John Lescroart (27 page)

Glitsky started over. “You'll never guess who I just talked to.”

“Don't tell me,” Hardy said. “Joe Montana?”

“Allison Garbutt.”

“I'm proud of you. Who is she?”

“She's the inspector on the case where Elaine acted as special master. They just turned the seized documents over to Judge Thomasino.”

“Okay? And this is important because . . . ?”

“I don't know if it is.”

“And yet you're telling me about it?”

“It's a fact we don't know anything about, that's all. I know you and Thomasino get along all right.” This was true enough. Hardy and Thomasino weren't close friends by any means, but they knew each other from the courtroom and shared a mutual respect. “There might be something there.”

Hardy wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Glitsky was giving him a free fact—possibly just another in the endless accretion of them surrounding a murder case, and experience had taught him that all facts were worth collecting. You simply never knew. “You're right,” he said. “There might be. What was the name of the case?”

“
Petrof.
Insurance fraud of some kind.”

“And what do you know about it?”

“Completely nothing beyond that, except that Elaine was around it, working on it the day she died. It occurred
to me as I was lying here. I thought it might give you something to do to while away your many idle hours.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Don't mention it.”

The two men traded health and beauty tips for a few more minutes, talked logistics about Glitsky's eventual release from the hospital. After they hung up, Hardy paced his office for a while, unable to say why his adrenaline was flowing. He realized that it made little sense. He hadn't even been thinking about Cole Burgess, but suddenly here at least was something to do for his client, a lead to follow. Finally he picked up the telephone again and punched some numbers he knew by heart.

It wasn't yet nine o'clock, and court wouldn't be in session until nine-thirty. In a perfect world, Judge Thomasino would be in his chambers right now. Or at least his clerk would be in. As it transpired, for an instant all was perfection.

“Judge,” Hardy said after their greetings, “I understand you signed off on a warrant on an insurance fraud case. I don't even know if it's been settled or tried.
People v. Sergei Petrof.
”

The judge sounded weary of it. “No. It's not been settled. Yes, they're still doing motions. Bunch of Russians faking car accidents. What about it?”

“You appointed Elaine Wager special master in connection with it.”

“Yes. And then she gets herself killed in the middle of it, as I'm sure you've heard.” The judge's tone reflected his frustration. “That's the way the entire investigation has gone. You wouldn't believe—one delay after another. Some cases. Now it seems I'll need another special master for more warrants before we can proceed, and I don't know . . .” His voice brightened up. “You wouldn't be on the list, would you, Diz?”

In fact, he was, although he hadn't been called to serve in years. He told that to the judge. “. . . but my plate's
pretty full right now, your honor. And I've more than heard about Elaine's death. I'm representing the accused in that case. Cole Burgess.”

A dissatisfied grunt. “So I can't use you. All right, what was your question?”

“Well, I'm afraid it's not too specific. I was curious because Elaine was involved in it. Wondered if it might somehow be related to anything I could use.”

“In your murder case?”

“Stranger things have happened, Judge. I thought you might be able to tell me a little about it. See if something might be worth pursuing.”

Thomasino gave it a beat. “Well, all right. It isn't any secret.” He began. “The fraud unit starts getting calls from insurance companies about a rash of similar accidents in the last six months—all Russian surnames, same doctor, same type of car, same lawyer for half of 'em. So I sign a warrant to pull the records, and Elaine's got to go along and supervise. Normally, you know, a piece of cake. Except if one of your colleagues is particularly uncooperative, won't give the special master any direction, won't even tell her where any of the files are. Says ‘Find 'em yourself. This whole investigation is bogus anyway.'The belligerent son of a bitch.”

“What do you mean, one of my colleagues? Is this a friend of mine?”

“No. Sorry. I just mean it was another lawyer, not to lump you all together. Certainly not in this case.”

Hardy went with his hunch. “You wouldn't be talking about Dash Logan, would you?”

“Maybe. With my apologies if he's a friend of yours.”

“He's not,” Hardy replied.

“No.” The judge sighed. “Somehow I didn't think he would be.”

 

On his way down to the Hall, Hardy decided to stop by the
Chronicle
's main office and see if Jeff Elliot was in, a virtual certainty at this time of the morning. He'd just
gotten into the reporter's office and said hello when the building began to shake. Reflexively, Hardy backed up into the doorway, said, “Earthquake. Get under a beam.”

Elliot was in his wheelchair. He kept his hands on his keyboard, cast an amused, tolerant look across the room. “Okay, sure, I'm on it.”

The shaking—really no more than a quick minor jolt—passed. Hardy stayed under his beam, and Jeff held out his hands as though feeling for raindrops. “Two on the Richter,” he said. “I don't move 'til we get to six.” He indicated a chair on the other side of his desk. “You can stay in the doorway if you want, but it might be five years before another good shake. You'll get pretty bored. The seat's more comfy.”

Hardy waited another moment for the possible next temblor. When, after a few seconds, it didn't come, he moved forward. “It's good to see a man with no fear of nature's wrath.”

Elliot glanced out into the city room, where the small quake had pretty much passed unnoticed. “My computer didn't even blink, Diz. I'm not going to die in an earthquake, I promise you. Way less chance than lightning, and that's the rule in our house.”

“You have a rule about lightning in your house? Us,” Hardy said, sitting down, “we just flat don't allow it.”

“No. Not lightning, getting killed by lightning.”

“You have a rule about getting killed by lightning?”

Jeff sat back, pulled his hands off his keyboard and rested his arms on the sides of his wheelchair. “Actually, yes. Ridiculous as it may sound, we have a rule about not worrying about something unless it's more likely than getting killed by lightning.”

“I like it,” Hardy said. “Let me guess—your girls are plagued by the occasional random fear?”

“Ha! Occasional. I'd pay large dollars for ‘occasional.' It's everything.” He tried a smile to make light of it, but Hardy could see it was about as funny as his own daughter's constant fears, which was not at all.
“Everything, I swear to God,” Jeff repeated. “Plane crashes, AIDS, the hantavirus, terrorists, zits, snakes, nuclear accidents, spiders, child molesters on every street corner, the dark—Lord, the dark!—walking home alone . . . everything.”

“You left out heart attacks,” Hardy said. “The Beck's afraid of getting a heart attack now since Glitsky did.”

“Don't worry,” Jeff replied. “If Nicole hears about that, it's on the list.”

“I tell the Beck that twelve-year-olds rarely die of heart attacks. She doesn't care. It
could
happen, couldn't it? And no warning. Abe didn't have any warning. I tell her Abe isn't twelve. Ask me if she cares. This until eleven-thirty last night.” Hardy was leaning back, an ankle on his opposite knee. He dragged a hand across his eyes. “Sometimes I think it must be us, always telling them to watch out for this, watch out for that, especially the girls. So this rule—how's it work exactly?” Whatever it was, if it worked Hardy wanted to know about it.

This time Jeff got all the way to a smile. He scratched at his beard, perhaps embarrassed that it had come to this, but it had, damn it, it had. “Well, we finally had to come up with some lowest threshold for paranoia that we could take seriously. I mean, there are legitimate fears she should worry about once in a while, I suppose. Right?”

“Right.”

“Although I doubt if either you or me or our wives ever had them. Maybe it's a new millennium thing.”

“Maybe,” Hardy agreed. “Although I remember worrying during the Cuban missile crisis.”

“I hate to say it, Diz, but there were adults who worried then, too. And you know why?” He raised his voice.
“Because there was some real goddamn thing to worry about!”

“Or, as it turned out, not.”

“Exactly. So, anyway, we finally had to tell Nicole that whatever she was worried about had to be more likely
than getting killed by lightning, which for some reason she's not afraid of. If it was less likely, we weren't going to talk about it, especially after lights-out at night.”

“And what are the odds of that, dying by lightning strike?”

“Thirty-two thousand to one in a seventy-five-year life span, more or less.”

Hardy whistled, impressed. “That's a good statistic.”

Jeff shrugged. “It still leaves a hell of a lot to be afraid of—you'd be surprised—but at least it gets rid of death by earthquake, spiders, snakes, plane crash, atomic bomb blast. None of them make the cut. It's really helped, actually.”

“I'm bringing it home tonight,” Hardy said. “It's a great concept.”

“It is,” Jeff agreed, “but I don't believe that's why you're here, and if it's about Cole, he's not my topic today.” He indicated his terminal screen, half filled with words. “Gironde again. Due in two hours. I wish they'd invent a program to actually write the words.”

“I'm sure it's on the way,” Hardy said. “So what's new at the airport, aside from that it's never going to be finished?”

Jeff looked at his screen, fixed something, came back to Hardy. “The way it's going, Diz, they may never even start this last phase, given all the subs who supposedly didn't have their minority quotas on board. It's been seven months and everybody and their brother has had their personnel records subpoenaed. Gironde can't start work, will probably even lose the contract, and the D.A. hasn't brought one charge yet. Not one. Three subs have already gone under because they've lost the work. It just sucks.”

To Hardy, this was an old song. “That's how Pratt works, Jeff. Make a big public stink, then drag on the follow-through. Are you on Gironde's side on this? I thought they were the bad guys.”

A shrug. “All I know is that apparently fair and square
they won the biggest contract this city's seen in ten years. Now everybody hates them. The supes are asking for another round of bids. And it's all based on Pratt's office deciding to very publicly look for minority-hiring irregularities, which now, it's turning out, may not exist.” He made a face. “It smells, Diz. It really smells.” He looked back at his terminal. “And I've got to write it. So? Cole?”

“It's not specifically about Cole.”

“Specifically. There's a good word. So more specifically, what? And we do have to make it fast.”

“All right,” Hardy said. “You know everybody in the city, right?”

“Oh yeah,” Elliot said flatly, “me and everybody else, we're all pals.”

“How about Dash Logan?”

The by-now-familiar reaction, a faint line of distaste. “What about him?”

“That's what I was going to ask you.”

“Has he got something to do with Cole?”

“I don't know.” Hardy broke a small grin. “Not specifically.”

But the topic had gotten Jeff's attention, and he reached for a cup on his desk, sipped some coffee, beginning to concentrate. “The only thing that comes to mind is that Logan represents a lot of dope cases. A lot. People say he takes fees in trade.”

“Then he sells it?” This was close enough to Cole to get a rise out of Hardy. “Heroin?”

“No. Cocaine. Evidently he's got his own . . .” Jeff paused. “I was going to say habit, but I don't know if it's to that point. Probably just recreational. He functions, evidently.”

“Not well,” Hardy said, “if returning calls is any indication.”

“Well enough to make a good living,” Jeff replied. “He drives a Z3, wears nice clothes, keeps up an office.”

Hardy sat up straighter. “His office? That's the other connection.”

“To Cole? What was the first one?”

Hardy glossed over that. “Elaine was working at Logan's office the day she was killed.”

“Okay?” Jeff sat back in his wheelchair. “And this means?”