Hardy 03 - Hard Evidence Read online

  ‘I don’t suppose it matters that everything the reporter said was taken out of context?’

  ‘Oh, that matters. You still got your job, so it matters that much. But it’s close. I’d go mend some fences if I were you. Work hard, impress people with your enthusiasm to get convictions on your cases, like that.’

  Hardy stood up. ‘This gives a whole new meaning to helping clean up the streets, you know.’

  Drysdale allowed himself a smile. ‘Maybe the hand’ll turn into something.’ The baseballs flew back up into the air.

  Hardy stopped in the doorway. ‘Maybe the hand’ll turn into something.’

  Drysdale nodded, his attention split at best. ‘Could happen,’ he said. ‘Could happen.’

  * * * * *

  At four o’clock, Hardy called it quits and went over to Lou the Greek’s.

  It had been a long afternoon. John Strout, the coroner, was a courtly Southern gentleman who accepted Hardy’s apology with apparent sincerity, although Sixto’s clipped and formal greeting at the desk indicated that there had been some harsh feelings earlier in the day.

  The chief of police, John Rigby, wasn’t available, so Hardy scheduled an appointment with him for the next afternoon. The police sergeant who served as Rigby’s secretary took the opportunity to gently remind Hardy that homicides were usually determined by police work, after which they were passed up to the D.A.‘s office.

  Hardy tried to cheer himself with the argument that he had very quickly passed through the just-another-face-in-the-crowd stage at work. Everyone in the building seemed to know who he was. It wasn’t much consolation.

  He wrote a memo to Locke that he threw in the wastebasket. There wasn’t any fence to mend with Locke. He figured he’d either get a good conviction record and move up, or not get one and move out. There was a fine line between kissing ass and mending fences.

  At Lou’s, Hardy sat alone at the bar, spinning the jade paperweight. He was nursing a black and tan when a tall, very attractive woman pulled up the stool next to him. Hardy had never spoken to her before, but he knew who she was. She put a hand on his shoulder, leaned close and told him not to let the bastards get him down.

  He dropped the jade into his pocket as she flashed him a mouthful of teeth and extended the hand that had been on his shoulder. ‘Elizabeth Pullios. You’re Dismas Hardy.’

  ‘Guilty.’ Hardy took the warm, fine hand. ‘Which seems to be today’s magic word.’

  Pullios might not be the best-looking woman in the D.A.‘s office, Hardy thought, but she thought she was and so occasionally really could be. Perhaps five foot eight, with shoulder-length chestnut hair that shone even in the dim light at Lou’s, she had a big nose, a generous mouth, deep-set eyes and high cheekbones. She wore a brush of tasteful makeup, just enough to set off the angles and highlight the eyes.

  ‘Guilty is every day’s magic word,’ she said. She signaled Lou behind the bar for a drink, then came back to Hardy. ‘Ruffled the brass feathers, huh? Art told me about it.’

  ‘Art told me about it, too.’

  ‘You get reamed?’

  Hardy managed a wry smile. ‘I can still sit down. But I think I’ll pass on talking to reporters for a while.’

  ‘No, don’t,’ she said. Her drink arrived, a double Scotch mist from the looks of it, and she drank half of it in a gulp. ‘Don’t stop talking to anybody. They’re just trying to bust your balls. Talk to anybody you can use.’

  ‘Who’s trying to bust my balls?’

  ‘Locke and Art. You’re new and that’s what they do. Find out what you’re made of. They play the bureaucrat game ’cause it’s their control mechanism. Which sometimes is good for some people, but if you want some kick-ass cases, don’t let ‘em stop you. If you’re good in front of a jury, everything’s forgiven, believe me.’

  It was coming back to Hardy, the story on Elizabeth Pullios. She was known as a ballbreaker in her own right. She delighted in prosecuting — did it with a singular passion. It was said, more than half truthfully, that she favored the death penalty for car theft, pickpocketing, purse-snatching. She had been married during her first few years as a D.A. to a guy in the office, and when he accepted a better job in private practice on the defense side, she had divorced him. She couldn’t live with a defense attorney, she said. They were the scum of the earth — worse, almost, than defendants.

  Now the word was she’d have you if you were good enough.

  So Hardy was forewarned. He figured he could talk to her safely enough. He was, after all, in love with Frannie. ‘I’m afraid this reporter Elliot kind of used me instead of vice versa,’ he said.

  She shrugged that off. ‘Look, that’s what reporters do. But they can also keep a case hot. A lot of us have been known to leak stuff— just don’t let your name out.’

  ‘That message was pretty clear.’

  Pullios finished her drink and signaled Lou again. ‘Buy you another?’ she asked.

  Hardy wasn’t half through his first, but an old-hand bartender like himself could nurse a couple of brews along for as long as he needed. ‘Did Art ask you to talk to me?’

  ‘No, but he told me you were frustrated about your work. I put a little together and I hate to see new guys get shafted. It’s bad for all of us.’ The round of drinks came. Hardy and Pullios clicked glasses. ‘To the good guys,’ she said. ‘That’s us, Hardy, remember that. That’s always us.’

  * * * * *

  Hardy was out of Lou’s before five. There was a steady cool breeze coming off the Bay and it threw some grit up into his face and eyes as he walked down the alley next to the Hall of Justice.

  Detective Sergeant Abraham Glitsky was sitting on the hood of Hardy’s Suzuki Samurai. ‘If you’re going home I could use a drop-off,’ he said. ‘My city-owned vehicle is once again on the blink. Why is there never enough money to keep things working?’

  ‘I’ve got a better one — what accounts for your jolly high spirits lately?’

  Glitsky slid off the car, letting out a breath. ‘I know,’ he said. Hardy passed by him and unlocked the passenger door. ‘Too many dead guys, I guess. You go see enough bodies a day, you smile less. It’s a proven fact.’

  It brought Hardy up short. His desire to get interesting cases — murders — tended in some way to reduce their horror especially after his chat with Elizabeth Pullios. But most of the time on his job he was in ‘suspect’ mode, where he had a perpetrator he was trying to convict. It was easy to forget that half of Glitsky’s job was concerned with victims — families, friends, mourning.

  Hardy got in his seat and started the engine. Glitsky shook his head. ‘One of the weekend drive-bys was a kid about Isaac’s age.’ Isaac was the eldest of Glitsky’s three children, a twelve-year-old. ‘Even looked a little like him, except for the hole in his forehead.’

  Even after a few months on the job, Hardy hadn’t developed a taste for cop humor. He didn’t know if he wanted to — it rarely made anyone laugh.

  They rode in silence for a minute, heading west into the sun. Finally Hardy said, ‘I’m waiting.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Your two cents’ worth.’

  Glitsky squinted into the sunset. ‘And I’d love to give it, as I know you’re often in need of my counsel and advice. But I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.’

  ‘The hand being a homicide.’

  ‘That was you, huh? I was afraid it was you.’

  ‘You didn’t see it?’

  Glitsky shook his head. ‘I didn’t get to the paper today. But some guys were talking about this jerkoff D. A.’

  ‘Yeah. That was me.’

  ‘Well, look at the bright side like I always do. Maybe it was a homicide, maybe you’ll get the case, win it, get a big conviction, become D.A., run for governor, win that —’

  ‘Here’s your stop,’ Hardy said. ‘You need a lift in the morning?’

  * * * * *

  ‘I’ll bet it’s a woman,’ Frannie sai
d.

  ‘Not Andy Fowler.’

  ‘You wait and see. It’s a woman. The paperweight was a gift from a woman that he isn’t seeing. She broke up with him and suddenly he couldn’t bear to see it anymore. It reminded him too much of her and she’d broken his heart.’

  ‘I knew I shouldn’t let you stay home all day. You’ve gotten addicted to the soaps, haven’t you?’

  ‘Dismas.’

  ‘My finely honed prosecutorial skills have wheedled the truth from you at last.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Frannie said, ‘I have never watched a soap opera in my life and you know it.’

  ‘I’m not so sure anymore,’ Hardy said. ‘The soaring language — “Andy couldn’t bear it. She’d broken his heart.” And all that from a piece of jade.’ He looked across the table at his wife. Her green eyes looked nearly black in the candlelight.

  They were in the dining room, finishing up a meal of filet mignon with bearnaise sauce, new potatoes, and string beans that Frannie had cooked in olive oil and garlic. Hardy was half through a bottle of good California cabernet.

  ‘Okay, Sherlock, but I’ve known Andy for fifteen years, and he doesn’t have girlfriends.’

  ‘That you have known about.’

  ‘You’d think I would have gotten some inkling once or twice.’

  ‘Maybe he just keeps that separate. Especially from Jane. Maybe Jane would be hurt.’

  ‘Why would Jane be hurt?’

  ‘I don’t know. Her mother’s memory.’

  Hardy shook his head. ‘Not after all this time. I’m sure she’d want her dad to have some love life.’

  Tm not so sure of that. Maybe he just thinks it’s better to be discreet. I mean, he is a public figure. If he went through a succession of women…‘

  ‘Now it’s a succession. The guy didn’t keep a harem, Frannie.’

  ‘He might have. How would you know?’

  ‘I know him.’

  Frannie smiled. ‘You wait.’

  Hardy moved the last morsel of his rare filet around in the remainder of the sauce. ‘I’ll wait,’ he said. ‘This is very bad for my cholesterol, you know.’

  ‘I notice you’re struggling with it. How did Jane sound?’

  Hardy swallowed his food, took a sip of wine. ‘Jane was all right.’ He reached across and covered Frannie’s hand with his own. ‘Jane’s okay, and we don’t have any secrets, you and me, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Come around here.’

  She pulled away, still smiling. ‘No.’

  ‘Would you please come around here?’ Hardy pushed his chair back, and Frannie came around the table and sat on his lap.

  ‘Since you asked so nice,’ she said. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him thoroughly for the better part of a minute.

  Hardy stood up, carrying her, and walked through the kitchen into the bedroom.

  7

  The Chronicle building was at Fifth and Mission, about six blocks from the Hall of Justice. Hardy walked through the morning fog, which did a lot more than chill the air, and while Tony Bennett might not care, he was probably one of the very few who didn’t. Hardy gave away a few bucks in change to some homeless people who sat against the buildings on Third, wrapped in newspapers or old blankets, shivering. By the time he got to the Chronicle, his bones felt brittle and old.

  Jeff Elliot anchored one of the newer desks in a cavernous room that smelled like an old school. His crutches were propped against the desk, all too visible. Propped as in prop, Hardy thought. He was turned to face a video terminal and was talking on the telephone when Hardy got to his desk.

  ‘All of this is off the record,’ he began.

  Elliot turned, saw Hardy, held up a finger and continued talking into the mouthpiece.

  Hardy continued right on. ‘When I got into work this morning, I wasn’t as mad as I was yesterday, but pretty close. Did I mention this is off the record?’

  Elliot muttered something into the telephone, hung up and turned squarely to face Hardy. He didn’t look so young nor so friendly as he had at Hardy’s house two days earlier. His face, still boyish, looked sallow and wan, as though he hadn’t slept in a couple of days. The dishwater hair hung lank and long, over the ears. His tie was loosened at his throat, although his shirt was fresh.

  ‘Mr Hardy,’ he said, sticking out his hand over the desk.

  Hardy ignored the hand. ‘Off the record. Everything I ever say to you again. Completely and absolutely off the record. Is that clear?’

  Elliot, to his credit, didn’t bluff much, though he did try his sheepish grin. ‘My editor wouldn’t run the story without a source. You didn’t tell me not to use your name.’

  Hardy held up a hand. ‘I don’t care about your politics. There’s enough where I work.’

  Elliot shrugged. ‘I needed the —’

  Hardy stopped him. ‘You could have accomplished the same thing being straight with me. I’m a pretty reasonable guy, but I am truly a bad enemy.’

  Elliot was sitting farther back, eyes wide. ‘If that’s a threat,’ he said, then stopped.

  To his surprise, Hardy noticed Elliot’s hands were shaking on the desk. The boy was scared. Something in Hardy wanted to go for the jugular, but he had liked Elliot at his house and the shaking hands made him lose the stomach for it.

  He sat down, put his arms and elbows on the desk. ‘It’s no threat. It’s a tip, that’s all. Don’t make enemies you don’t need to. This is the big city. People play for keeps, even nice guys like me.’ Hardy flashed him a grin. ‘Now I’d like you to do me a favor.’

  Elliot came slowly forward. ‘If I can. I guess I owe you one.’

  ‘That’s the right guess,’ Hardy said.

  * * * * *

  ‘Owen Nash.’ Jeff Elliot’s voice was thick with excitement.

  ‘Where are you now?’ Hardy, at his desk, pushed away one of the case folders and swirled on his chair to look out the window. Gray on gray. He had asked Elliot to go to Missing Persons and check to see if either a large woman or a man — someone with a full-sized hand — had been reported missing.

  ‘I’m downstairs. The call just came in this morning.’

  ‘The timing’s right,’ Hardy said. Missing Persons would not get involved with a person’s disappearance until three days had passed.

  ‘Right. Well, this was called in by a guy, wait a sec, a guy named Ken Farris, phone number, you got a pencil?’

  Hardy took the number. ‘Owen Nash, and this number. Anything else?’

  ‘They’ve got nine missing kids and three skipped or missing wives — all of them within the range of normal size. But Owen Nash is the only missing adult male this week. That’s not so common. It’s a real start.’

  ‘It’s a start, maybe, and that’s all it is, Jeff. And it’s a big, big maybe.’

  ‘Still,’ Elliot said. ‘But why couldn’t you just come down and ask around?’

  Hardy sighed. Why get into it? ‘Politics,’ he said. ‘But it was a good idea. I wish it had been mine.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘You don’t do anything. I start a little follow-up and you wait until I call you, got it? And I might not.’

  ‘But if there’s a story?’

  ‘It’s yours. That’s the deal.’

  * * * * *

  Hardy hadn’t intended to mention anything to anybody, but Drysdale poked his head in through his door the minute he hung up. ‘Just making the rounds,’ he said. ‘You better today?’

  ‘They’ve got a missing adult male.’

  Drysdale frowned, leaning on the door. ‘Who does?’

  ‘Missing Persons.’

  ‘Does this directly relate to one of the two dozen folders I see so prominently displayed on your desk?’

  ‘Not even indirectly.’ Hardy smiled.

  Drysdale let himself in the door and pulled it closed after him. ‘Diz, do yourself a favor, would you? Clear a few of these.’ He picked up part of the s
tack of files and dropped it on the middle of the desk. ‘Give me some numbers so I can point to your caseload and say, “This guy’s been a horse in the minors, let’s give him a shot at the big time.” ’

  Hardy spun the jade paperweight, now doing its appointed task on his desk. ‘Okay, Art. Okay.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Drysdale started to go, but Hardy called him back. ‘Can you tell me anything about Elizabeth Pullios?’

  ‘I can tell you a lot about her. Why?’

  ‘She kind of gave me a pep talk yesterday, out of the blue.’

  ‘Maybe she thinks you’re cute.’

  ‘I got the feeling she doesn’t need to seek out men.’

  Drysdale nodded, leaning against the doorpost. He had his hands in his pockets, one leg crossed over the other, relaxation incarnate. ‘No, she does not need to seek out men.’

  ‘So what’s her story? Why’s she such a red-hot?’

  Checking the hallway behind him, Drysdale pulled the door shut and straddled one of the chairs facing Hardy’s desk, looking out the window at the gray behind him. He took a breath. ‘Her mother was raped and killed by a guy who’d been on parole three days. He’d been a model prisoner, in for rape. Served four years when they let him out for good behavior. I think it left her with an impression.’

  Hardy whistled.

  ‘Well, I guess we’re all motivated by something, but some of the staff think Pullios takes it a little far.’ Drysdale stood up and stretched. ‘Anyway, the fact remains, I want to put somebody away, I’d go with her every time. Don’t get personal with her, though. She’s very one-track.’

  Hardy held up his left hand, the one with Frannie’s ring. ‘I’m a newlywed, Art. I’m not in the market.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet that’s a big issue with her.’

  * * * * *

  Hardy’s first move after his superior left was to pick up the telephone and dial the number Jeff Elliot had given him — Ken Farris, the man who had reported the missing person, Owen Nash. A sultry-voiced receptionist got crisp and efficient when Hardy said he was from the D.A.‘s office. He patched him through immediately.