Nothing but the Truth by John Lescroart Page A

that the police had already arrested because she didn’t believe in so-called victimless crimes. So at least every week or two she’d simply set free suspected prostitutes, druggies, and other assorted misunderstood persons.
     
     
    But she wasn’t going to release Frannie Hardy. No-siree. There were legal principles involved here. She was standing her ground. “Isn’t this woman,” she asked, “isn’t her husband the attorney? He used to work at this office, didn’t he?”
     
     
    Randall spoke up. “Until he got fired.”
     
     
    Glitsky shot him a look. “He quit.”
     
     
    Randall didn’t rise to it. “Check the record,” he retorted mildly. Back to Pratt. “Dismas Hardy, and he was fired.”
     
     
    Pratt’s mouth turned up a millimeter, a beaming smile for her. “Ah, yes. I’ve tried to work with him before.”
     
     
    Glitsky noted the emphasis on the word “tried,” and Pratt’s use of it didn’t bode well for the Hardy camp. But he wasn’t through fighting for Frannie, not by a long shot. “Look.” He summoned up a conciliatory tone. “Sharron. We don’t have any evidence at all that connects Ron Beaumont to this murder. We’re looking at him, sure, but by all accounts he was in fact out having coffee with Mrs. Hardy when his wife was killed. Even Mr. Randall doesn’t dispute that.”
     
     
    But Scott wasn’t going to let Glitsky put words in his mouth. He piped right up. “It’s a big window of time. Actually, there’s a lot of room for doubt.”
     
     
    But this wasn’t where Glitsky wanted to pick his fight, so he resisted the urge to snap back. Instead, he rolled his eyes and pressed on. “And if we find that Mr. Beaumont fits into that window of time, we’ll probably get closer to a warrant. But that’s my point. Right now the investigation is nowhere and—”
     
     
    “Precisely why I took it over and gave it to Senior Investigator Struler here.”
     
     
    Glitsky tried to ignore Randall, to direct himself to Pratt. “The original investigating officer died, Sharron. There wasn’t any intentional foot-dragging.”
     
     
    “I haven’t heard anyone make that accusation, Lieutenant. ” Pratt smiled again, thinly. “But the point, my point, is that Mr. Randall was conducting his own investigation due to the . . . unfortunate lack of progress that yours was making.” Glitsky started to open his mouth but she stopped him, holding up a hand. “And in the course of his investigation, Mr. Beaumont became a suspect for the murder, and so his associates become relevant targets for interrogation.”
     
     
    “Okay,” Glitsky conceded, “and Frannie Hardy didn’t answer a question.” He turned to Randall. “Do you have any idea how often our witnesses don’t answer questions, Scott? If we locked any percentage of them up, any percentage, one, two percent, we’d have to rent the whole city of San Bruno just for the warehouse space to hold ’em.”
     
     
    Randall wasn’t hearing it. “But this is a murder case, Abe. We’re not looking for some shoplifter here.”
     
     
    Glitsky all but exploded. “What do you think I’m talking about? I’m in homicide. All I see are murder cases, and I don’t get a witness in a hundred who’ll tell me what time it is if there’s not something in it for him and his dog.” He modulated his voice again, feigning a calm rationality that fooled no one in the room. “What I’m getting at, Sharron, is that this may have been an overreaction on all sides. Frannie should have been given a day or two to go home and think about what she would be comfortable—”
     
     
    “Comfortable!” Randall’s turn to let go. “I don’t care if she’s comfortable. I don’t want her to be comfortable. She knows something critical to a murder case—”
     
     
    “You don’t know that!”
     
     
    “—and until she tells what that is, we’ve got a murderer walking around on the streets—”
     
     
    This time it was