The Second Chair (35 page)

“You really didn’t know him, did you? He was the softest grader in the school. I’d ask him sometimes if he shouldn’t be harder on the kids, if he wasn’t doing them some kind of disservice, being so easy. He wasn’t preparing them for real life. But he always said I didn’t understand the importance of grades nowadays. You get one ‘B,’ half your college options disappear. He wasn’t going to do that.”

“So you saw him a lot, still?”

“Once a week, at least. He’d come for Sunday service and stay for lunch. Every week. We were very, very close.”

“So you’d know about his social life. Did he talk about that? I know he lived alone . . .”

Mooney dragged himself back to upright, eager to talk about Michael in spite of himself. “He’d pretty much given up on dating. He was married twice, you know, and neither one worked out. I think this was the biggest disappointment in his life, especially after the wonderful life we all had while he was growing up. Me and Margaret, our marriage, was his model I’m sure. When he didn’t succeed in either of his, I think . . . This sounds a little strange, but I think it broke him in some way. Anyway, after the second marriage ended, he just kind of gave up on the idea of having his own family. Said if it was meant to happen, God would take care of it.”

“How long ago were these marriages?”

“Both when he was in his twenties. Both lasted a couple of years. And two fine women, too. Terri and Catherine. It seems they all just wanted different things. And of course, the artist’s life is never easy. He wasn’t making much money . . .” He sighed. “I think those failures, and the constant worrying about money, that’s a big part of what made him turn to teaching, which finally made him happy. I know he loved his work—the kids, the plays, all of it. It was his life now, maybe not the one he’d chosen when he was young, but the one God had chosen for him. It was good.”

Hardy took a last look around the dim, ordered, cultured room. If there was anything in Mike Mooney’s life that had played a role in his death, Hardy was certain that Mooney’s father knew nothing about it.

Driving up the freeway with the top down, listening to the news to check for traffic problems and determine whether he should take the 101 or the 280 back home, Hardy suddenly leaned forward and turned up the volume.

“Police in San Francisco tonight are looking into two separate shootings that occurred within fifteen minutes of each other earlier tonight in the Twin Peaks District. Both victims were shot in their homes, apparently at close range, and both died at the scenes. Police are unaware of any immediate connection between the victims, a middle-aged man and an elderly woman, but have not ruled out the possibility that both shootings may have been the work of one gunman. Neither shooting appears to have been gang-related. Police are advising residents in the area to be especially cautious opening their doors to strangers. So far, no witnesses have come forth with even a tentative description of the suspect in either shooting.”

Hardy pushed the button on his dash and flipped over into CD mode. In a minute, he was listening to Nickel Creek again, the haunting and beautiful “Lighthouse’s Tale.” He was tired of hearing about murders in the city, although vaguely aware that it seemed to be turning into an unusually bloody month. As it was, he had his work cut out for him with Andrew, and for the moment he was out of ideas.

Wu didn’t go home.

She’d missed eight hours of billing the day before, and after Brandt dropped her off, she went to her office, and closed the door behind her. By six, she’d drafted the sixteen-page memo of points and authorities that Farrell had requested on the “notice rule,” a question of whether or not the statute of limitations had run on a client’s malpractice claims against his wife’s doctor, who in spite of several physical examinations had failed to properly diagnose her breast cancer until it had been too late. Wu got into it—it was a fairly sensitive analysis of when the statute began to run, at the time of the original non-diagnosis, or when the damage had been “noticed.” Plus, Farrell had given her twenty billable hours, and for a change, she thought, she could be efficient.

Sometime afterward, they delivered her order of takeout Chinese and she ate her carton of lo mein at her desk while she studied the files of two conflicts cases she’d picked up—one computer identity theft and one meth sales, complicated by a concealed weapons charge—that were coming up for prelim. In neither of these cases did she entertain the slightest doubt that her clients had done what they’d been accused of.

Nor did either of them deny it. She hadn’t even asked them yet—it would be unnecessary and even a little rude before the prelim to press them too hard about what had happened. Better they should hear the evidence and then decide what their respective stories would be. Her meth guy was looking at a third strike if he was convicted, and life in prison, so he had nothing to lose. The computer geek didn’t think the rules actually applied to him. He was tedious and whiny and kept complaining about how his court appearances were inconvenient, and why hadn’t Wu gotten the charges dismissed yet? He was a long way from being ready to face the music.

Now it was ten o’clock and she was alone in the office. Yesterday’s hangover had become a dim memory and she pushed herself back from her desk, thinking that it was Friday night, she’d worked more than a full day, expiated her demons. Now it was time to party, to forget, to score and prove again how desirable she was, how charming, fun, worthy of love.

Her eyes fell upon the picture of her father, framed on her desk. She wondered if he was seeing her now, watching from wherever he might be. Sitting back down, she pulled the picture near. To her knowledge, her father had never gone out and “partied” in his life. He did his job, he took care of his responsibilities, raised his difficult daughter all by himself.

She stared at his likeness. Well, if he wasn’t going to like her anyway, she’d show him. She wouldn’t need him anymore, either. That was the greatest punishment she could inflict on him. She could be completely independent, financially secure on her own, emotionally untouchable. Alone.

Alone.

“Come on, Dad. Talk to me,” she said aloud.

It wasn’t her father’s voice, but Jason Brandt’s that she heard.
For a minute, I thought we had something going. I mean personally.
She saw him tapping his chest.
In here.

She sat back and gathered herself, her eyes closed. When she opened them, her gaze fell upon the cardbox box containing the files in the Bartlett case. She reached down and pulled it over to her. Hard on the heels of the two cases she’d just been reviewing, she was suddenly struck by the qualitative difference between both of them and this one. Between all of her previous clients, in fact, and Andrew.

She’d been completely blind to it at the beginning, assuming that her client was guilty, as all of her previous clients had always been. But now as she turned the pages in the files—the police reports, autopsies, photos of the crime scene, transcripts of interviews with Andrew and every witness in the case—she tried to take everything fresh, but this time with the prejudice that he might actually be innocent.

Certainly Andrew himself hadn’t deviated from his original story; even when he’d been presented with new evidence that seemed to damn him, he always had an explanation that fit the facts. Andrew was an intelligent young man—“Perfect Killer” illustrated that clearly enough. His stubborn insistence on his own version of events, when he had no illusions about how bad it made him look, had a certain perverse authority. She found the quote from his short story:

Would a smart guy like me admit to these damning lapses if I had done it? No, I’d lie about them, too. I’d make up a more consistent story. Think about it. Doesn’t that make more sense?

And, in fact, she had to admit that it did.

She pulled her yellow legal pad over in front of her and on the top of the first page wrote “First Criterion: The Minor’s Degree of Criminal Sophistication.” Lifting the rest of the pages of “Perfect Killer” out of its folder, she chewed on the end of her pen, trying to recall every instance where Andrew’s story, which, she reminded herself, was
fiction,
which
he’d made up,
pointed more to his innocence than his guilt.

Tomorrow—Saturday—she’d be in here writing the motion to Judge Johnson on the impropriety of the rushed timing on the 707 hearing, giving notice they would be cutting him no slack. They had not yet truly begun, and were already laying the groundwork for an appeal. Maybe even a writ—get the Appellate Court involved before the 707 even took place.

She’d already made appointments to talk to, recruit and perhaps even get time to prepare some reasonable number of the seven witnesses she and Hardy had preliminarily identified to testify on the various criteria. She had to nail down addresses, phone numbers, schedules.

She desperately wanted to talk to Jason Brandt again—her hand had gone to the phone half a dozen times while she’d been working. Each time she’d drawn it back. But she felt she had to apologize. She had to let him know how she really felt about all of her mistakes, the seemingly endless series of them. She wanted to tell him that she was beginning to get some understanding of what had been driving her. The ghosts that had haunted her. Her hand went to the phone again. If he answered, they’d just talk. It wouldn’t be about Andrew.

She pushed the numbers, heard the ringing, got his machine. Of course. It was Friday night. Of course he was out. She hung up before the message ended, sighed and opened another folder.

It was going to be a long weekend.

21

O
n Saturday morning, alone in the house, Hardy showered, dressed in jeans and a blue workshirt and went downstairs to the kitchen. He poured himself a mug of coffee and took the first essential sip. Lifting his eight-pound black cast-iron pan from where it hung from the hole in its handle on a marlin hook, he put it over a high gas flame on the stove. They were out of eggs—he’d used them all up with Amy the other night—and this slowed him down for a second, but he hadn’t eaten dinner last night at all and was famished. So he cut a half inch of butter, threw it in the pan, let it start to melt.

With an English muffin going in the toaster, he opened the refrigerator, found some luncheon ham and cut it up with a can of new potatoes, half an onion and a red pepper. After it had browned up a little, he added a tablespoonful of flour and a bouillon cube, and stirred it all together into a dark paste, into which he then poured a coffee mug full of water and stirred again. After it had thickened up, he tasted it, added Worcestershire and Tabasco, stirred again, and turned down the heat while he went to get the paper.

Poured over the muffin halves, he figured his breakfast was at least as good as most of the specials at Lou the Greek’s. Maybe he’d even type up the recipe, drop it by there. Chui would serve it over rice instead of English muffins, and probably use soy sauce instead of Worcestershire for the gravy, but it would be cheap to make and, at least for Hardy this morning, it was satisfying enough. He could call it “Hearty Bowl,” a pun. Abe would love it.

The two homicides last night made the front page. The coincidences they’d mentioned on the radio had blossomed into a tentative theory—it had been the same shooter. They’d recovered 9mm slugs from both scenes and police were running ballistics to see if they came from the same weapon. But in both cases, there appeared to have been no sign of forced entry. The woman, Edith Montrose, was seventy-two years old, and lived alone on Belvedere Street, while the man, Philip, the fifty-five-year-old owner of Wong’s Fine Produce, lived in a duplex on Twin Peaks Boulevard with his wife, Mae Li. The article noted that the two murder scenes were less than four blocks apart. There were other similarities as well: both victims were shot at very close range, in the chest. Nothing was apparently stolen from either domicile.

Hardy finished the article, then came back to the front page and found a follow-up story on Allan Boscacci. So far, Glitsky and his special task force didn’t appear to have accomplished much.

He washed his dishes and poured another cup of coffee. It wasn’t much after 7:00
A
.
M
., still too early to call anybody on a Saturday. And who was he going to call upon anyway? He was beginning to think he should have gone up to Northstar with the rest of the family after all. Certainly, he hadn’t helped Andrew’s case by either of his visits last night. It wasn’t really too late. He could hop in his car now, and if he flew, he could still ski a run or two before lunchtime.

Instead, he came back to the table and finished reading the rest of the newspaper. He’d think of something to do here. There were still several people he hadn’t talked to, notably Hal and Linda North and their daughter, Alicia. He told himself he should just show up at the Wrights’, Laura’s parents, and try again to get them to talk to him. He thought his best bet, though, might be Juan Salarco. He was a nice enough guy, and something about their talk the other night had seemed somehow unresolved, although Hardy hadn’t been able to put a finger on what it had been. Maybe if he went back there, went over the whole night one more time, talked to the wife . . .

Glitsky got the call back from Hardy at 9:15.

“Where have you been? I’ve been calling you for an hour.”

“You only left one message.”

“That’s because if you hear that one,” Glitsky said, “you won’t need the others. Which apparently you did, since here you are, calling me back.”

“True enough. I was taking a walk, clearing my brain. It didn’t seem to do much good. What can I do for you?”

“You can listen to my adventure yesterday. Treya’s getting a little tired of it after the fourth time, I can tell, but I think you’ll appreciate it.”

“All right. Hit me,” Hardy said, and listened to Abe’s version of his single-handed Cow Palace bust, leaving the van, loaded with illegal suppressors and paraphernalia, not to mention Ewing’s driver’s license and address, with the engine running, and blocking the unmanned Brisbane police cars into their places.