Hard Evidence

District Attorney Christopher Locke denied there was any ‘witch-hunt’ of Judge Fowler. The evidence,‘ he said, ’and we looked at it very closely for several months, strongly implicated the judge. But the jury has spoken. That’s how it works. That’s the end of it.‘

Asked if he was going to pursue another investigation into the death of Owen Nash, Locke said that that was up to the police department. ‘If they bring us another suspect and new evidence, of course we’ll move on it immediately.’ There are, however, no new suspects at this time.

Judge Fowler plans to spend the next few weeks in Hawaii and then resume his position as a partner in the firm of Strand, Worke & Luzinski.

Hardy sat across from Jeff Elliot’s desk in the Chronicle Building. ‘What do you mean Celine didn’t do it? What about everything I found out in Santa Cruz?’

‘Speaking of which, I trust you had a good time,’ Hardy said. ‘You should have, for four hundred dollars. What costs four hundred dollars in Santa Cruz?’

Elliot said, straight-faced, ‘I think we rode the Roller Coaster a hundred and forty times each. But listen, getting back to this thing, my story -’

Hardy stopped him. ‘All you found out was she might not have been there, right?’

Elliot nodded.

‘You got anything anywhere that puts her on the boat?’

‘No.’

‘Ask yourself why this sounds familiar.’ Hardy hated to take Jeff’s story away, but he wasn’t in the prosecution business anymore. ‘Look, Jeff, you can try to get some police action on this, but they won’t thank you for it. I’ve tried, I know. Owen Nash gives everybody downtown a bad headache. You got any reason why you think Celine might have done it, other than I told you she might have?’

Jeff shrugged. ‘Somebody lies about their alibi -’

‘Everybody has lied about their alibi in this case. Or looked like they have.’ He put a hand on Jeffs shoulder. ‘You’re welcome to it, Jeff, but it’s a dry well. It’s just another maybe.’

Elliot turned to his computer, squinted at something, came back to Hardy. ‘What made you change your mind? I got the impression you honestly thought she’d done it.’

Hardy crossed a leg over another one. ‘That was before my client was cleared, Jeff. If I’d needed to find out who killed Nash to get Fowler off, I suppose I would have kept on it. But now… Andy didn’t do it. That was my main interest.’

‘You’re not curious?’

Hardy got cryptic. ‘No. I know everything I need to.’

‘Keeping life simple, right?’

Hardy nodded. ‘Something like that.’

On December 21, Hardy stood holding Rebecca in one arm and a package in the other at the Clement Street post office. With the Christmas rush, he had waited for almost twenty minutes by the time he got to the window.

The clerk took the package, a box about two-by-three inches. ‘No way,’ he said.

‘No way what?’ Hardy asked.

‘Christmas, man. There’s no way.’ The clerk looked at the address. ‘I were you, I’d just deliver it. It’s only half a mile, if that. Be there in fifteen minutes. Nice houses up there. I love it when it’s lit up.’

‘It’s not a Christmas present,’ Hardy said, ‘it doesn’t have to get there any time.’

‘Probably won’t make it till New Year.’

‘That’s okay. It doesn’t matter.’

The clerk shook the box. ‘It’s not fragile, is it? Sounds like keys or something.’

‘That’s what it is,’ Hardy said. ‘Somebody lost some keys.’

He read about it on the day his son, Vincent, was born. He was still in St. Mary’s hospital, on the top of the world. He had spent the night coaching Fra

Fra

That afternoon Uncle Moses brought Rebecca by. He also brought the day’s newspaper. After Moses had gone, Fra

Hardy closed the paper. Out the window of the hospital room, the day was fading into an overcast dusk.

A while later, they brought Vincent in for feeding. Hardy gave Fra

‘Are you all right?’ Fra

Hardy shook himself away from his thoughts. He got up from his chair and came over to her bed. Lifting the sleeping Beck onto him, squeezing in next to Fra

‘You know what,’ she said. ‘That’s not the world. The world is on this bed right now.’

Fra

John Lescroart

JOHN LESCROART, the New York Times best-selling author of such novels as The Mercy Rule, The 13th Juror, Nothing but the Truth, and The Hearing, lives with his family in northern California.