Nothing but the Truth (31 page)
Force of habit almost led him to park across from the jail where he would visit Frannie and check back in with Abe’s office. At this time, late on a Saturday afternoon, there was actually a spot at the curb.
But he kept driving. He wasn’t going to leave any messages now with Glitsky to accompany his note on Damon Kerry’s fingerprints. The way he felt about Ron would spill over somehow and muddy the waters. He didn’t want Glitsky even glancing in Ron’s direction as a viable suspect if he could help it.
And Frannie? She was the reason he was doing any of this in the first place. And sure, he could go hold her hand again, but it would use up two more precious hours. Frannie wanted him to save Ron and his kids and the price of that—for her—was going to be that her husband couldn’t come and console her every time he was in the neighborhood.
Truth be told, Ron’s disappearance had kicked up a renewed dust storm of anger at Frannie, too. And a smaller zephyr at his own gullibility, his continuing efforts in a cause in which he had at best a manufactured faith. He was doing all this for his wife, at her urging. He’d let her deal with the consequences. See how she liked them apples.
But he had to admit that there were developments in this case that didn’t depend on Ron Beaumont, that had piqued his interest on their own. The three men— Canetta, Pierce, and Kerry—who were in mourning over her death. Today’s MTBE poisoning. Al Valens lying. And always—three billion dollars.
Hardy was on automatic, some nonrational process having determined that he should go to his office. He still had two hours until Canetta was due to show up to trade information. The odds were in favor of David Freeman’s being around, working on Saturday. Hardy could bounce his discoveries and hunches off his landlord, a practice that was nearly always instructive.
If Freeman wasn’t there, he’d pore over the copies of Griffin’s notes that Glitsky had given him and see if some new detail caught his attention. It was a backup plan, but at least it was some plan.
And then suddenly the open curb at Fifth near Mission called to him. One legal parking space downtown on a weekday qualified as a miracle, but seeing an entire
side
of Fifth Street nearly empty was nearly the beatific vision. Fresh snow or a morning beach without footprints—you just ached to walk on it. He pulled over and came to a stop directly across from the
Chronicle
building.
side
of Fifth Street nearly empty was nearly the beatific vision. Fresh snow or a morning beach without footprints—you just ached to walk on it. He pulled over and came to a stop directly across from the
Chronicle
building.
It was a sign.
Jeff Elliot was the
Chronicle
columnist who wrote the “Citytalk” column on the political life of the city.
Chronicle
columnist who wrote the “Citytalk” column on the political life of the city.
When Hardy had first met him, he’d been a young, personable, fresh-faced kid from the Midwest who walked with the aid of crutches due to his ongoing battle with multiple sclerosis. Now, although still technically young—Hardy doubted if Jeff had yet turned thirty-five—the baby-faced boy sported a graying, well-trimmed beard. His chest had thickened and his eyes had grown perennially tired. Here in his office just off the city room, the old crutches rested by the door, almost never used anymore. Now, Jeff got around in a wheelchair.
But he was still personable, at least to Hardy, who over the years had been the conduit to a lot of good information and the subject of one or two columns. He and his wife had even been to parties at Hardy’s house.
Jeff had undoubtedly come downtown today after the water poisoning. Barring an assassination of the President or an eight-point earthquake, this was going to be tomorrow’s headline and there were political elements all over it.
But now that Hardy had stuck his head in his door, first things first. Jeff swung away from his computer and motioned him in. “Big D,” he said.
“¿Qué pasa?”
Then he remembered and grew suddenly serious. “How’s Frannie holding up?”
“¿Qué pasa?”
Then he remembered and grew suddenly serious. “How’s Frannie holding up?”
Hardy made a face. What could he say?
Jeff shook his head in disgust. “I’d sue Braun, Pratt, Randall, the whole lot of ’em. Or kill them. Maybe both.”
“No options are out of the question.”
“So you got my call at home?”
“No. I’ve been out all day.”
This surprised Jeff. “Well, the message was that I was going to give this Frannie thing a couple of graphs on Monday, maybe get somebody’s attention. I thought you could give me a good quote.”
Hardy smiled thinly. “Nothing you could print in a family newspaper.”
Jeff looked a question. “So you didn’t get the message and yet you’re here?”
“I saw a free parking place at the curb. Hell, the whole street. What could I do? I said to myself, ‘Self,’ I said, ‘why don’t you have a little off-the-record chat with your good friend Jeff Elliot?’ ”
This brought a smile. Long ago, Hardy had neglected to preface some remarks to Jeff that they were off the record. It hadn’t worked out too well, and since then Hardy had made it a point to include the words “off the record” in every discussion he ever had with Jeff, even purely social ones.
Jeff smiled. “I was waiting for that.”
“Plus,” Hardy continued, “I thought it was possible you might know something I don’t.”
“Probably. I’m good on the Middle Ages and Victorian England.”
“Dang.” Hardy snapped his fingers. “Neither of those. I was thinking more about Frannie, Bree or Ron Beaumont, this MTBE business.” Hardy thought a minute. “Damon Kerry. Al Valens.”
Jeff cracked a grin. “You done? I think you left out my wife and a couple of senators.”
Hardy spread his palms in a frustrated gesture. “I can’t seem to get much of it to hang together.”
The columnist swung his wheelchair around to face Hardy. “In return for which I get the exclusive of the big secret Frannie’s gone to jail about?”
“Nope, but you might get Bree’s killer before anybody else.”
“Are you close to that? Everybody’s saying it’s the husband. Ron, is it?”
A shake of the head. “Abe Glitsky, whom you may remember is head of homicide, is definitely not saying it. And Abe be the man on this stuff.”
“He’s not on Ron?”
Pause. “It’s not Ron.”
He’d
almost
said that Glitsky was affirmatively saying it wasn’t Ron, which wasn’t true. But if that’s what Jeff Elliot heard, he wouldn’t correct the impression.
almost
said that Glitsky was affirmatively saying it wasn’t Ron, which wasn’t true. But if that’s what Jeff Elliot heard, he wouldn’t correct the impression.
“So who’s your guess? You got one?”
In his chair, Hardy drew a deep breath. He’d gathered a lot of information. But in spite of feeling as though he’d gotten somewhere in his investigation, he realized that he couldn’t precisely define where that was. When he asked Elliot to tell him about Damon Kerry, it surprised him almost as much as it did Jeff. Where had that question come from?
Jeff was shaking his head. “That’s got to be a big negatory, Diz.”
“Maybe. But I’d sure like to know more than I do about the two of them, Bree and the good candidate.”
For a response, Jeff sat all the way back in his wheelchair behind his desk. He pulled at his mustache, scratched his beard, brushed at the front of his shirt.
“No hurry,” Hardy prodded, shooting Jeff a hopeful grin. “It’s only Frannie doing hard time for keeping a promise.”
Finally, the reporter sighed. “You know, the connections, ” he said. “You don’t put them together.” But Jeff wasn’t quite ready to spill anything, not yet. The impish smile from his youth flittingly appeared as he came forward, his hands together on the desk. “You know that off-the-record thing we do? This is one of those, private and personal.”
“Done. Understood.” Hardy was beginning to feel a little like a Catholic priest in a confessional. A couple more days like the last few and he’d know every secret in the world and wouldn’t be able to tell any of them. But if that was the price for knowledge, he had to pay it.
Eve’s bad trade. He could only hope it wouldn’t turn out as badly for him as it had for her.
Jeff underscored it. “So this is personal, your ears only. If it doesn’t directly help Frannie, it stays here.”
“Deal.” Hardy got up and they shook hands over the desk. “So what connections?” he asked.
“What you just said. Frannie in jail. Kerry in another file in the brainpan—the election, the water poisoning today, all that. I didn’t put them together.” His eyes shone with interest. “But they are together, aren’t they? They’re all Bree.”
“That’s my guess.”
Jeff fidgeted in his chair, came to his decision, nodded.
“Have I mentioned the off-the-record thing?”
Hardy was dying to learn what Jeff knew, but it never helped to show it. He broke an easy smile. “Once or twice.”
He waited.
“The thing about Kerry is that he’s really a good guy, especially for a politician. I’ve been with him more than a few times, in press rooms, after the odd banquet, off the record—much like you and me right now, and he’s decent. Plus he plays straight with us.”
“Us?”
“Reporters, media, like that.”
“Okay.” And . . . ?
“Okay, so a guy like that, sometimes a guy like me finds out a fact and kind of unofficially decides it doesn’t have to be in the public interest.”
Hardy’s eyebrows went up. “Excuse me. I thought I just heard you say that the media could show some restraint.”
Jeff acknowledged the point with a wry face. “I’m talking personal here. Me. It’s not something I brag about, but it happens. Sometimes.” At Hardy’s skeptical look, he spread his palms wide. “Okay, rarely. But the point is, Kerry’s not married—he can date anybody he wants. As our President has pointed out, it’s his private life. It’s not news.”
“But Bree was married.”
“And maybe they didn’t do anything let’s say carnal. Maybe she just hung around a lot and it was purely the campaign and business.”
Hardy leaned forward. “But you know otherwise?”
“Did I catch them
in flagrante?
No. But I know. My opinion is they were in love with each other.”
in flagrante?
No. But I know. My opinion is they were in love with each other.”
This took a minute to digest, although Hardy had come to suspect it.
But Jeff was going on. “She only lived a half-dozen blocks from him, both of ’em up on Broadway, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know about him. I knew she did.”
“Well, Kerry, too. His place is that little thirty-room shack just up from Baker. You’d remember it if you saw it, and you have.” Jeff seemed almost relieved to be able to let his secret out. If he’d promised not to print it, telling somebody who in turn couldn’t tell was next best. “Anyway, couple of months ago I was pushing Damon for an interview—as I said, we go back a ways, too—and he said meet him at his place after hours, he’d dig up something for me. He was coming in from Chico or someplace, was going to be alone, which meant without Valens. Except when I got there, who opens the door but Bree Beaumont.”
“Dressed?”
Jeff chuckled. “You’ve got a dirty mind. Let’s go with casually attired. Casually and very, very attractively.” He paused, remembering, then blew out a rush of air. “Very. Low green silk blouse, linen pants, barefoot. I distinctly remember she forgot her underwear on top. Believe me, it was the kind of thing you noticed, especially on her, even if you weren’t a trained reporter like me, alive to every detail.”
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