The First Law (8 page)

“Which happens to be when you’re supposed to be here.”

“Right. I mean, I get the hour lunch, which is enough time. Each lesson is forty-five minutes.” Glitsky knew that what Fallon meant was that by leaving twenty minutes early and getting back half an hour late, then eating lunch at his desk, he could squeeze the class into his “hour” lunch. Nobody would ever say a word about an abuse of free time like this. These were the little perks enjoyed by those ready to lay down their lives for their fellow citizens. “But it’s got to be the noon hour, and Jacqueline won’t trade.”

He looked expectantly at Glitsky, who hadn’t moved. His posture was relaxed, his arms still crossed over his chest. He might have appeared to be thinking hard.

“Abe?” No response. “I mean, I don’t want to have to go to the union about this.” He tried another tack. “Maybe we could both get off at the same time, me and Jacqueline. It’s only for six weeks.”

Finally, Glitsky took a deep breath. His eyes came into focus. “When I came on here, didn’t I read in your file that you decided that you’d like to have lunch from one to two? And didn’t Jacqueline agree back then to change to noon so the office would be covered?”

“Yeah.” Her earlier scheduling flexibility didn’t seem to have made much of an impact on Fallon. “But that was before this class, and I’m the sergeant here after all. Besides, she’s not doing anything special, just meeting her regular friends. And hell, it’s only six weeks. . . .”

Glitsky later told Treya that the knock at the door probably saved him from at least a charge of aggravated mayhem if not homicide. It was Mercedes, telling him Frank Batiste was on the line and wanted to talk to him immediately. He thanked her, slid off the edge of the desk, and without so much as a glance at Fallon, hurried from the room.

The rain continued unabated, a fine slow drizzle that only seemed heavy to Glitsky because he hadn’t supposed he’d be leaving the building and so was in his shirtsleeves. Batiste had been standing, waiting at the head of the hallway that led to his office. When Glitsky got off the elevator, he’d fallen in beside him and without much preamble led the way out the Hall’s front entrance to the street.

“Where are we going?” Glitsky asked on the outer steps.

“I thought Lou’s. Sound good?” Batiste broke into a jog and Abe had no choice but to follow across Bryant and down to the floor below the bailbondsman’s place, where Lou the Greek’s had operated continuously as the legal community’s primary watering hole for nearly thirty years. The last of the lunch crowd was finishing up and they had no trouble finding a booth under one of the small, elevated windows that, because Lou’s was below ground level, opened at about gutter height to the alley outside.

Lou was a hands-on and voluble proprietor who knew everybody who worked at the Hall of Justice by first name. He came by before they’d gotten settled and offered them a once-in-a-lifetime deal on the last couple of servings of one of his wife’s inspired culinary inventions, Athenian Special Rice. “Minced pork, scrambled eggs, I think some soy sauce, cucumber and taramosalata. Everybody’s raving about it.”

“Taramosalata,” Glitsky said. “That would be fish roe dip?”

Lou grinned. “I know. I told Chui the same thing, but that’s why she’s the genius. The taramosalata is like anchovies, just included for flavor. You don’t even taste it.”

“I bet I would,” Glitsky said.

“It sounds terrific, Lou,” Batiste said, “but I don’t think we’re eating. Thanks.”

Lou wasn’t five steps away, putting in their orders for tea and coffee, when Glitsky spoke. “So this isn’t about Jerry Stiles and his department’s overtime.”

Batiste checked the surrounding area. No one was in earshot, and still he leaned in across the table between them. “I thought it’d be helpful if we had a talk, Abe. Just you and me, man to man, friends like I think we’ve always been.”

Glitsky thought that the friendship they’d always shared would not have allowed one to peremptorily summon the other for a serious discussion of issues during work hours, but he only nodded. “No
think
about it, Frank.”

“Good.” Batiste folded his hands on the table between them. “I know you haven’t been exactly thrilled with the new job. I sympathize. I spent a year before I got homicide in personnel records, so I know. It’s been what now, a couple of months?”

“Four, but the time’s just flying by.”

A pained look. “That long?” Batiste sighed. “Well, I’m aware of you up there. The rest of the administration is, too. It’s not going to last forever.”

“I thought it already had.” But the comers of Glitsky’s mouth turned up, for him a broad smile. He was keeping it light and friendly.

“Well, I’m sure it does seem that way, but I’ve got my eye out for a chance to get you out of there. Lateral or up, either way. Getting back to homicide isn’t even out of the question.”

“That’s good news, Frank. Thank you.”

Lou returned at that moment with their drinks, and it broke their rhythm. When Lou walked away again, a silence fell. At the window by their ear, the rain picked up. Batiste put some sugar into his mug and stirred thoughtfully. Glitsky blew over the surface of his tea.

Finally, Batiste found the thread again. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that it would be well worth your while if you could just hang in there a little while longer. You’ve got great support across the board, Abe. You’ve been a hero and now you’re putting up with this . . . this waste of your talents for the good of the team. Don’t think people don’t recognize this. Don’t think it doesn’t matter.”

“Well, that’s gratifying,” Glitsky said.

“I mean it. It should be.”

“It is.” Glitsky put his mug down, leveled his eyes across the table. “So why am I hearing a ‘but’?”

Now Batiste broke a small and formal smile. “Could it be that finely honed and well-deserved reputation for cynicism?”

Glitsky allowed his own expression to match Batiste’s. “It could be that, but I’m thinking maybe it’s also that Gerson talked to you.”

A slight pause, then a nod. “Maybe some of that.”

Glitsky let out a heavy breath, turned his mug around on the table. He hated to explain, to be on the defensive, and his jaw went tight. Still, he kept his voice tightly controlled. “Silverman, the victim, was my father’s closest friend, Frank. I asked Barry if he could just keep me informed. No press at all.”

“That’s what I heard, too.” Batiste spread his hands, all innocence. “He didn’t come to me with it as any kind of complaint. We were just having lunch and it came up.”

Glitsky nodded, perhaps somewhat mollified. “All right. But what?”

“I’m talking as your friend. What I said when we got here. This is the kind of thing that’s nothing in itself. Hey, one time. Your dad’s friend. You want to be inside. Who wouldn’t understand?”

“That’s all it was. One time. Four months back and I finally stop by homicide once. . . .”

Batiste reached out his hand over the table and touched Glitsky’s. “You’re listening to me, Abe, but you’re not hearing. It wasn’t a problem. Really. Not with Barry, not with me.” He drew his hand back. “I’m talking about the future, just that you be a little careful, you don’t want to have people—and not only Barry—misinterpreting. That’s all. People are touchy. You know what I’m talking about.”

“I told my dad the same thing this morning.”

“There. See?”

“Okay. But then I figured what could it hurt to go to the horse’s mouth? I was completely up-front with Barry. I’m not horning in on him or anybody else.”

“Nobody’s saying you were.”

“Lanier, Thieu, Evans”—all homicide inspectors—“any of them would have found out anything I wanted, but I didn’t want to go behind Barry’s back.” The explaining was wearing him out. “I thought if I could, I’d give my dad a little more peace of mind, that’s all.”

“I hear you, Abe. I do. I also know how badly you want homicide back. And I wouldn’t be a friend if I didn’t make it crystal clear that this wouldn’t be the way to go about getting it.”

“That never occurred to me.”

“I didn’t think it would. But I wanted the air clear between us. I’m trying to fast-track you and it wouldn’t help if it looked like you were trying some end run.”

Glitsky shook his head. “Not even a double inside reverse, Frank. But just for the record, I truly am ready for another assignment.”

“I’m trying, Abe, I really am.” He finished his coffee. “Think you can make it another couple of months?”

Glitsky put his own cup down. “If a couple doesn’t mean a whole lot more than four,” he said.

4

I
nspectors Dan Cuneo and Lincoln Russell had pulled a long night that ended near dawn, so they didn’t come back to work the next morning until after 10:00
A.M.
When they finally checked in, they found they’d miraculously, after only six weeks, received a positive DNA match on one of their outstanding cases—a rape and murder—so their first stop was the video store where Shawon worked and where they put a pair of handcuffs on him. By the time they finished the arresting folderol and were ready to get back to Wade Panos, less than an hour of daylight remained. Though with the continuing and steady rain, what daylight there was didn’t amount to much.

The administrative offices for all of Panos’s operations weren’t downtown in Thirty-two, but a couple of miles south in a no-man’s-land of underutilized piers and semi-abandoned warehouses lining the Bay below China Basin. This neighborhood comprised another beat—Sixty-three. It was light years from the high-end marinas such as McCovey Cove that had sprung up by the Bay Bridge with the Embarcadero upgrades and the draw of PacBell Park.

Cuneo parked at the curb directly in front of the one-story, flat-roofed stucco box and double-checked the address. “I admire a man who doesn’t waste his money on overhead,” he said. Neither the single glass door nor the large picture window afforded a hint about what was inside—both were tinted black with fitted blinds. On the wall next to the door, gone-to-green brass lettering identified the building as the home of WGP Entepises, Inc. Cuneo looked across at his partner. “Maybe Roto-Rooter needed the ‘r’s and stole ’em.”

Russell had no idea what he was talking about and wasn’t going to ask. He got out of the car and was a step behind Cuneo when they walked in. Inside, the place was much deeper than it looked from without. Several offices opened off the hallway back behind the well-appointed reception area. A pretty, dark-eyed young woman in a heavy cowl-neck white sweater stopped working on her computer and smiled a greeting at them. “Can I help you?”

“Absolutely.” Cuneo flashed all his teeth.

All business, Russell stepped around his partner. He had his identification out and showed it to her. “We’re with homicide. We talked to Mr. Panos last night at Mr. Silverman’s pawnshop. He’s expecting us.”

“Oh yes. You’re the gentlemen who called earlier?”

“Well, one of us is,” Cuneo said, then clarified, “a gentleman.”

“That’s nice to hear. They’re getting to be in terribly short supply.”

He extended his hand. “Inspector Dan Cuneo. And this is Inspector Russell. First name unnecessary.”

She took his hand. “Liz Ballmer. Nice to meet you”—her eyes went to Russell—“both.” The smile disappeared and she swallowed nervously. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

It was an impressive, albeit industrial, office. Glass block served as opaque windows just under the ceiling, and found an echo in the large coffee table in front of the long leather couch against one wall. The rest of the furniture—several chairs and another smaller couch—was all chrome and leather. Framed and mounted photos of Panos with various luminaries—San Francisco’s mayor, the police commissioner, both U.S. senators, rock stars and other celebrities—covered most of one entire wall.

“That’s who was there,” Panos was saying. “All of them.”

Cuneo studied the list of the poker players from Silverman’s game. He was sitting sideways from Panos’s expansive desk drumming the theme from
Bonanza
with two fingers on the coffee table in front of him. “With addresses yet,” he said. “Very nice.”

Panos nodded. “I thought I’d save you guys some legwork.” As he had last night, he wore his uniform. Steam curled from a large mug of coffee at his right hand. “One of the guys in the game—Nick Sephia?” He pointed. “You’ll see him there—he’s my nephew. Used to work for me, in fact.”

“Since when has poker gotten legal?” Russell asked.

“You know anybody in vice wants to hassle with it?” Panos asked. “When so many of them play themselves? Anyway, it turns out Nick knows all the guys from Wednesday. Those five, six including him. Which makes this your lucky day.”

Cuneo stopped his drumming. “In what way?”

Panos sipped coffee. “In the way that you won’t even need to talk to all of them.”

Russell came forward to the edge of the couch. “How would we avoid that?”

“You start with John Holiday. You ever heard of him?”

Cuneo raised his head. “Not much since Tombstone. I heard he died.” Then, “Why would we have heard of him?”

“He had some legal troubles not too long ago. They made it into the newspapers.”

“What’d he do?” Russell asked.

“What he
used
to do,” Panos said, “was run a pharmacy, Holiday Drugs. Ring any bells?”

Cuneo looked the question to Russell, shrugged. “Nada,” he said. “So, what?”

“So he got into the habit of filling prescriptions without worrying too much about whether or not they had a doctor’s signature on them. When they stung him, they had guys on videotape writing their own scrips at the counter right in front of him.”

“When was this exactly?” Russell asked. “I think I did see something about it.”

Panos considered briefly. “Year, year and a half ago.”

“And he’s not still in jail?” Cuneo asked.

“He never went to jail. He got himself a hotshot lawyer who cut some deal with the DA, got the thing reduced to a Business and Professions Code beef. He got some community hours and they took his license, but that’s it. Basically, he walked.”