Hardy nodded. 'That's how it looks, but-'

Palm out, Ron stopped him. 'Please. May I? So my hope is that I won't have to do all this again - move my family, start over. I've already done it once, as you know. But the idea of doing it again...' He drew in a breath. 'I'd rather avoid that, and maybe I can.'

'How's that?'

'If they find who did it.'

This was what Frannie had suggested only a few hours earlier, but Hardy was d.a.m.ned if he was going to make the same argument he'd made to her. He could be a lot more straightforward here. He heard his volume going up. 'And what if they don't, Ron? How about that?'

'Then on Tuesday, the kids and I, we go. And Frannie can talk.'

'She can tell the grand jury you've kidnapped your kids?'

'I don't see it that way, but yes.'

'Put the FBI on your a.s.s?'

A weak smile. 'They've been there before. They won't find me.'

'And Frannie gets out of jail? She tells them everything?'

'Yes. You have my word. Meanwhile, if Bree's killer is found' - he indicated the kids' bedroom - 'those guys maybe get to go back to a normal life. That's all I want, really.'

And here was Frannie's impetus in deciding to ask her husband to help her maybe-lover. Save some lives, she'd said, and he'd let himself be persuaded that she was talking about their own family.

But no.

Again, it was Ron. His kids.

Hardy knew nothing of the truth about Ron and Frannie, about Ron and his earlier marriage, the custody battle, Bree or her life or any of the political issues surrounding it. Three days wasn't enough time, even if he had an entire police department working with him, even if he was motivated to do it.

Which he wasn't.

He couldn't use his cop friends, his lawyer connections, or any of his personal channels because he'd sworn himself to secrecy. Finding a likely suspect for Bree's murder was a ridiculous notion. And why would he want to anyway? Ron Beaumont might not be anything he appeared right now. It might all be an act.

Help the man? Hardy still didn't feel as if he'd completely ruled out killing him.

Hardy glanced at the note a last time, folded it over, and jammed it into his pocket.

Ron, seeing this, picked a bad moment to comment. 'We can do this,' he said, all sincerity.

And Hardy suddenly lost all his patience, slapping a palm loudly on the table in front of him, raising his voice in a rage. 'What is this "we" s.h.i.t? There's no "we" here. There's me and what I need to do for my family. Then there's you. And don't kid yourself - they're nothing like the same thing!'

Not trusting himself to keep his anger checked any further - he might pull that gun out after all - he got up and abruptly strode across to the door.

'You're not leaving?'

This wasn't Ron's voice and Hardy's surprise at the sound of it whirled him around. It was Ca.s.sandra, standing in the doorway to the suite. It was obvious that she had been crying, though now she had gotten herself back under control. 'Please, Mr Hardy, you can't leave.' At her father. 'We do need help, Daddy. He can help us. Rebecca says that's really what he does. That's why he can almost never be home, because he's helping other people.'

The innocent, unintended stab slashed deeply across Hardy's insides. But Ron kept to the point, not the subtext, answering his daughter calmly. 'I think he can, too, honey, but it's not my decision.'

There was a tentative knock from the children's door and now Max stuck his head through the crack. 'I'm sorry. I covered my head with the pillow, but I still couldn't help hearing you yelling.' He looked from Hardy to Ron. 'Are you all mad at each other?'

Ca.s.sandra reached back and put her arm around her brother. 'We're scared, Daddy. What's going to happen?'

'It's all right, hon, there's nothing to be scared of. Daddy's right here.'

Ron cast a glance at Hardy and went to stand up, but his daughter had advanced a step into the room, trailed by Max who now held on to her hand. The little girl's face was set with determination. Another step and she spoke right to Hardy. 'Mr Hardy, didn't you come here to try to help us? Is that true?'

Hardy stammered. 'Well, I...'

'Because we can't go back to Dawn. They can't make us do that. Even Max remembers...' The tears had begun again. 'We just want to stay with Daddy and have everything be like it was again.'

Max piped in through his own tears. 'And Bree back, too, please. I want Bree back.'

'Oh, guys...' Ron went to stand up. But Ca.s.sandra didn't move toward him. She had her eyes on Hardy. 'Do you have to be our lawyer to help us? Is that how it works? How do you become our lawyer?'

Hardy crossed over near her, went down to one knee, and tried a tired smile. 'It's not that. It's that I don't know what I can do, Ca.s.sandra. It's complicated. Rebecca's mother's in a lot of trouble, too, and I've got to help her. She's got to be my first priority. You can understand that.'

But the girl was persistent. 'Maybe you could do both, though? And Daddy isn't sure what to do right now.'

Ron reached out to her. 'Oh, sweetie, come here. Both of you guys.' Ron was holding out his hands and the kids went to him. He enveloped them both in his arms, in a strong and soothing fatherhood. 'Come on, now, come on. There's nothing to be scared of. Let's say goodnight to Mr Hardy and go back to bed. It'll all look better in the morning.'

But Ca.s.sandra turned. 'Please, Mr Hardy, if you can.'

12.

It was Monday, October 5, less than a week after Bree Beaumont's death. In fact, it was the day she was to be buried. Baxter Thorne, a portly man with a gray goatee, a soft-spoken manner, and a gentle disposition, nervously paced the floor behind his computer banks in his office on the thirtieth floor of Embarcadero Two. Outside his inoperable windows, it was a gloriously clear day, with boats on the Bay and Treasure Island a nine-iron pitch across a mile and half of blue water. But Thorne had no use for the view. He'd told the cop - Griffin - he'd be here first thing in the morning. He had no idea what the man might have found, but the fact that he knew of Baxter Thorne's existence at all was a very bad sign.

The sign on Thorne's door announced that these were the offices of the Fuels Management Consortium - FMC. In fact, the organization was the center for the lobbying efforts of one of the country's two multinational farming conglomerates. Spader Krutch Ohio, SKO, along with its chief compet.i.tor Archer Daniels Midland, ADM, was one of the country's leading producers of ethanol. But while ADM was colloquially known by the benign nickname of 'Supermarket to the World,' SKO's reputation was somewhat less savory.

SKO had been having a rough time in the last several years, and Thorne had been a.s.signed to California to direct a campaign on behalf of its interests - he'd proven himself as a creative media consultant.

SKO might be Thorne's biggest client, but the quiet, well-mannered gentleman with the goatee worked to please himself. He had a persuasive way with words, true, and could sway opinion with his pen. If his clients believed that his silver tongue and lucid prose alone were converting the mult.i.tudes, Thorne was happy to let them. But in reality, he knew better.

Sometimes, to be effective, you simply had to shake things up.

And this was his real love - operations, wet work. It had lots of names. Thorne got his own personal jollies by pursuing an extra-legal agenda all his own. And it was far more extensive and dangerous than anything any of his clients would ever order or even, if they became aware of it, tolerate.

For example, two years before, SKO had been getting a lot of bad press. The company's CEO, Ellis Jackson, was fighting off charges of illegal campaign funding, gift-giving, and influence peddling. Because of this, the Senator from Kansas got cold feet and - reluctant to be identified with SKO - threatened to renege on his support of ethanol subsidies. This support was finally guaranteed by a donation of a million dollars to the Senator's campaign fund, but without Thorne it is doubtful that the Senator would have found a way to accept the gift.

On his own, Thorne had discovered the man's weakness for other young men. Then, Thorne had seen to it that one of these men had been on the corporate jet on the junket to Hilton Head. Finally, Thorne had decided precisely where to position the cameras.

But while Thorne loved his own covert operations more than anything else on earth, he didn't shrink from his nuts and bolts work - information management and spin control. In fact, the Fuels Management Consortium produced reams of paper every month for dissemination to radio shows, newspapers, think tanks, consultant firms and lobbyists.

In addition, Thorne's company produced campaign leaflets for political candidates who supported ethanol, or opposed MTBE, which amounted to the same thing. The most prominent of these was Damon Kerry, running for governor of California. Unfortunately, in Thorne's view, Damon Kerry was a man who did not appreciate the big picture. Like the Senator from Kansas, he didn't want to be publicly a.s.sociated with SKO, with its questionable lobbying history. Damon Kerry was pure - he wasn't proposing the use of ethanol. He wasn't being bought by any special interests, no sir. He was merely opposed to the cancer-causing alternative, MTBE.

So Damon Kerry's campaign was in the thick of the gasoline additive wars. Except one of the generals was ignorant of where he got his army.

Baxter Thorne came to California to bolster Kerry's campaign, but Kerry had rejected his advances. Fortuitously, Kerry's campaign manager was a young man named Al Valens. Greedy, unscrupulous, devious, and skilled, Valens was more than happy to accept Thorne's help as well as a little personal financial support. In the role of Kerry's best friend, consigliere, and strategist, Valens in fact was a double agent. His role was to keep his candidate focused on the evils of Big Oil.

All things considered, and up until last night, when the cop called, Thorne had believed that things were going pretty well. Kerry had come from nowhere to get within spitting distance of his opponent, and with a couple of good spins and perhaps a trick or two, Thorne was confident he could eliminate that gap and bring his boy home.

But suddenly, there was a problem. The d.a.m.ned Beaumont woman, and some homicide cop with an alleged connection to the Fuels Management Consortium that he wanted to talk about.

Thorne looked at his watch for the fiftieth time. He was on time. Where was Griffin? What the h.e.l.l did he think he knew?

From long experience in the political arena, Thorne had learned to distrust first impressions. There were a host of fat, slovenly, boorish elected officials in this country who were powerful, decisive, and dangerous. He wasn't sure where he was going to place Griffin just yet. From all appearances, the inspector was unimpressive, but the fact that he was sitting here at FMC meant that he'd made some unsettling connections. Something might be going on between the man's ears.

So Thorne was playing it close, as was his inclination in any event. He smiled in his benign fashion, and spoke in kindly and professorial tones. 'I'm afraid I don't see anything sinister in Bree Beaumont having some of our literature at her apartment. She was in the combustion business, wasn't she?'

Griffin had stuffed himself into one of the secretary s rolling chairs and now was hunched forward, one leg awkwardly crossed over the other, rocking as though maybe he thought the chair was a rocker. But Thorne didn't think this was nerves. Under the working-cla.s.s nonchalance, Griffin was intense as a surgeon. He didn't bother with returning any smiles. 'Yeah, we got your letterhead at the scene,' he said. 'I got that. But then I got Valens!

'Al Valens?'

This did bring a smile. 'Don't bulls.h.i.t a bulls.h.i.tter, Mr Thorne. Al Valens. Your guy with Damon Kerry.'

This was truly alarming, and Thorne had to struggle to retain his equanimity. There was no way anybody official - much less this oafish flatfoot - should know about Thorne's relationship with Al Valens. If that became public, if Damon Kerry discovered that he was being deceived by his campaign manager, it would be the end of months of work, of a program that was on the verge of success.

So, his brain now on full alert, Thorne smiled again and leaned back in his chair, bringing his fingertips together over the tweedy vest that b.u.t.toned over his stomach. 'How do you conclude that this Mr Valens is my guy, as you put it?'

'I got a better one,' Griffin replied. 'How about if I ask the questions since that's what I'm here for? In exchange I don't bring you downtown.'

Thorne tried a little humor, to soften things here. 'I've always considered that these offices were downtown.'

Griffin 's face was a slab of meat. 'What do you know about Valens' relationship with Bree Beaumont?'

There was nothing to do but stonewall until Thorne discovered a little more about what Griffin knew as well as the source of it. 'I don't know anything about his relationship with Bree Beaumont.'

'But you admit that you do know him? Valens?'

'I didn't say that.' He certainly wasn't ready to admit it, and Griffin had just cued him that he was fishing. Thorne reminded himself - the flip side of first impressions - that sometimes people looked and acted stupid because they were. 'But you've obviously heard that I do.' He ventured an educated guess. 'Jim Pierce?'

Pierce was an executive vice president of Caloco and, Thome had heard, ex-lover of Bree Beaumont. When she'd left the oil company to join Kerry, there'd been hard feelings all around. Pierce had the money and the motivation to discredit Kerry, and to make Bree see the error of her new ways and come back to him and Caloco.

Griffin looked at his notepad, and this verified Thorne's suspicion. Poker wouldn't be this inspectors game. 'Because if it was Pierce, you've got to seriously consider the source.' He held up a hand. 'Now I'm not telling you what to think, but Jim Pierce? Jesus!'

'What about him?'

'He's Big Oil, is what.' Thorne sighed. 'Look, sergeant, I'm a consultant in this business. I know the players. And Pierce is a very big player. So here's what happens. If Kerry gets elected, which isn't looking too bad right now, Pierce s people, the petroleum folks, they're going to take the big hit on... you know about MTBE?'

Griffin nodded. 'Lately, yeah, I've heard of it.'

'Well, take my word on it, that's what this is about. Three billion a year goes down the drain if Kerry wins, so Pierce is trying to disrupt the campaign!'

Griffin seemed to remember what his original position had been. 'So you're saying you're not involved with Valens? That's your story?'

Another avuncular shake of the head. 'I don't have a story, sergeant. All I know about Bree Beaumont's death is what I've read in the paper. I'm especially saddened because, frankly, she was starting to make a real difference in the public's perception of the dangers of MTBE, which are substantial. Also, quite honestly, several of my clients stood to benefit from her recent work. As did Kerry and probably Valens. Not only is there no motive there, there's a positive disincentive!'

Thorne was fairly certain he'd deflected Griffin again from pursuing his own relationship with Valens. But he thought he could push things even further. 'Look, sergeant, I don't mean to speak out of turn, but let me guess what Mr Pierce told you - he said that Al Valens hated Bree, didn't he? That Al was jealous of all the attention Kerry was giving to Bree. Something like that, am I right?'

An ambiguous shrug.

'And who's the guy who tells you all this? Only the guy whose business is in the c.r.a.pper if Bree succeeds, who by the way just got dumped by her personally!'

Griffin finally showed a spark. 'You know that?'

'Word on the street!' Thorne returned Griffin's open look - he'd answered his questions, been straight with the police. If there was anything more, he'd continue to cooperate. But his message was clear - Griffin was barking up the wrong tree here.

Finally, the sergeant straightened his body and grunted his way up out of his chair. 'I know where to find you,' he said.

A last smile. 'I'm not going anyplace! Thorne extended a hand and after a beat Griffin took it.

'Listen to me, Al. The man was here. I don't know for sure what Pierce told him, but it wasn't news to him that you hated the woman!'

Al Valens swore. Then. 'Did he mention the report? Did he know anything about that?'

'No. I don't think he'd know what it was if it bit him. But he'd obviously been to her place and gone through her papers, some with my letterhead!'

'How'd she get those?'

Thorne's voice took on a mild tone of reproach. 'Well, Al, I was going to ask you the same thing.'

Valens took it in silence. 'So where'd you leave it?'

'I sent him back to Pierce.'

Valens was silent for a long moment. 'How close was he to us?'

'Way too. But now he's looking at Pierce, who had every reason. More than every reason.' Thorne smiled thinly. 'I think Sergeant Griffin will come to the conclusion that Mr Pierce must have done it. And with no physical evidence, he'll have to go to the strongest motive.'

But Valens didn't sound convinced. 'What if he comes back to us, though? After all we've-'

Thorne cut him off. 'Al, he wants to catch a killer. Our arrangement is not his area of interest. He won't be looking this way.'

Valens' voice betrayed the panic Thorne knew he must be feeling. 'But what if he does, Baxter? What if he does?'

Thorne spoke in his most soothing tones. 'Then he'll have to be managed, that's all.'

The limousine bearing the Democratic candidate for governor pulled up to where a crowd of perhaps a hundred citizens waited in the chill by the Union Square entrance to the Saint Francis Hotel.