“Nothing specific.”
“Specific’s what we like,” Griffin said. “How about general?”
“You had to know the guy, I guess.” That called for no response, and Griffin waited it out. “His wife… I mean, he wasn’t the kind of person who kills himself.”
“He wasn’t?” It was hard to keep the sarcasm out. Griffin had seen suicides from derelicts to socialites, from healthy beautiful teenage girls to terminally ill wheelchair patients. “I’ll note that in the file,” he said.
Hardy uncrossed his legs. “It’s not as ridiculous as it sounds,” he said, not defensive, as though he at least understood how it sounded. “Some people get depressed, you know. Life gets ’ em down. There ’s some warning. I thought it might help to know that Ed-on the outside-was a positive guy.”
“Look, Mr…”
“Hardy.”
“Mr. Hardy. We go on the assumption-”
“I know the routine, inspector. I used to be a cop. I was hoping you might go a little beyond the routine in this case.”
Griffin felt his face getting red. Go beyond the routine for a friend of Abe Glitsky’s who’s implying I’m not doing my job well enough? Go beyond the routine when no matter how good I am I won’t get promoted over any black or Latino or woman or fucking police dog if they had any constituency in the city? And was Glitsky somehow tied in to this, siccing a cop on him?
“I don’t really like the implication there,” Griffin said.
“I’m not implying anything, or don’t mean to be.”
“Seems to me you’re saying my routine won’t get the job done right.”
“I’m saying that knowing what kind of guy Ed was might put things in a different light, that’s all.”
“Yeah, it might. I’ll keep it in mind.” Griffin stood up. So did Hardy. “So how’s Glitsky involved?”
Hardy shrugged it off. “I just know him. I started with him.”
“Yeah, well, this is my case. So you can tell Abe if he wants it he can go through channels.”
Hardy held his hands out. “Look. Abe’s got nothing to do with this. I’m a citizen. I’m here with a reasonable request. That’s it.”
Griffin studied the guy’s face. No sign he was lying, which might mean he was a great liar. “Okay, but you got no evidence.”
“I know.”
“So unless we get something more that points to murder, it’s gonna go down as suicide.”
“That’s why I was hoping maybe we could go over what you’ve got.”
“Just go fishing, huh? Afraid I’ll miss something?” Griffin couldn’t stop himself. The anger just kept resurfacing.
Surprisingly, the guy didn’t rise to it. Instead, he took it in for a beat, then offered a smile and stuck out his hand. “Nope. I’m sure if something’s there, you’ll find it. Thanks for your time.”
Griffin leaned his butt back against his desk, watching Hardy walk across the office. Fucking watchdog, he thought. He didn’t know what Glitsky wanted out of this, but if he wanted to find something so bad, let him find it himself. And on his own time.
So official cooperation wasn’t likely to be forthcoming, Hardy thought as he drove out to the Mission District. And also, which he didn’t understand at all, it seemed to be getting to be a better bet that they’d come up with a suicide, which would be a further disaster for Frannie. The fact that there was no apparent motive obviously wasn’t making Griffin, at least, lose any sleep. In the city with the Golden Gate Bridge, suicide must not seem like all that much of an aberration.
Chapter Seven
FRANNIE AND Ed’s place was a large corner flat with a rounded window jutting out from the living room over the steep street.
Hardy knocked at the door, straight in from the sidewalk without a stoop of any kind. It was four P.M., already a long day, and by far the hottest one of the year.
He barely heard the “Who is it?”
Frannie hugged him for a long time in the doorway. She was barefoot, wearing a white nightgown. She’d obviously been taking a nap. Her long red hair was a wreck, the skin around her eyes nearly black, her lips puffed like a wound.
She led the way to the living room and left Hardy there. The first thing he did was open two windows to let in some air. It didn’t make much difference.
He heard Frannie somewhere behind him.
The room was a friendly mixture of Goodwill and teak. A stereo and some small but, Hardy knew, excellent Blaupunkt speakers, two mismatched, upholstered chairs, a couch, and two bentwoods, on one of which Hardy sat.
Hardwood floors reflected the late-afternoon sun onto clean painted walls. There were three framed works of art on the walls: one of Hockney’s “Pools,” a view of San Francisco from the Marin side of the Bay, and one of Goines’s Chez Panisse posters. A coffee table was pushed into another corner, and on it was a small television set. Homemade bookshelves held an impressive collection of books and some records.
He sensed more than heard her approach. Still barefoot, barely five feet tall and ninety pounds tops, Frannie had tried to comb her hair and put some red in her cheeks, but she needn’t have bothered. Dressed now in jeans and a T-shirt, what she really wore most noticeably was the loss.
He stood. She stopped in the doorway, not moving. “Sorry for the…” she whispered. “I’m just…” She tried again. “Would you like something? Beer? Coffee?”
To give her something to do, Hardy said a beer would be good.
She came back a minute later with two cans of Bud and a chilled mug. “Ed always liked me to keep a mug in the freezer.” She poured expertly. “But you know that.”
“You ought to work for Moses.”
She tried to smile, but it didn’t work.
Hardy took a drink. “You feel like you can talk? I know the police have probably gone over-”
“And over and over… I’m okay.”
“Did Moses tell you why I…?”
She nodded, and he decided to plunge right in. “Ed left the house when, roughly?”
“About seven-thirty. We finished dinner and talked for a while.”
“And he just decided to go out for a drive?”
She hesitated, perhaps remembering, perhaps hiding. “No, not exactly.” She looked at her lap, biting her lip. “Not exactly.”
“Frannie, look at me.”
The green eyes were wet.
“What did you talk about?”
“Nothing, just household stuff, you know.”
“Did you fight?”
She didn’t answer.
“Frannie?”
“No, not really.” All strength seemed to leave her. Her hands went slack and the can of beer fell to the floor. Hardy jumped up and grabbed it, righting it and letting the foam overflow.
“I’ll get a sponge,” Frannie said.
Hardy put a hand on the tiny, bony shoulder to keep her from rising. “Forget the beer, Frannie. Did you have a fight or not?”
She slumped back, staring at Hardy as though she wanted to ask him a question. She looked about fifteen years old. Then she started crying, just tear after tear rolling silently down her made-up cheeks. Hardy, his hand still on her shoulder, felt the suppressed sobs.
“What about?” he finally asked.
The voice, now husky and nearly inaudible, came. “I’m pregnant. I told him I was pregnant.”
Her eyes held on the floor between her feet. She whispered. “Ed always just said to go ahead when I was ready. That was the way he was. He said we’d deal with it when it came up, and if we waited ’til he was ready in advance, he might never be.”
“And you’d just found out?”
“That day. I thought he’d be happy.”
She looked up at Hardy, the tears still flowing. “But it really wasn’t a fight or anything. I just wanted him to stay. I was all emotional, you know.”
“But he went out?”
She shook her head, slowly, back and forth. “He went out.”
“Do you know where?”