"No, honestly, you probably don't. But maybe him seeing us out here was a good object lesson, after all."
"In what?"
"The wisdom of being seen together outside the courtroom."
25
Top down on the convertible, with coat and tie off and the top button of his shirt undone, Hardy with his headphones on might have been mistaken for a stressed-out executive zoning out to his relaxation tapes. In fact, he was waiting across the street from the murder scene, listening again to the tape of the other male actor in the play, Steve Randell, to whom he'd talked at Sutro after he'd finished with Alicia North and Jeri Croft.
When Juan Salarco pulled into his driveway at a little after three o'clock, Hardy sat up, slipped the recorder back in his pocket, put up the car's hood and got out. Across the street, Salarco exited his truck and immediately went to the small garage and opened it. By the time he turned around, Hardy was standing by his driver's side fender. He raised a hand with an exaggerated nonchalance that he didn't come close to feeling.
He realized that ever since he'd concluded his careful review of the tape he'd made with Juan, he'd begun to imagine that Andrew Bartlett might be innocent. But, he reminded himself now, that belief hinged on what Salarco told him in the next ten or fifteen minutes. If he had in fact heard two gunshots, or even what might be interpreted as two gunshots, Hardy's hopes and maybes would be out the window. He hadn't recognized before this moment how invested he'd become. "Hey!" he said, low-key.
Salarco's boyish face broke into a ready smile. "Deezmus," he said, coming forward to shake his hand, crushing it effortlessly. "I try to get you this weekend, after you call, sí?"
"Sí, but my wife had an accident skiing. She's okay, but it took up some time. Now I'm wondering if I can take up a little more of yours."
Salarco took a minute, perhaps translating the request, then nodded. "Sure." He pointed. "First, I unload though, the truck, okay?"
The sun was bright overhead, but a light breeze kept the day cool enough, and Hardy decided to pitch in. It seemed the natural thing to do, lifting the rakes, shovels and wire trimmer from their positions in the wooden slats on either side of the truck while Juan wheeled the mowers and heavier gear down his makeshift wooden ramp and around into the garage. When they finished, Juan locked up the garage and the truck, and then they walked up the indoor stairs together.
At the door, Salarco called out, "Hola," got a female response and went straight through the living room, past the television with its American soap opera on the screen, to the cheerful kitchen. Hand-sewn curtains- bright yellow cotton with a red and orange floral print- cast shade over the back counter and the Formica table, but they only covered half the windows, and allowed in bright shafts of sun.
Anna turned as they entered. Hardy saw her light a smile at her husband, then extinguish it when she saw him. She had a large pot going on the gas burner- olive oil and garlic- and was cutting more vegetables- onions, red and green peppers, tomatoes- on the counter, while Carla, the baby, sat contentedly jailed, spinning the plastic letters on the sides of the playpen.
Salarco picked up the baby, tucking her in his arm. He then kissed his wife, whispering something to her, and went to the refrigerator for a couple of beers. Hardy took his, pulled at it, tried with a grin to break some ice with the wife. "It smells great in here." She nodded politely and went back to her vegetables. Still holding Carla like a football under one arm, Salarco walked over to the table and sat in one of the chairs, indicating that Hardy should take another one. Moving forward, he took his tape recorder from his pants pocket and held it up, getting tacit permission.
Salarco nodded. "So, how can I help you?"
Hardy had been waiting so long to ask that he pushed the record button and was talking before he'd sat down. "Something we really didn't get clear last time that might be important."
Salarco moved the baby to his knee and began bouncing her up and down. "Okay."
"The noise of the gunshot."
"What about it?"
"The last time we talked, and I listened to the tape of our conversation a lot, you were talking about the noises downstairs when the fighting was going on. This is after you'd gone down the first time to ask them to be more quiet. Do you remember?"
"Sí."
"All right. If you don't mind, I'd like to go over those few minutes again with you. From the first noise that woke up Carla again. Do you think you can put yourself back there and try to remember exactly what things sounded like? What you thought at the time?"
"All right."
"We can take a minute," Hardy said. "We're in no hurry. I want you to think back to that night if you can. Carla had a high fever and she'd been crying all night, and then finally you got her to sleep. You and Anna went out to the living room and turned on the television, quietly. Do you remember all that?"
Salarco was concentrating, the perfect witness who wanted to recall the exact truth. And with no one to object if Hardy led him back to the scene, to his state of mind. "Sí," he said. "I am there."
"Okay." Hardy had memorized the sections. "Last time we talked, you said you heard a scream, the girl scream."
"Sí."
"And then the first noise you heard- a bump, you called it- where you said you could feel it in the floor, as though something heavy had dropped downstairs."
Salarco was paying careful attention. He had stopped bouncing Carla, put one of his fingers into her mouth, a pacifier. His face took on a faraway look.
"Is that about right?" Hardy asked. "The first noises, then, were a scream, then a bump?"
A nod.
"Now the next noise, the second one. You said it sounded like something crashing with glass breaking." Anna, Hardy noticed, had stopped cutting her vegetables, although she didn't turn around.
"Yes. I hear that," Salarco said. "The glass breaking. Okay."
Hardy threw another quick glance at Anna. She hadn't moved a muscle. "Finally," he said, "the last one was a boom again. You didn't say it sounded like somebody slamming the front door under you. You said it was the door slamming."
"Sí. Okay."
"You mean yes? That's what it was?"
"Right. Yes."
"So would you now describe any of those sounds- try to remember exactly if you can- would you say any of those sounds could have been a gunshot?"
A spark of surprise, or perhaps it was something else- recognition of a mistake? pure fear?- shot through Salarco's eyes. He licked his lips. The youthful face suddenly aged.
"It's all right," Hardy said. "You've never testified that they were. You've said what you've said, and people assumed. Now I'm asking you. Were they gunshots?" He was sure for a moment that he'd spooked him by springing an unseen trap. And he couldn't afford to lose Salarco's cooperation. If that happened, Andrew would be tried as an adult and probably convicted. Hardy, himself, might never know the truth of what happened downstairs that night.
He had been subliminally aware of the television in the next room- in English- throughout the entire course of his questions so far with Juan. And now, needing to somehow redirect the energy and keep these witnesses talking, he had to take a chance. "Mrs. Salarco?"
Her shoulders tightened; then she sighed and she turned around. "Sí?"
"Wouldn't you say that's about right? The way your husband described the noises? Did any of them sound like gunshots to you?"
She didn't even have to think about it. "No. I never thought about that before, but there was no sound of any shots. Just the other sounds." She turned to her husband. "Cariño? Sí? Es verdad?"
He nodded and seemed to take some strength from her. Taking a breath, he came back to Hardy. "When I sit back and listen, I cannot say any of the noises sounded like shots."