John Lescroart (33 page)

John Strout, the coroner, was in the middle of an autopsy, “up to his elbows,” and couldn't see him either. Hardy left a message, asking him to call when he could, and walked across the corridor to the jail's entrance, where he couldn't make himself go inside. He still tasted a kind of bitter residue from his ruined Date Night with Frannie. Although he was certain that his client would be thrilled to have any visitor, Cole Burgess was the last person he wanted to see.

He walked back through the Hall, out the other side, and jaywalked across Bryant Street. Lou the Greek's was a bar located there in the basement of a bail bondsman's building. Lou's served food, too, for lunch. Since Lou's wife hailed from Hong Kong, these were mostly Chinese-Greek combinations—hot and sour lemon egg-drop soup, egg rolls stuffed with hummus—the culinary equivalent of colors not found in nature.

It was a dark and somber bar, pure and simple, its popularity now on the wane due to the young, hip legal crowd's attraction to loud, jumping, music-filled meat markets such as Jupiter and, just down the street, the Circus. Today, though, still early in the morning and deserted except for Lou behind the bar, the place fitted Hardy's mood perfectly.

“Hey, Diz.” The bartender slid a napkin across the pitted wood.

Hardy nodded. “I've got a question for you, Lou.”

“You want a drink while you're asking it?”

“No. I'm good. Maybe some coffee.”

He waited while the Greek turned and poured a cup into an old ceramic mug, came back and placed it on the napkin. Even in the dim light, Hardy could make out a faint lipstick stain on the rim—cleanliness was never a big issue at Lou's. He turned the cup around to drink from its pristine side, nearly burned himself on the bitter brew. “Let's say you're a lawyer . . .”

Lou crossed himself backwards, smiling. He said something, but it was Greek to Hardy, who pressed on. “You've got a client you think is guilty. The evidence says he's guilty. He—the client—even starts out by saying he's guilty. He confesses to the cops. Now, get this, the cop who arrests him comes to you and says, ‘No wait, I don't think the confession's any good.' Then the other cop, the one who took his confession, he starts to have doubts . . .”

“This guy, your client—is he a hypnotist or something?”

“He's a heroin addict. He's been known to take a drink, too.”

Lou nodded. “My kind of guy—not the heroin part, though. So what's your question?”

“Wait. I'm not there yet.”

Lou raised his eyes and scanned his dark and empty bar. He raised his voice. “Anybody need another round?” He came back to Hardy. “Okay, I've got a couple more minutes, but my rates are going up fast.”

“Here's the problem. My client is charged with robbery and murder. I believe I've got a better than decent chance to get him off by arguing to a jury that he was too drunk or stoned or both to have planned to tie his shoes, much less rob or kill anybody. You with me?”

Lou guessed that he was.

“Okay, but if I argue that, best case he gets years in prison. Whereas if I argue that he didn't do it at all, and the jury believes that, he gets off completely. The
problem is, no jury is going to believe it, since I've got no alternative suspects. Hell, I don't believe it myself.”

Lou, a lifelong bartender, knew that Hardy wasn't drinking alcohol, but he also knew that any conversation with even a sober customer that lasted over five minutes was somehow bad for business. He cut back to the chase. “I hope we're closing in on the question.”

“Almost. So I'm supposed to do what's best for my client, give him the best defense the law allows. Now, the question is, what do I do?”

Lou cocked his head. “You're kidding me? That's the question? What's best for your client—prison or walk out the door?” He jerked a thumb. “Out the door, no contest.”

“But I've got no chance to win. I can't prove he didn't do it.”

Lou hadn't worked in the Hall's watering hole for a lifetime without picking up some rudimentary knowledge of the law. “I thought they had to prove he
did
do it.”

“They do.”

“Well, don't let 'em. It doesn't matter what you believe. Besides, ask your client. He's not going to think prison is winning.” Lou thought another minute, picked up a glass from the counter under the bar and began to wipe it with his rag. For the first time in the conversation, Hardy had the feeling that he'd engaged his mind. “You got any idea what you're going to be doing in ten years, Diz? If you're even going to be alive? Ten years.”

“Nope.”

Lou nodded. “Same with most people, I bet.”

 

Hardy worked as a defense attorney, but as he walked the second-floor hallway in the public defender's office, he felt very much out of place. Although it had been nearly a decade since he'd been a young assistant D.A., in his heart he still considered himself very much in favor of the prosecution. If it wasn't for the politically
misguided and extralegal idiocy of Sharron Pratt and her administration, he had no trouble envisioning himself working hard and long to put bad people behind bars.

Here in the public defender's building, however, two blocks from the Hall of Justice, the ethic was the diametrical opposite. Just walking to Saul Westbrook's office gave Hardy a strong sense of unreality, as though he'd suddenly made a turn into an alternate universe. It seemed to extrude from the very plaster in the walls. It shouted from every bumper sticker, cartoon or poster on the doors and bulletin boards—“He's NOT GUILTY until you prove it!!” “3 Strikes = Bad Law!!!” “No Victim, No Crime!!!” “Alternative Sentencing Works!!”

The vibe, Hardy thought, so different than his own. It was disorienting.

From Lou's, he'd gone back to the Hall and discovered the name of Cullen Alsop's lawyer. Saul Westbrook had been in his office when he called him and said, “Sure. Come on up.”

Now he knocked at the open door. The office was about the same size as those of his prosecutorial counterparts over in the Hall of Justice—ten by twelve feet crammed with two desks, overflowing file cabinets, cardboard boxes bulging with three-ring binders, metal bookshelves to the ceiling.

“Mr. Westbrook?”

He was the only person in the room. The other desk was empty. Westbrook didn't look as though he was old enough yet to shave. He wore blue jeans and tennis shoes, a white shirt with a collar but no tie, and either had just won the Masters Golf Tournament or had his own green jacket from another source. He looked up, stood, extended his hand. “Saul.”

“Dismas Hardy.”

“Dismas? So we're both named after a couple of early Christian saints, huh?”

Hardy cracked a grin. “I think my guy was first.”

“I think you're right.” Saul had an open, angular face with a sincere smile. A shock of surfer-length blond hair
flopped across his forehead. The smile faded briefly. “Maybe between us we can try to put a word in to God about poor Cullen.”

Hardy was tempted to like him right away, but he couldn't duck the truth. “I'll need to wait until I find out if poor Cullen screwed my client before he died.”

“Cole Burgess,” Westbrook said, and it wasn't a question. The expressive face seemed to sadden. “I don't think he did.”

“You think he had the gun?”

“I don't know. Why would he make it up? Burgess was a friend of his.”

Hardy wanted to tell Westbrook to give him a break—the list of good works by addicts to protect or save their friends was short indeed. In his experience, addicts did not have friends in the usual meaning of the word. They had sources, but no friends. But he didn't wish to antagonize Westbrook, so he was matter-of-fact. “Maybe somebody made it up for him. And it got him his OR”—out of jail on his own recognizance—“so he could stay high. That's why.”

The idea was distasteful, and Saul shook his head. “Who would have done that? I'm his lawyer. If I was sharp and crooked, I might have dreamed up something like that. But I'm the only one who would have been motivated, and I'm not and I didn't.”

“How about someone who wanted to strengthen the case against Cole Burgess?”

“But that would be . . .” He stopped, then spoke carefully. “One of the D.A.'s?”

Hardy shrugged. “It's Torrey's case.”

“But that would mean, if Cullen was killed . . .” The young man's voice trailed off. It was the kind of moment, Hardy knew, that would eventually put some age on Saul's face.

“It's a long shot,” Hardy admitted. “I don't have any idea if Cullen was an accident or a suicide or what he was. I was hoping you might have an opinion.”

They shared a look. Saul sat back in his chair, picked a
paper clip off his desk, opened it up. “You know Ridley Banks?”

“I talked to him last night.”

A nod. “He came by yesterday, asking about the same thing. Which, for a cop, I thought was a little weird. What did he say to you?”

But here Hardy was stymied. He'd had the impression Ridley was going to tell him something about his suspicions, but with the no-show, he never did. “He kept it pretty vague.” Hardy could do vague, too. “But I got the strong impression the coincidence made him nervous.”

The discussion was threatening Westbrook's world-view, and his reply came out sounding defensive. “But coincidences do happen.”

Spoken like a true defense lawyer, Hardy thought. But he said, “Undoubtedly. This would be a particularly unlucky coincidence for my client, though, so I'd like to be a little more sure it was one. I'm waiting for Banks to get back to me now, which I'm sure he will. But listen, in the meanwhile, if you don't mind, I wanted to ask you how this whole plea thing came down.” At Saul's dubious look, Hardy prodded. “I don't see how it can hurt your client now.”

The face softened. “You're right.” Still working the paper clip, he rocked back in his chair. “Actually, the first I heard of it, I got a call from Cullen, from the jail. And it was already pretty much a done deal.”

“This was over the weekend? He just remembered?”

“Yeah, maybe Monday.”

“So he'd been in jail how long on his own thing?”

Westbrook came forward now, opened a black calendar book on his desk and leafed through it briefly. “He was arrested on the second.” His expression became confused. “So he started trying to cut the deal on . . . I guess the eighth.”

“Six days in jail,” Hardy said. “I wonder what made him think about it? Or more to the point, made him forget it for so long?”

“That's a good question.”

“Has he ever snitched before? How'd he know who to go to? How'd he know the gun was the missing link in my case?”

Suddenly, the young man's face looked miserable. “I don't know,” he said at last. “I think you've got to talk to Banks.”

T
hey dropped Nat off at the synagogue, where he liked to spend his mornings. After that, Isaac drove them home, where Glitsky climbed into bed and told the boys they should go out and enjoy the city. They'd have dinner together tonight—maybe Rita could whip up some of her famous enchiladas. As soon as the door closed after them, he was out of bed. He shaved and changed into slightly stylish clothes—pressed slacks, a beige merino collared sweater, tasseled brown loafers. Then he called a cab and took it downtown, arriving at Rand & Jackman well before noon.

At Elaine's office, he knocked. Treya sat behind a stack of files piled high on the desk. Checking her watch, she looked up in surprise. “It can't be lunchtime already?” Then, apparently concerned for him: “How are you feeling?”

“I'm moving a little slow, but I'm moving.”

She tilted her head fetchingly to one side. “Are you sure you're all right, being out like this?”

He made light of it. “I don't think it's much more strenuous than laying in my bed.” He pulled up a folding chair and sat in it. “See? I walk a few feet and sit back down. Don't even break a sweat. I could do this all day.” She'd hung the gray jacket to her business suit over the back of her chair. She was wearing a thin gold chain around her neck, gold stud earrings, a sleeveless teal silk blouse and under it, he couldn't help but notice, a black bra. He felt the beating of his heart—under the circumstances both comforting and scary.

Last night on the phone, they had discussed Elaine and
the case, both pretending that there was nothing personal in Abe calling her at home at ten o'clock. Then, just before they hung up, Treya had said, “If you're not feeling well enough tomorrow, promise me you'll stay there. Don't feel like you have to come down to the office just because you said you would.”

“But then I won't see you.”

“I could call and tell you what I've found.”

“That's not what I meant.”

There had been a long pause, after which, in a different tone, she'd whispered, “I know. I know what you meant. But first you need to take care of yourself.”

“That's my plan.”

“It's a good one. Stick to it.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Then she'd added, “Please, Abe. If you need to stay there longer, you can just call me and I'll come, all right?”

Now, a foot away from her, his arm resting on the desk between them, he wanted to say something personal—how nice she looked, how grateful he'd been for her visit, for talking to him last night, the scent she was wearing—but he found he couldn't take the step. It was too soon, too uncertain, too perilous.

Instead, he straightened up, his back against the back of his chair. “I did connect with Jonas Walsh, by the way. At St. Mary's.”

“You talked to him?”

“Two hours ago. He seemed to think he and Elaine were doing fine.”

Her brow clouded. She pursed her lips. “Well, that's not . . . he told me . . . I don't think that's true.”

“I don't either.” Now that they were on his business, talking came more easily. “But I don't know it means anything. Maybe he's convinced himself they were going to get back together, so nobody needs to know.”

“But he told me.”

“You're different. You were a friend. I'm a cop. Plus, he didn't know I'd talked to you. It might be something,
but by itself it isn't much. Not as much, for example, as the fact that he had no alibi for the time of her death. You told me that Elaine had this appointment Sunday night, after which she was going home. Do you remember that?”

“That's what she said.”

“Okay. Did you get any idea at all that the appointment might have been with Walsh? That then they would go home together?”

She reflected for only a second. “No, I don't think so. It was somebody else.”

“Dash Logan maybe?”

She shook her head. “I doubt it. She really wanted to avoid him. When she got back from his office, she told me how glad she was he had been in better shape than the first time, how the search was so much easier. He still refused to help, but she didn't even have to talk to him.”

Glitsky drummed his fingers on the desk. “And there's nothing in her calendar?”

“No.” She touched his hand for an instant, then quickly, instantly, pulled hers back. “I would have told you.” Frustration was written all over her. “She just said she had a meeting, then she was going home. That's all she said.”

“But when we first talked, you said you thought she was a little detached.”

“Maybe, yes, a little. But I don't know what from. It could have been anything.”

He indicated the mass of stuff on the desk. “So how's all this coming?”

“I'm only just starting on the G's.”

“ ‘G'? Maybe she had a file on me.” Meaning it as a joke.

“She did.” She raised her eyebrows and gave him a half smile, then rummaged for a minute, found what she wanted, and handed over the thin manila folder.

Glitsky opened it up and was startled to see an eight-by-ten glossy of himself—a copy of his Police Academy
graduation photo. He couldn't believe he'd ever been so young. Where had Elaine ever gotten her hands on this? Glitsky didn't even have one himself.

As though reading his mind, Treya said: “She was pretty good at getting what she wanted.”

He nodded dumbly. Behind the photo, there was an envelope and he removed the letter from it and scanned it quickly. It was from her mother, delivered after her death, informing Elaine of her true paternity. Refolding the letter, he put it back where it had been.

Then there were twenty or more clippings cut from the newspaper—the few times in his career that Glitsky had been hailed as a hero, his promotion to lieutenant and head of homicide, various community-involvement moments, including one featuring Glitsky as a private citizen—standing as the proud father with his arm draped around a beaming Orel when his son was chosen Pop Warner Player of the Month a year ago. Glitsky was the coach of Orel's team—the same picture still hung on the bulletin board in their kitchen. It was more than strange to see it here in this setting.

Here was a picture of himself and Elaine together, seated at the head table at Gino & Carlo's during a “Champion of the People” roast they'd had when Art Drysdale had left the D.A.'s office a couple of years back. Abe looked up quickly, flashes of that night coming back to him. It had been the closest he'd come to telling her since the first days after her mother had died. He remembered they'd laughed a lot—for Glitsky a rare enough event in itself. Funny, there was Gabe Torrey on the other side of Elaine. Abe had no memory of his presence, but that wasn't really surprising. He'd only just come on as chief assistant and Abe had had few dealings with him to that point. Also, with Elaine next to him, he wasn't much aware of anyone else.

Closing the folder, he let out a long breath. “Well . . .”

This time when Treya put her hand over his, she left it. “Let's go have lunch,” she said.

***

“God. Real food.” They were reading the menu at the window bar at Glitsky's favorite deli—David's, an old no-frills establishment on Geary. He looked at Treya. “You ever wonder what they do to food in the hospital to give it that special bland quality?”

“It's a secret spice”—she didn't miss a beat—“that makes everything taste like cardboard. It's really good for you. Promotes healing ten ways.”

“But tastes awful.”

A shrug. “They tested it on mice,” she said. “They loved it.”

“And this is why health food tastes like cardboard?”

“Only the real good stuff,” she said. “The rest is pretty bad.”

Glitsky, chuckling, was back at the menu. “There's nothing I can eat here anymore. You wouldn't believe the list of what I'm supposed to avoid from now on.”

She looked over at him. “I would bet the chicken soup here is good.”

And that's what he decided upon, along with a toasted bagel, no butter, and a slice of kosher pickle. She ordered a pastrami and cole slaw on rye.

“And to drink?” the waitress asked.

“I'll have a celery soda,” Treya said.

“Wait a minute.” Sitting back, Glitsky nearly fell off his stool. “You can't order celery soda. I was going to order celery soda.”

Treya patted his hand. “I bet they have more than one.”

“No,” Glitsky said, “what I mean is that nobody I know drinks celery soda.”

“Well, you know somebody now.”

The waitress put in her two cents. “Actually, it's fairly popular. I've never had one myself, but I'm sure we've got tons in the back.”

“See?” Treya was smiling triumphantly. “Tons.” Then, to the waitress: “We're living large today. Can we get a whole bottle each? You might even try one yourself—they're really pretty good.”

***

By two-fifteen, Hardy had left a message with Dash Logan to call him. He'd left another message with Ridley Banks—a callback at any old time would be fine. Glitsky at home. Strout. Even Torrey to ask for further discovery in
Burgess,
specifically any transcripts that might have come in on the Cullen Alsop interviews with the police or with prosecutors.

Since it appeared that no one was ever going to call him again, he decided to get some work done in his office. He did have other clients, after all. So he reviewed some documents in a few of these cases, reached his party three phone calls in a row and decided to run a victory lap down the stairs and across the lobby to the coffee machine.

The phone rang, stopping him, before he'd reached the door. He crossed his office in a couple of strides and picked it up before it rang a second time.

“Diz.”

“David,” he said. “What's up?”

“I wondered if you could spare me a minute.”

“Have you cleared it with Phyllis?”

“She'll be holding the door open for you.”

“I'll be right down.”

Phyllis was not in fact manning the door, but she waved him by the reception area with barely so much as a glance. When Hardy entered the office, he saw that Freeman wasn't alone. There was some kind of associates' meeting in progress. Hardy knew all three of them, although none of them very well. Jon Ingalls, Amy Wu, Curtis Rhodin. Since Freeman didn't offer partnerships in his firm, his associates didn't tend to stick around for long. They did, however, tend to work like slaves and learn a lot of law in very little time.

The old man cleared his throat. “I've made a decision about the
Burgess
matter,” he began in a gruff tone, “but I'll need your permission before I proceed.”

Hardy glanced at the associates, back to his landlord. “I'm listening.”

“Here's the situation. I'm beginning to believe that this case is going to dominate the news once it gets to court. I know that after the hearing, you'll be handling the guilt phase.” In California, a capital case such as this had two components—a guilt phase and a penalty phase. Typically, each phase had its own, different lawyer. The lawyer in the penalty phase was termed “Keenan counsel” after the appeals decision that had created the precedent. Freeman was going on. “I want to offer my services as Keenan counsel. With the profile the case has already achieved, the advertising value alone is priceless. I want to be involved.”

Hardy's fondest dream had been to ask Freeman to fill this role all along if it came to it. He'd hesitated up to this point because of money—Jody Burgess had retained him, not Freeman, to represent Cole. And Freeman's standard rates were nearly double his own, nearly triple for courtroom time. Jody could never afford him. And now the city's most famous lawyer was volunteering for the case's advertising value.

Not that Hardy for a minute believed advertising was the reason. But he'd certainly accept it. “That's a generous offer, David,” he said. “I'll take it under advisement.”

Freeman kept up the charade. “I do have one demand. I will insist on using my own able associates to help investigate Factor K elements, if any.” This included other potential suspects or anything else that might produce lingering doubt in a sentencing jury. “They can be under your immediate supervision and direction, but their time will be charged to the firm, for my administrative oversight.” He kept it up straight-faced, a sales pitch. “I really believe this partnership could be beneficial to both of us, Diz. It's just too good a business opportunity to pass up. I hope you agree.”

Hardy glanced at the young and eager associates, the Three Musketeers, apparently ready to go to work immediately. He nodded. “I think I could live with it,” he said.

***

Glitsky went back to Rand & Jackman with Treya after their lunch and spent the afternoon looking through miles of files. Near the end of the day, he checked his messages at home, got Hardy's and called him at his office. Treya had a meeting with Jackman planned for after close of business, and Hardy volunteered to swing by and drive Glitsky home, which he was doing now.