Hard Evidence

‘Well, she talked to me that once.’

‘Why did she do that?’

‘I don’t really know. I called and she happened to answer the phone. Usually it was set to her machine. But she picked up, so we talked.’

‘And just casually talking, she happened to mention that her Beretta was in the desk at the side of Owen Nash’s bed on board the Eloise?’

‘No, it wasn’t quite like that.’

‘Would you tell us, please, what it was quite like?’

Hardy looked at the clock. She had at least another hour today and she was, to his regret, hammering at the evidence they did have, avoiding for the moment the entire consciousness-of-guilt issue, although he knew that too would come. Also, and perhaps worse, Andy seemed to be losing it a little, begi

‘Let’s talk about Mr Turkel again. You’ve testified that you were curious about why Ms Shi

‘That’s right.’

‘And so you hired Mr Turkel?’

Short questions, little tugs on the trousers. But they were doing the job.

Fowler nodded wearily. ‘Yes, I hired Mr Turkel.’

‘How much did he charge you?’

‘I think it was about a hundred and thirty-five dollars a day, plus expenses.“

Pullios brought in the jury again. ‘One hundred thirty-five dollars a day. And did you pay for his plane fare out here?’

‘Yes.’

‘And back?’

She brought out that he had spent over $1,500 to obtain detailed information on Owen Nash and May Shi

‘Why, nothing. I just wanted to know, as I’ve explained.’

‘You paid fifteen hundred dollars to find out something about which you intended to do nothing?’

That’s right.‘

Hardy was nervous. Confidence eroding, his client, now into his third hour on the stand, eyes shifting from Pullios to Hardy to the judge, was coming across, body language and all, like a pathological liar.

Pullios saw that, of course, and it led her naturally into all the real lies – to his friends, associates, to anyone who would listen.

And then, finally, the litany of his admitted transgressions designed to show Andy’s consciousness-of-guilt. How long have you been on the bench? Did you swear a sacred oath never to subvert the judicial process? Have you ever previously recused yourself from a case? Oh? Several times? Were the grounds as strong as they were here? Had he ever even heard of another judge putting up bail for a defendant? On and on and on.

Hardy took a page of notes, then gave up on it. Pullios wasn’t twisting the facts – she was using them very effectively to create a character and a circumstance that made murder not only seem consistent but inevitable.

At a quarter to five she finished at last and turned Fowler back to Hardy for redirect. He only had one area to which he wanted to return, where he thought he might be able to repair some of the damage.

‘Mr Fowler, was your conduct regarding the May Shi

‘Objection.’ Pullios was sounding a little weary. Chomorro knew the end was in sight and cut Hardy a little slack. ‘Overruled.’

Hardy repeated the question and Fowler, on the stand, nodded. ‘Yes, it was.’

‘And you were, in fact, disbarred for what Ms Pullios has been calling your egregious misconduct?’

Hardy knew that Andy had been reprimanded, but not otherwise disciplined on the Shi

‘Are you, in fact, as we sit here now, a member in good standing of the state bar?’

‘I am.’

‘All right, thank you.’

63

Fowler had wanted to talk. Jane wanted to argue. Fran-nie, he was sure, wanted him to come home. Jeff Elliot had arrived in the gallery and wanted an interview.

But Celine had been leaving the courtroom and there wasn’t time for any of that. He had stuffed his papers into his briefcase earlier and now, making excuses, pushed his way through the gallery and out into the hallway. She was fifty feet ahead of him as she left the building through the back door by the morgue.

A cold night had fallen. The air still felt damp from the storm, although it had stopped raining. Hardy jogged to keep close. He too was parked in the back lot and got to his car about when Celine reached hers. He left the lot three cars behind her and followed her uptown across Market to Van Ness, then north to Lombard, always keeping at least one vehicle between them. He had to run only two red lights.

On Lombard, as she turned west, he ventured closer in the lane next to her. She drove a little over the speed limit but not recklessly. For a moment as they approached the Golden Gate Bridge turnoff, he felt a moment of panic -he was wrong and she was going to Sausalito or somewhere, maybe to visit Ken Farris.

But she took the turnoff, avoiding the bridge, and swung out through the swaying eucalyptus of the Presidio. He had never been to her house. He didn’t know where she lived. But he was certain she was going home.

He might have guessed. Her house was less than three blocks from her late father’s palace in the Seacliff section, really not so far from his own house in distance, although light years away in other respects. Celine’s place, however, was not a palace – it didn’t appear much bigger than Hardy’s.

She turned into the driveway and he pulled up to the curb across the street and killed his lights.

This, he knew, was a long shot, but it had come to him last night as the only possibility left to break the evidence deadlock. If Celine still had her key to the Eloise, it would be over. It was the only explanation of the missing gun, how it had come back into the drawer after he had seen it empty on Wednesday night. What he had to do was get it, find it on her, in her possession.

Ring the bell, knock her down, tie her up and search the house – but he couldn’t do that. He had to wait. She could be flushing it down the toilet, throwing it into the garbage. But he didn’t think she’d do anything like that. She’d want it out of the house, away from the area entirely. If she had it, her nature would make her get rid of it dramatically. He hoped. So he waited.

A light went on in the upstairs window, her shadow moving across it. Even in the cold, he realized his palms were sweating. What was he doing this for? He should have somehow cajoled or forced Abe to come along. But here he was. He waited.

The light went out, then another one downstairs. He heard a door slam, then a car door open and close, and he turned on his own ignition.

With his lights off, he swung a U-turn and followed her back the way she had come on the El Camino del Mar. But she only drove for about three minutes before pulling into the darkened parking lot at Phelan Beach.

The night was eerily still after the rain. Eucalyptus leaves scratched and clacked overhead; a foghorn bellowed from far away.

Hardy had let her get into the trees before he parked by the entrance and started to jog, again, through the light forest.

She had driven to the front of the lot, turned off her engine, doused her lights. The Golden Gate Bridge loomed spectacularly overhead in the clear night air. The door opened and she got out and, without turning or hesitating, started for the beach.

A three-quarter moon reflected off the water, casting a light shadow as she walked unhurriedly across the sand. Hardy got to the edge of the beach and pulled off his shoes. She was halfway to the water when he broke into a run toward her.

She heard. As he closed the distance, she turned.