends. Ann, burdened by her life, as well, had always before been happy to pass them off to him. Until now.
"Ann? What's this about?"
"You can't see them."
He kept his voice under control. "You want to open the door and we can talk about it?"
"There's nothing to talk about. You go away or I swear to God, Eric, I'll call the police."
"Ann, let's not do this in front of the kids. Just open up."
"No! You're not coming in. I'm not letting a murderer take my children."
The crying started. It sounded like Amber, the middle one, first. But the others immediately took the cue from her. Ann's voice, shrill and loud, cut through them all, though. "Stop that! Shut up, all of you! Stop it right now!"
"Ann!" Kensing pleaded through the door.
"Mom!" His son, Terry, hysterical. "I'm going out with Dad! You can't stop me."
"Oh, yes I can!"
Something slammed into the door.
"God, Ann! What are you…?"
More sounds of manhandling. Then, "Terry, get upstairs, you hear me! You girls, too!"
Kensing grabbed the doorknob, shook it with both hands. "Ann, let me in! Now! Open up!"
She was herding all of them upstairs, to their rooms. He stood for another moment on the stoop, then ran down the steps and up the overgrown driveway on the side of the house. The back door was locked, too.
But unlike the front, it had six small glass panes in its upper panel.
Kensing wished it was the usual cold day and he had a jacket he could wrap around his hand, but all he wore was a collared golf shirt. Still, he had his fist clenched. He had to do it, padding or not. But then he remembered the man last year who'd died after slashing his arteries trying to do the same thing-bled out in six minutes. The instant's hesitation gave him time for another flash of insight that stopped him cold.
He was already a murder suspect. Even if he had every reason in the world, he'd better not break into his wife's house. But the kids-Ann had lost control, and though she'd never hit any of them before, she might be capable of anything right now.
He pulled out his cell phone and punched 911, then ran back up front. The dispatcher answered and he gave the address and briefly described the situation. "I'm outside now. I need some help immediately."
Back up on the stoop, he heard Ann, upstairs, still screaming at the kids. A door slammed up there. Finally, he heard her footsteps on the stairs inside, coming down. Now she was at the door. "Eric," she said. "Eric, are you still there?"
He didn't say anything. He was pressed against the wall, scrunched down under the sill of the stoop. He knew she wouldn't be able to see him even if she leaned out the front windows. His heart thrummed in his ears. In the distance, he heard the wail of a siren.
Then he heard the lock tumble, saw the doorknob begin to move. He grabbed and gave it a quick turn, then hit the door with his shoulder. Ann screamed as the force of it threw her backward.
But she didn't go down.
Instead, she gathered herself and charged at him. "Get out of here! Get out of my house!"
He held her arms, but she kept kicking at him-at his legs, his groin. She connected and knocked the wind out of him. His grip went slack for a second. She ripped a hand free and swiped it across his face. He felt the hot flush of the impact and knew she'd scratched him. Raising his hand, he pulled it away and saw blood. "Jesus," he said.
"Daddy! Mommy!" From up the stairs.
"Don't!" Ann screamed. "Stay up there!" She never turned around, though, and came again at him. She kept coming, driving him back to the door, then out it onto the stoop. She kicked again at his groin, barely missing, but the kick spun him to one side. Now she charged full force, her fingernails out for his face.
Blocking her hands, he stepped back defensively. Her forward motion carried her by him. Her foot landed on one of the wet newspapers, which slipped out from under her. With another yell of anguish, she fell. Her head hit the concrete as her momentum carried her forward. She rolled down the steps all the way to the sidewalk, where she lay still.
The children flashed by Kensing and down the steps. They had just gotten to her, kneeling and keening around her, when a police car, its siren blaring, pulled up and skidded to a stop. Two patrolmen came out with their weapons drawn and leveled at Kensing.
"Don't make a move! Put your hands up!"
Glitsky and Treya had gotten out of bed late, got a sense of the incredible day outside, and decided on the spur of the moment to drive up to Dillon's Beach, about forty miles north of the city. On the way up, they detoured over to Hog Island for an hour or so and ate oysters every way they could think of-raw, grilled on the barby with three different sauces, breaded and deep fried with tartar sauce. Fortified, even sated and happy, they took the long way north along the ocean-switchback one-lane roads that wound through the dairy farms, the redwood and eucalyptus groves, the timeless and seemingly forgotten settlements of western Marin county.
It was truly a different world here than anywhere else in the greater Bay Area, all the more magical because of its proximity to the kitschy tourist mecca of Sausalito, the tony, crowded anthill of yuppies that was Mill Valley. On this side of Tamalpais, clapboard main streets with a half dozen century-old buildings called themselves towns. The single sign of life would be twenty Harleys parked outside the only saloon-there was always a saloon. Along the road, they passed handmade signs nailed to ancient oaks advertising live chickens, pigs, sheep. Fresh eggs and milk every few miles.
Most of it looked slightly gone to seed, and Glitsky had been up here many times when, with the near-constant year-round fog and wind, it had seemed almost uninhabi-table, a true wasteland. Today, in the warm sunlight-it would hit eighty degrees at the beach before they headed back home-the ramshackle and run-down landscape suddenly struck him as deliberate. Lots of hippies from the sixties and drop-and burnouts from the seventies and eighties had settled out here and they didn't want it to change. They didn't want new cars and faux-mansions, but a slower pace, tolerant neighbors, privacy. Most of the time, Glitsky scoffed at that lifestyle-those people didn't have a clue, they weren't living in the real world.
But today at the beach he was watching what he would have normally called a cliche´ of an aging hippy. A man about his own age, early fifties, was weaving some spring flowers into his little girl's hair. Glitsky found himself almost envying him, the simplicity of this life. The woman with him-the girl's mother?-was another cliche´. Her hair fell loose halfway down her back. She had let it go gray. She fingerpicked an acoustic guitar and would sing snippets of Joni Mitchell as the words occurred to her. It was possible, Glitsky the cop thought, that they were both stoned. But possibly not. Possibly they were blissed out on the day, very much like he and Treya.
"A chocolate chip cookie for your thoughts." She sat next to him, blocking the sun from his face.
He was stretched out on his side on their blanket in the warm sand. "Cookie first." He popped it whole into his mouth and chewed it up. "Thank you."
"Now thoughts," she said. "That was the deal."
"You don't want to hear my thoughts. They're scary."
"You're having scary thoughts here?"
"I like it here. I'm almost completely happy. That's scary."
"Comfort and happiness are scary?"
"They don't last. You don't want to get used to them."
"No, God forbid that." She reached a hand out and rubbed it over his arm. "Forgetting, of course, that you and I have had a pretty decent run together these past few months."
He put a hand over hers. "I haven't forgotten that for a second. I didn't mean us."
"Good. Because I'm planning on making this last a while."
"A while would be good. I'd vote for that."
"At least, say, another nineteen years."
"What's ninet…?" Glitsky stopped and squinted a question up at her.
"Nineteen years." She spoke with an undertone of grave concern. With an age difference of nineteen years between them, the question of whether they should have their own child someday had nearly split them up before they'd gotten engaged. Glitsky had already done what he called "the kid thing" three times. He was finished with all that, he'd informed her.
It was one of the hardest things she'd ever done, but Treya told him if that were the case, they had to stop seeing each other. She wasn't going to use the issue in a power play to get or keep him. If parenthood wasn't something he wanted to go through again, she understood completely. He was still a fine man and she loved him, but she knew who she was, what she wanted.
For some time Glitsky had lived with her decision, and his own. Then one day he woke up and realized that he had changed his mind. Her presence in his life was more important than anything else. He could not lose her-nothing could make that happen.
But now that once-distant someday had arrived, and Treya was biting her lip with the tension of whether or not her husband would accept the reality. "I don't think children have as good a chance if they're raised in a home where the parents aren't comfortable and happy, so I think we really ought to keep that going at least until the baby's out of the house and on its own. Don't you?" Trying to smile, she gripped his hand tightly in both of hers and met his eyes. "I was going to tell you last night when we got home, but then your inspectors were there, and by the time they left it was so late…" Her tremulous voice wound down to a stop.
He stared back at her for a long beat, his expression softening by degrees into something akin to wonder. "Why do you think it took us so long?" He brought her hands to his mouth and kissed them. "It sure wasn't for lack of trying."
Four hours later, Glitsky was sitting on his kitchen counter, trying to maintain a professional tone when he felt like screaming. He was talking on the wall phone to one of the deputy sheriffs from San Francisco General Hospital. The deputy had called homicide about this lady who'd been arrested and brought to the hospital earlier in the day with a broken ankle and a concussion. She couldn't seem to stop talking about her husband being the murderer in the family, so why was she the one who was in jail? The deputy figured that if anything about this woman involved murder, he ought to bring it to somebody's attention. But when he'd called homicide, nobody had any idea what he was talking about, so they gave him Glitsky's home number.
"What do you mean, they arrested her? They didn't arrest him?"
"The husband? No, sir. Not that I can tell. They didn't bring him here, but maybe he wasn't hurt." When healthy people got arrested in the city, they went to the jail behind the Hall of Justice. If they needed medical care of any kind, SFGH had a guarded lockup wing, and that's where her arresting officers had taken Ann Kensing.
In ten minutes, Glitsky had tracked down the home numbers for both of these guys, and one of them-Officer Rick Page-had the bad luck to answer the phone. Even over the wire and without benefit of his terrible face, Glitsky's tone of voice, rank, and position conspired to reduce the young cop to a state of panic. He ran his words together staccato fashion, repeating half of what he was trying to say. "It was, it was a nine-one-one DD, domestic disturbance. When we got there, we got there and the woman was on the ground, surrounded by her kids. Her children."
"And the man?"
"Well, he, he was bleeding from his face, pretty bad where she cut, cut him."
"Cut him? With what, a knife?"
"No. Fingernails. Scratched, I meant scratched him, not cut. On his face. He was up some outside stairs when we got to the scene. Me and Jerry-my partner?-we pulled up and both drew down on him."
"On him?"
"Yes, sir."
"But then you arrested her? Even though she was the one more badly hurt, is that right? How did that happen?" Glitsky's anger and frustration were still fresh, but he had calmed enough to realize that he wasn't getting what he needed from Officer Page. He toned his voice down a notch or two. "You can slow down a little, Officer. Just tell me what happened."
"Yes, sir. First, he's-the guy, Kensing-we checked back with the dispatcher when he told us and it was true, he's the one who called in the nine-one-one. He was locked out of his house and was worried his wife was going to hurt his kids. He said he needed help."
"I'll bet." Glitsky was thinking that Ann Kensing was smart to lock him out. "But you got there and what?"
"Well, the first thing, she was on the ground, on the sidewalk at the bottom of the stoop. There were steps, you know, going up to the house. The husband was still at the top, just standing there. Three kids were down with her, screaming bloody murder. We didn't know-it could have gone any way from that situation, sir. So we both pulled our pieces and approached the suspect, who at that time we thought was the guy."
"And how was he?"
"Cooperative, scared. He wanted to go and see how his wife was, but we had him freeze. He had his hands up and didn't move a muscle, which was good. From what we see so far, we're taking him downtown at that point."
"Okay," Glitsky said. "What changed that?"
After a short hesitation, Page started again. "The main thing was, I talked to him. The first thing he said, I mean he's reaching for the sky and bleeding like a pig out of his face, and the first thing he does is thank me for getting there so fast."
"He thanked you?"
"Yes, sir, which makes it like the first time I've ever had that in a DD. You know what I'm saying?"
Glitsky did know. Usually, by the time the police got involved in a domestic dispute, the gentler social amenities, especially extended to the cops coming to break up the fight, weren't in the equation anymore. "Go on."
"Anyway. So Jerry was with the wife, trying to get the kids to calm down. He, the guy, Kensing, asked if he could sit down on the step and I said no way, turn around, the normal drill and go to cuff him. At which point, one of the kids, the boy, he starts coming up the stairs and he's going, 'What are you doin' to my dad? Leave my dad alone. It wasn't him. It was Mom.'"
"The kid's saying that?"
"Yeah. And Kensing's cool. He's going, 'It's all right, Terry.' The kid. 'He doesn't know what happened.' Meaning me, you know. But I'm not letting the kid get near him." This, of course, was standard procedure because irate parents-especially fathers-who see jail time in their immediate future have been known to take their own children hostage in an effort to avoid it. "So I get in front of him and call for Jerry, who's gone back to the unit to put in a call for the paramedics. By this time, the wife's sitting up, holding the two girls. There's some citizens-neighbors-coming out to look. Time to put up my piece, which I do."
"Okay."
"Okay, so it's all slowing down. Kensing's cuffed and he asks can he turn around, slow, and I let him, and he tells his kid just stay put, don't worry, it's all going to work out. He tells me, calm as can be, that he's a doctor. He can help his wife. But I'm getting a funny feeling right about now anyway."
"About what?"
"About it's mostly always the guy, you know, sir. Doing damage."
"I know."
"But this guy. He's almost relaxed. Nowhere near the usual rage. He says she just slipped and I'm goin', 'Sure she did,' but he says, 'Look,' and nods down to this mark on the landing, where it's pretty obvious at least somebody slipped. A wet newspaper. And the kid goes, 'It's true. I saw her. She just slipped. He didn't touch her.'
"So I'm thinking, Shit, now what? I mean, we get to a DD and somebody's going downtown, right? I mean, usually the guy, but no way are we leaving without one of them. It's a real drag coming back two hours after everything was patched up fine with the lovebirds, except then one of them shoots the other one. You know what I mean?"
"I hear you," Glitsky said.
"But what am I going to do? I walk Kensing down the steps and put him in the back of the unit, locked up, and this time one of the neighbors comes up-I got her ID and everything, if you want to talk to her-and she tells me the same thing. She saw it all-Kensing was completely defensive, never hit her, she scratched him, came at him again and slipped." Page took a breath. "So Jerry and I have a little powwow and break up the two daughters and ask them about it-same story, it's the wife all the way. And by this time, the ambulance is here. The wife's groggy and can't walk on one foot. Plus she's going to need stitches in her head. So Jerry and I decide she goes, the guy stays home." In the course of the long telling, Page's voice had grown in confidence. Now he spoke matter-of-factly. "I don't know what else we could have done, Lieutenant. Four witnesses pegged the wife. The guy didn't do anything wrong."
Glitsky was tempted to ask Page if he realized that the man he hadn't arrested was the prime suspect in a homicide investigation, but why would the officer know that? And what point would it serve? And now for a while at least, Ann Kensing was safe. Unhappy and hurt, but safe. He'd take that. "So he's at her house now with the kids?"
"I don't know, sir. He might be at his home address, which I've got. Would you like to have that?"
"I've got it," Glitsky replied. "Maybe I'll go have a word with him."
"Sorry about not letting you in, Lieutenant, but I've got my children in here. They've seen enough cops for the day. One of 'em's already asleep and the rest of us are watching videos. It's been a long day."
"I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions. It won't take fifteen minutes."
"Fifteen minutes? It won't take any time if I don't let you in. It seemed to me we went over everything already the other night and according to my lawyer, I shouldn't have talked to you then."
"That was before today. Before the fight with your wife."
"We didn't have a fight. Fighting takes two people. She attacked me."
"Why were you over there in the first place?"
"It was my day for the kids. I had Giants tickets. Pretty simple. Look, this really isn't a good time, all right? Now I'm being a father to my children, who are traumatized and exhausted enough." Kensing shifted to his other foot, let out a heavy breath. "Look, I don't want to seem like a hard-ass, Lieutenant, but unless you have a warrant to come in here, good night."
In his Noe Street railroad-style duplex apartment, Brendan Driscoll worked at his computer in the tiny room behind the kitchen all the way at the back. In spite of the beautiful day, he'd remained in the shaded, musty, airless cubicle, completely engrossed in his work, since an hour after he'd woken up, at 10:30 in the morning, with the worst hangover of his adult life.
Now, nearly twelve hours later, he stretched, rubbed his hands over his face, and pushed his chair back away from the terminal. In a minute, he was in the kitchen popping four more aspirin and pouring himself an iced tea when Roger appeared in the doorway.
"It moves," Roger said.
Brendan looked over at him. "Barely."
"How's the head?"
"The head is awful. The head may never recover. The rest isn't really that great, either. What's in a Long Island iced tea, anyway? And how many of them did I have?"
Roger shrugged, then shook his head. "You told me to stop counting, remember? But I know that was after the third one, when I mentioned it might be smarter to stop."
"I should have listened to you."
"This is always the case. So," Roger inquired, "with all the hours you've spent atoning for your sins in your cave today, is your penance served?"
"It isn't penance I'm seeking," Brendan said. "It's revenge." He went over and pulled up a chair at the kitchen table. "I just feel so betrayed."
Roger sat down with him. "I know. I don't blame you."
"That's my problem. I don't know who to blame." He sighed deeply. "I mean, do I blame Kensing, or his stupid wife for making Tim feel like he had to jog every day. That's what created the opportunity in the first place."
"Well, the jogging didn't kill him, Brendan."
"I know. But if he hadn't gone out…"
"He wouldn't have been hit, and he wouldn't have been at the hospital… We've been through all this already."
They had, ad nauseam, Brendan realized. He sighed, then squeezed his temples, wincing from the hangover pain. "You're right, you're right. It staggers me, though, that Ross thought he could buy me off and purge my files. Could he really think that I couldn't see this coming, that I wouldn't be prepared?"
Jackman was as good as his word, and on Monday morning, Hardy had two more binders of discovery on the Markham case ready for him when he got to his office.
He got himself a cup of coffee, settled down at his desk, and opened the first folder. Someone had obviously lit a fire under the transcribers, because already several interviews had been typed up, including Glitsky's with Kensing, with Anita Tong the housekeeper, Bracco's with Ann Kensing. He flipped pages quickly. Nothing was tabbed yet-that would be one of his more tedious jobs-but he was satisfied to see much of what he'd hoped and expected: the original incident report at the hit and run; the hospital PM, performed immediately after Markham's death; Strout's autopsy findings and official death certificate; the first cut of the crime scene analysis of Markham's home.
He'd been at it for over an hour, unaware of the passing of time. His hand automatically went to his coffee mug and he brought it to his lips. The coffee had gone cold. Suddenly he sat up straight with almost a physical jolt. He raised his eyes from his binder, almost surprised to see the familiar trappings of his own office. For a while there, with the taste of the bitter dregs of coffee on his tongue, caught up in the analysis of evidence, he was a DA again, putting on this case rather than defending it. The feeling was unexpected and somehow unsettling.
He got up, shaking his head. In front of his desk, he threw a round of darts, then walked over to the window and looked down at Sutter Street. Outside, San Francisco wore its usual workday face after the glitzy and gaudy weekend-street debris kicked up by a good breeze off the bay, an obscure sun fitfully breaching the cloud cover.
He realized that it wasn't just the mnemonic tug of the coffee. The truth was that he was in prosecutor mode. To prove his client's innocence, it inexorably followed he must show that someone else had killed Tim Markham and presumably his whole family, as well. That left him only one mandate-find that person and the evidence to convict.
It was ironic, he knew, that he'd ever become a defense attorney in the first place. He wasn't drawn by nature to stand up for the accused. On the justice versus mercy continuum, he always came down for justice. After he'd gotten out of the marines and Vietnam, he walked a beat as a cop for a few years. Then he'd gone to law school thinking he'd make a career taking bad people to trial and putting them behind bars-that had been his whole orientation, in work and in life. If a previous DA hadn't fired him over office politics, he had little doubt he'd still be down at the hall working with Marlene and for Jackman. And though by now he'd been on the defense side long enough that he had grown used to it, part of him still longed for the purity of prosecution.
The law, as David Freeman was fond of saying, was a complicated and beautiful thing. And, Hardy thought, never more so than in this: while a not-guilty verdict did not always mean your client was factually innocent of committing the crime for which he or she had been charged, on the other hand a guilty verdict meant that he or she was. When Hardy the defense attorney got a client off with a good argument or some legal legerdemain, there was of course some satisfaction that he'd done his job, earned his pay. But only rarely did it compare to the soul-affirming righteousness he had sometimes felt when he'd convicted a truly evil miscreant and removed him or her from society.
He sat back down and took another sip of the cold coffee. His eyes went back down to his binder.
Here were interviews with several nurses at Portola. A quick perusal told him that Bracco and Fisk had done some basic footwork, which might save him some time. He noticed, though, that they didn't seem to have identified anyone who had been present at or about the time Markham had died. He flipped more pages, but found no sign of this essential and fundamental information.
He looked up again, staring angrily at nothing into the space in front of him. His jaw was tight, his eyes hard.
Jackman was keeping his end of their bargain. He had sent him the discovery folders, all right, but they obviously weren't complete. Hardy didn't think this was an accident, but he didn't see Jackman's hand at work withholding his evidence. He saw Glitsky's.
Bracco and Fisk had gotten into the office late in the day because, over Bracco's objections, Fisk insisted that they keep trying to find some kind of lead on the car. So first they'd gone door to door in the neighborhood again, catching a few people who hadn't been home a week ago, although coming away with about the same results. No one had seen the accident or noticed the car speeding away. Next-Fisk was at the wheel today-he'd driven Bracco crazy by making the rounds of his old hit-and-run connections: several body shops on Lombard, Van Ness, in the Mission. He'd put them on notice last week. Now he was following up.
One of them actually had a late sixties green Corvair in the shop, brought in late yesterday afternoon, damage to the right front bumper and the hood. The owner claimed his brake had released itself on one of the city's famous hills and he hadn't remembered to curb his wheels. The car had rolled twenty feet or so and hit a tree, a branch of which had then fallen on the hood. The owner of the shop, Jim Otis, had been planning to call hit and run sometime today, and certainly before he did any repair work on the vehicle.
But a quick spray with luminol pretty much eliminated the car from contention. Luminol was a nearly foolproof agent for revealing the presence of blood-even trace amounts, even after a washing-and there was none on the Corvair. Still, Fisk dutifully took down the owner's name and address. Before this was over, he vowed, he'd find out if he had an alibi for 6:30 last Tuesday morning.
Now, after lunch and under Glitsky's direction, they were finally on their way back to Portola for more interviews. The lieutenant had reviewed their work from Friday and now wanted to know about the two other doctors who'd been in the ICU last Tuesday. He also wanted the exact chronologies of people coming and going as far as the nurses at the ICU station could remember.
But it wasn't turning out to be as simple as they'd hoped. Different ICU nurses had come on duty with the new week. Of the two that had been on duty when Markham and Lector had died, Rajan Bhutan had transferred to labor and delivery and was in the midst of a traumatic childbirth. Connie Rowe, assigned to general floor duty, was out at lunch.
Asking Fisk if he'd mind holding the fort for a few minutes while he took care of some business, Bracco left his partner to wait for her and went back upstairs. When he got back to the ICU nurses' station, he introduced himself for a second time to the female nurse sitting at the console. When he asked, she explained that her shift partner was in with one of the doctors while he made his rounds. They'd both be back out shortly if he needed to talk to either of them.
But after making sure that the doctor was neither Cohn nor Waltrip, whom he did want to speak to, Bracco told her that what he really needed was a few minutes at a quiet spot-would she mind if he went to sit in the waiting room just down the hallway there?
A middle-aged couple sat miserably holding hands and whispering on one of the couches. Bracco took the upholstered chair near the hallway, where he could see both the entrance to the ICU and the nurses' station. Sure enough, the other nurse emerged with her doctor in a couple of minutes. After a brief conversation in the middle of the hallway, the doctor left the nurse and turned to come this way, while the nurse returned to the station with her partner.
Standing up as the doctor entered the waiting room, Bracco went back into the hallway. One of the nurses-he didn't know which one-still sat at the console, facing away from him, working at a computer terminal. The other was nowhere to be seen.
He crossed the hall and in ten steps was at the door to the ICU. A wired-glass pane afforded a clear view inside the room. He saw nothing but beds. A last look at the typing nurse, a glance toward the waiting room-no one was visible. In an instant he was inside.
He checked his watch and moved. Forcing himself to an almost leisurely pace, he walked the periphery marked by the beds, stopping while he counted to five-the most he could bear-at each one. The entire circuit took him forty-eight seconds.
Again, he checked the door's central windowpane. Then he pushed at it, was back in the hall, and let it close behind him.
At the nurses' station, he cleared his throat and the same woman he'd originally spoken to turned from her work at the computer. "Did your partner come back out yet? I notice that a doctor just came into the waiting room. I was wondering if she'd come out with him?"
The nurse smiled at him. "I think she may have just run to the bathroom for a minute. She ought to be right back." She, too, glanced down the hall to where the doctor had gone. "When she does, it might be a good time for those questions you said you had for us."
"That's what I was just working on back there." He motioned to the waiting room. "As it turns out, I don't think I'm going to need them after all. But thanks for your time. Sorry to have bothered you."
"No problem," she said. "Anytime."
Downstairs, Bracco learned that Connie Rowe had returned from lunch and that she and Inspector Fisk had gone back to the cafeteria where they could talk without too much interruption. By the time he sat down with them, Fisk had started. They sat kitty-corner to one another and the tiny tape recorder was on the table between them. Praying that Fisk had remembered to turn it on, Bracco pulled up his chair.
Q: You know Inspector Bracco? From last week? Ms. Rowe was just telling me about her partner, Rajan is it?
A: Rajan Bhutan.
Q: What about him?
A: Well, as I was telling Inspector Fisk, it's nothing really specific. The way the shifts break, I only wind up working with him in the ICU about ten times a year, but it seems as though every time he's on, something bad happens.
Q: Do you mean somebody dies?
A: No, not just that. People are always dying there because they're usually critical when they come in. But
I haven't worked a shift with Rajan without incident in at least the last year. I don't mean to speak badly of him, but…it's just really creepy. He's really creepy, just skulking around, never talking to anybody really.
Q: Do you think he had anything to do with Mr. Markham's death?
A: I don't know about that. That's such a strong accusation. But then when you all came in on Friday and started asking us questions, and you notice he barely said a word? Didn't it seem that way to you? And he knows how the shifts work as well as anybody. And what happened that day. Who was there.
Q: Ms. Rowe, excuse me for butting in, but when Inspector Fisk asked you if you meant that people died in the ICU when Rajan was on, you said 'not just that,' isn't that right? What did you mean by that? Not just what?
A: Not just dying.
Q: But that, too.
A: Yes, but as I say, a week doesn't go by without that.
But things-supplies, I mean-they go missing. And he hovers. Do you know what I'm saying? He lurks, and he hovers. You'll be coming around a corner and he'll suddenly just be there. Standing there. It's very creepy. Nobody can stand him.
Q: Was he there last Tuesday? In the ICU when Mr. Markham died? Is that what you're saying?
A: We were both in there for both the code blues. I know that. Before that, I was at the desk-
Q: Were you at the computer?
A: I think so, it's a little jumbled now, but I think I was placing some orders, but I don't know where he was.
Q: Ms. Rowe, when you got the signal-the code blue, is it?-and you went into the ICU, was he already there?
A: Yes. By Mr. Lector. The other man that died.
Q: Was there anybody else in the room?
A: Just Dr. Kensing.
Q: And where was he?
A: With Rajan. By Mr. Lector. He was the first code blue.
Q: In other words, they were not by Mr. Markham.
A: No. His monitor went off a few seconds later.
At one o'clock, Hardy picked up the phone on his desk and heard the drawl of the medical examiner. "Y'all owe me a thousand dollars. I assumed you were in some kind of hurry, seein' as you had the body delivered straight from the wake, so I worked all day yesterday, Sunday, an' brought in my best lab person. Then a couple of hours this morning. Mr. Lector died because his heart stopped beatin' and nothin' more."
"No potassium?"
"Nothin', Diz. I ran all the scans down to the C level. There wasn't so much as a wayward aspirin he shouldn't'a had in him."
"That wasn't exactly what I'd hoped."
"I know that, you made it clear enough. But look at the bright side. No matter what, your client didn't kill Mr. Lector."
This brought a dry chuckle. "Thanks, John. That eases my mind considerably."
"You're welcome. And Diz?"
"Yo."
"While I do love my work, there don't seem to be no shortage. This here is your wild-goose allotment for the year."
Rajan Bhutan spoke through his hang-dog face with the clipped, singsong formality of the subcontinent's accent. "The woman is an idiot," he said with resignation in his tone. He was alone in the nurses' lounge with Bracco and Fisk. "I've had nothing but trouble from her from when she began here, because she is lazy and prejudiced against me. And now you tell me she accuses me of killing these gentlemen? This is really intolerable. I will have to speak with her. And perhaps with the administration."
In his inexperience, Fisk had mentioned that they'd talked to Ms. Rowe and his name had come up. Now of course, Bhutan was angry with Rowe, and wanted to talk about her failings as a nurse and human being, rather than what he had done last Tuesday night. And naturally Bhutan also figured that these same police would repeat everything that he said to his coworkers. It wasn't the best way to approach an interview. It wasn't even the second best way.
Bracco had taken over the lead in the questioning, trying to get back on point. "Are you telling us you were not in the room when the monitors for Markham went off?"
"Yes. For him. I had rushed in for Mr. Lector, who was first."
"And where were you just before then?"
A disgusted look settled on his features. "You may believe this or not, but even Dr. Ross must have seen me as he came out of the waiting room when the first monitor called. I was with one of the gurneys in the hall, right away there. I believe there were two or three of them, backed up. This is intolerable," he repeated.
"So let me get this straight," Bracco prodded. "You're telling us that when the code blue went off for Mr. Lector, there wasn't anybody in the ICU?"
"Except that it wasn't yet a code blue. Dr. Kensing had just gone in again before; then when I got to Mr. Lector's bedside, he had me call it up."
"And then you were all working on Mr. Lector when Mr. Markham's monitors started to do whatever they do?"
"They screech continually. But yes."
"Nobody had just gone near him?"
"Not that I saw, no."
Hardy and Freeman were walking uphill on Sutter Street. The sun had never quite cut through the cloud cover and now the fitful breeze of the morning had freshened into steady wind, as well. It wasn't, all in all, a great day for a stroll, but Freeman had told Hardy that he could only take some time to talk if they could combine it with a shopping trip to Freeman's cigar supplier. He was almost out of them-meaning, Hardy supposed, that he was down to his last dozen or so.
But what else could he do?
"The problem is, I don't really have anybody else," Hardy was saying. "Carla-the jealous wife-might have been a good bet, but she went dead on me."
Freeman clucked. "That is inconvenient."
"And then I really thought I had something with the other guy who'd died at the same time as Markham-Lector. But Strout says no, so now I'm wondering if I should even have Wes Farrell bother to try to get permission for Loring's autopsy."
"Who was there?" Freeman got the door to the Nob Hill Cigar and held it open for Hardy. Immediately, they were both gripped in the thick, humid, fragrant embrace of one of the city's most anachronistic destinations. Freeman, observing the ritual he performed every time he bought his cigars in bulk, didn't so much as glance at the display downstairs, but led the way upstairs. Hardy tagged along. It was pretty much a Victorian men's club, and while of course women were legally permitted, in a dozen or more visits Hardy had never seen one here.
After a few minutes of cigar chitchat with Martin, their host, they found their way to a couple of leather easy chairs with their complimentary snifters of cognac-not for sale, not even legally consumable on the premises, but always offered nonetheless. Martin reappeared in a moment, offered and lit their Cohibas, then retired back downstairs to fill Freeman's order.
Another important element of David's own individualistic ritual was to savor only and not talk until the first ash was ready to fall. Sometimes this could take ten minutes. But Hardy found that today, although he'd come specifically to pick the old man's brain, he was happy to sit and reflect.
The rest of the weekend in Monterey had been sublime. Hardy had always responded to the magic of things nautical, and the aquarium seemed to restore something in his soul, in his connection to his children, his wife. Suddenly he was more than what he did for a living. All the flotsam and jetsam of who he was got stirred, shaken. It woke him up.
In the afternoon, he bought some swim trunks and they'd gone to the beach, explored the tide pools, screamed with joy and madness at the freezing water. They'd eaten splendidly at The Old House, walked out on the wharf by moonlight, and fed the seals. Back at their hotel, they had managed to upgrade the single room Frannie and the kids had stayed in the night before to a suite, and with the children sleeping soundly behind the connecting door and a little privacy, they'd made love twice-night and morning, like newlyweds.
Up here in the smoking room, Freeman tapped his ash. "So who was there?" he asked. "I believe that's where we were."
Of course he was right. Hardy rarely even marveled at it anymore. But he still had the same answer as last time, which was a question of his own. "Where, David?"
"At the hospital. You've told me you need people with a motive to have killed Markham, but you don't know of anyone else except your client, so all right, let's assume for the moment that it's not him, although that continues to make me uncomfortable as hell, except still, what you need, even beyond motive, is presence, by which I mean that whoever it was had to be there and that brings us back around full circle."
"I'll give you a dollar if you can diagram that last sentence for me."
Freeman briefly attempted to glare, but the charade didn't hold, so he sipped some cognac and sucked on his cigar. "Occasionally," he said, "the gift of wisdom arrives untidily packed."
When Hardy got back to the office, it was after four o'clock. The alcohol had slowed him down while the nicotine had jolted him up. He went to his windows and flung them both wide open, then got himself a large glass of water and sat down behind his desk. In his absence, he had had three phone calls.
The first was from Jeff Elliot, who wanted to know what, if any, progress Hardy had made on the Kensing front. He was working on another Parnassus column and maybe they had some mutually beneficial information they could share.
In the second message, Wes Farrell was calling to let him know that he'd finally persuaded the Lorings to let authorities dig up their mother. Now he was meeting some pretty strong resistance from Strout, with whom he thought Hardy had already cleared it. What was going on?
The third call, at last, was from his client, whom he'd been trying to reach all day. He called him back first and Kensing started off by telling Hardy that he still had the kids after the fight with his wife…
"Wait a minute, Eric. Back up. What fight with your wife?"
He explained what had happened in some detail, following up with Glitsky's unexpected visit to his house last night. "I got the impression he thinks I went over there to hurt her. Maybe worse."
Hardy remembered Glitsky's prediction that Kensing would do just that. "But you didn't talk to him again. Please say you didn't."
"No. I didn't let him in. But I thought I'd make myself scarce today."
"Probably a good idea. What'd you do?"
After he'd dropped the kids at their school, Kensing decided to really take the day off, think a little, get some kind of plan. He'd walked across the Golden Gate Bridge and back, driven downtown and eaten dim sum in Chinatown, taken in a movie, then gone back for the kids at school. He'd also just talked to Ann. She was out of jail and wanted the kids to return to her house, but he didn't feel good about that. What did Hardy think?
"Do you think she's a danger to them?"
"Before Saturday, I would have said no. But I've never seen her like that, and we've had our share of fights, believe me."
"But nothing physical? You're sure?" This was always a critical point to make. It would be very bad if the grand jury discovered that Kensing had ever used any kind of violence on his wife. Better to know now. "You never hit her, Eric? Not even one time?"
"I'd remember. I never hit her, although she's hit me a few times."
Hardy didn't much like that, either, but for Kensing's purposes, it was better than if he'd hit her. "Okay, then. Exactly what happened Saturday?"
"I guess she must have finally convinced herself that I killed Tim."
"That's what I'd concluded, too. Would you like me to talk to her? Do you think she'd talk to me?"
He heard the relief in Kensing's voice. "That'd be great. Either one."
It wasn't really the answer to his question, but it was clearly permission. Hardy felt free to move on. "Eric, can you tell me who was at the hospital with you last Tuesday?"
"Where? You mean in the ICU?"
"Anywhere near it really."
"Sure. I think so. Me, obviously. The nurses." He continued with the litany, which was more substantial than Hardy had realized. That in turn gave him some hope, although it might also mean a lot of work. He hadn't even heard of all of the players yet, and this struck him as unconscionable.
A new wave of anger at Glitsky swept over him. What the hell was he doing? Maybe he had concluded that Jackman's deal with Hardy wasn't his deal, too, but in fact it was. Jackman's deal meant next to nothing without Glitsky's cooperation.
The thought passed, though the anger did not. But Hardy was taking notes through it all. In addition to Carla, Kensing told him, there had been Malachi Ross, Markham's assistant Brendan Driscoll (whom Kensing seemed to dislike), a couple of nurses, and two other doctors, including Judith Cohn. Hardy found himself wondering again how long Eric's relationship with Cohn had been going on. He would have to try and talk to her.
But first, after he'd hung up with Kensing, there was Ann. She answered her telephone. Yes, of course she'd talk to him, she said. Anytime he wanted. She wanted her children back.
It turned out that her house was on his way home. He could be there in twenty minutes.
On crutches and with a cast on her foot, Ann Kensing led Hardy into the messy living room. Throwing some dirty kids' clothes to the floor from the couch, she motioned for him to sit on it and then took her spot at the opposite end. Now she'd heard his opening and he could see her wrestling with what to do with it.
"You're his lawyer, Mr. Hardy. What else are you going to say?"
"I could say a whole lot of things, Mrs. Kensing. I could say okay, he did it, but nobody's ever going to be able to prove it. I could say he did it but it was a medical mistake that was unintentional. I could even say he did it but he had a good reason-seeing Mr. Markham lying there under his power rendered him temporarily insane, legally insane. Don't laugh. Juries have bought worse stories. But what I'm here to tell you is that he says he didn't do it at all. I've been a lawyer for a long time. Believe me, I've had clients lie to me more than once. I'm used to it. But the evidence just doesn't prove that your husband did a thing."
"He told me he did it. He even told me how before anybody else knew. How about that?"
Hardy nodded thoughtfully. "He told me about that, too. He was mad at you, insulted that you could even think he could have killed anybody, so he got sarcastic."
"He said he pumped him full of shit."
"Yes he did. But listen, he's a doctor. If he's riffing off the top of his head, just trying to get you going, drugs in the IV is the obvious choice, right?" But he didn't wait for her answer. He wanted to keep her from getting wound up by arguing. Kensing had warned him that when her emotions got her in their grip, she let them carry her where they would-and in her grief over Markham and general rage at the situation, she wasn't likely to be completely rational. Now he leaned in toward her. "What I wanted to talk to you about is how quickly we can get your children back to you."
As he suspected it might, this calmed her slightly-even she understood it wouldn't serve her well to fly off at him. A hand went to her lips as she visibly gathered herself. "I asked Eric if he could bring them back today. He didn't want to do that."
Hardy nodded, all understanding. "He talked to me about that. I asked him to put himself in your shoes. Suppose you were perhaps actually thinking that he'd killed somebody. If that were the case, wouldn't he have fought you to keep you from taking them?" He sat back into the couch, affecting a nonchalance he didn't feel. "If you want my take on this, the problem is that you're both excellent parents. You both have the same instinct, which is to protect your children. This is a good thing, wouldn't you agree?"
"Yes. I think so." Her eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, now shimmered with tears. One drop spilled over onto her cheek and she wiped it away with a weary, automatic swipe. Hardy had the feeling she'd been doing that so much lately that she didn't even notice anymore. "He's never hurt them. I don't really think he would, but then after last week, when I thought…" She shook her head.
"When you thought he killed Tim Markham?"
She nodded.
"Mrs. Kensing. Do you really think that? In your heart?"
She chewed at her lower lip. "He could have. Yes. He did hate Tim."
"He hated Tim. I keep hearing that. Did he hate him more than he did two years ago?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Then less?"
"Maybe. I thought he'd gotten used to it."
"Okay. When he hated him the most, did he talk about killing him then? Was he that mad?"
"No. No. Eric wasn't like that. He'd never…" She stopped now and looked straight at him, suddenly defensive. "He told me he did."
"Yes he did. He said those words. That's true."
"What was I supposed to think?"
"When did he say all this, Mrs. Kensing? Wasn't it last Tuesday, right after you'd heard that Mr. Markham had died? Right after you accused Eric of killing him?"
She didn't reply.
He kept up the press. "He told me you were in agony. You'd just found out that the man you loved was gone. You were lashing out at the world at the injustice of that, lashing out at him because, maybe, you felt he was safe. Isn't that the way it was?"
He'd never get another chance. In court, in front of a jury, she'd have her story down pat. She'd have been coached over and over again by the prosecution. She'd never embarrass herself by admitting that she might have misunderstood or exaggerated. Indeed, by that time, any doubt would have long since vanished. Even by now, she had already invested a great deal in Eric's confession. Hardy hoped he could lead her to a path by which she could withdraw, if not with her dignity intact, then at least with some grace.
But she couldn't let it go easily. She was pressing her fingers so hard against her mouth that her knuckles were white. Her eyes were closed in concentration, in recollection. "I was just so…lost and hurt. I wanted to hurt him, too."
"You mean Eric. So you accused him of killing Tim, knowing it would hurt him, too?"
"Yes." Suddenly she opened her eyes, released a pent-up breath. "Yes. And he said, 'Absolutely.' Absolutely," she repeated.
"And you took that to mean that he admitted the truth of what you were accusing him of, killing Tim?"
"Yes. I suppose so."
"But looking back on it, is that what it sounds like to you now? Is that really what he meant, do you think? That he'd actually done it? Or were you both just snapping at each other in the tension of the moment?" Hardy lowered his voice to the level of intimacy. "Mrs. Kensing, let me ask you to think about something else. After you left the hospital that day and came back here to your life, you had a day or so to get used to this tragedy, isn't that right, before the police came to talk to you?"
"What else could I do? It was the middle of the week. The kids had school. It was just me and them."
"Sure, I understand. But during that time, before you'd heard about the potassium, you had quite a bit of time during which you say you believed Eric had killed Tim. And yet you made no attempt to go to the police yourself?"
The question surprised her, and she hesitated for a moment, perhaps wondering about the why of her answer. "No. I didn't know."
"Why do you think not, if you don't mind?"
"Because I thought…I mean, I guess I believed…I'd heard Tim died from the accident."
"And you believed that? For two days? Even after Eric had apparently told you he'd killed him? Mrs. Kensing, did you get any sleep in those two days?"
Shaking her head no, she began to sob quietly, but Hardy had to go on. "So when you heard Tim had been killed on purpose, that it hadn't been the accident, what went through your mind?"
"I don't know. When I heard about it…it was so unreal. Almost as though he'd died again, a second time."
"And that's when you remembered what Eric had said the first time?"
"Yes."
"But in spite of Eric's apparent confession, you never really seriously considered that Tim had died of anything but the hit-and-run accident?"
"But he said-"
"But you didn't believe him at the time, did you? You didn't believe him because you knew he didn't mean it literally, as a statement of fact. He said it to hurt you, didn't he? It was a sarcastic and hurtful way to call you stupid, wasn't it? That you'd asked such a question."
She looked at him in a kind of panic, forcing him to backpedal slightly. "I'm not trying to put words in your mouth, Mrs. Kensing. I'm just trying to find out what really happened. What you recall now, today."
Hardy waited through the lengthy silence.
"I mean," she said, "if Tim had been killed, that changed everything, didn't it?"
"I agree it changed that it was no longer an accident." He let her live with it for another long moment. "Mrs. Kensing, Ann, I'm not going to lie to you. Your testimony here is critical, and as you said when I first got here, I'm Eric's lawyer. I've got a vested interest in keeping him out of jail." He waited again until she met his eyes. "If in your heart you believe that Eric killed Tim, and meant it when he said he did, I'm not even going to try to talk you out of it. You know what you know. But Eric is among the things that you know best, for better or worse, isn't that right? And he's been a good father, as you admit; a good doctor. Maybe even by your own estimation, a good man?"
She was nodding, fighting back more tears. "I always thought he was. He is."
And finally, the nub of it. "Do you really believe he could have killed Tim? That he actually did that? Because if he didn't, Mrs. Kensing, somebody else did, and that's the person I'd like to find, whoever it might be. And to do that I'm going to need your help."
The real problem with the reunion between Eric and Ann Kensing was that Hardy didn't know that Glitsky had assigned an officer to protect Mrs. Kensing from her husband should he come back to try and kill her again. When Hardy had rung the bell and been admitted to Mrs. Kensing's house an hour before, this officer hadn't molested Hardy in any way, although he had placed a call to Glitsky informing him of the circumstances.
So at 5:35, Glitsky knocked at the door himself. Ann Kensing got up and, thinking it was her husband with her children, she opened it. Hardy, who had remained seated in the living room, jumped up when he heard the voice, but it was too late-Glitsky's foot was already across the threshold. Holding up his badge, he had asked if he could come in, and Ann had seen no reason not to let him.
Hardy, fiercely protective and fuming, stopped when he got to the hallway. "What the hell are you doing here? Are you following me?" Then, to Ann, "You can ask him to leave. He doesn't have a warrant."
But Glitsky had already won that round. "She let me in. I don't need a warrant."
"So what's your point?" Hardy asked, taking another step toward him. "Just general harassment this time? Just kick all the rules out?"
Glitsky ignored him and spoke to Ann. "I thought you might want some moral support before your husband and this Mr. Hardy double-team you. Has he theatened you in any way?"
"No." She looked back and forth at the two angry men. "Well, just-"
Hardy held out a hand, interrupting. "Ann, please."
"Just what, Mrs. Kensing? Are you saying he has threatened you?"
"No. But he told me some rights that maybe-"
Now Glitsky interrupted. "Is he your lawyer, too? God forbid you haven't let him talk you into that?"
"No, he's…"
By now the voices had pitched up. Hardy couldn't resist finishing her thought, which would-he was sure-give him the next round. "There never was any confession. You didn't take the trouble to get the context of my client's statements."
Glitsky stood stock still, rocked by the blow. Although he'd expected something very much like it, the confirmation of the news was a haymaker. His scar flared, his eyes blazed. It took a moment for him to get his senses back. "All right," he said finally, softly. "But both of you are now going to hear me out." And in the most reasonable tone he could muster, he proceeded to give her an earful of angry cop.
Like: "Ms. Kensing, you said that your husband confessed to murder. That's part of the record in this case. If you go changing your story under oath, someone could decide you're committing perjury. You might get in very big trouble yourself. Do you understand that?"
Like: "Isn't it obvious to you that Mr. Hardy here is using your own children as bargaining chips so that you'll help him get his client off? Could it be any more transparent?"
Like: "Of course your husband isn't pressing charges against you about what happened Saturday. He's lucky he didn't have them brought against himself. But please be clear on this: He doesn't decide what charges get filed, the DA does. Try to understand that what he's really doing is trading your possible misdemeanor charge against his own murder rap."
Like: "You don't have to make this kind of deal. We can in all likelihood have a judge sign a TRO"-a temporary restraining order-"and get your children back with you."
Finally, Hardy had had enough. Glitsky was overdoing it. Besides, it was in his own best interests to rise to her defense. "Actually, the lieutenant's a little off base. There's no judge in the world who would grant a TRO on what's going on here." He turned to Mrs. Kensing. "Unless, it must be said, he issued it against you. You're the one with charges pending here, not your husband."
Back at Glitsky, his voice hardened. "And you know the woman's got every right in the world to talk to me, Lieutenant. We need to know exactly what Dr. Kensing said, and if perhaps your inspectors were too eager. Mrs. Kensing got it wrong the first time and, realizing that, would like to get back on some kind of cordial footing with her ex-husband so that they can cooperate, as they always have before, on raising their children. I don't see how you can have any kind of problem with that."
Glitsky's scar seemed to glow red in the dusky light. "You don't? You don't consider what you're doing tampering with this witness?"
"Absolutely not."
"You deny that you're bringing undue influence to bear?"
Hardy bit back his initial response, which prominently featured the vulgarity Glitsky so despised. Instead, he turned again to Mrs. Kensing. "Am I forcing you to do anything?"
"He's not, Lieutenant."
Glitsky believed that like he believed in the Easter Bunny. He wanted to pull Hardy into another room where they could duke out some of their continued differences outside of the presence of this woman, but if he suggested that, he knew it would come across as though he were trying to hide something from her. And he couldn't have that, either. There was no other good option, so he went right ahead with what he had to say.
"Well, I'll tell you what, Counselor. I'd call this tampering. I'd call it undue influence, if not outright coercion. Jackman cut you a sweet deal, okay, but that's not carte blanche to sabotage any case we might be building. I think he's going to find you went way over the line with this. To say nothing of this autopsy charade I'm learning about with Strout. And now he tells me you've got Wes Farrell on your team, too, trying to pull the same crap."
"Wes isn't on any team of mine, Lieutenant. He's got his own client and his own problems."
"Yeah, which includes somebody else who died at Portola Hospital? Just surfacing at this moment? You expect me to believe that? It's just a coincidence, is it?"
"I don't expect you'd believe anything I said. But I'm not trying to obstruct this case. I'm trying to see it for what it is and solve it."
Glitsky just about spit it out. "Yeah, well that's my job."
Hardy shot it back at him. "Then do it."
"I just tried and Jackman stopped me."
"He did you a favor."
Glitsky snorted scornfully. "You're telling me I got the wrong man? Then how come every time I turn around, you're playing some legal game covering his rear end-cutting your deal with Jackman, muddying the waters with Strout, talking to my witness here. You know what that makes me think? You've got something to hide. That all you're doing is trying to get your client off, and be damned with the law, and be damned with the truth."
"That's not who I am and you know it."
"Yeah, well if the shoe fits…" Glitsky turned to Ann Kensing. "You're making a mistake here," he told her. "If you want to change your mind again, after you've calmed down, you've got my number."
Hardy was in a true high rage now, and he wheeled on them both, his voice laden with disdain. "If you do, make him promise he won't charge you with perjury."
Glitsky glared at him. "You think that's funny?"
"No," Hardy snapped. "I don't think it's funny at all."
While the Kensing children got used to their mother again, the cast on her foot, the bandage on the back of her head, their father stayed away from her. He called out for a pizza delivery and spent the best part of the next half hour picking up around the house-he collected and started two loads of laundry, put every dish and utensil he could find into the dishwasher, ran a sponge mop over the kitchen floor.
Hardy called Frannie to tell her he would be a little late. Yes, sorry, he knew. But he was still shooting to be in time for dinner, which they'd rescheduled over the past weekend for 8:00, instead of 6:30 or 7:00, to better accommodate Hardy's workday. He also took an extra minute and described a bit of his terrible fight with Glitsky. He needed to talk to her; he needed her. And he would definitely be home by 8:00. She could set the clock by it.
Hardy went to the bathroom to throw some water on his face, hoping it would counteract some of the nausea he was feeling, the residue of his argument with Glitsky. He felt as though he'd swallowed a rock. When he returned, the children were devouring pizza in the kitchen, a video of some action flick on and purposely turned up loud.
In the living room, Ann and Eric had taken their respective neutral corners, and now they sat in silence, not even facing each other, waiting for Hardy.
He started to go back to his old spot on the couch with Ann, but decided that this might have the appearance that he was taking sides, so he stayed on his feet and stood by the trash-and ash-filled fireplace. "Both of you are doing the right thing," he began. "I know it's hard." He looked from one of them to the other. Both obviously still seethed. He kept on. "I've been involved with this case for going on a week now and there's far too much I don't know. We need to talk together about it. Who might have killed Mr. Markham."
Ann took it as an opening, and she wasted no time getting to the crux. "All right. I've heard your lawyer tell me you didn't do it, Eric. Here's another chance for you. Why don't you tell me yourself?"
He turned his head to face her, then shook it in disgust and weariness, and brought a flat, dead glance back to her and answered her with no inflection at all. "Fuck you."
"There!" she exploded to Hardy. "See? That's him. That's who he really is."
Kensing came right at her, up out of his chair, his voice a rasping whisper so the children wouldn't hear. "You don't have a clue who I am anymore. I'm just so tired of your shit. Did I kill Tim for Christ's sake? Fuck that and fuck you again."
"Eric," Hardy began.
But now his client turned on him. "I don't have to listen to this all over again, do I? It won't work with her. You can see for yourself-she's an irrational menace. I'm out of here and I'm taking the kids with me."
"Don't you touch them again!" She might use crutches for her sprained ankle, but Ann could move quickly enough without them when she had to. She was at the entrance into the hallway, blocking Kensing's way, before he'd gone three steps.
Hardy moved too, as fast as he could, getting himself between them. For an instant, he thought he and his client were going to mix it up. "Get out of my way, Diz."
"Not happening," Hardy said. "You going to make me?"
"Don't you make me."
"See?" Ann was saying. "This was Saturday! This is what he did then!"
"I didn't do anything on Saturday!" He pointed at her over Hardy's shoulder. "You want to talk about the problem here! You want to talk danger to the kids, you want to talk unstable?" Then he took it directly to her. "You really think I've got it in me to kill somebody? Give me a break, Ann. My whole life is keeping people alive. But you lock me out, raving about maybe I'm here to kill my own children? That's real craziness. That's scary fucking lunacy."
Hardy had to find a wedge to get in or this was over before it started. "Speaking of scared, she was scared, Eric."
"She's got no call to be scared of me. I've never done anything to hurt her. If she doesn't know that…" He shifted his focus from Hardy to her, his own anguish now evident in his voice. "What were you thinking, Ann? What's the matter with you?" Finally, a plea. "Would I ever hurt a kid? One of my kids? How could I ever do that?"
Ann was almost panting-taking quick, deep breaths. "When the police told me, I just…I was afraid…I didn't…" Hardy thought she would break again into sobs, but she got hold of herself this time. "I didn't know what to think, Eric. Can't you understand that? I loved Tim, and he was dead. I hadn't slept in two days. I was so scared."
"Of me? How could you be scared of me?"
Now she pleaded for understanding from him. "I was just scared, okay? Of everything." Her voice was small. "I didn't want to make another mistake and then, of course, I did."
It was the closest thing to an apology Kensing was going to get. Hardy recognized that and took the moment. "Why don't we sit back down?"
"Did Ross go in?" Hardy asked. "It must have been minutes before the monitors went off."
"He might have. He could have. I just don't know."
"Where were you then?" Ann's anger hadn't entirely passed. "I thought you were on the floor. It's not that big. How could you not know?"
Kensing kept any defensiveness out of his reply, directed as much to Hardy as to Ann. "We had three patients in the hall. One of them was having problems coming out of the anesthesia, so Rajan-he's one of the nurses-he and I were checking vitals pretty closely. During those minutes, anybody could have walked behind me-I'm sure some people did-and I might not have noticed. An hour before, Brendan Driscoll had just walked all the way in."
"How did that happen?" Hardy asked.
Kensing shrugged. "Nobody stopped him. You'd have to know him. He carries himself with a lot of authority. If any of the nurses would have said anything, he would have just said, 'It's all right, I belong here,' and they probably would have accepted it."
"I hate the little bastard," Ann added. "He actually believed he could order Tim around."
"Did he?" Hardy asked. "Order him around?"
"He tried, especially when it came to his time. Scheduling."
"And how did Tim feel about that?"
"He couldn't live without him," Eric put in, unable to keep some fresh venom out of his voice. "Brendan did about half his work."
"Wrong!" Ann Kensing wasn't going to let Eric slander Tim. "Tim thought big. Brendan was good with details. But Brendan didn't do Tim's work. He took orders…"
Eric snorted in disagreement.
"…there's no question who was the leader."
"So there was friction between them?"
"Major," Eric said. "You've got to know Brendan to appreciate him. 'The little engine that could.'"
Hardy came back to Ann. "What else did they fight about? Besides you?"
She hesitated. "I think some of Tim's financial decisions. Tim was more of a risk taker."
"With Parnassus's money?" Hardy's main interest was the murder, but if he could uncover some business dirt that might be helpful to Jackman, he'd be glad to have it.
"Well, I don't know exactly. The last couple of years they've had to run pretty lean…and then there were some personnel problems-"
"Me, for example."
Ann shrugged. It was the truth. "Well, yes. Among others."
Kensing amplified. "Brendan wanted Tim to fire me straight out starting three or four years ago. Make an example of me."
"Why? What had you done?"
"General attitude, I think, more than anything. Lack of respect. I kind of took the lead in standing up for the patients over money."
Ann jumped in to qualify that. "Tim would say in resisting the company-"
Hardy cut off the potential argument. "So how did the secretary get involved in all this? He had no real power, did he?"
"How did Rasputin get in?" Eric asked. "He had no real power, either."
The dynamic was still eluding Hardy. "But the guy's just a secretary, right?"
For the first time, Ann and Eric shared the same reaction-a shared joke. "Mr. Driscoll," Eric explained, "was an executive assistant. Never, ever, ever a secretary."
"And I hope that's clear," Ann added, a wan smile flickering.
"As to how he got where he did," Eric kept it on point, "as Ann's mentioned, he was the detail guy. Well, you take care of enough details, pretty soon it looks like you run the shop."
Ann started to say something, perhaps defend Markham again, but Eric held out his hand, stopping her. "Look, this is what happens. You get called to the office of the CEO, you're uptight to begin with. So you're waiting outside Markham's office by Brendan's desk, and his attitude tells you that whatever trouble you might have thought you were in, in fact it's worse.
"Then, while you wait and wait, and you do, Brendan the very well-dressed and extremely formal executive assistant basically explains the ground rules. Mr. Markham doesn't like personal confrontation. He prefers to keep meetings short. Within a week, he tells you, you'll receive a written pre´cis of the main points covered and actions you discussed that would be taken. You should then sign this letter to acknowledge its contents and return it to the office.
"The point got made. The guy had developed this just unbelievable array of rules and protocol, all designed to insulate and protect his boss. I mean, he'd write in unsigned postscripts at the bottom of letters, and you'd think they were from Tim."
Suddenly, hearing the specifics, Hardy understood completely. David Freeman's receptionist, Phyllis, was a lesser version of Brendan Driscoll. Hardy had been humorously pressing Freeman to fire her for about five years, but the old man wouldn't hear of it, saying he'd never get his work done without her. And perhaps he believed it. But Hardy had on several occasions seen Phyllis restrict access to Freeman so thoroughly-and with such sincere compassion and sympathy-that associates she didn't like had finally quit the firm over it, thinking all the while it had been Freeman who'd been stiffing them. "And Tim was okay with this?" Hardy asked.
"Actually, no," Ann said. "When he finally started seeing the extent of it. I think it was one of those things that started small, you know, then over time got out of hand."
"Enough to get Driscoll fired?" Hardy asked.
Ann hesitated. She brushed some hair back away from her forehead. "The truth is that Tim felt he was having some kind of midlife breakdown. The business was falling apart around him, then his marriage, his kids, all that. That's why he went back to Carla, to see if he could save something he'd worked years to build, but it's also why he couldn't fire Brendan, though he knew he should. But he couldn't while everything else in his life was in such upheaval. He depended on him too completely."
Hardy didn't know how much of it was true, how much was a function of Markham's rationalizations to his mistress so that he could appear sensitive and caring. One thing was sure, though-Ann believed it.
"Did Tim talk to him?" Hardy asked. "Give him any kind of warning?"
"Sure. Brendan knew, I think, that Tim had made up his mind to let him go. It was just a question of the timing. Tim couldn't hide that from him if he wanted to, I don't think. If that's what you're asking."
And suddenly, Hardy was thinking that Driscoll was at least some kind of suspect. "How did he feel about Carla?"
"You mean would he kill her? And the kids? What for?"
"That's my question."
She was still thinking about her answer when Kensing had one. "If he felt that Tim was personally dumping him, I could see him wanting to wipe out any trace of him. The whole family."
But this was San Francisco. Hardy had to ask the question. "And you're convinced, Ann, that Tim was completely straight. Sexually. He and Brendan didn't have something else going on?"
"Tim wasn't gay," Ann said, dismissing the idea out of hand. "Promise."
Which, Hardy knew, did not make it a certainty by any means.
Eric spoke up again. "But if Brendan kills Tim, he's unemployed."
"But he's not fired, is he? He's the loyal and hardworking executive assistant up until the very end. He gets another job in fifteen minutes." Another thought occurred to Hardy, another tack. "When you threw him out of the ICU, where did he go?"
"I don't know. Off the floor, anyway." There must have been very little pleasure in the original situation, but Kensing relished something about the memory of it. "He didn't seem to believe that I could do that to him. Order him out of there. He found out."
"And you're sure he didn't return before the code blue?"
"I don't think he did. I can't say for sure. I told you, I was busy out in the hall."
"But he was definitely still in the hospital, at least."
"Oh yeah. After Tim died…" He sighed again. "He didn't take it well. It was pathetic, in fact. Embarrassing."
Hardy checked his watch. He had forty-five minutes before he needed to be home and he didn't want to start something he couldn't finish. But putting these two together was turning out very well, and Ann-as Markham's lover-had access to parts of his psyche that would be unknown to anyone else. "Let me ask you, Ann," he began. "What was in those original memos to Ross that made Tim so mad?"
"Let me guess," Kensing said. "Sinustop?"
Ann nodded. "That's it." She looked at Hardy. "Have you heard of it?"
"It's a new hay fever pill, isn't it?" Hardy had a vague memory. "But there was some problem with it?"
"Not for most people," Kensing said. "Some people, though, developed the unfortunate side effect of death. This was after the reps dumped thousands of samples on us and the directive came down from the corporate office-"
"From Dr. Ross," Ann interrupted. "He made those decisions. Not Tim."
"If you say so." Kensing's look told Hardy he wasn't buying that. "Anyway," he continued, "this stuff was so inexpensive and miraculous that we were strongly urged to prescribe it to all of our patients with any and all allergy symptoms. You know about samples?"
"Not enough," Hardy replied. "Tell me."
"Well, any new drug comes out, their reps go out and try to get doctors to give them to patients for free. The idea, of course, is brand-name recognition. The stuff works, it's on the formulary, we prescribe it. Bingo, a wonder drug is born. But the sample campaign for Sinustop was just unbelievable. Nationwide, they must have given away a billion pills."
"And this was unusual?"
Kensing nodded soberly. "The numbers were unusual, yes."
"So what was the problem between Markham and Ross?" Hardy asked.
Ann looked over at Eric, then back to Hardy. "Tim heard about the first death and got a bad gut feeling. He asked Ross to call back all the samples and take it off the formulary until they could check it out further."
"But he didn't?"
Ann shook her head. "Worse than that, really. He and Tim had had these fights before, but Ross was really super-invested in this one. He tells Tim he's the medical director, he knows this stuff. Tim just runs the business side. Why doesn't he stick to that and keep his nose out of the medicine, which he doesn't know anything about?"
"So they went at it?"
Kensing seemed jolted out of his silence. "Wait a minute. Wait a minute. You're not saying Tim was the good guy here, I hope?"
She faced him with an angry and pitiless look. "What's he supposed to do, Eric? Tell me that."
Hardy didn't want to let any more friction develop. Kensing had enough reasons to hate Markham on his own-he wasn't going to change his mind because maybe Tim had been a better CEO than he'd thought. "So how long had Tim and Ross been together?"
"They were two of the founders." She shrugged. "You could look it up.
"And recently they'd had more than one of these Sinustop-type fights?"
She frowned. "A few. Tim thought Ross's decisions weren't good medicine. He believed we had to keep delivering a good product-"
"Product," Eric said, snorting. "I like that."
Hardy ignored the interruption. "But then with Sinustop, things got worse? What finally happened?"
"Well, Ross got his way. They didn't pull the samples-"
Kensing supplied the ending. "And sixteen other people died around the country. Two of them with Parnassus."
In the telling, Hardy had come to remember the scandal clearly now. But although it had been prominent in the news, he didn't recall that Parnassus had been any part of it, and he said as much.
Ann jumped to Markham's defense. "Tim covered for Ross, that's why."
Kensing was shaking his head. "Not." He turned to Hardy. "Tim released a statement that the two patients who had died had taken samples they'd gotten here from before the first death had been reported-apparently this was true-and that we'd recalled all the samples and taken Sinustop off the formulary at the first indication of any problem. Not true. And if you call that covering for Ross…"
"That's what he did," Ann snapped at him.
Hardy jumped in before the smoldering anger in the room could erupt again. "Okay, good," he said. "That's the kind of thing I want you both to keep thinking about." He turned to each of them in turn. But tension remained high.
He was afraid to push his luck any further. Standing, he kept up his patter to keep them from each other. "I'm afraid I've got another appointment. Mrs. Kensing, thanks for your time. We're settled in terms of the kids, right? All good there? Eric, I'd like a few words with you on our way out. I'll wait while you tell your children good night."
"Honey, I'm home!" Ricky Ricardo he wasn't, but for years early in their marriage, Hardy had come through the front door with his dead-on imitation. He'd made it with four minutes to spare by his watch, and considering the ever-escalating demands of the case that had been consuming his hours, he felt he'd done well.
All lanky arms and legs, Rebecca came flying down the hallway. "Daddy! I'm so glad you're home." She jumped at him and knocked him back, but he held on and gave her a spin.
In the dining room, the table was set. Frannie came to the door of the kitchen with her arms crossed over her chest, but she was smiling. "Cutting it close, buster. Very, very close."
"I'll get better, I promise."
They shared a chaste married kiss. Vincent, hanging back by the family room, said, "Gross."
So the two adults made eye contact and suddenly had their arms around each other, making out like teenagers. He picked Frannie all the way up off the ground and she kicked back her heels.
"Gross me out," Vincent shouted.
"C'mon, you guys! Please. Just stop, okay." This was Rebecca, arbiter of social correctness to the whole family.
"I can't help it," Hardy said, finally stopping. "Your mother makes me crazy."
"Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me," Frannie begged.
Hardy complied. The romantic assault drove the two kids to the front of the house, gagging at peak volume. The last kiss turned into a semireal one, and when it ended, Frannie caught her breath for a second, then said, "Oh, that reminds me. Treya called this morning. We talked for nearly an hour."
Hardy was thinking this was swell. The wives were going to referee, and that would end with them all hating one another.
"What about?" he asked.
"She's pregnant."
Malachi Ross sat kitty-corner to Marlene Ash at a large table in the Police Commissioner's Hearing Room, facing the members of the grand jury. When Ross had first come in, he took the oath and sat down, declining to remove the jacket to his suit. This had been a mistake. Once the initial opportunity had passed, no other appropriate moment presented itself. He didn't want to seem nervous. Which he was. By now he was sweating heavily.
Rooms in the Hall of Justice were traditionally far too hot or way too cold. Due to the state power crisis, maintenance crews had adjusted each and every one of the thermostats in the building. Now all the rooms that had been too cold were too hot and vice versa. It must have been eighty degrees in the airless chamber.
Ross's original plan was to cooperate fully with the investigation into Tim Markham's death, and to that end his time in the witness chair began amicably enough. For nearly a half hour, this attractive and competent woman walked him through the many years of his and Tim's relationship, the founding of Parnassus, the social contacts shared by the two men. Ms. Ash was looking for the person who had killed Tim. He had expected this sort of background drill, had even mentally prepared himself for it.
He'd just given the grand jury a couple of minutes on the nature of his professional relationship with Mr. Markham. He'd told them that there had been very little friction between the two of them over the course of a dozen years, although of course they'd had their disagreements. But basically, they respected and trusted each other.
Marlene Ash took this moment to stand up and move off a few steps into the center of the room. This was when the focus of the interrogation began to change. "Dr. Ross," she said, turning back to where he sat, "how is Parnassus doing financially right now?"
He took a misdirected shot at some levity. "We're doing about as well as most health organizations in the country, which isn't saying much. But we're still afloat, if that's what you mean."
A frigid smile. "Not quite. I was hoping you could tell us with more specificity. One can be afloat and still sinking at the same time, isn't that right? Wasn't that the entire second half of Titanic? Aren't you now the acting CEO of the corporation?"
"Yes." He composed himself, looking down at his linked fingers. When he raised his gaze to the grand jury, the effect of the tragedy he'd endured was apparent. "After last Tuesday, after Tim-Mr. Markham-died, the board appointed me CEO on an interim basis."
"So you're intimately familiar with the company's financial situation, are you not?"
"Well, it's been less than a week. I wouldn't say I've got the handle on it that Mr. Markham had, but I'm reasonably conversant with the numbers, yes. And frankly, have been for some time."
"Then you would know if, in fact, Parnassus is under some financial duress, wouldn't you?"
"Yes."
"Has the company, in fact, considered filing for bankruptcy?"
Understanding that financial pressures at Parnassus would clearly appear to the DA to be a possible motive for Markham's death, Ross had expected his inquisitor to get to this line of questioning sometime, but now that it was here, he felt somewhat unprepared. He ran a couple of fingers over his damp forehead, considered whether he should ask permission to take off his coat, or simply do it. In the end, he did nothing. "It's certainly been discussed. It's an option we've considered."
"Do you know if Mr. Markham had considered it, as well?"
"Yes. The matter has been on the table now for some time."
During the next forty-five minutes, Ash led him on a grueling journey through the Parnassus books, through the intricacies of incomes, copays, expenses, payrolls, premiums, and corporate salaries. The damned woman seemed to know enough to cut through his obfuscation and get to the real nuts and bolts of how the place worked. Ross knew that many other employees had also gotten subpoenas, and figuring that on balance they would tell the truth, he had no choice but to stay close to the facts himself.
"So, Dr. Ross, to your knowledge is Parnassus going bankrupt in the next six months? If not, please explain how you plan to keep the company solvent."
The sheer effrontery of the question made him want to snap back that it was none of her goddamn business, but he realized that he was trapped.
Now began a cat-and-mouse game where he provided as vague and general a version as possible of his plans for Parnassus, from which Ash-calm, collected, and apparently with all the time in the world-pried out details, one by one and piece by piece. He felt as if he were being very slowly ground to sausage.
By the time they finished, the water pitcher in front of him was empty, and he was so wet with perspiration he might well have dumped its contents over his head instead of drinking it. The only good news was that the questions about the formulary had centered on the dollars and cents, details such as how much items cost and the volume of prescriptions. Ash didn't really probe how new drugs got listed in the first place. Ross found it agonizing to wait for that shoe to drop-what if they knew? Or even suspected? Wouldn't they have had to tell him he was under investigation? Would he have to stop and insist on seeing a lawyer?
But these fears remained unrealized. Ash moved along to her own priorities. "So, Dr. Ross, to summarize. It is your testimony under oath that you do not expect Parnassus to go bankrupt within the next six months, whether or not the city pays the thirteen-million-dollar bill it has presented."
Ross put on a fresh face for the nineteen citizens seated in front of him. He was surprised to see such a focus, an apparent interest, in most of them. They were waiting for his answer, although he had a sense of gathering impatience. But maybe, he realized, that was him. "Well, never say never. Bankruptcy protects the corporation from its creditors, true, and we could indeed use some relief there if the city defaults on its obligation. But with a group like us, when our biggest client is the city and county of San Francisco, it would also negatively impact our credibility, which is not too high as it is. As some of you may know, we've been getting a lot of bad press lately."
"I'm glad you brought that up, Dr. Ross." Ash looked like she meant it. "I was hoping that you could give us some insight on the type of disagreements that must have surfaced at Parnassus in light of, say, the Baby Emily case. I should tell you that the grand jury already has a working knowledge of those events. Maybe you could fill in some of the blank spots? Specifically, Mr. Markham's role and reactions of various staff to it. Please begin with Mr. Markham."
"Are you saying you think his death might be related to Baby Emily or something of that nature?"
"That's what this inquiry is about, Doctor. Mr. Markham's death." She had moved a few steps closer to him and now, standing while he sat, she loomed as somewhat threatening. "Someone introduced a lethal dose of potassium into his IV. As a doctor, would you agree that it is unlikely that this could have been an accident?"
Ross didn't know what kind of answer Ash wanted. He wished they would have allowed him to bring his lawyer into the room. He had to rely now upon the truth, and this made him uneasy. "It's always possible to give an improper dose of any drug. If Mr. Markham's heartbeat had become irregular, I could envision the need to administer a therapeutic dose of potassium. It's also possible, though rare, for a drug's concentration in solution to differ from what's on the label."
He was slightly shocked to find Ash prepared for this. "Of course. Please assume we have the drip bag that held the potassium in this case, and the concentration is correct. Also assume that there is no indication that Mr. Markham's heart, prior to the attack brought on by the overdose, was malfunctioning. So given these assumptions, do you have any explanation for these events other than that this was an intentionally administered overdose?"
Ross wiped sweat from his upper lip. "I guess I don't see any other possibility. Do you mind if I take off my coat?"
"Not at all." In half a minute, he was seated again. Ash hadn't lost her place. "So, Doctor, if Mr. Markham was intentionally overdosed-"
"I didn't say that." Then, amending, "I didn't realize we'd gotten to there."
At this, Ash turned dramatic. She paused, as though in midthought, and glared down at him. "That's exactly where we are, Doctor. Did you and Mr. Markham have serious disagreements, for example, over policy?"
Ross lifted his chin in controlled outrage. "Are you joking?" he asked her.
"About what?"
"As I take it, you're asking me if some argument about business would have made me want to kill my longtime friend and business partner. I resent the hell out of the question."
"I never asked that question," Ash said. "You made that leap yourself. But having asked it, please answer." She fixed him with a steadfast gaze.
He matched her with one of his own. "No, then, nothing. Nothing that even remotely would have made me consider anything like that." He spoke directly to the jury. "Tim was my friend, a close friend."
Ross forced himself to slow down. A fresh pitcher of water had appeared-maybe it had been there for a while. He poured some into his glass and took a sip. "I need to point out, Ms. Ash, that the medical decision on Baby Emily, though hugely unpopular, wasn't all wrong. Baby Emily did in fact make it to County and to the premature baby unit, where she lived until she was transported back to Portola. I didn't kill her by any means, or even endanger her unnecessarily."
"But how did Mr. Markham react to all this?"
"He was all right with it until it became big news."
"You two did not have words over it?"
"Of course we did, after it blew up on us. He thought I should have consulted him, that I shouldn't have acted only on business considerations." Again, he directed his words to the grand jury. "We had some heated words, that's true. We run a big, complicated business together, and our roles sometimes overlap. We'd been doing this for twelve years." He made some eye contact, decided he'd be damned if he'd even dignify Ash's insinuation with a further denial.
As they'd been sitting down to the Tuesday lunch group at Lou the Greek's, Treya had made apologies for Glitsky's absence. He'd been called away at the last minute to a murder scene in Hunter's Point. Hardy was convinced that this excuse was an outright falsehood.
A murder scene at Hunter's Point indeed, he mused. As though they didn't happen every week. Hardy knew that unless some gangbangers had slaughtered themselves and twenty or thirty other bystanders in a daylight shootout involving children, drugs, the Goodyear blimp, and a sighting of the Zodiac Killer, Glitsky the administrator wouldn't need to be called to a "murder scene in Hunter's Point."
In Hardy's mind, the nature of the excuse had even deeper implications. The mundanity of the explanation, though perfectly plausible on the surface, was in reality so lame that Hardy took it to be a secret yet personal fuck-you message to himself. Murder scene, my ass, he thought. Right up there with "My grandmother died." Or "The dog ate my homework."
Furious at most of them, but especially at him, Abe was avoiding the group today. It probably hadn't helped when he'd gotten the word this morning that Jackman had directed Strout to go ahead with Wes Farrell's request to dig up his clients' mother. Before they'd sat down, Strout told Hardy that he had called Abe as a courtesy to tell him about this decision. He'd endured an angry earful of Glitsky's opinion on the question, then thanked him for it, and said he'd be going ahead on Jackman's approval anyway.
But no one else seemed bothered by his absence. They'd barely gotten settled before the conversation had gotten into full swing. David Freeman had started with a few comments about the Parnassus situation, how prescient they'd all been last week. Before too long, half the table had chimed in with one comment or another. Eventually, they got to Jeff Elliot's first column on Malachi Ross, which led Jeff to ask Marlene Ash if she'd talked to Ross yet and, if so, how he'd fared before the grand jury.
She'd smiled, glanced at Jackman, and sipped her iced tea. "No comment, I'm afraid, even if we're off the record here."
"Ross and Markham were close personal friends is what I hear," Hardy said. "Never a cross word between them." He shot a look at Treya across the table from him. "Kind of like me and Abe."
But Elliot thought he knew where the story lay. "Let me ask you this, Marlene," he began. "Diz thinks they are close personal friends, yet I have heard that they disagreed on just about every decision either one of them made over the past couple of years-Baby Emily, Sinustop, formulary issues, you name it."
Marlene Ash sipped her iced tea. "I can't talk about it, Jeff. It's the grand jury, get it? I'm not even saying who I talked to. You want to think it was Ross, you go ahead."
"It was today, though, right? The grand jury still meets Tuesdays and Thursdays?"
Gina Roake joined in. "Anybody else here for repealing the First Amendment?" But the words were innocent banter, lightly delivered. "She can't talk about it, Jeff. Really. Even to an ace reporter like yourself."
"And far be it from me to try to make her." Elliot shook his head, truly amused at the games these lawyers played, and apparently even took seriously. He flashed a smile around the table. "However, for our own edification, Dr. Ross has a secretary, Joanne, who told me when I called that that's where he was. I don't think she's been let in on the top secret part."
"She talked to you," Roake asked incredulously, "after what you did to her boss last week?"
Elliot nodded soberly. "She might have gotten the impression that I called to apologize or something."
As Freeman and Jackman fell into a more serious discussion about last week's issue-the possibly fraudulent outpatient billings-Hardy leaned over and spoke quietly to Elliot. "How'd you hear about Sinustop?"
"Same way I found out Ross was at the grand jury. I'm a reporter. I ask. You'd be surprised. People talk."
"Not as surprised as you'd think. I've talked to a few people myself. Have you found anything on Kensing's list?"
Elliot gave the high sign and stopped as Lou came around and described today's special, which involved eggplant, tofu, squid, and some kind of sesame oil-based sweet-and-sour sauce. Really good, he promised, maybe even a culinary breakthrough, although those weren't the exact words he used.
When they'd all ordered the special, since there was no other choice, Lou moved to another table, and the buzz resumed at Jackman's. Elliot leaned back toward Hardy. "But about those unexplained deaths? I know one thing is true. It's a definite rumor."
Hardy's face fell. Was Jeff ahead of him on checking out the names on Kensing's list? Maybe he'd discovered that eight of the others had died, like James Lector, of natural causes. "What do you mean?" Hardy asked.
"I said that wrong, I think. Calm down." Elliot put a hand on Hardy's sleeve. "I don't mean it's only a rumor, as in there's no truth to it. What I mean is it's a rumor, a lot of people are talking about it. If I could find a few more items like that, I'd like to patch them all together and get another column, but there's no story there yet. I've talked to some people at Portola, but nobody has even one small factoid. It sucks."
"What about our friend Ross?"
A shrug. "I did him already, you might recall. And after that, it's pretty much a one-note samba. Ross and Mother Teresa don't share a common worldview, but other than the fact that he's greedy, heartless, and rich, I can't seem to get another column inch out of it."
"I may have something for you. Pay attention."
Hardy then directed his attention across the table. "John." He raised his voice so Strout could hear him. "I almost forgot."
He took an envelope from his pocket and passed it across. "Do me a favor. Next time I give ten-to-one odds on anything, remind me about this one."
As Hardy had intended, this little show engaged everyone's interest. He'd originally planned the move as a way to make his case indirectly to Glitsky. If he could draw the group into a discussion on the Lector autopsy without having to labor over it, Abe might come to see that Hardy's position wasn't entirely self-serving, that it wasn't a lawyer's cheap smoke screen, either, that the idea had merit on its own and had been worth pursuing. Now, though, he realized that he could make a similar impression on Treya and trust that it would get back to Abe through her. For the truth remained-if he couldn't get Glitsky working on his side, he would almost certainly never completely clear his client's name.
Also, though still raw with anger, he wasn't inclined to lose his best friend over his job. He already had sacrificed enough to his career.
To the chorus of questions, Hardy replied that it was merely the payment of a debt of honor. "I felt strongly that James Lector had been killed at Portola, as Tim Markham had been, although maybe not in the exact same way. And I put my money where my mouth was."
Jackman and Freeman disagreed as to whether this was noble or idiotic, but the discussion did give Hardy the opportunity to segue into Wes Farrell's situation with Mrs. Loring, which had been his other intention all along.
Elliot, he noticed, started taking notes.
But Jackman wasn't letting Hardy off without some kind of a warning. They were standing on the corner of Seventh and Bryant just after lunch, waiting for the light. Jackman had held Hardy back under the guise of telling him an off-color joke about Arkansas vasectomies. These were quite common, it seemed, and involved a can of beer, a cherry bomb, and the inability to count to ten without using your fingers. When Hardy finished laughing, he found that they'd hung back enough now to be alone at the curb. Jackman was good with jokes because he never laughed at his own punch lines. No part of him was laughing now. "I did want to make one serious point, Diz, if you can spare another minute."
The switch in tone was abrupt enough to be surprising, and Hardy's expression showed it. "All right," he said. "Of course."
"Due to the nature of our deal, I've been working under an assumption that I've taken to be true, but-Marlene mentioned this to me last night, just before I decided to okay your request for John's second autopsy-"
"That wasn't me, sir. That was Wes Farrell. It's his client."
"Diz." The voice was deep, nearly caressing. Avuncular, Jackman laid a hand that seemed to weigh about thirty pounds on Hardy's shoulder. "Let's not go there."
Hardy thought these were as impressive and effective a few syllables as he'd ever heard. "Sorry," he said, and he meant it.
"As I was saying"-Jackman's hand was back in his pocket, they were strolling now in the crosswalk-"I've been working under the assumption that we are sharing our information. We're giving you our discovery, and you in turn are giving us your client's cooperation before the grand jury when he gets there. But beyond that, I would hope you're also giving us-giving Abe, specifically-whatever information you uncover that doesn't implicate your client."
They walked a few steps in silence. Hardy finally spoke. "He's not been in much of a listening mood lately."
"I realize that, but I'd appreciate it if you'd keep trying."
"That's been my intention. But the deal was that my client would talk to the grand jury, not a bunch of cops in a small room with a videotape machine."
"I take your point. But Abe seems to be skating toward the erroneous conclusion that somehow we're all conniving to circumvent due process." They'd reached the steps of the Hall of Justice and stopped walking. Jackman was frowning deeply. "I'm extremely sensitive to this issue. To even the appearance of it."
"Has Abe actually said that?"
"No. But he doesn't like being ordered not to arrest someone."
"With respect, Clarence, that's nothing like what you did. You admitted when we cut the deal that you probably didn't have enough for a conviction, even with the so-called confession. And now he doesn't even have that."
"Which, I need hardly point out, is the latest complaint."
Hardy nodded. "He's in a complaining mood, Clarence. He thinks I saw the opportunity for emotional blackmail and took it. Which, I need hardly point out, kind of pisses me off. I didn't and wouldn't do that, and Abe of all people ought to know it."
"Well, one of you big boys is going to have to find a way to settle your differences. And meanwhile, Marlene would probably like to be kept informed of what you've discovered, whether it comes through Abe or not. You've obviously got a few things going on. These autopsies, for example. And as an aside, let me say that as a courtesy, and in keeping with our spirit of mutual cooperation, it might have been appropriate to call them to our attention a bit sooner." He waved off Hardy's apology before it began. "It doesn't matter. That's water under the bridge. But don't forget that I've gone out on a limb here, especially with the chief of homicide, on this call to let Strout go ahead. I'm hoping these…unusual exercises have a point, that your client isn't going to do something stupid, or go sideways and refuse to talk at the grand jury. That would make me feel foolish."
"That won't happen, Clarence. But I can't stand here and tell you I've got another suspect who's any better than Kensing. The good news is I have some who aren't much worse."
Jackman took this news mildly. "Then you need to get Abe looking at them."
"That's my fondest dream, Clarence. Honest. Other than Wes Farrell's autopsy paying off."
"With what?"
Hardy's face showed his apprehension. "At this point, Clarence, almost anything."
They said their good-byes and Hardy watched Jackman's back disappear into the building.
A press of humanity was hanging out on the steps, grabbing smokes or snagging last-minute legal advice, or simply ebbing and flowing from the hall itself. A couple of enormous Great Danes were chained to one of the metal banisters. Everyone who passed gave the two dogs a wide berth as they slept on the warm stone-due to the recent death of a young woman by dog mauling, the popularity of man's best friend in the city was at an all-time low. At the far end of the steps, a young Chinese couple was having lunch on either side of a boombox that blared with Asian rap.
The smell of bao-those delicious buns of sticky dough and savory barbecued pork-made him suddenly realize how hungry he was. Lou's special today may have broken new culinary ground, but most of the table hadn't evolved to the point where they could appreciate it. Hardy hadn't eaten more than three bites.
When he'd given Jackman enough time to disappear, Hardy went inside himself and rode the elevator to the fourth floor. Glitsky wasn't in his office. Hardy walked out into the hall and punched a number into his cell phone.
Two rings, then the mellifluous tones. "Glitsky."
"How's Hunter's Point?"
"Who's this?"
"Take a stab."
A beat. "What do you want?"
"Five minutes. Where are you really?"
"Department twenty-two."
This was a courtroom on the third floor. If anything at all had been going on in it, Glitsky would have turned off his phone-not to do so would incur the wrath of judge Leo Chomorro. So the courtroom was dark or in recess and Glitsky was in hiding.
If Hardy was going to accuse Abe of withholding discovery from him-and he was-he was going to do it to his face. The lieutenant sat in the back row, the seat farthest from the center aisle. He looked over briefly at Hardy's entrance, but didn't seem inclined to make an effort to meet him halfway. Which made two of them.
"I just talked to Clarence. He's of a mind that we should cooperate." Hardy's voice echoed in the empty and cavernous space. "I might have mentioned to him that that was a two-way street, but I didn't."
"That was noble of you."
"I was wondering, though, why your inspectors never got around to checking who'd been near the ICU when Mark ham died. Did you just tell them that Kensing did it, so they didn't need to bother?"
Glitsky's head turned to face him. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about Bracco and the other guy, his partner, what they've been doing this past week." Glitsky folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. Hardy took the nonresponse as a kind of answer. "Because I'm having a hard time understanding why they didn't ask any questions at the hospital where Markham died. Doesn't that strike you as odd? That would seem like a logical place to talk to witnesses, wouldn't you think?"
"What's your point?"
"I believe you told them to go there. That's the first place you would have looked."
"That's right. It turns out that was one of the first places we did go. So again, I ask you, what's your point?"
"The point is there wasn't any sign of that in the complete discovery that you were supposedly giving me. The deal was that I got what you got, remember?"
"You did get it," Glitsky said.
"I didn't get anything on anybody at the hospital. And now you tell me your men were there. What do you think that looks like?"
Glitsky seemed to be mulling this over. After a second or two, he glanced at Hardy. "Maybe the transcripts haven't been typed up yet."
"Maybe that's it. So where are the tapes without transcripts, since I also have a bunch of those?" But Hardy had been in the practice of criminal law long enough that he'd learned a few tricks used by police to enhance the odds of a successful prosecution. "Maybe," he added pointedly, "maybe you instructed them to forget to run a tape." This was a popular and not uncommon technique, the exercise of which was almost impossible to prove.
"It occurred to me," Hardy went on, "that since you've decided I'm not playing fair, that you might as well do the same thing."
Glitsky's mouth went tight. His scar stood out. Hardy knew he was hitting Glitsky where it hurt the most, but he had to get through to him somehow.
"And as a consequence it took me four days to find out on my own what you already knew," Hardy said.
"And what is that?"
"That there were any number of people with opportunity and maybe even motive to have killed Markham."
But Glitsky wasn't budging. "If you couldn't find it, that's your problem. My inspectors went and asked. They got a complete chronology for the whole day, from Markham's admittance to…" Suddenly Glitsky stopped, threw a quick look at Hardy, then stared into some middle distance. His nostrils flared and his lips pursed.
"What?" Hardy asked.
Glitsky's expression suddenly changed. Something he remembered made him draw in a quick breath, then visibly clamp down further.
Hardy waited for a beat, said, "I'm listening." He waited some more.
Finally, exuding disgust and embarrassment, the lieutenant began to shake his head slowly from side to side. "They forgot to run a tape. It's Bracco and Fisk, you know, their first case. They just didn't follow protocol and…" He stopped again, knowing it was hopeless to try and explain further. No one, least of all Hardy, would believe him and, under these conditions, he understood that no one should.
Hardy first reacted as Abe expected he must. "I'd call that self-serving on the face of it," he replied crisply. "How convenient that only just now, at the moment I catch you at it, the explanation comes back to you. And such a handy one at that."
The sarcasm fairly dripped.
"There's only one thing." Hardy took a step toward the door to the courtroom, faced his friend, and spoke from the heart. "The thing is, I know you, Abe. I know who you are and I trust every part of it. If you're telling me that's what happened, then that's what happened. End of story."
"That's what happened." Glitsky couldn't look at him.
"All right. Well, then, maybe somebody could write me up a report on what they found so I'm up to speed." He pushed at the door, but then stopped and turned in mid-step. "Oh, and congratulations. Treya called and told Frannie."
Then he was out in the hallway, leaving Glitsky to his demons.