John Lescroart (42 page)

“Yes, it is. Three to be precise.”

“But you had never spoken to him personally, correct?”

“Yes, correct.”

“But you'd seen him in court before many times? Perhaps a dozen or more?”

Weary, wanting to get it over with, Feeney was bobbing his head with resignation. The gallery was a tomb behind Hardy. “Yeah, sure, something like that.”

“And in those cases, before last Tuesday, did Mr. Alsop ever appear with a codefendant?”

The bobbing stopped. At the prosecution table, Torrey was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched, and he raised his head. “In two or three of the narcotics offenses, he had a codefendant,” Feeney answered.

“And who would that have been?”

Feeney didn't like it. “The defendant, Cole Burgess.”

“So they were friends,” Hardy said, “or at least knew each other well. Now, Mr. Feeney, please try to remember. This is important. When you heard about the arrest of Cole Burgess, did you recall his friendship with Cullen Alsop?”

“Your honor, please. What is this about?”

Hill raised his glance and directed it behind Hardy. “Is that an objection, Ms. Pratt?”

“Yes, your honor. Relevance?”

“Overruled.”

But this time, Pratt wasn't going to let it go. “Your honor, if it please the court . . .”

“Well, it doesn't, Ms. Pratt. I've ruled on your objection. We're not under the same strictures as a formal trial here, and this is a capital case. I see an argument that
Mr. Hardy is trying to complete here, and I'm inclined to let him keep trying.”

Still, Pratt couldn't sit down. “It's taking him a very long time, your honor.”

“Not as long as the appeals if I get it wrong, counselor. Now, please.” He turned to the court reporter again and had her read back the last question. When Feeney had heard about the arrest of Cole Burgess, did he have occasion to recall the name in connection with Cullen Alsop?

The witness answered in a quiet voice. “Actually, no, not until I heard of Mr. Alsop's arrest a couple of days later. Then I remembered.”

“You remembered that they were friends? That there was a connection between the two young men?”

“Yes.”

“Did you mention this connection to anyone?”

A look of chagrin. “I'm sure I did. Burgess was a hot case. I remember I was in the coffee room and Mr. Torrey was in talking about it, just generally, Ms. Pratt's new policy plans. I made some wise-guy crack about all this interconnected drug culture, that we'd just arrested this other kid Alsop again. It just came up.”

Hardy glanced up at Hill, said he had no further questions.

 

It had been an exceptionally long morning, and Hill finally called the lunch recess, and a bailiff came over immediately to get Cole. “You guys aren't having lunch with me?” He seemed pathetically sad, and Hardy understood why. During trials, he'd usually try to eat lunch in one of the holding cells with his clients, keep them informed of what was happening, try to keep them from freaking out any number of ways. Hardy said he was sorry and promised Cole that it wouldn't happen again.

Cole gave his mother a quick wave over the railing, and then he was marched out. Hardy spent a couple of minutes consoling Jody, then making lunch plans with Jeff and the musketeers. Glitsky and Treya had already
gone. Gina Roake was leaning over the bar rail, discussing something with Freeman.

Hardy started gathering his papers, and Freeman pushed out his chair, stood, stretched and came around the front of the table. “How'd you get that with Feeney?” he asked. “It was a thing of beauty.”

“I had a vision.”

“You didn't know?” A rebuke.

“I knew they'd been arrested together. I just couldn't prove that Torrey knew.” Hardy shrugged, nonchalant. “Easy, David. It worked out. Sometimes you take a risk. It seemed worth it.” He plopped his stuff into his briefcase. Over to his right, he noticed a little conference continuing at the prosecution table.

He lowered his voice. “You know the other complaint we been talking about?”

This was Freeman's letter to the state bar association complaining about Torrey. David, Hardy and Gina had discussed it over the past weekend and decided that they really had nothing. Compelling coincidences, but nothing resembling real evidence. Reluctantly, they'd decided to table the issue until after the Burgess hearing at least.

“Maybe we want to move on that after all.”

Freeman moved in closer. “Move how? We agreed we don't have anything.”

“Not quite true, David. We've got the bare facts. Torrey's screwing with at least two cases.”

“Maybe, but we can't prove it yet. And we can't prove he's getting anything for it. The bar's going to need . . . what?”

Hardy was shaking his head. “Forget the bar. We've got to have Hill see it. He's never going to believe the D.A. suborned perjury to win this case as long as he thinks Torrey plays by the rules. It's just too big a leap. But if we can convince him that they fudged one piece of evidence, then he's going to have to take a hard look at the rest. We've got to get him to consider what we know.”

“Or think we know.”

“Close enough, yeah. We can't convince the bar, but maybe we can use it here.”

This appealed to David, but he didn't see how it could happen. “So what are you saying? We're not going to get our two cases introduced here. There's really no relation at all.”

“I'm not suggesting that, and we don't need it anyway. There's other ways Hill might get the message. He might read about it, say, in the papers.” He gestured toward Jeff Elliot, still talking with Gina in the row of seats behind them. “We've got a guy here who's been known to get the word out.”

Freeman being who he was, Hardy didn't have to draw him a more detailed diagram. David's eyes took on a sparkle with the possibilities. This was his kind of game, playing all the angles, in and out of the courtroom.

“All we've got to do,” Hardy continued, “is plant the seed. Hill doesn't have to believe it. He's just got to acknowledge it's something Torrey's capable of.”

David still didn't think so. “Even if he were convinced of it personally,” he said, “without some kind of proof he's never going to let it affect his ruling.”

“Probably not,” Hardy said. “But on the other hand, how could it hurt? It's something, and otherwise we've got nothing.”

Freeman considered for another moment. “You put it like that, it kind of grows on you. By the way,” he added, “I should be happier about it, but I'm afraid you owe me the two hundred.”

Hardy looked up. “Not 'til the end of the day.”

“No, I bet not. Torrey's not calling any more witnesses.”

Hardy studied his partner as though he'd lost his mind. “Of course he is. He's got another twelve names on his list. He hasn't even touched the crime scene.”

“He's got the crime, he's got in his specials. He's got Cole at the scene with Elaine's jewelry and wallet and the murder weapon. Guess what? He's done. He doesn't even need the confession, although he'd be crazy not to
use it. And I think you rocked him a little with Feeney. He doesn't want to walk into any more walls.”

Hardy flatly couldn't buy it. “You want to go double or nothing?”

Freeman, sadly, shook his head. “Diz, I wouldn't take any pleasure in taking your money. If this were the grand jury, it would be over. I still don't know why he didn't go to the grand jury, in fact.”

A shrug. “I didn't fight him on timing. He figured it was a toss-up. Either way we were going to trial.”

The old man clucked in disapproval. “Ah, hubris.”

G
litsky chewed on an ice cube, moving his glass of iced tea through the ring of condensation on the table. He was in a booth in the far back at Lou the Greek's, facing away from the entrance, waiting for his appointment. He couldn't shake the thought that it had been unwise to decide to meet here. It was too close to the Hall, to the homicide detail. People he knew would see him. Word would get out.

The window at his ear was half below the level of the street outside. He could look up and see a line of blue sky between the buildings. With the nice weather, Lou had opened the windows a crack to let the place air out, get some fresh oxygen into the mix. All Glitsky could smell was Dumpster, though. He lifted his glass, sucked in another cube, chewed some more.

Treya had gone back to Hardy's building. The big box from Elaine's condominium was there in the Solarium and she wanted to catalogue everything in it on the chance that something might jump out. The slim chance.

At this point, Glitsky felt they were all grasping at straws. Hardy and Freeman doing their legal hocus-pocus, Treya making lists, Jeff Elliot wanting to take down the district attorney. The kids remained enthusiastic, fascinated by the whole procedure. But they were, after all, lawyers. Hardy had them writing more motions about unconsciousness, temporary insanity, police misconduct. They were more interested in the courtroom strategies that might save Cole Burgess than they were in discovering who might have killed Elaine.

For Glitsky, this remained the focus. Someone had killed his daughter. He owed it to her—and to himself—to discover who it was.

What had begun as simple remorse over his own excesses had ripened into a genuine concern that a combination of malice and stupidity might possibly have ensnared the wrong man. And if it had, it was up to him—he was the only trained investigator on Hardy's dream team—to run down the right one.

Try as he might, he couldn't develop any warmth for the idea that it had been Jonas Walsh. The doctor had no alibi, true. He'd fibbed about the state of his relationship with Elaine. He was abrupt, distracted, uncooperative. In short, Glitsky had come to believe, he was in a state of grief, something of which he himself had a visceral knowledge. He recognized it intuitively, and while he would change his mind in an instant if any evidence came to light linking Jonas Walsh with Sunday night in San Francisco, he really didn't expect that to happen.

Likewise with Muhammed Adek. Glitsky had fifteen years' experience interviewing killers, and he came away from his Monday interview with the law student convinced that he wasn't involved. If he'd been less angry, if the sense of betrayal he obviously felt about Elaine had been less acute, maybe he would have felt differently. But even after he identified himself as a cop—administrative leave or not, that's what he was—Muhammed hadn't attempted to downplay any of his feelings as killers tended to do. The boy had been in love with her and she'd chosen another man, and while this could be a motive for murder, it didn't comport well with what Abe thought he knew about the last night of Elaine's life.

Plus—and this was key—from everything Treya had told him, Elaine would have been far more specific with her on Sunday afternoon if she had been going out to meet with Muhammed. “But she would never have met
with him in the first place, Abe. And if she'd somehow gotten talked into it, she wouldn't have just said she was going to a meeting, believe me. She would have mentioned him by name, and not flatteringly. There was no way.”

Glitsky agreed with her. His theory was simple. Elaine's killer was at least a cordial business acquaintance, maybe a good deal more than that. They'd had dinner, or perhaps done something more intimate. But Abe believed in his guts that the crime wasn't one of passion. It wasn't about jilted love or domestic upheaval. It was a cold-blooded contingency that had become a necessity, then been acted on decisively.

He crunched another cube, drummed his fingers on the table, checked his watch. “Come on, Paul,” he said aloud.

“I'm here.” Inspector Paul Thieu, with another man in tow, slid into the booth across from him. “Sorry I'm late. Lieutenant, this is Jan Falk. Narcotics.”

“Abe,” Glitsky said. He reached across the table, shook hands. “Nice to meet you. I assume Paul told you I'm on leave at the moment, maybe forever.”

Falk badly needed a shave and the Dumpster smell seemed suddenly stronger. He wore a roguish grin. “Sometimes I wish I was. No,
always
I wish I was. Except now, maybe. So what's goin' down?”

Glitsky turned to check the room another time. It had filled up nicely for lunch. There was camouflage in the numbers and the noise. Still, he leaned in across the table so he wouldn't have to speak too loudly. “Paul says you know something about Ridley Banks.”

Falk shrugged. “I don't know what I know, tell you the truth. Monday I heard he'd gone missing and I remembered him from last week, some OD case in the Mish. Long story how we got together, but he was on to something and I thought you guys—homicide—might be interested, but maybe not. I couldn't even get a callback.”

Thieu piped in. “The place is a disaster, Lieutenant. You wouldn't believe it.”

“I bet I would.”

Thieu felt he had to give Glitsky some feel for it. “They haven't put anybody in your chair, even temporarily. Nobody's fielding calls, everybody's out all the time. The car's driving full speed and nobody's at the wheel.”

“You're breaking my heart,” Abe said. Then, back to Falk. “So what happened?”

But he couldn't get right to it. Lou came by for their orders, recommending the special, which today was a dish called Yeanling Clay Bowl. Thieu looked up at him. “Yeanling? What's a yeanling?”

“I don't know,” Lou admitted. “It's got rice noodles with lamb and some kind of sauce. Really good, though. I'll put you down for three of them, okay?”

Glitsky saw they had consensus. “Okay, three bowls,” he said.

“It doesn't come in a bowl,” Lou explained. “That's just the name of it. Yeanling Clay Bowl. From back where they originally made it someplace. My wife could tell you all about it, but she's busy right now.”

“I got an idea, Lou,” Glitsky said.

“What?”

A tight smile. “Go make her busier, okay?”

Lou got the message and disappeared. Abe looked at Falk. “You were trying to talk to somebody in homicide.”

“Right. So after a day, nobody's called me back and I ask around and Banks is still missing. So I decide I'll go down to the Hall in person and see what's the problem.”

“The problem,” Thieu interjected, “is that nobody's in charge. Sorry, go ahead.”

“So I go in and there's Paul and I start to talk to him a little about this . . .”

“. . . and I take it upstairs, the chief's office himself, and what do they tell me?” Thieu's voice had thickened in outrage. “That Banks is a missing person. He's not a homicide. Go back downstairs and do my job. If
it turns out he's dead, then I can worry about it. Can you believe these guys? So anyway, Abe, this is about when I remember you'd called me about Rid, wanting to reach him at home. I figured maybe you'd know something.”

Falk picked up. “Then they're talking about Ridley on the news. What he's working on, about him being the main witness in this Elaine Wager case, and this OD is part of that, too.”

“That's true,” Glitsky said. “So what was he on to, you think?”

Falk finally had a clear field to run on, and he took off. The operation that narcotics had been running out of Jupiter, Cullen Alsop's appearance at the bar, Falk and Banks bopping Damien together, Gene Visser the ex-cop possibly being a source of heroin. “That's what Banks really sparked to. If Visser had been there in the flophouse with the kid.”

“Then what?” Glitsky asked.

“I don't know,” Falk replied. “But if this kid was a snitch . . . the thing about being dead is it's a lot harder to change your story.”

“A lot harder,” Thieu agreed.

“But you can't testify either, so what good's the snitch to begin with?” Glitsky was chomping more ice now, thinking. When he swallowed it, he spoke. “I got a question, Jan. You hear on TV that this is part of the Wager thing. You know the hearing's going on right now. How come you don't go to the D.A.?”

Falk almost spit his tea across the table. “You know how many times me and my guys are putting something together for like a year, wrapped up nice and tight? Righteous busts, dealers in the slammer, good shit. Then two weeks later it's all over. The case has mysteriously fallen apart. Or it's not charged. Or some fucking thing. My dealers are sprung and I'm made on the street and gotta start over someplace else. And half the time my snitches have been exposed and I'm on the line for that.” He
drank iced tea, calmed down slightly. “It's got so . . . you know what I do now? I go direct to the A.G.”—the state attorney general. “If they don't want it, I've even been known to turn cases over to our generous brothers at the FB-One, even though they'll find some way I get no credit for the goddamn bust. But no way do I go to the D.A. No way!”

“That's who got the lieutenant busted,” Thieu offered.

Falk broke a conspiratorial smile. “I think I heard something about that. I think I even heard you might be working on the other side.”

“That's a vicious and ugly rumor,” Glitsky said. “But if it's true, I got a friend you might want to talk to. Get on the same bus.”

“And run over Pratt and Torrey? Where do I sign up?”

Glitsky nodded. “I think you just did.”

“Here you are, gentlemen. Three Yeanling Clay Bowls.”

Falk took Thieu's plate and passed it across. Then grabbed his own. “I hope it's rare,” he said to Lou. “If there's one thing I can't stand, it's well-done yeanling.”

 

This, Glitsky thought, was police work. Finally. This was how it was going to get done.

Astoundingly, no one had issued him a subpoena for the hearing—Torrey because he would be at best a hostile witness and had nothing to add that might help the prosecution case; Hardy because he simply figured Glitsky would be there anyway. He could call him as a witness at his pleasure.

When Glitsky left Falk and Thieu and got back into Department 20, the hearing had already resumed for the afternoon. From the little he heard, he gathered that the lawyers were yakking about how much of the videotape they were going to have to watch. As usual, it didn't appear they were going to get to an agreement anytime soon.

He tapped Treya on the shoulder and motioned that she
should accompany him. She took his hand in the hallway, and they walked through the lobby and all the way outside to the steps of the Hall—the day still warm, without any breeze.

“God.” She inhaled with pleasure, her face up to the sun. “You know what this reminds me of? I had a teacher—Mrs. Barile—in junior high in lovely Daly City, where we'd get a day like this about every seventeen years, and I remember one time we did. For just one period, English, this time of day, right after lunch, Mrs. Barile, she took us all outside and we sat on the grass and she read out loud to us. The shirt scene from
Gatsby
. You know that one? Where Daisy cries? Anyway . . .” Treya suddenly looked embarrassed. “Sorry. I just had that same feeling again. That's not what you wanted.”

“Actually, it's pretty close to exactly what I wanted.” Glitsky felt he could have listened to her all day. They could stand here on the steps of the Hall of Justice and she could tell him all the good feelings she'd ever felt in her life. For the first time in half a decade, he was feeling them himself—a wash of something other than duty, persistence, cold honor. He still didn't trust them entirely, couldn't talk about them. But they were there. Warmth, hope, the future.

He wanted it too badly, and this, he believed, would guarantee that it would never last. So he returned to what he could live with, his comfort zone. “But it's not why I called you out from in there.” He told her he was going to go try and have a talk with somebody, so he wouldn't be around if Hardy decided he was going to call him as a witness.

“This is from your meeting at lunch?”

He nodded, almost smiling. “I'm happy to report that the unit seems to be falling apart in my absence. Nobody's covering any bases except Paul Thieu and he's on my side. He's getting me copies of the lab stuff and crime scene report on Cullen Alsop. Meanwhile,
there's this ex-cop that Ridley thinks might be involved somehow.”

“You saw Ridley Banks? He's okay?”

This erased any sort of animation from Abe's face. “No. He told this to a guy in narcotics, and Thieu put us together.”

“So who is this person? Did Ridley go see him?”

“No one knows, Trey.”

“But he might have been the appointment he told Diz about.”

“That's what I'm hoping.”

Treya took a half step backwards, crossed her arms over her chest. She spoke with a slow precision. “That would have been the last time anybody heard from him.”