The Oath (22 page)

“I don’t know,” Bracco said.

“But he’s a doctor, you know,” Fisk added. “He’s got the run of the place. He was in there with Kensing right after they got him up from OR.”

After a moment of silence, Glitsky finally nodded. “Okay. That it?”

Bracco flipped a page or two, then lifted his head and looked across at Glitsky and Treya. He brought his head back up and nodded. “For today, sir.” Then he added, “I’m sorry we interrupted your night for you.”

“Don’t be silly,” Treya said quickly, standing up. Then wagged a finger at them, joking. “Just don’t do it again.”

Glitsky took her lead and was on his feet. “Working late’s part of the job.” He had meant it sincerely as a simple statement of fact, but as soon as the words were out, he realized from Fisk’s expression he took it as another Glitsky reminder of his failings as a cop.

Which wasn’t fair. These two inexperienced inspectors had finally done some investigative work. They’d stayed late to make their report to him. They were trying hard. They had worked a long day. Glitsky knew that a kind word to them wouldn’t kill him. He tried to put some enthusiasm into his voice. “That’s a good day’s work, guys. Really. Keep at it,” he said. “One thing, though. Tomorrow morning, make sure you get your tapes into transcription ASAP. I want to get all this into the record.”

The two men froze, threw a concerned glance at each other.

Glitsky read it right. “You
did
tape all these interviews, didn’t you?”

Hardy remembered to buy the flowers. Beautiful bouquets, too, both of them. Baby pink roses for his daughter, the Spring Extravaganza for his wife. They were next to him on the passenger seat of his car even as he drove around looking for a parking place in his neighborhood. He didn’t think there was much chance that Frannie and the Beck would appreciate them much just now, since they were probably both asleep.

It was ten minutes until midnight.

He’d left Strout’s office in high spirits. The warm night, the fragrant air, a true sense of accomplishment. He’d cut a great deal for his client with Jackman, convinced the medical examiner to autopsy James Lector as soon as he cleared the way for it with his family. He called Frannie on his cell phone and told her he didn’t think that would take more than an hour, and then he’d be home. Maybe on the way he could also pick up some fresh salmon and they’d have the first barbecue of the season.

And back at his office the good luck had held. Lector’s death notice was in yesterday’s
Chronicle
, and it named the next of kin, who were listed in the phone book. Hardy called the eldest son, Clark, reached him at his home on Arguello, halfway out to Hardy’s own. He made an appointment for when he got there. Perhaps most astoundingly, he only had one message on his answering machine—Pico with the sad news that Francis the shark finally hadn’t made it. He just thought Hardy would want to know.

But even Pico’s disappointing news couldn’t bring him down. In fact, he was half tempted to call him back at the Steinhart and invite him and his family over at the last minute for the salmon barbecue, cheer them all right up. Then he remembered that he’d done pretty much the same thing with Moses and Susan the night before, and he reconsidered. Maybe it should just be his family, together, for tonight.

But after the first half hour with Clark and Patti Lector, and James’s widow, Ellen, he called Frannie again and told her he was sorry, but it might be a while. The Lectors were not in favor of an autopsy. It was going to be a long, hard sell. He’d try to get home as soon as he could, but she might want to go ahead with the kids and not wait on him for dinner. There was no anger, not even real disappointment in her voice when she’d told him it was all right. The only thing he thought he discerned was a bone weariness, and in some ways that bothered him more than if she’d thrown a fit.

He finally found a parking spot three long blocks from his house. Bedraggled bouquets in hand, he undid the latch on his picket fence, closed it back behind him, then in five steps crossed the walk that bisected his tiny front lawn. At long last, he’d succeeded in getting the Lectors’ permission, but only after tomorrow’s service, which would not end with Mr. Lector’s body in the ground at the family’s burial plot in Colma, but rather on John Strout’s metal table at the morgue.

Dragging himself up his front steps, he vowed that he had had enough of this getting home at all hours. He had to change something, not just for himself, but for his children, his wife, his marriage.

Of course, no light shone anywhere. He let himself in quietly, although the wood had swollen with the warm weather, and he had to push the door to get it closed. Tomorrow, he thought, he’d fix that—plane it true. Working with wood was something he’d once been good at, even passionate about. Then maybe he’d do some more household chores. Spring cleaning. They could open all the windows and let the air blow out the last of the winter’s must, maybe put on some old Beach Boys, or the Eagles, and turn it up loud, get that peaceful easy feelin’ going while they all worked together putting the house into summertime shape. Unplug all the telephones.

Flicking on the hall light, he stepped into the living room and dropped the flowers into his reading chair. Frannie’s note was under one of the elephants on his mantel, just where she knew he’d see it when he got in.

“Dismas. Decided to take the kids to Monterey for the weekend. Back late Sunday afternoon. Fran.”

No “dear,” no “love,” not even “Frannie.”

He crumpled the note in one hand, leaned against the mantel with the other. His head dropped as though he’d been struck.

B
y 8:00 the next morning, Hardy was on the road.

He didn’t know in which of the dozens if not hundreds of hotels and motels they’d be staying, but if Frannie and the kids were in Monterey, he considered it a dead lock that they’d hit the aquarium first.

The place wouldn’t open for another fifteen minutes, but already a long line of visitors stretched up the hill from the entrance. He started there, got to the end, then found a low wall across the street on which he could sit, keeping an eye on the line as it grew while he waited.

He’d seen no coastal fog as he’d driven down Highway 1, and there was no sign of any now. Normally Monterey was as fog-bound as San Francisco, but clearly it was going to be a postcard day—soon he wouldn’t even need the light jacket he was wearing.

They came around the corner two blocks uphill. The kids were in the midst of some of their typical goofiness—even from this distance, Vincent’s giggle carried down to him, then Rebecca’s scream as she lunged back at him. Frannie walked a few steps behind them, head down, tolerant or uninvolved, her hands shoved into the pockets of a Stanford sweatshirt. She was in shorts and running shoes, and with her long red hair down and loose, she could have easily passed for the other kids’ older sister, maybe eighteen or twenty years old.

Hardy stood up by his low wall, continuing to watch their approach. The kids were playing like puppies, poking at each other, tickling and laughing. This silliness often if not always drove Hardy crazy at home, especially in the past few months. Suddenly, at this remove, he could view it a little more objectively. His children were doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing. They were good kids suddenly on a surprise vacation, and they were having a great, appropriate, carefree, and healthy time with each other.

What, Hardy wondered, was
his
problem that he couldn’t enjoy them more?

Now Rebecca had her arm around Vincent’s shoulder—they were almost exactly the same height. Suddenly Frannie skipped a couple of quick steps downhill and caught up with them with a joyous yell, a tickling goose under each of their ribs. “Gotcha!” More screams, more laughing, the kids turning back on their mother now, darting in and out of her reach while she parried and thrusted to keep them away. Hardy almost couldn’t imagine the level of pure fun they all seemed to be having.

He started crossing the street as Vincent broke away after his latest raid. They’d now come down to about a block from Hardy, and his son stopped and stared down at him. After a beat, the recognition became certain, and he screamed in what seemed complete abandonment and happiness. “Dad!” Five seconds later, he plowed into Hardy at full speed, arms and legs all around him. Then a real hug before Hardy put him down. “I didn’t think you were coming. Mom said you were too busy.”

“I decided not to be.”

Rebecca, too, ran down and threw her arms around him. “I’m so glad you’re here, Daddy. It’s such a perfect day, isn’t it? I can’t believe how beautiful it is here. I am
so
happy.”

“Me, too.” Hardy held her for a moment, then raised a hand, sheepishly greeting his wife. “Hi.”

She had her arms crossed. “Hi.”

Rebecca, who never missed a thing, asked, “Are you guys mad at each other? You’re not getting divorced, are you?”

“Never,” Hardy said, still holding his daughter. “Even if we were mad, we wouldn’t get divorced.”

“You’re sure?”

“Jeez, Beck.” Vincent didn’t have much patience for his sister’s paranoia. “How many times they got to tell you? They’re not getting divorced.” He whirled on his parents. “Right?”

“Right,” Hardy said.

Frannie still hadn’t ventured a word on the subject, but suddenly the expression of frustrated bemusement that she’d been holding shifted, and she walked the remaining few steps to where Hardy stood with his arms around the Beck. “I love your father very much,” she said, planting a kiss on his cheek, “and we will never get divorced, ever.” She gave him a long look. “Although someday I might have to kill him.”

His daughter’s jaw dropped, her eyes wide in terror. “Mom!”

“Joke, Beck. Joke.” For his parents’ benefit, Vincent rolled his own eyes at his sister’s stupidity. “Like she’s really going to kill Dad.” Suddenly, then, seeing an opening, he poked at her with a finger again. Immediately, with a squeal of delight, she spun out from Hardy’s embrace, after him down the hill.

Leaving Hardy and Frannie, standing there.

“Do you want me here?” he asked.

“Of course. Although I wish it didn’t have to take kidnapping your children to get your attention.”

“I wish that, too. But I guess sometimes it does.”

“I don’t think you’re hardwired for that. Maybe you could work on it.”

“That’s what I’m doing, believe it or not. I’m trying. Even as we speak,” he added. Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

She put an arm around his waist, started walking down the hill. “I’ll get over it.”

Bracco lived in three converted rooms over a stand-alone garage behind his father’s house out in the Sunset District, on Pacheco Street.

He’d been pulling long hours this past week, so this morning he slept in. After an hour on free weights, he’d done some jogging and eaten five bananas with most of a box of Wheaties. Now, showered and dressed, Darrel sat with his father at a wooden table by an open window in the kitchen. The back of the house had a southern exposure and sunlight washed half the table. From time to time, a wisp of breeze would ruffle the lace curtains at the window.

Angelo Bracco had once looked a lot like his son, and there was still a resemblance in the face. But he’d lost his wife six years before—she’d cooked him healthy meals and also kept him interested in looking good. After she was gone, he went back to meat and potatoes. Then he started driving for the mayor, sitting all day. In these past few years he’d bulked up to where his five-foot, nine-inch frame carried around two hundred and twenty pounds. This morning he was wearing a form-fitting T-shirt. After they’d had their first sips of coffee, Darrel decided to say something. “You know, you wanted, you could use my weights sometimes. They’re just sitting out there.”

His father chose not to answer directly. “I saw you go out this morning. How far’d you run?”

A shrug. “I don’t know. Five miles maybe. It was a good day for it.”

“Couldn’t resist, huh? Feel the burn, is that what they say?” Angelo sipped his coffee. “If I ran five miles, I’d drop dead.”

“You probably would, but you don’t start there. You work up to it.”

He saw that his son meant well, and nodded in acceptance. “Well, maybe I will.”

“I’d walk with you if you wanted. You got to start doing something, Dad. Lose a little of that.” He pointed at the belly. “They say walking is as good as running.”

“For what? You believe that?”

Darrel had to break a smile. “No. But it’s a start. But the weights…I mean, there’s lots of things nowadays. You could join a club, even.”

This brought an outright laugh. “Maybe I’ll walk, okay. Really. I’ll think about it. But a club is out, okay? If I’m going to be in that much pain, I don’t want anybody else to see it.” He sat up straighter in his chair, sucked his gut in marginally, then let it back out. “So is that why you knocked at my door? To preach me the benefits of working out?”

“No,” Darrel said soberly. “I just happen to notice my old man’s put on some weight and it’s probably not doing him a whole lot of good, that’s all. Maybe I’d like him to stay around a while longer, okay?”

“Okay.”

“So what I came over for is Harlen.”

“What about him?”

“Well, here it is Saturday and we’re both scheduled off, which I’ve got no problem with if nothing’s happening. Except now we’re in the middle of this homicide and we’ve got witnesses to interview if we’re going to get anywhere, which it seems like we might if we keep at it. But he’s got his family and it’s Saturday…I only just now talked to him.”

“So what’s your problem?”

“My problem is we’re partners and I don’t want to cut him out, but I want to go talk to some people.”

“So call him again, tell him what you’re going to do, and go do it.”

“That simple, huh?”

His father nodded. “It usually is.”

“Today’s date is April 14, 2000, Saturday. The time now is twelve twenty hours. This is Inspector Sergeant Darrel Bracco, star number one six eight nine. I am currently at a residence at 2555 Lake Boulevard. With me is Mrs. Jamie Rath, DOB 6/12/58. This interview is pursuant to an investigation of case number 002231977.”

 

Q:
Mrs. Rath, how well did you know Carla Markham?

A: She was my best friend. I’ve known her since our girls were in kindergarten together.

Q:
And when was the last time you saw her?

A: Last Tuesday. I went to her house when I heard what happened to Tim.

Q:
How late were you there?

A: I left around nine thirty, quarter to ten.

Q:
And who outside of the Markham family was still there when you left?

A: Dr. Kensing was still in the living room. But the rest of us left in kind of a knot.

Q:
Did you know Dr. Kensing before that night?

A: I knew of him, but we hadn’t met. I know Carla seemed surprised when he arrived.

Q:
Why was that?

A: Well…it was just awkward. He and Mr. Markham didn’t get along, and then him being the doctor that day. Of course, this is before I knew that Dr. Kensing had killed Tim.

Q:
I don’t think we know yet that he killed Mr. Markham.

A: Well, I do. And I think he almost expected Carla to thank him for getting rid of him. Except what Dr. Kensing didn’t know is that they’d patched it up.

Q:
You’re saying that prior to his death, Mr. and Mrs. Markham hadn’t been getting along, is that it?

A: That’s fair to say. But then, just this last weekend,

Carla told me that they patched things up. Tim bared his poor little psyche—told her all about his affairs, his job problems, the incredible stress, the creep. So she was hopeful. Again. That’s where they were on Tuesday, and it’s why she couldn’t believe he was gone, so suddenly. It was like whiplash.

Q:
Did she appear depressed to you? Any suggestion she might commit suicide?

A: No way. I’ve known Carla for nine years, Inspector.

For the last two of those, she’s been getting used to the idea of living without Tim. Why? Because she was going to leave him someday anyway. She knew that.

Q:
But you just said they’d patched things up.

A: This time. But who knew for how long? Tim would fail again eventually—that’s just who he was—and she’d wind up leaving him. She knew that, I’m sure, deep down. So it might have filled her with disappointment that he died, or even broken her heart at some level, but there had to be some relief there, too. And no way in the world would she kill herself over it.

 

Kensing walked up the six steps and pushed at the button next to the door of his old house on Anza Street. He still thought of it as his house and it made him sick to see how far Ann had let the place go. The once bright and appealing yellow paint had faded to a jaundiced pallor and was peeling everywhere. The white trim had gone gray. The shutter by the window nearest him hung at a cockeyed angle. The window boxes themselves had somehow misplaced even their dirt, to say nothing of the flowers he’d labored to establish in them. Back when he and Ann were good, they’d always kept the house up, even with all the hours they spent at their jobs. They’d found the time.

Now he looked down and saw that the corners of the stoop had collected six months’ worth of debris—flattened soda cans, old newspapers and advertising supplements still soaked from the recent storm, candy wrappers, and enough dirt, he thought, to make a start of refilling the window boxes.

Where was Ann? Dammit, if she was still asleep, he was going to have to do something, although what that might be he didn’t know. She should be awake at least to feed the kids. He pushed at the bell again, figured it must have stopped working, so he knocked. Hard. Three more times with his fist, shaking the door. He was turning to leave when he heard her voice.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Eric, Ann. Open up.”

“Didn’t you get my call?” she asked. “I called two hours ago.”

“Hi, Dad,” his nine-year-old yelled from inside.

“Terry, you be quiet!”

“Hi, Ter. Hi, girls. You there?”

He heard sounds from both of them, Amber and Caitlin.

“Stop that!” his wife yelled at the girls, then talked again through the door. “I left a message telling you not to come.” This was one of Ann’s favorite tricks. Although she knew that Eric had a cell phone and beeper, she’d only call at his condo and leave a message he wouldn’t get. Then she could be mad at him for being unreachable.

“Well, I never got it. Did you try the cell?”

“I didn’t think of it. I thought you’d be home.”

“Well, it was a nice morning. I went out for breakfast.”

“With your girlfriend, I suppose.”

He didn’t feel the need to answer that. Instead, he tried the knob. “Come on, Ann. You want to open the door?”

“I don’t think so. No.”

“Well, that’s going to make it a little tough for me to take the kids out to the ball game, isn’t it?” His schedule allowed him only rare visits with his children during the week, so he made it a point to take them on weekends. Ann, burdened by her life, as well, had always before been happy to pass them off to him. Until now.

“Ann? What’s this about?”

“You can’t see them.”

He kept his voice under control. “You want to open the door and we can talk about it?”