Free A Plague of Secrets by John Lescroart Page A

brought his glass to his mouth, sipped, waited. She had more to tell him and he wanted to give her the space. She scanned the corners of the room, telegraphing to Hardy the jumble of her thoughts. He sat, unmoving, giving her time.
    Finally, with an intake of breath, she met his eyes. “I suppose I wasn’t exactly the same person then as I am now.”
    “I wouldn’t think so,” Hardy said. “That was what? About ten years ago?”
    “Close enough.”
    “So you’re saying that you and Dylan wouldn’t have been friends if you met him now?”
    She shook her head. “Not the same type of friends, certainly.”
    “And what type was that?”
    “Well,” she said, “we were a little wild, I guess. This crowd of us who just kind of found each other and got into doing stuff together, partying. Drinking, pranks, you know.”
    Hardy had an idea of what she was talking about. “Dope?”
    “Mostly just weed,” she said, “but, yeah. Some cocaine, too, once in a while, when we could get it.” She picked up her wineglass and drank half of it down. “Hell, why am I sugarcoating this to you, Mr. Hardy?”
    “Dismas, please.”
    “All right. Dismas. We would try anything we could get our hands on. Weed, coke, Ecstasy, alcohol, mushroom, pills-uppers or downers or whatever. It was funny,” she went on, “it wasn’t like we were all stoned all the time. I mean, we had classes and most of us generally did okay in them, I think, but then we’d get together on weekends and just kind of blow it all out. It was really stupid.”
    “And you’re afraid, now that the police have this dope connection to Dylan, that somehow all this you did way back then is going to come back and bite you?”
    Her expression of gratitude and relief at his understanding made Hardy realize how seriously she was taking all of this. “I really didn’t want to know about him selling dope through the shop, but if they find out about the way we were in college, they’re not going to believe me, no matter what I say. I don’t know if
I’d
believe me.”
    “Belief isn’t the point,” Hardy said. “Is there anything on your books from the shop that might make it look like you were somehow profiting from his dope business?”
    “No. There couldn’t be. I wasn’t.”
    Hardy sat back, consciously pausing. He had no intention of getting answers from his new client relating to the facts of her guilt or innocence, but that’s where this discussion seemed to be leading them. He put on what he hoped would be a neutral expression. “Well, as I said earlier, given your connection to Harlen and the mayor, Bracco isn’t going to be looking to open a can of worms investigating you.” And then, in spite of himself, in an effort to give her a touch of comfort, he broke his own lawyer’s rule and added, “Not unless he’s got something tying you to Dylan’s murder.”
    She took this as a question and, evading it, swallowed, tried a smile, met his eyes, and quickly looked down.
    Hardy, who’d been about to stand up and walk her out with a figurative pat on the head, checked himself and settled back into his chair. “Is there anything else?”
    “Not really. But I’m just afraid it might look… I’d so really rather not talk to the police again. It’s Joel too.”
    “Your husband?”
    She bobbed her head. “He didn’t know me back then. I met him after that time was over. I haven’t been able to make myself tell him about too much of it. He thinks… well, he’d never think that I could have been the way I was. I don’t think he’d have an easy time accepting it. We’re the Townshends, after all. He’s got investors who count on that. So there’s a certain expected”-she sighed-“behavior. He’s always wanted me to sell the shop, you know.”
    “Why was that?”
    “It just wasn’t the kind of business he felt comfortable with. I think the bottom line was that he really just didn’t like Dylan, didn’t trust him, didn’t understand