Chapter Two
Harper finally left. Hardcastle watched his departure with a mixture of guilt and nagging curiosity. As the last glimmer of taillights disappeared around the curve of the drive, he let out a thoughtful sigh and glanced at the gate house. The lights were still on there; leave it to McCormick not to be conveniently indisposed.
Maybe he'd just been too tired to get up and hit the switch. Maybe he'd be planked out on the sofa with one leg elevated, already starting to snore. It was possible, and the possibility lent enough hope to get Hardcastle across the drive and up to the door. He even knocked—more of a tap, really—and followed that with a nudging of the door and a quiet inquiry, "You up?"
The response was a grumbled, "Yeah, 'course I'm up."
Hardcastle entered, trying not to look reluctant. McCormick was, much as expected, on the couch, having exchanged his jeans for a pair of cutoffs that revealed the gauze pads taped to his left thigh. The judge stepped over and stared down at those for a moment, frowning.
"How many?"
"Three. I got one out and one was just a gouge."
"Are you sure you shouldn't—?"
"I'm sure." McCormick interrupted impatiently. Then he glanced down at his first aid handiwork dismissively and up at Hardcastle, still standing there, still frowning. "Just like I'm sure you didn't come over here to critique my Red Cross skills. Frank gone?"
"Yeah," Hardcastle admitted. "Couple minutes ago—rest of the crew, too."
Mark nodded. "Helps when the frame is all nice and neat. Nothing sticking out around the edges." He squinted up at Hardcastle. "We gotta get some better locks around here." He paused, as if he were putting it on his mental to-do list, and then added, "So what else happened today that you wanted to tell me about?"
It was matter-of-fact, but still jerked Hardcastle out of his momentary pondering long enough to say, "Huh?" and focus more sharply on the younger man.
Mark was still gazing up at him—a little more fixedly, if it wasn't the judge's own guilty imagination lending an edge to it.
"Ah…" he said, then lowered himself into the chair opposite the sofa. "What makes you think—?"
"Cut to the chase, Judge. I'm already up past my bedtime and I took a couple of buckshot—how much worse can it be, whatever it was you didn't want to tell me when you got home?"
Hardcastle's frown deepened. "You mean you knew…"
"Yeah," McCormick managed a crooked half-smile, "the thing where you sit out in the driveway in the car—it's a tell."
"Then why didn't you—?"
"I was probably in denial. I'd had a pretty productive afternoon and maybe I thought things were looking up. Why ruin a moment like that?" Mark sighed. "They're so rare."
Hardcastle thought about that one only momentarily before giving it a nod.
"So?" Mark hadn't lost sight of the original point, it seemed. He sat there, waiting, with a look of dread expectation.
Hardcastle let out a long breath, took in another one, and launched into a summary of the afternoon's discovery, describing how the late Professor Hawksworth had gotten gunpowder residue on his favorite tweed jacket pursuing the honorable sport of shooting skeet with Clement Upton, a man who also no longer appeared to be a conspirator.
It was a short tale, and the point wasn't lost on McCormick, who muttered gloomily, "I knew today was going too well. What'd Frank say?"
"Ah," Hardcastle glanced to the side and tried for nonchalant, "nothing."
Mark looked puzzled. "You mean he doesn't think this is going to put the DA back on my tail for Randy's death?"
"No," Hardcastle gave up the pretense abruptly, "I mean I didn't tell him…yet."
He watched McCormick's expression shift from merely puzzled to outright baffled. "But it's evidence. It's kinda critical evidence."
"Well, maybe not critical—"
"Anyway," Mark pushed on stubbornly, "Upton knows, and now you know, and how long before somebody else knows and figures out you knew. This is concealing evidence, or interfering with a police investigation or…something."
"No," the judge said patiently, "it's none of the above. There's nothing in the law that compels a person to proffer incidental information to the authorities. On top of which, this is only circumstantial evidence for the possible innocence of a man who is never going to be charged with anything because he's already dead."
McCormick's expression hadn't changed one iota.
"But, yeah," Hardcastle sighed, "it's wrong. Not to mention it'd be a helluva lot more damaging if it came out later."
"So why didn't you tell Frank?"
"Because I hadn't told you, that's why. I didn't want you to be blindsided. I just didn't know you were gonna trip over a booby trap and Frank'd be on our doorstep before dinner."
"Oh." Mark paused as though he were thinking that over. His expression went grim as he came to the obvious conclusion. "So you'll tell him tomorrow."
Hardcastle nodded, looking just as dour.
"How long, then, after that?" Mark asked quietly. He didn't have to explain what he meant.
"A day, or two maybe. Frank'll probably bury it in a report but he'll have to send it along. Upton's name'll jump out at anyone who bothers to read it, and then they'll send an investigator out to interview him."
"And then they'll put two and two together and think maybe ol' McCormick wasn't such a bad guess for Randy's murder after all."
"They'll want to question you some more, that's all," Hardcastle insisted stoutly.
"Probably one or two days," Mark looked focused, "two most likely, before they haul me back in. Then fifty-fifty they'll hang onto me."
"Pessimist."
"No, a pessimist would say eighty-twenty. That pardon I got doesn't create amnesia; it just makes 'em think I got lucky. 'Pardoned felon' isn't much better than ex-con to these guys."
Hardcastle humphed. "All right, so we've got two days, maybe three. We better make the most of it."
"You mean I should finish the lawn first thing in the morning?"
"No, I mean you should try and get some sleep tonight. I'll spend some time with the list, try and work out our next most likely prospects."
"Try not to dig up any more alibis for Hawksworth."
Hardcastle gave that a grim nod. "Yeah." Then he looked frowned abruptly. "You know, we must've shaken something loose. Somebody did try to kill you tonight. We probably oughta draw the wagons up in a circle."
"Uh-uh." McCormick said wearily. "I'm too tired to move to the main house and, besides, the way things are going, my best bet is if they try again."
00000
For better or worse, the rest of the night passed uneventfully, though Hardcastle hadn't gotten much sleep. He wasn't surprised to hear movement downstairs not long after sun-up. He climbed out of bed and pulled on some clothes but left the shotgun propped by the nightstand because, unless it was an assassin who believed in a balanced breakfast, the clatter of frying pan and cabinet doors sounded reassuring.
The coffee had already been set to brew, suggesting that McCormick's night hadn't been any more restful than his own. Hardcastle didn't bother to ask. The slight limp and the tense expression were enough. The younger man had plenty of tells of his own.
"Nobody tried to off me last night," Mark grumbled by way of a greeting. He sounded disappointed.
"How's the leg?"
He shrugged and filled a second cup, then set them both on the table. "Stiff. You want some eggs?"
Hardcastle cocked his head. "You oughta be letting me do the fetching and carrying."
"Not that stiff. Besides, you're the one with the busy day—seeing Frank, chasing down leads. You do have some leads to chase down, don't you?" There was a plaintive tone to that, but Hardcastle was fresh out of false reassurance and, hearing none, McCormick cut to the matter at hand.
"What time are you going to see Frank?" He'd managed to keep it nonchalant, turning back to the pan on the stove as he said it.
The judge had been pondering that very question for part of the night. Frank wouldn't buy the excuse that it had just slipped his mind the day before, and while he might accept that McCormick had deserved to hear the bad news first, that still wouldn't explain a whole day's delay.
But just a little more delay, and the usual slow cranking of the investigatory gears, might buy them an extra day or two before the authorities decided to haul McCormick in for another round of questioning. A couple of days, even one day, might make a big difference.
"This morning," he finally said, trying not to sound resigned. Then he brightened slightly. "Unless you think the leg's getting worse. I could run you over to the ER."
"All this avoidance…it's gonna look bad."
He was right. Hardcastle had to nod. "Okay, this morning for sure. But after being here so late last night, Frank won't even get in until nine or nine-thirty I'll bet." He hesitated a moment before adding, "Maybe you ought to come along."
McCormick cast a sharp look over his shoulder. "To the station? Are you out of your mind?"
"Somebody did try to kill you yesterday."
"So this is what, the buddy system? No thanks. If they want me, they'll have to come and get me."
He hadn't made it clear if he meant anonymous assassins or the LAPD. Hardcastle suspected the policy applied to both.
"Okay," he said reluctantly. "Just stay out of trouble while I'm gone, will ya?"
00000
It was shortly after ten when Hardcastle pulled into the lot at the station. Frank's sedan was in its usual spot. The judge hadn't called ahead, half-hoping to miss him entirely on the first pass and be forced to leave a note, something obscure that ended with, "Give me a call later—no rush."
No luck. Where wasn't a cop when you didn't need him? Frank was sitting behind his desk, with a phone receiver to his ear, looking harried. Hardcastle didn't think it was his imagination—the man glanced up from whoever was giving him an unpleasant earful and looked not even a bit happy to see his old friend.
To the receiver he said, "Okay, yeah, I understand. Absolutely."
There wasn't even a perfunctory good-bye before he set it back in the cradle, but from the tone he'd used, Hardcastle would have guessed it the call was from someone higher up in the departmental food chain.
"Bad timing?" he asked politely. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder and added, "If it is, I can come back."
Frank looked tempted to take him up on that offer, but then, with just a moment's hesitation, gestured him into the office and said, "You might want to close the door."
He did. He took a seat, too, thinking that confessing his sin of omission might come across better if he seemed relaxed.
"There's something I meant to tell you yesterday. It kinda got lost in all the excitement."
Hardcastle sat there, mouth slightly agape, Frank having stolen the words right out of it. It took him only a split-second to shut it and nod once for the lieutenant to go on.
"That call I just got—that just makes it official. I had a heads-up on this yesterday—an 'anonymous judicial source'."
Hardcastle cocked his head. "Mattie?"
"Maybe. Anyway, the word was that one of the lab guys perjured himself two days ago. A murder trial. The judge who was hearing the case blew a gasket."
Hardcastle's eyes narrowed. "I'm gonna recognize this guy's name, huh?"
"The judge, or the technician?" Frank shook his head. "Never mind—you know 'em both." He opened his right-hand drawer and pulled out a file folder from where it had been conveniently stored. "The guy from the lab is Kennie Muller, sound familiar?" Frank held the folder out.
Hardcastle reached for it, flipped it open, and looked down at the top page stapled into it, the results on Hawksworth's jacket, gunpowder residue and all. He glanced up sharply. "Muller says he faked this report, too?"
"Not yet. But that phone call was was 'cause somebody down at the DA's office made the connection between our perjurer and this case. I'd call that fast work. And Judge Gault's demanding a grand jury to look into the whole thing."
"Oh, Winnie—it kinda makes sense now. He's got a short fuse."
Frank said nothing, the look alone was enough.
Hardcastle drew himself up a little straighter and said, "My fuse is plenty long." Then he paused, frowned slightly, and amended, "Longer than Winnie's, anyway."
"Doesn't matter," Frank pointed out. "You're not the one hollering about taking this to the board of commissioners. The DA's already starting an inquiry; they're yanking all the work Muller's handled, starting with the most recent."
Hardcastle set the folder down very carefully. He was aware that Frank was staring at him, that he ought to be concerned—hell, alarmed even. But he couldn't help it; he felt oddly buoyant, and it wasn't just because his own moment of confession had been suddenly tabled.
He smiled thinly at Harper. "You think it's all a coincidence? A lazy tech has been cutting corners and gets caught and, surprise, there's an inconvenient bit of evidence that needs to be retested?"
"I don't know what to think, Milt. All I know is that the residue on that jacket was the only thing keeping the heat of Mark. If it comes back clean—"
"I think it will," Hardcastle said.
Frank started at him in blank horror.
"You start out, a nice little plan." The judge sat back his seat, still smiling slightly. "You've got one or two co-conspirators, smart guys who know how to keep their mouths shut. It's easy, simple. Low stakes, even. Nobody's supposed to get hurt. Well, almost nobody. And then . . . look what happens."
Frank looked unhappy.
Hardcastle wasn't smiling now, either, but his expression was one of calm certainty. "Three dead bodies, booby traps, perjury, a grand jury. This guy's good—"
"What guy?"
"—He's got reach, I'll grant him that. But he's left too many handles on this thing."
"I'll settle for a list even," Frank said with a sigh.
"Forget the list; whoever it is, he's ready for anyone who comes at him head-on." Hardcastle sat forward, looking like he was done pondering. "I'd say try the handles. Pull on things till something shakes loose."
Frank gave him doubtful look and then shook his head slightly. "Okay, that's your department. I've got a lot less leeway. That was the other thing that phone call was about." He grimaced. "My 'prejudicial influence' on a case involving you and your protégé—they're complaining."
"'They'?"
"The anonymous kind of 'they'. If I'm measuring the trajectory right, though, it's coming from the DA's side."
Hardcastle gave that a moment's consideration. It wasn't exactly surprising. Most of the people who disapproved of him disapproved just as heartily of Harper's aiding and abetting him. It might be just that general on-going animosity or it might be yet another handle. Time would tell.
00000
McCormick considered spending the morning shopping for a new lawnmower and a better grade lock to replace the one that had been busted off the pool storage door, but somehow he didn't even think the soothing environs of Lumber World would do much for his disposition.
He even briefly regretted not having accompanied Hardcastle down to the station. It wasn't that he felt threatened; another attack would be more than welcome at this point. It was a nagging feeling that having an alibi was a good idea, without any certainty in which time frame one might come in handiest.
Once the breakfast dishes were done he called Amy London. No answer. He wondered if she was out blowing through her textbook resale money.
In the end he put on a clean shirt and a pair of Dockers and headed over to the university. He thought he'd stop by and say hello to Joe Perillo, thank him for the help retrieving Hawksworth's files—maybe Professor Kolper even, though he wasn't sure how direct he should be in expressing his gratitude there.
As he headed down the hall to Hawksworth's former office he tried not to analyze his intentions too closely—that he was running out of time and wanted to let the people who had stood by him know how much he'd appreciated it. It didn't pay to dwell on that right now.
There was someone in the outer office—he saw a shadow move across the frosted glass of the hallway door. Perillo, he figured, doing the tidying up from the previous day's printing marathon. He raised his hand to knock, just a perfunctory rap before he pushed the door open—he'd been in and out of the office quite a bit the past two days.
"Hey, just me," he said, by way of announcement.
The effect was impressive. Mrs. Trask—it was her, and apparently only her, in the outer office—whirled to face him and then let out a gasp and stepped back suddenly, nearly falling into the desk.
He stepped forward, reflexively, to help. She paled visibly and held up a hand, as if to ward him off.
"Sorry," he said, "sorry, didn't mean to startle you."
She'd found her voice, and he was glad that the first thing she did with it wasn't a piercing scream for help. It was a crisp interrogative that began, "Mr. McCormick, what are you doing here?"
It was a reasonable question. For all he knew, she might be under the impression that he'd done in the former occupant, her boss. Saying something to deny that would just be admitting that there was an elephant in the room. Instead he smiled—polite, not too effusive—and said, "Professor Kolper asked me to lend a hand with the computer."
She sniffed once, sharply. "He might have asked me. It is my system."
"I think everyone wanted to give you a little time away. Not bother you with stuff right now. You were Professor Hawksworth's secretary for a long time, weren't you?"
"Nearly fifteen years," she said. There was no sigh. She was entirely self-possessed now. Her gaze was riveting.
He tried not to flinch under it. It was oddly reminiscent of Sarah Wicks, without Sarah's underlying affection. Though he had to admit it had taken him awhile to perceive that in Hardcastle's housekeeper, too.
Kindly dragons, guarding the lairs. The thought flitted through his mind, but what he said was, "We managed to figure things out, but it took two of us. Me and Joe Perillo."
He'd hoped invoking the name of the wonder boy would gain him some cachet but apparently Mrs. Trask was hard to impress. There were no further sniffs, just a narrow suspicious look and a very perceptive observation.
"You were looking through his files."
Mark took only a split second, standing at the fork in the road, before turning his back on the path that led to perdition. It always looked rose-strewn but tended to get thorny quick enough. Instead, he went for the straight and narrow—flat-out honesty.
"We," he paused; he tried not to sigh.
Honesty.
He started again. "I wanted to see his schedule. See who he might have had an appointment with."
"The police already asked me about that—his visitors that day."
"I mean further back, before that."
"You mean who he might have been in cahoots with."
He couldn't help it; his expression tightened. Two murders, maybe three, and who knows what other conspiracy, made to sound no more serious than stealing apples from an orchard.
But, oddly, Mrs. Trask's own expression didn't lend any irony to her statement; maybe cahooting was strong stuff to her. He was beginning to get a glimmer of something other than unalloyed loyalty in the professor's former secretary.
"You didn't kill him, did you?" she asked quietly.
She was still gazing at him, as if to judge his first unspoken reaction. He hoped he hadn't flinched this time, either, it had been so unexpected—the elephant invoked.
"No," he said flatly. "When I got here, he was dead."
He said nothing further in his own defense. She was studying him with apparent care, though it wasn't immediately clear from her expression how she felt about his assertion.
She finally let out a long breath, took another in, and said, "Good. I rather liked you."
He tried not to look surprised. He must not have quite succeeded because she went on.
"I did, you know. He made some remarks when the incoming class list was sent over. He singled you out. Quite disapproving. You never noticed?"
There was a moment of studied silence and then he finally admitted, with a half crooked smile. "Well, it was hard to miss."
"Yes, you seemed fairly perceptive—well-spoken, too. You were not what I expected." She had come very close to a smile, just momentarily, but it didn't take. "He's been wrong before."
Mark noticed the use of the present tense, but then, it'd only been a little over a week since her long-time boss's death. To the rest of her assessment he gave nothing more than a minimalist nod intended to encourage further revelations.
For a moment it didn't look as if she were going to bite. She merely sighed again, drew herself up a little straighter, and looked around the office. She might have been bidding it all good-bye, but a distracted musing cancelled that impression abruptly.
"Now if I could just figure out what happened to that jacket."
"Ah…?"
She glanced back at him sharply. "The tweed. Don't tell me you never noticed. I never saw him without tweed. Certainly not on a class day."
Mark nodded. He wasn't sure if he should point out that it had gone with Hawksworth's corpse to the Medical Examiner's office, and thence, at Hardcastle's insistence, to the crime lab. His confusion must've shown on his face. She shook her head tightly as if she'd heard every word of his thoughts.
"Not that one. The other. You didn't think he'd wear the same one every day, did you?" She tsk'd at the notion.
"How many were there?"
"Two."
"And they're identical?" Mark asked casually.
"Yes, or nearly so. Harris—the classic cut, brown herringbone weave, 38 long. He bought them in pairs and alternated them."
"You thought it might be here?"
"Well, it wasn't at his apartment. I looked."
There'd been no blushing or hesitation. That she had a key to his place seemed to be a given, along with her knowing his suit size and brand.
"But it's not in the closet here, either," she added pensively. "And I'm certain I brought the spare one to him that Monday, right before all this started."
"You took care of his dry cleaning."
"Of course."
It was that and nothing more. Mark was sure of it. He abandoned all other notions, but he was still puzzled. "But why—"
"The jacket? For the funeral. There's going to be one eventually I'm sure." She set her lips in a tight, disapproving frown that was undoubtedly aimed at the inefficiency of it all. "Though the way things are going, we won't be having an open casket at the viewing." She paused, as if considering the distasteful consequences of delay. "Still," she sighed, "he'd want the tweed."
Mark was inclined to take her word for it. He nodded and then, with a note of sympathy, added, "I'm sure they'll be releasing the body any day now."
"I hope so," she said doubtfully, "but what about the jacket?"
"It'll turn up."
He didn't think he'd sounded all that convincing but she gave him a nod for the effort. Then she turned to the side, leaning down and riffling through the box of floppy disks on the floor there and finally picking them up, box and all, and setting them on the desk.
"Dean Thomas asked me to bring these over to the main office," she said, though Mark had pointedly not asked her what she was doing. "Academic information," she added, unconvincingly.
"Can I help you with that?" he asked. It was a little too belated; she was already standing.
"No, I can manage. Anyway, I don't think the dean is all that pleased with you right now, young man."
She'd hefted the box, which in truth seemed pretty manageable. He was standing now as well; it seemed like time to leave. He hurried to get the door for her. She turned and gave him just a glimmer of a smile—a fleeting thing, but surprising—as she brushed by him.
00000
He'd walked her to the elevator and out of the building, still feeing a little awkward about her insistence on handling the load by herself. She bade him farewell on the steps of the building, correctly presuming that he was heading toward the student parking lot, while she was going a half-block in the other direction, to Dodd Hall and the dean's office.
He glanced over his shoulder once, as he strolled away, then tucked his chin down and headed across the unusually empty lot toward his car. He'd drawn even with it, just rounding the rear corner, fishing in his pocket for his keys. It must have been his absorption—still mulling over his strange encounter with Mrs. Trask—but the screech of tires on pavement, a bad braking job, was his first awareness of the vehicle that had rocketed in behind him.
He spun to face it as the back door of the dark sedan opened and an oversized guy in a suit stepped out. This was no Harris tweed—something more in the sharkskin line.
"Get in," the guy said.
The too-familiar the bulge of a gun was there, under the suit, just below his left armpit. It wasn't out yet, though Mark felt as if that could change at any moment. Still, it hadn't been produced yet, and he thought the longer he played this out, the better the chance that somebody, anybody, would wander along and see what was happening.
He tried for a disarming smile and said, politely, "What if I say 'no'?"
Still no gun, but the guy didn't really need it to make a point. He growled, "My boss said to bring you. He don't like 'no'."
That was followed by a shrug, which loosened his jacket. It made the gun, still unseen, more conveniently accessible. Mark took the hint. The guy stepped to the side, just far enough to let him climb in.
Very nice, he decided, as he slid across and settled into the leather seat. Tinted windows, the works. He wished he'd convinced Mrs. Trask to let him help her with the carrying.