A Plague of Secrets (23 page)

“I doubt it,” she said. “At least not right now.”

Wet hair wrapped in a towel, wearing a pale yellow terry-cloth robe, Treya came out into their living room where Abe, in black flannel pajamas, sat on the couch, hunched over a couple of stacks of papers on the coffee table. “Well, look at this,” she said.

Shooting her a false glare. “You starting again with me?”

She smiled down at him. “You want me to?”

He patted the couch and moved over an inch or two.

She sat down. “Finding anything?”

Shrugging, he turned a page over, laid it facedown on the second pile. “That’s the problem.” Another page. And another. “Diz said it was about the blood, and he might be right.”

“What about it?”

“There isn’t any. Not on Maya’s clothes, not in her house. Nowhere.”

“Couldn’t she have just ditched them?”

Abe put his current page down and sat back on the couch. “Let’s see if this flies for you. She kills Levon in a pretty spectacularly bloody way. Spends a few minutes cleaning up, running water in the sink, no doubt splashing, and blood dripping off the table onto the floor like a few inches behind her.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, first thing, we know she’s got some blood on her.”

“We do?”

“Got to, Trey. No way with all that splashing front and back can she avoid it. So from there we’ve got two possible scenarios. One, she doesn’t see any blood and just goes from Levon’s to pick up the kids and then goes home with them. We’ve got a timeline for her somewhere in here”-he pointed to the papers in front of them-“that shows her actions from picking up the kids until the next morning. Her story, anyway, but corroborated by her husband and their housekeeper before anybody thought it was an issue. So I’m tempted to believe it. She didn’t go out.”

“Which means?”

“It means those clothes are at her home at seven the next morning when Bracco and Schiff show up, and luminol’s going to show the blood, even if she couldn’t see it.”

“All right.”

“All right. So it didn’t show up.”

“What’s the second scenario?”

“She sees blood and has to dump her clothes. But the problem with that is she picked up the kids promptly at three.”

“So she either brought a change with her-”

“Not.”

“No, I agree. Or she… what? Went home first and changed?”

Glitsky shook his head. “No time for that. And besides which, the maid says she didn’t come home first.”

“So what’s that leave?”

“That’s the question.”

“All the people who alibi her could be lying.”

“That’s true.”

“But you don’t think so?”

Glitsky nodded. “Not that it couldn’t happen, but they wouldn’t have known what they were covering for when they said it, so it’s unlikely.”

“So what does this all mean?”

“She wasn’t inside. I’m okay with no fingerprints, no DNA, all that. Hard, but doable if you’re careful. But if she was there and killed him, she got blood on herself, that’s all there is to it.”

“You know what, it’s good to see you into this.” She put her hand on his leg.

He turned to face her. “I’m starting to believe, hope, whatever, that Zack’s going to be all right.” He leaned forward and rapped on the coffee table. “Knock on wood. Anyway, so maybe I’m not hopeless. Maybe there’s something I can do to make sure they don’t get blown away on the Vogler side of the trial too.”

“Is the evidence better on that?”

“Oh, yeah. No question, basically. But still, if they left anything out, maybe I can help them get it back in.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Shore up if there’s any other weak spots. Whatever they might need.”

Treya sat silently for another minute, her hand resting on his leg. “So if the judge dismisses the Levon side, then what?”

“Nothing, really, except that Diz looks good for a media minute, which actually lasts only about thirty seconds.”

“No. I mean about Levon.”

“What about him?”

“Well, technically, wouldn’t he be an open case again?”

Abe’s mouth tightened up in concentration. “Not really. I mean, even Diz thinks she looks good for it, even if the DA can’t…” He ground down to a stop, met his wife’s eyes.

“Except,” Treya said, “she had no blood on her, did she? She never went inside. Which means somebody else was in there and killed him, doesn’t it?”

At around nine o’clock
the next morning Hardy “no-commented” his way through the crowd of reporters who accosted him as he tried to sneak into the back door of the Hall of Justice. He was in relatively high spirits, having slept well for a trial day-waking up without an alarm at five-thirty as opposed to the more usual three or four.

Even though neither Kathy West nor Harlen Fisk had shown up at the truncated morning session of the trial yesterday, the powers that be had determined that a metal detector was still a necessity. So a line of spectators and more reporters snaked for fifty or sixty feet outside of Department 25. Upon laying eyes on it Hardy was about to backtrack and take his shortcut behind the courtrooms when he heard a familiar voice call his name and, turning, was somewhat surprised to see Fisk striding toward him.

The normally hale and hearty face seemed today to have an underlying pallor, and dark circles under his eyes spoke of a lack of sleep, but if Hardy had a sister on trial for murder, he thought he might lose a few zz’s himself. He stepped into the line and extended his hand. “Hey, Harlen. Got the trial bug, do you?”

He tried a smile that mostly failed. “Maybe some of that, Diz. But mostly I wanted to ask you, after yesterday, why can’t Jackman just drop the Preslee side of this thing?”

“Careful, Harlen, your politics are showing. The short answer is that Stier’s picked this fight for them and they’re in it. What I am hoping is that maybe Braun’ll do it for them.”

“She can do that?”

“She can grant my motion to dismiss when Stier’s done with his case. If I can convince her that no reasonable juror could convict on the Preslee count with this evidence.”

“What’s it going to depend on?”

Hardy chortled, leaned in closer to whisper. “In theory, careful weighing of the evidence. In fact, pretty much whim.”

“That’s heartening.”

“Welcome to Superior Court. But in truth, I think we might actually have a chance. There really isn’t anything that proves she killed Levon.”

Harlen nodded. “This whole thing is a mockery, if you want my opinion. Always has been.”

“I agree.”

“And if Braun does drop Levon, isn’t that saying Maya didn’t do it?”

“Well, not exactly. It means they can’t prove she did it.”

“So what do they do then?”

“Who?”

“The police. The people investigating his murder.”

Hardy’s grin had a sardonic twist to it. “Again, we’re up against theory versus reality. In theory the police should start looking for more proof, but there isn’t any that I’ve seen. So then, still in theory, they should revisit the investigation and see if they might trip over another suspect somewhere along the way. In reality, since the cops believe that Maya in fact did kill Levon-”

“That’s insane,” Harlen interrupted. “I
know
she didn’t do that.”

This stopped Hardy. “If you do, tell me how.”

The supervisor, too, hesitated for a second. “What I mean is my sister isn’t hitting somebody on the head with a cleaver, Diz. It just flat couldn’t happen.”

“I’m not saying I disagree with you. It’s a stretch for me too. But the cops think that’s what happened, even though she avoided all traces of blood, which is a pretty good party trick if she did. Anyway, the bottom line is that in reality, Braun dismisses Levon and nobody’s going to do a damn thing about it. They figure they’ll get her on Dylan anyway. But the good news-and this really is good, Harlen-is if Levon gets dropped, it’s no longer Specials.” By this Hardy meant special circumstances-mandated by multiple murder-and because of which Maya would be facing life in prison without the possibility of parole. Without Levon, life without was going to be off the table.

But Harlen didn’t take much solace in that. “I don’t want her to go down at all,” he said. “That’s why I turned her on to you in the first place. I never intended for this to happen. You were supposed to stop it from getting to here.”

Hardy had seen this before, the family becoming adversarial to the defense as the trial progressed. Still, Harlen was a long-standing colleague-just short of being a personal friend-and the accusation stung. “Well”-Hardy’s decent mood by now completely leached away-“I hope you know I’m doing all I can to keep that from happening.”

“I know that. I didn’t mean-”

“Yeah, you did. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay, Diz.” Harlen swallowed, took a deep breath. “I tell you, these fuckers are killing all of us. Joel and I almost had it out-I mean actual fists-last time we saw each other. He said I was ratting him out with the grand jury. You ever testify for one of those?”

“Yeah. But I wasn’t a target.”

“Well, here’s the good news. Neither am I. Or they tell me that’s good news, but you ask me, make me a target anytime.”

“So you can take the Fifth, right?”

“Not that I’ve got anything to hide, really, but it would be a nice option. Instead of letting Glass, last time he got me on the stand, rip me a new one. Then he starts on my tax returns for like ten years ago. And how do I account for this? And how did I really make that? And how do I prove that my sister and I were not actual partners in BBW, and that the dope money isn’t really what got Joel’s real estate stuff started, or at least bailed him out after nine eleven.”

“And you had to answer?”

“Every time or I’m in contempt. I mean, that son of a bitch Glass treated me like I was a major criminal, but I’ve got nothing to tell him. Then after all that Joel busts my ass anyway.” The big man blew out heavily. “And you notice Kathy’s lost about ten pounds. Ten pounds on her, that’s like fifty on me. And it isn’t her new exercise routine, believe me.”

“I hadn’t heard they’d called her yet.”

“No. That’s what’s so awful. They’re keeping the big ax-testifying with the grand jury-over her head. Glass waiting to see what happens down here in court, maybe. I don’t know, but it’s eating her up too. Like literally. I think that’s what more or less got her to come down here. Put the fucker on notice, show him she’s not afraid.” He leaned in closer. “But let me tell you something, Diz, between me and you. She is.”

From his own experiences with Joel-arguing with him over billing, cash flows, trial strategy, his treatment of Maya-Hardy had known that Glass’s campaign against the families was taking a serious psychic toll. Now, though, Harlen’s totally uncharacteristic outburst-the man was a professional politician, after all, he never lost his temper-had made Hardy realize how deep the knife cut, how threatening the grand jury must be, how very real loomed the possibility of ruined careers and even prison time. Now Hardy took his own deep breath. “Well, Harlen,” he said with a mustered calm he didn’t come close to feeling, “we’re still a long way from done here. That’s all I can tell you. We’ve got to let it play out.”

Hardy let Fisk go through the metal detector and then stepped aside out of the line and walked back to the other familiar face he’d noticed in the lobby behind them. Chiurco, in a coat and tie, looked well-rested and clear-eyed as Hardy shook his hand. “Hey, Craig,” he said. “You here with Wyatt?”

“No. Wyatt told me to come down here and see if I could be of some use.”

This wasn’t the most impressive offer Hardy had ever heard. The only thing Craig had to talk about was Maya’s presence outside Levon’s flat just before or after he was murdered. Which meant that if Hardy put him on the stand, all he could do was damage the case further.

But then, suddenly, unexpectedly, an idea surfaced. “Something you could do,” he said. “With all the craziness, you and I never talked about whatever you found out about Levon and Dylan.”

“Sure, but I’ve got to tell you, beyond the robbery and his address, it wasn’t much.”

“Wyatt didn’t ask you to follow up on any of that?”

Craig shook his head. “No. And I don’t really know what it would be. I think you guys know all I know.”

“Probably,” Hardy said, “but maybe you know something you don’t know you know. Stuff you might have seen with Maya at the door.”

This brought a frown. “Tamara kind of hinted that maybe I’d want to mess with my story if-”

But Hardy jumped all over that. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. I’m not talking about making up a story. Just if what actually happened might change an argument or something.”

“Well, whatever you’d want.”

“You want to set a time? Give me an hour?”

“Sure. When?”

“Tonight, tomorrow night? Call Phyllis at my office and she can set us up. You okay with that?”

“Of course.”

“Good. So now if you’ll excuse me”-Hardy indicated the courtroom behind him-“Her Highness awaits.”

Upstairs, Glitsky let Bracco and Schiff into his office, closed the door behind them, and walked around his desk to his chair. He had hot tea in his SFPD mug and he pulled it in front of him and cupped his hands around it.

Not that he was cold.

He felt he needed a prop-something immediate and proximately painful-to take the edge off his main emotion at the moment, which was a fine amalgam of embarrassment, disappointment, and fury. As a further subterfuge-to all appearances this was simply a chat about procedures-he’d bought a couple of Starbucks frou-frou coffees downstairs and had put them on the edge of his desk in front of where his inspectors were sitting.

Schiff pretty obviously hungover.

And now, motioning to the coffees, Glitsky said, “I hear those are great. Orange macchiato, or something like that. Treya swears by ’em.”

Bracco reached forward, took a cup, removed the plastic top. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome. Debra?”

She raised a palm. “Maybe in a minute, thanks.”

The tension among the three of them taut as a wire.

“Are you feeling all right?”

A brisk nod. “Little bit of a rough night is all.”

Glitsky kept his eyes on her. After a minute he sipped his own tea. “It takes some getting used to, but you can’t let that stuff get to you.”

She didn’t reply.

“You have a tough day of testimony,” Glitsky said, “it’s part of the job. Comes with the territory. You shake it off and do better next time. At least that’s my experience. The coffee might really help.”

Schiff sighed and reached for the cup.

“Of course,” Glitsky continued, pressing his hands around his mug, focusing on the heat in his palms, “it’s preferable if you make sure your evidence is rock solid before you’re stuck with explaining something that might not make much sense.”

Schiff, her mouth set tight, let a long, slow breath out through her nose. She left the paper coffee cup where it sat on the desk and straightened back up in her chair. “It made perfect sense, Lieutenant. People have been known to cover their tracks, and she did. It doesn’t mean she wasn’t there.”

“No, of course not.”

“In fact, she was there.”

“Well, in fact, to be precise, she may have been at the front door.”

“She
was
at the front door, Abe. Her fingerprints and DNA say so.”

“That’s true, sir,” Bracco said.

Glitsky’s eyes went from one to the other. “All right. Still, the Preslee count isn’t too wonderful, is it? If it wasn’t for Vogler, in fact, you and I both know it wouldn’t have been charged. Why do you think that might be?”

Schiff wasn’t backing down. “Like I said, she planned it and pulled it off. And let me ask you something. Did you get your take on this from your friend Mr. Hardy?”

The scar through Glitsky’s lips went a little pale in relief. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, Debra. It’s way beneath you, and maybe just a result of how you’re feeling this morning, huh?”

“I’m feeling fine.”

“Good. Because I did want to ask you both about something. Never mind your write-ups or your testimony or what Maya Townshend might or might not have done at Levon’s place, how do you, either of you, explain to me the complete absence of blood from any of her clothes or shoes or anything else you looked at? And before you start, let me give you my analysis and you tell me where I’m wrong.”

For the next few minutes Glitsky outlined it for his inspectors. He wrapped it up by saying, “And this isn’t a question of admissible evidence or lack of sufficient proof to convict. I’m talking here the actual fact of what happened.”

Schiff didn’t even hesitate. “The actual fact is she killed him. Her husband lied when he corroborated her alibi. Either him or the housekeeper. Happens all the time.”

Glitsky’s mug was tepid by now; it was failing to serve as a calming device. “You’re saying she got home, when, before she picked up the kids?”

“She might have. We don’t know.”

“But we do know, don’t we,” Glitsky replied, “what time she got the call from Preslee? Couple of minutes either side of two, right? And we know she picked up the kids at three sharp. So you’re telling me she gets this call at her house on Broadway, decides on the spot to kill Preslee, drives out to Potrero? And by the way, I did it this morning coming in. No traffic, city streets, twenty-two minutes one way. So anyway, she sits down and drinks some water and maybe smokes a joint with Levon, whacks him with the cleaver, then cleans up with a lot of care, and she’s got time to dump her blood-spattered clothes before she gets the kids?”

“She could have done it anytime that night.”

“So the husband knew about it?”

“Had to.”

Glitsky looked over at Bracco. “Darrel?”

No hesitation. “If she did it, and she did, Abe, then that’s what happened.”

While a part of him admired the loyalty of his troops to one another, Glitsky felt his stomach roil at this absurd display of professional obstinacy. He was all but certain from his earlier discussions that Bracco thought that they could’ve tightened up the case before the arrest, and that Schiff had acted precipitously, but Darrel wasn’t going to contradict his partner in front of his lieutenant, and that was all there was to it.

Never mind that their convictions flew in the face of the first law of criminal investigation-facts must flow from demonstrable evidence, and not the other way round, where the evidence is massaged or explained to fit a set of predetermined perceptions.