Betrayal (40 page)

“He’s not going to confess to ordering a domestic murder. Or anything to do with the Bowens.”

“True. But I don’t need that. I just need to get my client off. As far as he’s concerned, that’s going to be all I want.”

“I want these murders,” Bracco said.

“Of course you do,” Hardy replied. “And you should. But you’ll admit that building any kind of winnable case on the evidence we see so far after all this time is pretty long odds. Meanwhile, Allstrong knows this whole thing is driven by Evan Scholler. That’s what was behind the attack this morning in prison. He already believes that if Scholler goes away, all his problems go away.”

“I’m not going to go away,” Bracco said.

“You won’t have any choice if he’s left you no evidence to work with. I got the feeling this guy’s built his business by getting around local authorities everywhere he sets up shop. Now he’s got political clout and the veneer of respectability. We’re not going to take him head-on.”

“So you’ve got a better idea?” Bracco asked.

“As a matter of fact,” Hardy said, “I think I do.”

A
S HE TIPTOED
into his bedroom at a little after eleven o’clock, Frannie switched on the light next to the bed.

“Hey,” Hardy said.

“Hey.” She patted the bed next to her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was worried. I’m still worried, but I don’t want to fight about it.”

He crossed over to her and sat down, put a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t either.”

After a minute, she let out a long breath. “So how’d it go?”

“I think I’ve got Darrel talked into it. He really wants this guy. As do I.”

“What about Abe?”

“I didn’t get around to talking to Abe. He might have reservations I’d rather not entertain at this point in time.”

Frannie closed her eyes and sighed again. “It’s really that important?”

“Charlie Bowen told his wife it was the most important thing he’d ever worked on. It was his biggest chance to do some real good in the world.”

“In the world, huh?”

“The big old world, yeah.” He kept rubbing her back. “I didn’t pick this fight, Frannie. It just came and fell in my lap. And now it turns out that this guy’s just the smiling face of evil in this world, and what makes it worse is he cloaks it all in patriotism and loyalty while he deals away lives so he can make another buck. It makes me puke.”

“And it’s all up to you? It’s got to be you, Dismas Hardy?”

“I think I’ve got the cards,” Hardy said. “I can beat him and take him down.”

“And what about the people protecting him politically?”

“Well, with any luck, them too. But Allstrong’s enough for my purposes. I’m just trying to do the right thing here, Frannie, mostly for my client.”

“I’m not sure I believe you, babe. I think you want to save the world.”

“But if I did that,” Hardy said, “I’d need personal theme music.”

H
ARDY DIDN’T SLEEP
as well as he would have liked. He woke up for the first time at two-sixteen to the sound of squealing tires out on the street below his bedroom. Wide awake, he went downstairs to check that the house was locked up front and back, which it was.

Behind the kitchen, he turned on the light and went to his safe under his workbench, opened it, and brought out his own weapon, a Smith & Wesson M&P .40. He hesitated for a moment, then picked it up and slammed a full magazine into the grip, racked a round into the chamber, and took off the safety. Then, quietly and methodically, he went through the downstairs, checking the kids’ rooms, the family room, back up through the dining and living rooms. Nobody there.

Back upstairs in his bedroom, the gun’s safety on, he put it in the drawer next to his bed and lay down again.

The sound of a Dumpster slamming shut, or a garbage can being dropped—something loud and clanging—woke him up at four thirty-eight. He grabbed the gun again and made another tour of the house, with the same result.

Up for the day, he realized, he put on a pot of coffee and went out to get the newspaper, but stopped at the front door first and looked down the street in both directions. Only after satisfying himself that it was clear did he go outside and grab the paper.

This was not turning out to be the way he had planned it.

A
BOUT FIVE MINUTES
before Frannie’s alarm was going to go off, he went upstairs again and laid a hand on her shoulder, gently waking her up.

“Is everything all right?” she asked him.

“So far everything’s fine. But sometime in the middle of last night, my subconscious must have decided that you were right. I’ve been awake half the night worrying. I shouldn’t have put us in this situation. I’m sorry.”

She reached out and took his hand. “Apology accepted. So what do you want to do?”

“I don’t think it would be the worst idea in the world to check into a hotel for a couple of days. Treat it like a vacation.”

She sat up, letting go of his hand. “Did something else happen last night that I didn’t hear about?”

“No. I’ve just had time to think about these guys some more. Until it’s clear to Allstrong that Glitsky and Bracco are really in on this investigation with me, which I hope ought to be by today or tomorrow, it’s like Moses said—we’re hanging out there all alone in the breeze.”

Frannie shuddered. “I think I liked it better when you were pretending there was nothing to worry about.”

“Me too. But I don’t think that’s the smart move right now. I think we’d be wise to lie a little low.”

Sitting with the idea for another moment, Frannie finally sighed. “A couple of days?”

“Probably no more than that.”

“Probably.” She shook her head. “Do you have any idea how much I wish you hadn’t called him?”

“Pretty much, yeah. If it’s any consolation, I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice.”

“Right,” she said. “That makes me feel much better.”

A
LLSTRONG WOULD ALSO
know that Hardy went into his office every day, but Hardy had convinced himself that he could minimize his risk on that score by pulling directly into his parking place in the gated and locked parking garage underneath the building and taking the inside elevator up to his office. Once he was inside, he had a reasonable faith in his firm’s security system.

As he pulled in about to park, though, he noticed a brown paper lunch bag lying against the wall just in front of his space. For a minute, the sight of the thing froze him. It was just the kind of harmless-looking item, he imagined, that might in actuality be an improvised explosive device. Turning on his lights, he illuminated the bag, which looked to be nothing more than what it was.

Setting the brake, Hardy opened his door and walked over to the bag, touching it gingerly with his foot, then leaning over to pick it up. It weighed almost nothing, and contained only a few napkins, an apple core, and a couple of Baggies.

Forcing a small nonlaugh at his paranoia, Hardy got back in to his car and parked, then crossed to the elevator and pushed the button to call it down.

I
N HIS OFFICE,
Hardy went over the final draft of his appeal, which explicitly laid out his argument on the
Brady
violation in such a way as to maximize Allstrong’s connection to Nolan and to the Khalils. He attached a declaration from Wyatt Hunt detailing the conversation Hunt had had with Abdel Khalil. Included in the narrative was Tara Wheatley’s information about the cash Nolan had brought back from Iraq, buttressing the idea that perhaps he’d been paid to carry out a contract on the Khalils. Of course, the FBI’s interrogation of Abdel Khalil, which the agency had not seen fit to share with the prosecution team, was at the crux of his discussion.

In toto, Hardy believed that the appeal raised enough questions about important evidence that had not been admitted in the trial that he thought he’d at least get a hearing out of it. And possibly, if things worked out with Allstrong between now and then, a new trial for Evan.

Satisfied with his work, he sent one of his paralegals down to the court of appeals to file the brief, and then sent registered copies of it, as required, to Mary Patricia Whelan-Miille down in Redwood City, and also—although there was no mandate he do so—overnight to Allstrong Security marked “personal and confidential” for Jack Allstrong. He wanted Allstrong to know what he was doing, when he was doing it, and how it was likely to affect him if he didn’t step in and do something to stop it.

Next, calling the prison, Hardy learned that Evan was still in the infirmary and that his condition had stabilized. There was some chance that he would be able to have visitors, perhaps as soon as the next day.

Hardy’s cell phone went off—Bracco calling him. “It worked,” he said. “I used the old ‘Surely you’d want to cooperate in a murder investigation’ and he opened up some time for me and I’m on the way down there right now.”

“Have fun,” Hardy said, “but be careful.”

“Right.” Bracco barked out a short, nervous laugh. “I’m all over it.”

A
LLSTRONG AND HIS ATTORNEY,
who introduced himself as Ryan Loy, led Bracco back through a maze of hallways into a beautifully designed medium-sized oval conference room containing an apparently custom-made table with twelve matching chairs around it. An enormous spray of fresh flowers claimed the center of the table; at the counter under the tinted windows, someone had set up a full coffee service with pastries and fruit. When Bracco sat down at last with his coffee and Danish, he had a view of the entire South Bay as it shimmered in the sunshine.

Jack Allstrong had played the gracious host in his garrulous style as they moved back through the building, pointing with pride to the headquarters of the other divisions that now made up much of the company’s work—computer security, water safety, privatization, logistics consulting, aquaculture. Loy, bookish and reserved in his suit and bow tie, nevertheless came across as another truly nice guy. Everyone they passed in the hallways was well-scrubbed, nicely dressed, young.

Loy closed the door to the conference room behind them and went around the table to Bracco’s left while Allstrong sat two chairs over from him on the right. Bracco took out his pocket tape recorder and without comment placed it prominently on the table out in front of everyone.

“Excuse me, Inspector”—Loy had stopped in the middle of raising his cup—“but I understood this was to be an informal discussion and not a formal interrogation.”

“Either way,” Bracco said with a matter-of-fact tone, “I’m going to need a record of it. I understood that you wanted to cooperate. Mr. Allstrong doesn’t have to answer any question he doesn’t want to. You both understand that, right?”

Loy looked at Allstrong, who nodded.

Bracco picked up the tape recorder and spoke into it. “This is homicide Inspector Sergeant Darrel Bracco, Badge Number 3117, conjoined case numbers 06-335411 and 07-121598, talking with Jack Allstrong, forty-one, and his attorney, Ryan Loy, thirty-six. It’s eleven forty-five on Wednesday morning, May ninth, and we are at the offices of Allstrong Security in San Francisco. Mr. Allstrong, did you know an attorney named Charles Bowen?”

“Yes.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Not well at all. I met him two or three times here in these offices to talk about an appeal he was working on.”

“Evan Scholler.”

“Yes.”

“How did you figure in that case, that Mr. Bowen wanted to talk to you?”

“One of my past employees, Ron Nolan, was the victim. Scholler was eventually convicted of killing him.”

“Do you know the grounds that Mr. Bowen planned to base his appeal on?”

“No idea.”

“But he talked to you two or three times?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

Bracco shrugged. “Was he talking to you about the same things each time you talked to him?”

“Yes.”

“And what specifically was the subject of those conversations?”

“I think he may have been trying to connect Nolan in some way to another couple who had been murdered a few days before Nolan himself was killed. I have the memory that he was trying to implicate Nolan in those murders somehow, which was ridiculous, and I told him so.”

“Do you remember specifically any questions that he asked?”

“No. I couldn’t really give him answers to the questions. This was a long time ago, and it didn’t seem very important.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I don’t know. Sometime last summer.”

“And when was the last time you spoke to him on the phone?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Do you know that Mr. Bowen disappeared last summer?”

“Yes, I believe I did hear something about that just recently. Certainly I stopped hearing from him.”

“Were you aware that his records indicate that he called you on the morning that he disappeared?”

Loy decided he had heard enough. Holding up a palm, he said, “Just a minute, Jack. What’s your point here, Inspector?”

“Mr. Allstrong was apparently contacted by Mr. Bowen on the day he disappeared. I was wondering if he remembers any of the substance of that last phone call.”

Allstrong reached out his own hand. “That’s all right, Ryan.” Then, to Bracco, “I don’t remember any last phone call at all. I didn’t know until just now that this last phone call was on the day he was supposed to have disappeared. As far as I know, Mr. Bowen might have just called the office on a routine housekeeping matter. I wouldn’t know that. In any event, I don’t remember talking to him. And while we’re on this, Inspector, why didn’t anybody ask these questions last summer when they might have been a little fresher in my mind?”

“The Bowen case has been reopened as a possible homicide, and we’re going into more detail than when it was a missing person.”

Loy sat up straighter, as if prodded. “If Mr. Allstrong is a suspect in a homicide, Inspector, I’m going to advise him to stop talking to you right now.”

“Mr. Allstrong can stop speaking to me anytime he wants. And I never said he was a suspect. But he does appear to be someone who might have had contact with Mr. Bowen on the day he disappeared.” Bracco talked straight at Allstrong. “But this leads to my next question, about Mr. Bowen’s wife. Did you ever meet her or speak to her on the phone?”

“No.”

“Are you quite certain?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it appears she made a number of phone calls to your number. Do you have any explanation for that?”

“Again,” Loy said, “he already told you he doesn’t remember speaking to her. Mr. Allstrong gets a hundred calls a day, Inspector. He doesn’t have time to speak to most of those people.”

“Mr. Loy. Your client indicated he wanted to cooperate in this investigation. I have a number of questions I want to ask him.” Bracco nodded. “He doesn’t have to answer any questions, but what I need are his answers and not your suggestions as to what might or might not have happened. So again, Mr. Allstrong, do you have any explanation for phone calls that Mrs. Bowen made to your phone?”

“Well, of course, Mr. Loy is right. I get lots of phone calls.”

“I can appreciate that. But the last call Hanna Bowen made in her life was to here. And it was the day before her death. I think you can understand why we are curious about two people who call Allstrong Security, one of whom disappears and the other dies immediately after the contact. It does appear an unlikely coincidence.” It also wasn’t true, but Loy and Allstrong didn’t have to know that. Hardy’s plan was simply to have Bracco show up and make it clear that the cops, too, were now part of the picture.

“Well, okay,” Loy said. “You’ve asked your questions. Mr. Allstrong has told you what he knows. If you don’t have anything further, I think it’s time to end the interview.”

But Bracco ignored Loy again. “Mr. Allstrong,” he said, “if you didn’t receive these calls, to whom in your company might Mrs. Bowen have spoken?”

Allstrong shrugged. “I could ask Marilou, our receptionist. She’s the first line of defense. If Mrs. Bowen was hysterical or nonspecific about what she wanted or who she wanted to talk to, her calls would have stopped at the front desk. But as Ryan here says, we can always ask and make sure.”

Bracco finally reached for his coffee and took a sip. It had gone tepid and he made a face.

“Is something wrong, Inspector?” Allstrong asked.

Bracco reached over and turned off his tape recorder. He decided he’d give the shit one last stir. “This doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, gentlemen. I came here under the impression that you’d like to cooperate in these homicide investigations, but I’m not picking up much of a spirit of cooperation. In fact, frankly, you both seem pretty darn defensive for people who’ve got nothing to hide.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Loy said. “We’ve answered every question you’ve asked. The plain fact is that Mr. Allstrong doesn’t know anything about the Bowens other than what he’s told you. He runs a huge corporation with branches all over the world. He doesn’t have time to get involved in these small parochial matters. Look, Inspector, we’re sorry Mr. Bowen disappeared, and about whatever happened to his wife. But to imply that there’s any real connection between Allstrong Security and these events is just an absurd flight of fancy.”