John Lescroart Read Online Free Page A

the time for a trial.
    â€œSo as you might imagine, things get a little hot between us. I remind him he can’t plead if I’m going to trial, which I’m damn well going to do. So he threatens me—if I take it to trial, Latrone will rat out Aaron, say he was just standing around minding his own business when Aaron drove up and asked him to go for a ride. He—Latrone—didn’t know there was going to be a shooting. It was Aaron’s idea, Aaron was the shooter.
    â€œAnyway, long story short, what could I do? They’d probably both get life. This way they both plead out—fifteen years. Now, you want to hear my favorite part?”
    â€œThat wasn’t it?”
    â€œNo. Listen to this. Early on, I decided it might be worth a try to get bail for these kids. It was a shaky case, first adult offense for both of them. They weren’t leaving the jurisdiction anyway. But Dash Logan won’t go there. Gives me a line of shit about it’s too risky, we’ll alienate the judge, it’d be better to save any judicial favors for the trial—the trial! Hah! So he persuades me—if I make the motion for my client, he has to for his, and that won’t happen. The judge will deny both, so what’s the point?”
    â€œI give up,” Hardy said. “What was the point?”
    â€œThe point!” Freeman was nearly screaming now. “The point was he wanted to keep his boy Latrone in jail. You know why? ’Cause he was fucking Latrone’s seventeen-year-old girlfriend, that’s why.”
    â€œWell, see,” Hardy said. “At least he had a good reason.” But he was shaking his head and clucked in disapproval. “That’s a pretty appalling story.”
    Freeman was breathing heavily. He went back to his desk and put himself on the outside of another inch of his wine, then poured some more. “He’s an appalling—”
    On the old man’s desk, the telephone buzzed. He reached over and picked it up, listened, held it out to Hardy. “It’s Phyllis, she says there’s a woman out in the lobby asking to see you.”
    â€œShe’s lying. I don’t have any appointments. She’s justtrying to figure out a way to get me out of here, return you to your blessed solitude. I wonder, does this guy Dash Logan need a receptionist?”
    Freeman held up a finger, listened some more. “Dorothy Elliot? Jeff’s wife?”
    Â 
    Leaving his superb wine in its glass on the coffee table, untouched except for that first sip, Hardy rocketed to his feet on his way to the door. Behind him, he heard Freeman telling Phyllis, “He’s on his way out right now.”
    Dorothy greeted him with a nod, an apologetic smile, a few quiet words. It was immediately obvious that something was terribly wrong—her trademark cheerful spark was gone. It was equally clear that she didn’t want to discuss any part of whatever it was in the lobby. The staircase was not wide and he let her lead the way.
    Following her, he was struck by the stiffness of her carriage, her wide shoulders back, her arms hanging straight down at her sides. One step at a time, she was hiking a steep grade with a heavy pack at altitude. It occurred to him that her husband Jeff, one of his friends and a Chronicle columnist who suffered from multiple sclerosis, might suddenly have died.
    At the landing, she stopped and he came up behind her, put an arm on her shoulder. She leaned into him for a second. Then he opened the door and they were in his office.
    As he was closing the door, she found her voice. “I’m so sorry to come barging in on you like this, Dismas. I didn’t know . . .” She lifted her hands, dropped them. Her lip quivered—sorrow? Or rage? She set her jaw, began again. “I don’t know . . .”
    â€œIt’s all right.” He gave her a chance to continue, and when it didn’t