John Lescroart Read Online Free Page B

seem she could, he asked softly, “What don’t you know? Is it Jeff?”
    She shook her head. “No, Jeff’s all right. Jeff’s fine.” She blew out heavily.
    Hardy pulled a chair around and Dorothy stared at it for a minute as though she’d never seen one before. Finally, with an air of gratitude, she sat. “Thank you.” Sheshook her head wearily. “I don’t seem to know what to do. I started to go by Jeff’s office but then I didn’t want to interrupt him—he’s on deadline. So I just found myself walking downtown and thought of you, that you worked here. Actually, I thought of you before.”
    â€œBefore? When before?”
    â€œWhen I was at the homicide detail.”
    Hardy found his desk and pushed himself back up onto it. With a bedside manner smile, he spoke quietly. “I don’t think I’ve heard the homicide part yet, Dorothy. Maybe we want to start there. Why were you at the Hall?”
    â€œMy brother. Did you hear about Elaine Wager being killed?”
    Hardy said he did. The news had depressed him. Not that he’d been that close to Elaine, but he had known her, had considered her one of the good guys.
    â€œThey have arrested my brother for it.”
    Hardy shook his head. “That can’t be right, Dorothy. I heard they pulled in some bum.”
    Dorothy’s lips were pressed tightly together. She nodded. “He’s a heroin junkie. My brother Cole. Cole Burgess.”
    Not possible, Hardy thought. Flatly not possible. Dorothy Elliot, sitting in front of him, was the picture of corn-fed wholesomeness. He’d known her for over a decade, since she’d first begun dating Jeff. Now they had three daughters and she still looked like a farm girl—those big shoulders over a trim and strong body, clear eyes the shade of blue-bonnets, a wash of freckles cascading over her nose onto her cheeks.
    Dorothy Elliot was pretty, smiling all the time, well-adjusted and happy. There was no way, Hardy thought, that this woman’s brother could be the low-life animal that had shot Elaine Wager in the back of the head for some jewelry and the contents of her purse.
    He sought some fitting response, said he was sorry, finally asked. “Did your brother know her? Were they going out or something? Working together?”
    â€œNo. Nothing like that. But the police are saying he was incoherent when they brought him in, they couldn’t even confirm who he was until this morning. And when he finally could, he called my mother, which was of course no help.”
    â€œAnd where is your mother?”
    â€œJody.” Dorothy’s expression was distilled disapproval. “She lives here in town now. Out in the Haight. With Cole.”
    â€œWith Cole? So he wasn’t homeless after all.”
    â€œWell, that depends on your definition. He wasn’t with Mom too often, but she was there if he needed to crash. He had a rent-free room. She moved out here from home—Ohio—to be near him.” Another look of disgust. “To help him.”
    â€œAnd she wasn’t much of a help?”
    A snort. “But he called her from the Hall anyway. And then after she predictably flipped out and couldn’t get anything done, she called me.”
    â€œWhat did she try to do?”
    A calm had gradually settled over her. Hands had come to rest in her lap, shapely legs were crossed at the ankles. There was no sign of her usual cheerfulness, but her confidence was returning. The topic was awful, but she had facts to convey. “He’s in heroin withdrawal, Diz. He needs to be medicated.” She broke off and decided she’d said enough about that. “Anyway, Mom lost her credibility with the police in about ten seconds, accusing everybody of trying to kill her son, the poor lost little boy.” She paused again, sighed heavily. “But he does need to get into a detox situation