One of the most perplexing aspects of the crime scene investigation into Bree’s death had been its inability to produce even a shred of physical evidence to tie any suspect to events in this room, on this balcony. And now Hardy understood why that had been.
Fabric wash.
No trace of fabric on the railing.
David Glenn, the building superintendent, remembered him and said he could come in, but they had to keep it short. Glenn had to keep working. His friends would be showing up any time for cards and Monday night football and if the food wasn’t laid out, the shit hit the fan.
So they went to the clean, brightly lit kitchen where Glenn continued to arrange the cold cuts and cheeses, the breads and pickles and condiments. Hardy, who by now had pretty much given up on the idea that he’d ever eat regularly again, stood by the counter and tried not to notice the food.
‘I don’t know exactly,’ Glenn was saying. Hardy had asked him how many people resided in the building, and if Glenn was familiar with all of them. ‘There’s only a couple of places – the Beaumonts and then the Mahmoutis on four – that have kids. Then mostly couples, three or four singles. Say forty, give or take, altogether.’
‘Full-time tenants?’
‘Well.’ Glenn studied an olive and popped it into his mouth. ‘Owners. I told you before. Some of these people I never see.’
‘Never?’
Glenn considered. ‘Almost, some of them. I could pass them on the street.’
‘How can that be?’
‘Easy, really. The place is designed for privacy. You got your parking space under the building. You take the elevator to your room. Some units, nobody’s ever home. You ask me, nobody lives there, but we get the checks. Couple of them are companies. You know, hold the places for their executives when they’re in town.’ He must have seen Hardy eyeing the food. ‘Hey, you hungry? You want a bite?’
‘That’s OK, thanks. Do you know who the companies are offhand?’
‘Sure. There’s just two of ’em. Standard Warehousing – I think they’re out of Phoenix. And some Russians. Diamond merchants, they say. Talk about never here.‘
‘So, other than those, how many units don’t have regular tenants?’
He chewed another olive. ‘It’s not something I give much thought to. Maybe two, I’d say, maybe three.’
‘Is one of them nine oh two?’
He stopped chewing, stopped fussing with the food, and gave Hardy his full attention. ‘Is this still about Bree?’
Hardy nodded. ‘Would nine oh two have a balcony directly under hers?’
A slow nod. ‘Yeah. All the twos are the back units. Rita Browning.’
‘And who is she? Do you know her?’
‘Not from Eve.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s one of ’em.‘
The last person Hardy wanted to see was Abe Glitsky.
And now, carrying a brown paper bag, here he was, being shown into the Solarium by one of Freeman’s young associates. Aside from Hardy and Freeman, two other associates labored at the table drawing up subpoenas for the hearing in Braun’s courtroom the next morning.
Freeman whistled happily, tonelessly, annoyingly, but none of the worker bees joined in. This was not volunteer overtime. Freeman had knocked on office doors, interrupting, recruiting. And they’d barely begun – after the subpoenas were prepared, they were going to serve them well into the night.
‘We need to talk,’ the lieutenant said.
Hardy gestured apologetically to the people working for him. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Five minutes.’
Glitsky wasn’t so sure. He faced down the impatient stares and responded calmly. ‘Maybe a little more.’
The frustrated comments of the young associates were not quite inaudible as they’d trudged up the stairs. Hardy closed his office door behind them, and turned on the lights. Glitsky wasted no time. ‘We’re being set up.’ As he explained it, Hardy went over and sat down heavily on the couch. His papers and research materials were still spread all over the coffee table in front of him, but they seemed somehow unimportant anymore – old news, irrelevant. Kind of like himself.
‘From what I can gather,’ Glitsky concluded, ‘the DA’s new theory is that we’re running a coverup, protecting Ron Beaumont. You’re his attorney, I’m your friend. We’re all going to make a lot of money on Bree’s insurance.’
‘That’ll be fun,’ Hardy said grimly, ‘when that happens.’
‘I think so, too.’ Glitsky wasn’t smiling either. ‘I hear you’re pretty strapped for cash. I wouldn’t even put it past you to burn down your house. How about that?’
‘Just as a stop-gap measure before I collect on Bree.’ It was a small relief to understand the grilling he’d taken with the fire inspectors that afternoon. Somebody had pointed in his direction as the arsonist, and now he knew who it was. ‘This boy Scott Randall is a menace, Abe. You put him with Pratt and they start doing the tango together – watch out.’
‘I’m watching. But they do have me thinking I’ve got to release the information about Griffin and Canetta being tied to Bree Beaumont.’
‘Why is that?’
‘To prove that…’
‘You’re trying to find who killed them? What do they have on you? What could they have on you?’
‘I haven’t arrested Beaumont.’
‘You know where he is?’
‘No.’
Hardy almost laughed. ‘Well, there you go. That’s a pretty good reason.’
‘Yeah, but they’re getting me on appearance. They cast Ron as the obvious suspect and I’m not looking for him. I’m covering for him.’
‘You’re looking at the facts instead. How about that? That’s how it’s supposed to work.’
‘I know. I know.’ Glitsky heaved a great sigh. ‘You’re right.’
‘Not often enough,’ Hardy said, ‘but every once in a while and this is one of those times.’ Although this was pure bravado.
In fact, the situation was worse than Glitsky suspected. Would anyone – Randall or Pratt or the internal affairs people – believe that Hardy had known of Ron Beaumont’s whereabouts and hadn’t told his friend the lieutenant? It was unlikely.
Further, if Hardy did tell Glitsky where Ron was now – and he had no intention on that score – what was his friend supposed to do? Become an accessory to the federal crime of kidnapping? Place Hardy under arrest? Or – even if Hardy could somehow downplay what he’d done with Cassandra – was Glitsky supposed to put Ron into the system, the very result Hardy had struggled to avoid at such great cost?
He couldn’t tell him. There was no way.
But by not telling him, he was leaving Glitsky vulnerable to the charges that Randall and Pratt were asserting against him, and that could cost him his job, his credibility, his honor.
‘What?’ Glitsky asked.
‘Nothing. I don’t know. Maybe an idea.’ Hardy pretended to search through the pages laid out on the table in front of him. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘right here. Bree’s funeral.’
‘What about it?’
Smoothly deceptive, hating himself for what he had to do, he began to walk Glitsky through it. He said – it had just occurred to him – that maybe Ron had an alibi for the time of Griffin’s death after all. Maybe the priest at – what church was it now? St Catherine’s? – maybe he’d been with Ron for most of the day, or at least some reasonable portion of it, the important times, taking care of the myriad details.
Abe remembered, didn’t he? When his wife Flo had died, he’d been at the synagogue from early morning until late in the day. Had anybody ever checked with Ron what he’d done? It was, after all, his sister’s funeral.
‘What do you mean, sister?’
Hardy felt the blood drain out of his face. ‘Did I say “sister”? I meant his wife. His wife’s funeral. The point is, if Ron’s got an alibi for Griffin, he didn’t kill Bree, did he? If you got that, you rub it in Randall’s face that you’re not covering up anything. Why doesn’t he get out of your way and let you do your damn job?’