Hardy stopped him. ‘All you found out was she might not have been there, right?’
Elliot nodded.
‘You got anything anywhere that puts her on the boat?’
‘No.’
‘Ask yourself why this sounds familiar.’ Hardy hated to take Jeff’s story away, but he wasn’t in the prosecution business anymore. ‘Look, Jeff, you can try to get some police action on this, but they won’t thank you for it. I’ve tried, I know. Owen Nash gives everybody downtown a bad headache. You got any reason why you think Celine might have done it, other than I told you she might have?’
Jeff shrugged. ‘Somebody lies about their alibi -’
‘Everybody has lied about their alibi in this case. Or looked like they have.’ He put a hand on Jeffs shoulder. ‘You’re welcome to it, Jeff, but it’s a dry well. It’s just another maybe.’
Elliot turned to his computer, squinted at something, came back to Hardy. ‘What made you change your mind? I got the impression you honestly thought she’d done it.’
Hardy crossed a leg over another one. ‘That was before my client was cleared, Jeff. If I’d needed to find out who killed Nash to get Fowler off, I suppose I would have kept on it. But now… Andy didn’t do it. That was my main interest.’
‘You’re not curious?’
Hardy got cryptic. ‘No. I know everything I need to.’
‘Keeping life simple, right?’
Hardy nodded. ‘Something like that.’
On December 21, Hardy stood holding Rebecca in one arm and a package in the other at the Clement Street post office. With the Christmas rush, he had waited for almost twenty minutes by the time he got to the window.
The clerk took the package, a box about two-by-three inches. ‘No way,’ he said.
‘No way what?’ Hardy asked.
‘Christmas, man. There’s no way.’ The clerk looked at the address. ‘I were you, I’d just deliver it. It’s only half a mile, if that. Be there in fifteen minutes. Nice houses up there. I love it when it’s lit up.’
‘It’s not a Christmas present,’ Hardy said, ‘it doesn’t have to get there any time.’
‘Probably won’t make it till New Year.’
‘That’s okay. It doesn’t matter.’
The clerk shook the box. ‘It’s not fragile, is it? Sounds like keys or something.’
‘That’s what it is,’ Hardy said. ‘Somebody lost some keys.’
He read about it on the day his son, Vincent, was born. He was still in St. Mary’s hospital, on the top of the world. He had spent the night coaching Frannie, breathing and yelling and pushing with her until nearly dawn when the head had come through and then, five minutes later, the doctor told them they had a boy.
Frannie had pulled Hardy into the bed with her and the doctor lay the baby between them. The two of them looked in wonder at the life they’d produced. Vincent cuddled into both of them.
That afternoon Uncle Moses brought Rebecca by. He also brought the day’s newspaper. After Moses had gone, Frannie had gone to sleep with Rebecca on the bed. Hardy started reading the Chronicle. On page 3, Jeff Elliot had written a brief story outlining the stabbing death of Celine Nash, ‘the daughter of the late financier Owen Nash,’ at a rough trade hotel in the Tenderloin District. There were no suspects yet in connection with the slaying and it was presumed that the victim, who had a past history of occasional prostitution, had simply gotten unlucky with a John.
Hardy closed the paper. Out the window of the hospital room, the day was fading into an overcast dusk.
A while later, they brought Vincent in for feeding. Hardy gave Frannie a distracted smile, then looked back out at the falling night.
‘Are you all right?’ Frannie was nursing the baby, studying him. ‘What is it?’
Hardy shook himself away from his thoughts. He got up from his chair and came over to her bed. Lifting the sleeping Beck onto him, squeezing in next to Frannie, he said, ‘Nothing. Just the world out there, I guess.’
‘You know what,’ she said. ‘That’s not the world. The world is on this bed right now.’
Frannie laced her fingers in his hand. Hardy felt his daughter stir against him and his son made some contented sounds. He tried to blink the room back into focus, but it didn’t work, so he brought his hand up to his eyes.
John Lescroart
JOHN LESCROART, the New York Times best-selling author of such novels as The Mercy Rule, The 13th Juror, Nothing but the Truth, and The Hearing, lives with his family in northern California.
