Hardy realized that this case – these cases? – must have gotten inside Glitsky as well. He’d put a rush on getting copies made of everything he’d delivered to Hardy, and then sat on his people to make sure it all got done.
Canetta’s autopsy, especially. The morgue was backed up with bodies, but the coroner did his work on Canetta first. Hardy realized grimly, though, that this might not have been Glitsky’s influence after all, but a final show of respect for a policeman killed in the line of duty.
He’d been at it for over an hour and the effects of the cold-water splash had long since worn off. And here before him now was the technical sheet from the autopsy of Phil Canetta. Entry wounds, exit wounds. A fresh wave of exhaustion rolled over him and he closed his eyes against it.
And against the other painful reality – if he hadn’t recruited Canetta, the man would still be alive. The image floated up at him – Canetta enjoying the hell out of his mortadella sandwich just a couple of days before, his cigar on Saturday night at Freeman’s. The sergeant had been very much alive – in tune with tastes, buffeted by the storms of love, hamstrung by his responsibilities. So much like Hardy, and now in a day gone to dirt.
Clothing. Powder burns. Next to the medical/chemical analysis of sugars, starches, and carbon compounds, someone from the coroner’s office – maybe under Glitsky’s questioning – had written down in the margin the layman’s version of Canetta’s stomach contents. Cop food. His last fast-food burger with a coffee and a candy bar – chocolate, beef, potato, almond, bread, pickle. Hardy passed over it, and went on to blood levels for alcohol, nicotine…
He closed his eyes and saw Canetta’s face again on the bench in Washington Square, his eyes lit up with the memory of Bree Beaumont, the simple joy in his deli sandwich.
Enough enough enough.
He flipped desultorily through the rest of the pile, which seemed to go on and on. His office closed in around him, and he shut his eyes again, just for a second. Then, starting awake, realized that he must have dozed. Still, he couldn’t quit. He didn’t know yet…
Frannie, still in jail…
He turned another page, trying to will himself to focus. It was no use. He could barely make out even the letters, and those he saw formed words that had lost all meaning.
PART FOUR
37
Hardy tasted turpentine in the coffee. At the kitchen table – showered, shaved, and dressed – he added more sugar and turned a page of the morning paper.
It was six a.m. He had returned to the Cochrans’ at a little after eleven. All three of the children and both adults had still been awake. There might have been giggling in the background, but the atmosphere in the house was as carefree as an operating room.
By two, after five increasingly firm visits from the adults, the kids stopped making noise. Hardy, on the couch in the living room, heard the clock chime the hour at least twice after that.
Now he rubbed at his eyes, trying to get the salt out of them. The sugar didn’t improve the java and he set the mug down and massaged his right temple, which throbbed dully.
It was election day. The articles contained few surprises. The MTBE poisoning and resultant scare – as well as his opponent’s lame-brained response to it – had given Damon Kerry a last-minute three-point boost in the polls and he was now truly the front-runner by a nose. The Chronicle recommended him.
Hardy was gratified to see that Baxter Thorne’s libel threats didn’t appear to hold much water with Jeff Elliot. The reporter’s ‘Citytalk’ column didn’t directly accuse Thorne of anything, but did manage to present a litany of facts in a way that led to some unflattering conclusions. The column promised an ongoing investigation.
Suddenly Vincent materialized at his elbow. His pajamas were a replica of Mark McGwire’s Cardinals uniform. His step-cut hair was a shade darker than his sister’s, but still in the general category of strawberry blond. His ears stuck out and the face, except for Frannie’s nose, was Hardy’s exactly. ‘Do you have a headache? You’re rubbing your head.’
Hardy drew him close, mussed the hair. ‘Hey, guy. What are you doing up so early?’
‘It’s not early.’
‘Well, it’s not late, and you didn’t get to sleep till almost two o’clock.’
‘That wasn’t me,’ Vincent said. ‘That was the girls. I went right to sleep after just a little whispering. Dad?’
‘What?’
‘I’ve got a question.’
Hardy longed for the day when Vincent would simply ask a question without announcing his intention to ask one, but he could only sigh now. ‘Shoot,’ he said.
‘How come Max wasn’t invited, too? How come it’s always the Beck who gets her friends over and I get stuck with all the girls and then they don’t want to play with me?’
‘That was one question?’ But Hardy pushed his chair back and pulled Vincent on to his lap. The sleepy boysmell still clung to his son and Hardy held him close for as long as he thought he could get away with it, maybe two seconds. ‘I’ve been missing you, you know that?’
‘I miss you, too,’ Vincent said perfunctorily. ‘But you’re real busy lately,’ he added, parroting the excuse Frannie had no doubt always supplied. ‘We know that. But Mom, I really miss her. And you said she’s coming back today. It’s today, right?’
Hardy tried to ignore the stab that his son’s answer had given him. ‘That’s the plan,’ he said. Then slipped and added, ‘I hope so.’
Vincent’s face immediately clouded. ‘But she might not? I thought you said it was today.’
‘It is today. Don’t worry.’
‘Then why’d you say you hoped so?’
‘Shh. Let’s not wake up anybody else, OK.’
‘But why’d you say that?’
‘I don’t know, Vin. I guess because I want it so bad, just like you do. It was just a figure of speech. She’ll be home today.’ He almost promised, but thought better of it. A promise, especially to his child, was sacred.
The boy’s eyes brightened. ‘Home? You mean like our real home? How can we do that if it was all burned up?’
Hardy rubbed his son’s back and shook his head, framing his reply carefully. ‘Home isn’t just a house, Vin. It’s where we’re all together.’
‘But so where are we going to live then?’
‘I don’t know for sure, bud. We’ll find a place soon while we get our house fixed up again, and we can stay here with Grandma and Papa Ed in the meantime. You don’t have to worry about that, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Promise?’
Vincent shrugged. ‘Sure.’ If Dad said he didn’t have to worry, that was the end of it. It was going to be all right.
Please God, Hardy prayed, don’t let his trust in me be misplaced.
‘So why couldn’t Max come?’ Vincent was back on his original track.
‘You want to know the real reason? He didn’t sleep enough the night before, so his dad thought it wouldn’t be a good idea.’
Vincent considered this for a moment. ‘His dad’s nice,’ he said simply.
Hardy could only nod dumbly. Just what he needed – another unsolicited testimonial on Ron Beaumont from his innocent, good-hearted son. ‘That’s what I hear,’ he said. ‘How do you know him?’
‘School. He helps in class, sometimes with yard duty. He’s nice,’ he repeated. ‘Is your head hurting?’
‘It must be,’ Hardy said. ‘I keep rubbing it, don’t I?’
Hardy had gotten into the habit of leaving the house before the crazy rush of getting the kids ready for school kicked in. He’d given the alternative a try for several years, but the routine made him nuts. He’d get cranky and take that with him to work. It affected his performance, his job. And without that, where would they be?