The Keeper (21 page)

47

F
ARRELL
WAS RIGHT
about the big guns circling. By the time Burt Cushing showed up for the nine-thirty appointment in Farrell's office that he'd demanded, he had already spoken to Mayor Leland Crawford, denying the unfounded accusations in the strongest possible terms, and getting, he said, the mayor's vote of confidence.

“These are the most irresponsible accusations that I've ever heard in the course of my twenty years of service to the city and county of San Francisco, first as a supervisor and then for the past six years as the county sheriff.” Cushing was pacing like a caged animal between the couches and love seats in Farrell's office. “You got a problem with me or how I run my organization, you come to me, we talk it over, see if there's anything to it. Which in this case, there isn't. This is pure slander. SFPD says nobody up there is talking to Jeff Elliot. If you've got somebody in your shop who's running amok, I hope you goddamn well get him under control.”

In spite of his earlier anger at Glitsky's half-cocked decision to go public with his suspicions of Cushing, Farrell found himself surprisingly pleased that things between him and the sheriff were out in the open. He more than halfway believed that Cushing had played some role in Maria's execution, up to and including ordering it. So he wasn't inclined to apologize for Abe or anybody else. “Nobody in my office is freelancing, Burt. We'll be doing our investigation in a professional and straight­forward manner, so I'm sure you won't have anything to worry about.”

Cushing stopped pacing and pointed a finger. “You're not going to find anything in my shop.”

“Well, then, you've got nothing to worry about, do you?”

“So you are behind this?”

“I'm behind asking Maria Solis-Martinez to look into the Tussaint business, if that's what you mean. And I think it's possible that the assignment led to her death. Which grieves me more than I can say.”

“There was nothing in the Tussaint business, Wes. That was investigated by SFPD right after it happened, as you well know. Nobody found any sign of foul play.”

“Luther Jones did.”

For an instant, Cushing gaped, openmouthed. “Luther Jones was a lowlife snitch who'd sell out his mother for a cigarette. He was a nonentity who lied to try to get something a little better for himself, Wes. That shit happens twenty times a day in the zoo.” He spun around, worked up in a fury now, and came back to Wes. “Luther Jones. Give me a semi-fucking break.”

Two could play the anger game, but when Farrell came down off the table, he wasn't playing. Getting right up into Cushing's face, he all but snarled, “You give me a break, Sheriff. Yeah, Luther Jones, who died of a heroin overdose in your jail and, as far as anyone can tell, never used heroin in his life. Luther called Maria on the day she was killed. He was going to deal and give up one of your thugs. And you knew it. So yeah, we're going to be looking into what's happening in that cesspool you run over there. You don't like it, you go fuck yourself.”

Cushing's eyes narrowed. A muscle pulsed in his jawline. “You're making a huge mistake.” He turned, yanked at the doorknob, and slammed the door behind him on his way out.

•  •  •

B
ESIDES HIS CALL
from Dismas Hardy, Glitsky had also heard from Ruth Chase (“It makes all the sense in the world”), Patti Orosco (“I'm so glad to see that you have suspects who really might have done it besides me”), and Devin Juhle, who wasn't nearly as enthusiastic. The Homicide chief, who had a pretty good idea that Abe was the unnamed source, didn't waste time asking him to confirm or deny. He just wanted to know if Abe had any support for his theories, particularly about Maria's killer, and if he did, would he please be so kind as to share his information with Abby and JaMorris, who had drawn Maria's murder and were again laboring under a dearth of evidence. Did the DA really have something, and if he didn't, what was this baloney doing in the paper?

Abe suggested that Juhle have his inspectors interview Adam ­Foster and get his alibi for the time of Maria's death. Juhle left it unclear whether he was going to follow up on that, but he told Glitsky that he'd try to hook up with him when he got downtown a little later.

With all the talking and explaining he'd done by phone from his home, by the time Glitsky walked into the Investigations Division for the first time that Friday morning, it was almost ten o'clock. He expected an onslaught of profound silence, and even overt resentment, from the inspectors up here. As a lifelong cop, he knew exactly what he'd done and why he'd done it, but he didn't fool himself that it would endear him to his professional associates.

But he hadn't made it halfway across the bullpen on his way to Chief Inspector Frank Dobbins's office when the women at the desks nearest the door got to their feet and started to applaud. Chairs scraped against the floor as the other inspectors stood up and put their hands together. Glitsky stopped and looked from face to face, his own visage softening as he took in this rare display of support. Other people were coming out from the hall where Maria had kept her office. Dobbins came and stood in his doorway, clapping three times himself and nodding in welcome.

“About fucking time,” someone said ambiguously, and Glitsky, back in character, frowned at the profanity.

Five minutes later, Tom Scerbo came back to Dobbins's office and dropped a manila file on the desk. “That's everything I've got on Tussaint, including the transcript of the first talk I had with Luther. It's also got the names of the five guards who swore they were out delivering inmates to San Bruno with Adam Foster. I only talked to two of them—Barani and Maye—and didn't have the heart to go through the motions with the other three.”

“Not forthcoming?” Glitsky asked.

“Oh, to the contrary,” Scerbo said. “They both knew the exact time they left the jail, the route they took, who sat where in the bus, who drove each way. Impressively well rehearsed, and of course the written records and logs all agree.”

“Or they're telling the truth,” Dobbins put in.

Scerbo was grim. “Of course. Or that.”

Glitsky scanned the pages. “Hal Chase?”

Scerbo nodded. “One of the five.”

“How about him being in jail now?” Glitsky asked.

Dobbins turned to him. “How about it?”

“Would he rat out Foster if we could do a deal and get him out?”

Scerbo shook his head. “No chance, Abe. First, these guys don't talk, period. Second, Chase is charged with one of the murders you're saying Foster did, so you're into ‘I didn't do it, he did it.' It would never fly.”

Glitsky nodded. “Okay. I'm open to suggestions from either of you. This Tussaint thing is the only one of the four murders—Marie, Katie, Luther, and Alanos—where we've got some reasonable chance to get some evidence working for us. And that was almost two months ago.”

“It's a tough nut,” Scerbo said. “Do you think Foster's good for Katie Chase?”

“Better than Hal. But I'm keeping my mind open,” Glitsky said. “What about the other jail deaths this year? How many have there been?”

Dobbins clucked. “That number is open to interpretation. Does an overdose count? Suicide? Last April or May, somebody did a face-plant off his bed and broke his neck. No witnesses. That's the way they tend to go.”

“To answer your question,” Scerbo said, “let's go with three more that could use a little scrutiny. Which I'd be glad to give them.”

“That would be good,” Glitsky said. “Thanks.”

The telephone rang on Dobbins's desk, and he reached over and grabbed it. “Dobbins . . . Yeah . . . Right, about fifteen minutes ago . . . I'll give him the word, he'll be right down.” Hanging up, he said, “Mr. Farrell would like a word with you.”

Glitsky looked from one inspector to the other. “Anybody want to bet he doesn't applaud when he sees me?”

48

A
BBY AND
J
A
M
ORRIS
met Adam Foster in the main lobby of the jail as he arrived late for his shift. Both inspectors, trained to carefully observe, got the clear impression that he wasn't happy to see them. Their first clue was that, despite knowing them both at least by sight, he asked for their identification and looked them up and down with withering contempt. He directed them to follow him back to his workspace, which was the anteroom and reception area for Burt Cushing's office.

When they got there, Foster, still only marginally civil, indicated that the inspectors should take whatever seats they wanted. He walked over to the door with Cushing's name on it, knocked, and pushed it open. Evidently, no one was there. Foster turned and went to sit at his own desk, obviously gathering his patience and even slapping on a veneer of politeness.

“All right,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

Abby Foley led off. “Mr. Foster, did you happen to get a look at Jeff Elliot's ‘CityTalk' column this morning?”

“I did.” Foster had his hands clasped on his empty desk. His knuckles shone white. “I got a couple of calls waking me up to tell me about it. Bunch of nonsense.”

“You think it's nonsense?” JaMorris asked.

“What else could it be? I'm surprised they let the thing be published. Well, no, I'm not. Anybody wants a headline in this town, they lob some mud at this department. It gets old, but it's not like we haven't seen it before and won't again.”

JaMorris nodded. “So you nix the idea that Maria Solis-Martinez is connected to the death of Alanos Tussaint in jail a couple of months ago?”

Foster dredged up a tired smile. “All of it. It's total bullshit.”

“We ask,” Abby persisted, “because we're on that case—Maria's—and we've got nothing remotely resembling a lead.”

“I'm not surprised. How is some purse snatcher, probably tweeked out of his brain, supposedly connected to Mr. Tussaint? It doesn't even make sense.”

“Well,” JaMorris replied, “you must know that at one point you were being investigated as the main suspect in the killing of Mr. Tussaint.”

Foster played his response as if he'd heard a good joke. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” JaMorris said.

“Okay,” Foster said, “let's start with fundamentals. First, Mr. Tussaint wasn't murdered. He slipped and fell and banged his head and unfortunately died of his injury. The medical examiner made the call on the cause of death, then the SFPD—you guys!—did a thorough investigation, and that was your decision, not mine. How I'm somehow on the hook for killing a guy who wasn't even murdered, I don't know.

“On top of that, when did this accident of his occur? That came up in the investigation, too, and would you look at that? I happened to be on an assignment down in San Bruno. I've got five witnesses, all sworn officers, who were working down there with me and testified to that fact. So what do I think of the theory tying together this Maria person and Alanos ­Tussaint? Best case, it's some crazy person howling at the moon.”

“And yet, coincidentally,” Jambo said, “Luther Jones is suddenly dead in your jail as well.”

The silence lingered. Abby interrupted it. “So you did not know Ms. Solis-Martinez?”

“No. I couldn't have picked her out of a lineup.” By now Foster had unclenched his hands and sat back in his chair, at ease. “Guys,” he said, his voice all sincerity, “listen. My heart goes out to the poor woman. She was one of us, in law enforcement. She must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but you both know this happens every day. Now, I gather, if I'm a suspect in Tussaint, who wasn't even murdered, I might as well fit the bill for this other person, too. And that's why you're here, isn't it?”

With a sheepish smile, JaMorris conceded the point. “You know how it is, Deputy. We follow every lead, even if it's unlikely to take us anywhere.”

Abby picked it up. “We figured we come down here today, do it the easy way. Ask you straight out what you were doing Wednesday night, and if it checks out, we cross you off and can forget about all these no-evidence theories.”

Foster rubbed his hands together, palm to palm. “Wednesday? This past Wednesday? What time?”

“Ten-ish,” Abby said without any hesitation.

Foster's hands went to his mouth, templed at his lips. Suddenly, his eyes lit up. “I hate to ruin the fun,” he said as he straightened in his chair, his hands back on his desk, “but Wednesday I was at a poker game with some of my buddies from, I don't know, seven or so until eleven, eleven-thirty.”

“At your house?” Abby asked.

Foster shook his head. “No. Mike Maye's. One of my guys here.” He went to reach for the telephone. “I could call him down if you want.”

“How many other players were there?” JaMorris asked.

Foster cast his eyes to the ceiling, recalling, counting the names off on his fingers. “Mike, Steve, Eno, Jorge. Four. Five, with me.”

“Do all of them work here?” Abby asked mildly.

The question didn't seem to raise a flag for Foster. “Mike and Eno, yeah. Eno Barani,” he spelled it out. “Mike is May with an E. Steve and Jorge, Smith and Perez, are in Evictions.”

JaMorris wrote it all down.

Again, Foster reached for the desk phone. “You sure you don't want me to call Mike Maye? Get a statement from him. Take five minutes.”

The inspectors exchanged a glance. “Sure,” Abby said. “Save us another trip.”

Foster picked up the phone and made the call. When he hung up, he said, “He'll be right down.”

“Cool,” Abby said. “Thank you.” Then, back to her friendly conversational tone, “So this poker game, Sergeant: How'd you do?”

“Pretty good. I left with about two-fifteen.”

JaMorris whistled at the number. “What's your buy-in? I've got a regular game where the buy-in's twenty, and I'm starting to think that's too low.”

“Depends on the limit more than the buy-in,” Foster said. “If you can't make it hurt to call, everybody's gonna call, right? And if you can't bluff, it's not poker. What's your limit?”

“Three,” JaMorris said. “Dollars. Not three hundred dollars.”

Foster shook his head. “Not near enough. We play a hundred buy-in and twenty-five limit. Three raises. Check and raise okay. It's a serious game.” He broke a devilish grin. “Some hands get vicious, let me tell you.”

JaMorris gave him an open smile. He reached for his wallet, extracted a business card, got up, and slid it across Foster's desk. “If you let in new players,” he said, “feel free to give me a call.”

“I might just do that.”

A sallow-faced, thin, balding man knocked on the doorframe. Foster told him to come in, and the two inspectors stood and introduced themselves, shaking hands all around. When they finished, Mike Maye asked how he could help.

Abby said, “We were hoping you could tell us what you were doing on Wednesday night. Two days ago.”

Maye thought about it for a couple of seconds, cast a questioning glance at Foster, then turned back to Abby. “He didn't tell you?”

“We'd like to hear it from you, if you don't mind,” she replied.

He shrugged. “There's not much to tell. I sat in a chair in my house for a few hours and watched my money disappear in a poker game. Most of it went to Adam here. I'm surprised he didn't tell you.”

“He mentioned a little of it,” JaMorris said. “Sounds like a good game.”

“Better if you win,” Maye said. “Which he did.”

“What time did it break up?” Abby asked.

Another shrug. “I don't know, exactly. Oh no, wait. I know he called his wife on his cell at ten, told her he'd be a little late. I gave him some grief over it.”

“Over what?” JaMorris asked.

“Having to call his old lady.”

“You're not married?” Abby asked.

“Used to be,” Maye replied. “Don't miss it so much.”

JaMorris brought him back on topic. “So Sergeant Foster stayed till when?”

“Say eleven, somewhere in there. What's this about?”

JaMorris answered. “Somebody thought your boss was somewhere else.”

“When?”

“Wednesday night,” Abby answered. “Eight to eleven.”

“Nope,” Maye said, then broke a small rueful laugh. “I wish he had been, though.” He turned to Foster. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

To the inspectors, Maye added, “If he'd left at ten when he was ­supposed to, I'd be sixty bucks richer, I'll tell you that.”

“Everybody hates a sore loser, Mike,” Foster said. “It's unbecoming.”

Maye broke a lopsided grin. “Easy for him to say.”

“All right, then.” Foster pushed back his chair, stood up, and addressed the inspectors, who also got to their feet. “So?” he asked them. “Are we good?”

“Good,” JaMorris said.

“Any more questions for Mike while he's here?”

“Not necessary,” Abby said. “Thank you, Mike. And thank you, Sergeant. Sorry to put you through all this trouble.”

“It's no trouble,” he answered magnanimously. “As I told you, I'm used to it. It comes with the territory. You know your way out?”

“We can find it,” JaMorris said. He pointed to Foster's desk, where his business card lay. “And I'm serious about that game.”

“I'll keep it in mind.”

They followed Mike Maye down the hall and left him as they turned off to the lobby. When they got outside the building, JaMorris said, “That was quite a performance.”

“For all of us, I think. I loved the poker riff. I didn't know you played.”

“I don't.”

Abby broke a wide smile. “Well, aren't you just the pip.” Then she added, “So Mike Maye isn't married. You get that?”

“It was hard to miss. And this means . . . ?”

“I'm not sure, except my gut says it's significant.”