The palazzos of power brokers share the street with consulates and private mansions and estates. The mayor lives on Broadway; so do one of the state’s US senators, the best-selling author west of Mississippi, the head of the country’s most profitable fashion house, and the managing partner of the city’s largest law firm. Broadway is the legal address and occasional residence of the heads of three of the ten most wealthy families in California. Overlooking, from a great height, the spectacular panoramic view of the Bay and both of its famous bridges, Broadway – particularly its north side – seems as far removed from the mundane cares of working people as it is possible to get. And yet, Hardy reflected, this is where Bree Beaumont had been murdered.
He had gotten his emotions back in check and was in the grip of what he knew to be a dangerous calm – he was sure it was his body’s natural defense to his tendency to feel things too deeply, to fall prey to his emotions.
He would sometimes get this way at trial, his concentration focused down to a single point. He was going to do what he had to do and do it right. Later he’d reflect on it, curse himself, drink too much, laugh, get sick, whatever. But not now.
Now he’d act.
Double-checking the address, he pulled up and parked at the curb. Aided by his glance at the police report in Glitsky’s office, he was recalling the story he’d followed in the newspaper after it had broken. He’d known that the woman, Bree, had been Max and Cassandra’s mom, so it had been more than ordinarily compelling. But Frannie had – even then – never mentioned Ron.
What Hardy remembered was that the mother of some of his kids’ classmates had been killed. Talk of politics. Big oil. Which meant big money. A beautiful young victim.
And somehow his wife was now in the mix.
The Beaumonts lived on the top floor of this monster, the penthouse – twelve floors up. The brass surrounding the glass double-door entry was polished to a shine. Inside, the expansive marble foyer which opened on to the elevator banks seemed to shimmer under a couple of enormous chandeliers.
But there was no getting in – the doors were locked, as Hardy realized he should have expected at this time of night. There was a night bell to one side of the door, which he pressed, but nothing happened.
He suddenly noticed a light flickering over one of the elevators. Somebody was coming down. Turning away, he walked about halfway back toward his car, then did an about face and waited until the couple came out of the elevator. He got to the door at the same time as they opened it going out and thanked them as he passed inside.
He rang another bell, this one from a bank next to the elevators, marked ‘Beaumont,’ and waited. And waited. It was a school night at half past ten. The family should be home, if this were in fact home anymore after Bree’s death.
The elevator stood open before him and he stepped in, pressing the penthouse button. He didn’t really believe anything would happen – in luxury residences such as this one, the elevator doors on the upper floors would often open directly into a living area. You needed a card or a key to go with the button. Much to his surprise, though, the doors closed and he started up.
He stepped out into a dimly lit lobby, ten feet on a side, with a hardwood floor covered by a Persian throw rug. Through a west-facing window, he could recognize the blinking lights on a tower of the Golden Gate Bridge. There was only one door in the lobby, and he was standing in front of it. But no one answered his ring, his knock. In a last gesture of futility, he grabbed at the handle.
And the door opened. ‘All right,’ he whispered. ‘The kid gets a break.’
Behind him he heard the elevator door close, but he couldn’t force himself forward immediately. He wasn’t fooling himself. This wasn’t a deserted residence. Aside from being a recent crime scene (although there wasn’t any police tape), it was somebody’s home, and entering it without invitation was trespassing. If he went in, he was putting himself at great risk. He might get himself confused for a burglar – always bad luck. If he got caught, he could be disciplined by the state bar, and perhaps lose his license to practice law. Unlawful entry was a very serious matter.
But there were times that called for risk and this, he told himself, was one of them. His wife had never been in jail before either. If Ron Beaumont came home – or a building superintendent or security guard for that matter – while Hardy was inside, he would explain the situation. Technically, he wasn’t there to steal, so it wasn’t a burglary. Hardy would say he was worried there might have been another crime. But really, he didn’t care – he needed to find out where Ron might be, and the sooner the better.
In any event, fortified by his rationalizations – it was always good to have some story – he pushed the door all the way open, stepped over the lintel, and switched on the lights.
His first sight of the place stopped him cold. He thought he remembered from the newspapers that Bree Beaumont had been a professor at UC Berkeley who’d gone into industry. That may have once been true, but if the first glimpse of their abode were any indication, the Beaumonts had left academic privation far behind.
He closed the door behind him and was standing in an enormous sunken living room out of Architectural Digest. Wealth seemed to infuse the air around him. Framed modern original art graced the walls, each piece tastefully illuminated by recessed lighting. There were two seating areas – couches in leather and wing chairs in brocaded silk. Elegant end tables, coffee tables, a writing desk, a pair of matching marble pieces on pedestals. Along his right side, floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the glittering city below.
Following his eyes, he stepped up into a formal dining area – a granite table and six tubular chairs under an ultra-modern lighting device. A spacious gourmet kitchen was to his left across a bar of a dark space-age material.
Beyond the table – the wine racks, the little seating area off the formal dining room – Hardy got to the drapes covering the back wall. He pulled them back a foot or two, the dim light from the living room now all but lost behind him.
French doors gave on to a balcony. He opened them and stepped out, noticing the red Spanish tiles, a small, round outdoor dining table and chairs, and several plants. The balcony was neither large nor small, but the view made it magnificent. Facing due north, it was unimpeded for a hundred miles, especially on a night like tonight when a brisk breeze scoured the sky free of fog and haze.
It suddenly hit him – this was where Bree Beaumont had gone down. Walking to the edge of the balcony, he leaned out over the substantial cast-iron railing and looked down into what from this height appeared to be a square of light – the enclosed garden where she had lain undiscovered, apparently, for several hours. Stepping back, he sensed rather than felt a gust of wind out in front of him – it didn’t even rustle the plants on the ledge, though it did raise the hairs on his neck.
But he was wasting time out here, taking in the sights. He had to get something to lead him to Ron and then get out if he was to do Frannie any good, if tonight wasn’t already a wash.
He came back through the drapes into the sitting area off the dining room. In a moment, he’d passed through the kitchen into a hallway he’d ignored on his first pass. It led off the sunken living room to another wing, and on the first step in, he turned on the lights.
The room on his left had a blinking light that caught his attention. On a desk sat the telephone answering machine. It was an office, and as such, it might have what he needed. Crossing the room, planning to check first the messages, then the rolodex, then the computer, he heard a creak.