The Keeper by John Lescroart Read Free Book Online Page B

expect. Homicide—not Missing Persons—had just come by and interviewed him, and he got the impression they were going to charge him in Katie’s death, and he thought he might need a lawyer.”
    “Why were they going to charge him?”
    Hardy shook his head. “They weren’t quite there. But they were looking at him basically because he’s the spouse. That’s always the first stop, as you may know. I told him it was early in the game and he probably didn’t have to worry yet, but I’d get going, and I’d get Abe started just in case.”
    “Where does Abe come in?”
    “If Hal does end up arrested, I’m going to need an investigator, since Wyatt’s out of town. Better to get in early if it comes to that.”
    “Do you think it will?”
    “I don’t know. Coming to me at this stage was a bit unusual, but he seemed legitimately freaked out. Have you ever met him?”
    “No. But I feel I know him a little through Katie.”
    “What do you think?”
    “You mean, did they have such serious problems that I thought she might be in physical danger? I’d have to say no. She was just having some troubles with full-time motherhood and deciding to stay at home with the kids instead of working.”
    “What did she do when she worked?”
    “Pharmaceutical sales. She made a fortune.”
    “What’s a fortune?”
    “Two hundred, two fifty.”
    “Thousand dollars? A year? Can I get into pharmaceutical sales?”
    “I don’t think so. I think you have to be young, female, and pretty.”
    “Two out of three isn’t bad. Young and . . . well, I’m more handsome than pretty, but that ought to count.” Hardy sipped wine. “So she was making this kind of money and then just stopped? I can see why they were having problems.”
    “Diz, it wasn’t mostly about their problems with each other. You know I can’t go into detail, but it was self-esteem stuff, her place in the world, whether she was a good enough mother, like that.”
    “No talk of divorce or abuse?”
    “No.”
    Hardy blew out a heavy breath. “So nobody knows,” he said.
    “Nobody knows what?”
    “Anything.”

11
    G LITSKY OPENED HIS eyes in the darkness, at once fully awake.
    Treya lay on her side next to him, an arm stretched out across his chest. He turned his head enough to read the time on the digital clock on his dresser: 6:14.
    He lay still another minute, then carefully lifted her hand and moved it over nearer to her. She stirred but did not awaken. Throwing off the blankets, Glitsky swung out of the bed and went into the adjoining bathroom.
    Since school started in September, he’d gotten into the habit of waking up to the alarm at six-thirty, throwing on some sweats, going into the kitchen, and assembling whatever they were having for breakfast. Afterward, he’d kiss Treya goodbye and drop the kids at school, then come home to read the paper. Eventually—say, by ten or eleven o’clock—he’d shave, shower, and throw on some old jeans and a T-shirt for hanging around the house while he read and read and then watched television and read some more.
    Today, by the time the alarm went off, he had already shaved and showered. Opening her eyes, Treya saw him standing in front of the dresser in pressed slacks, buttoning up a black dress shirt. “Where are you off to, sailor?” she asked.
    “Just getting a jump on the day, that’s all. I’ll go get the rats moving. How’s French toast sound?”
    “Perfect. You’re making?”
    “I am.”
    “If you want to save that nice shirt, put on an apron.”
    Glitsky looked over, nodded, and pointed at her. “Good call.”
    •  •  •
    A FTER HE LEFT the children at school, Glitsky drove downtown, parked in the Fifth and Mission garage, and walked down a block to the offices of the San Francisco Chronicle .
    In the almost-deserted basement, a heavyset, gray-bearded reporter named Jeff Elliot was sitting in his cubicle, staring at his computer. For about twenty years—far exceeding the