Read Online Dead Irish by John Lescroart - Free Book Online Page B

seemed to be getting to be a better bet that they’d come up with a suicide, which would be a further disaster for Frannie. The fact that there was no apparent motive obviously wasn’t making Griffin, at least, lose any sleep. In the city with the Golden Gate Bridge, suicide must not seem like all that much of an aberration.

7
    FRANNIE AND ED’S PLACE was a large corner flat with a rounded window jutting out from the living room over the steep street.
    Hardy knocked at the door, straight in from the sidewalk without a stoop of any kind. It was four p.m., already a long day, and by far the hottest one of the year.
    He barely heard the “Who is it?”
    Frannie hugged him for a long time in the doorway. She was barefoot, wearing a white nightgown. She’d obviously been taking a nap. Her long red hair was a wreck, the skin around her eyes nearly black, her lips puffed like a wound.
    She led the way to the living room and left Hardy there. The first thing he did was open two windows to let in some air. It didn’t make much difference.
    He heard Frannie somewhere behind him.
    The room was a friendly mixture of Goodwill and teak. A stereo and some small but, Hardy knew, excellent Blaupunkt speakers, two mismatched, upholstered chairs, a couch, and two bentwoods, on one of which Hardy sat.
    Hardwood floors reflected the late-afternoon sun onto clean painted walls. There were three framed works of art on the walls: one of Hockney’s “Pools,” a view of San Francisco from the Marin side of the Bay, and one of Goines’s Chez Panisse posters. A coffee table was pushed into another corner, and on it was a small television set. Homemade bookshelves held an impressive collection of books and some records.
    He sensed more than heard her approach. Still barefoot, barely five feet tall and ninety pounds tops, Frannie had tried to comb her hair and put some red in her cheeks, but she needn’t have bothered. Dressed now in jeans and a T-shirt, what she really wore most noticeably was the loss.
    He stood. She stopped in the doorway, not moving. “Sorry for the . . .” she whispered. “I’m just . . .” She tried again. “Would you like something? Beer? Coffee?”
    To give her something to do, Hardy said a beer would be good.
    She came back a minute later with two cans of Bud and a chilled mug. “Ed always liked me to keep a mug in the freezer.” She poured expertly. “But you know that.”
    “You ought to work for Moses.”
    She tried to smile, but it didn’t work.
    Hardy took a drink. “You feel like you can talk? I know the police have probably gone over—”
    “And over and over . . . I’m okay.”
    “Did Moses tell you why I . . . ?”
    She nodded, and he decided to plunge right in. “Ed left the house when, roughly?”
    “About seven-thirty. We finished dinner and talked for a while.”
    “And he just decided to go out for a drive?”
    She hesitated, perhaps remembering, perhaps hiding. “No, not exactly.” She looked at her lap, biting her lip. “Not exactly.”
    “Frannie, look at me.”
    The green eyes were wet.
    “What did you talk about?”
    “Nothing, just household stuff, you know.”
    “Did you fight?”
    She didn’t answer.
    “Frannie?”
    “No, not really.” All strength seemed to leave her. Her hands went slack and the can of beer fell to the floor. Hardy jumped up and grabbed it, righting it and letting the foam overflow.
    “I’ll get a sponge,” Frannie said.
    Hardy put a hand on the tiny, bony shoulder to keep her from rising. “Forget the beer, Frannie. Did you have a fight or not?”
    She slumped back, staring at Hardy as though she wanted to ask him a question. She looked about fifteen years old. Then she started crying, just tear after tear rolling silently down her made-up cheeks. Hardy, his hand still on her shoulder, felt the suppressed sobs.
    “What about?” he finally asked.
    The voice, now husky and nearly inaudible, came. “I’m pregnant. I told him I was