Dead Irish by John Lescroart Page B

done them, and it wasn’t good luck to have too many policemen making themselves at home in your parking lot. The other night, then yesterday, had been bad enough.
    Cruz turned from the window and decided to go down himself to see what was what.
     
    The back of the lot was bounded by a Cyclone fence eight feet high, but entrance by the front was wide open. The canal, now at medium tide, ran parallel to the back fence perhaps thirty feet from the buildings. Between the fence and the canal was a no-man’s-land of shrubbery and debris.
    Hardy leaned against the fence, at the end of the ten-foot-wide corridor between the last row of cars and the building, squinting. He had brought his old badge—illegal but helpful—and was making what he thought was a little progress with a boy named Jeffrey.
    Jeffrey had already admitted that he’d known Ed Cochran “just to talk to.” He had no doubt—and Hardy briefly wondered why—Eddie had killed himself. What stumped Jeffrey was why he had gotten out of his car with a loaded gun and walked forty or fifty feet to almost lean against the building and shoot himself. It was a point Hardy hadn’t considered. Hardy looked around, thinking for a fact it couldn’t have been for the view.
    “Everything under control, Jeffrey?”
    Hardy looked into the glare where the voice had come from. “You must be Mr. Cruz,” he said. “Sorry to keep having to inconvenience you, but there’s always this kind of thing in a violent death.” He kept talking. “Jeffrey was just showing me where the body was found. Pretty bad, was it?”
    Cruz cocked his head, hesitating. He wasn’t older than thirty-five, and he radiated both authority and good health. Black, perfectly styled hair capped a face with a slightly Arabic cast. But his eyes, or perhaps his contact lenses, were light hazel and his skin, though tan, was fair. His mouth turned in disgust. “It was pretty bad,” he said.
    Hardy smiled. “They probably covered this yesterday, but you know bureaucracies.”
    Cruz, understanding, nodded to Hardy. He dismissed Jeffrey with a look. “Anything to help,” he said, though Hardy thought he appeared nervous.
    “Jeffrey said it was near here, the body. But there’s no sign of it now at all.”
    “It was right here,” he said. “They had it cleaned up by the time we got to work the next morning.”
    “Was anyone still in the building?”
    Cruz was scrutinizing Hardy, his expression still wary, but he answered quickly enough. “No, I don’t believe so. We don’t encourage overtime. I know the lot was empty, except for my car, when I went home.”
    “And when was that?”
    “I don’t know for sure. I told the other inspector yesterday—maybe eight or eight-thirty. It was still light out.” At Hardy’s questioning glance, he volunteered: “I was the last one to leave. I always am. Bosses’ hours.”
    Hardy grabbed at another straw. “Any chance that someone who didn’t drive to work was in the building?”
    Cruz waited, as though he expected Hardy to say more. “Slim, I would say. Gossip being what it is, I imagine it would have gotten around by now. Still, if it will help, I’ll be glad to circulate a memo.”
    Hardy had noticed that the corner of the Cyclone mesh fence had a gaping hole in it. “Is this new?”
    Again there was that pause. “No, we’ve been meaning to fix it for months. I assume some kids did it to get to the canal. Saves going the long way.”
    Hardy dutifully noted on his pad, thinking, What kids?
    The gravel and asphalt had been recently and carefully raked, obliterating any possible sign of struggle. Hardy walked to the edge of the building and peered along its mirrored surface. He squatted for a different angle, then walked along the length of the building, running his palm along the glass, to the side door. He turned to Cruz. “Well, we’ll try not to bother you again.”
    Cruz’s first smile revealed a perfect set of teeth, too perfect to be