The Keeper (5 page)

10

“P
REJUDICE,
” G
LITSKY SAID
, “is a powerful thing.”

“What makes you say that?” They'd just finished doing the dishes, and Treya was drying her hands.

“Because I am in the grip of it.”

“Ahh. And who are you being prejudiced against?”

“Hal Chase. Husband of missing, probably now-dead person Katie Chase.”

“You think he had something to do with it?”

“That's the thing. It's not a thought, although in ways it's much stronger. It's like an automatic default. Woman disappears from her home with no sign of struggle, my very first reaction is to look at the husband. So I look at the husband—any husband—and what do I see? I see a guy who probably killed his wife.”

She put the towel down. “After hanging out with him all afternoon, do you still think that?”

“As I said, I don't think it, not rationally. I just feel it. And I know I'm not supposed to. But my gut keeps pointing in the same direction it always points. Meanwhile, my brain is trying to come up with plausible alternatives.”

“Such as?”

“Such as a random snatch, some guy walking along the street who decides to abduct a woman out of her house, but this guy can't be walking down the street, because then what does he carry the woman away in if he's not in a vehicle of some kind, so that means he's got a car or something and drove up while Hal was driving away, but then how would he know that Hal wasn't just driving to the store for a six-pack and wouldn't be back in five minutes?”

She smiled at him. “That might be the longest sentence of your life. And what you're describing probably didn't happen.”

“Right. I agree. But somebody came by, apparently, who knew when Hal would be gone and used that time to grab Katie and take her away. Which leads to the question: Why take her away? If they were going to kill her, why not kill her in the house? Whereas, if it was Hal, he's got a reason to take her away, which is that without a body, it's probably not going to get charged as a murder.”

“Wouldn't that be true of anybody?”

“Yeah, but look at the hassle. Taking the body somewhere, then hiding it, and meanwhile, you're left with traces of the victim in your car and maybe on your person. Alternatively, you could shoot her in the house, and in that case it goes down as a B and E that went wrong, and every criminal in San Francisco will be suspect. Which brings us back around to Hal, who's Diz's prospective client and who I'm supposed to believe is innocent, although I'm having somewhat of a hard time with that because it's not what I feel.”

“So I see.”

“Prejudice.”

“There you go. So you're going to stick with this for a while, this investigation?”

“If you're not still going to be mad at me.”

“I'm not mad at you. I was just getting used to the idea that you weren't going to be involved in murder cases anymore. For the record, I was comfortable with that.”

“Also for the record, this isn't yet a definite murder case, although I must admit it's leaning in that direction. And my prejudice about Hal isn't doing anybody any good. I'm trying to imagine what happened to this woman if it wasn't something to do with her husband.”

“Maybe you shouldn't focus on the husband, Abe. Maybe you could go about getting to know her better. Who was Katie?”

•  •  •

F
RANNIE
H
ARDY WAS
sipping her coffee at the dinner table. Putting the cup down, she shook her head and leveled an admiring gaze at her husband. “Sometimes,” she said, “you simply astound me.”

“Thank you. You mean because I'm already on board with Hal Chase?”

“Not really that, no.”

“What, then?”

“The fact that you've been home for about two hours, and we've just had a leisurely and pleasant dinner together, and you have spent nearly every minute of that time talking to me about your perfect game of darts this morning.”

“I know. It was groundbreaking.”

“Evidently so. Making every single shot from twenty down to and including the bull's-eye without one miss. Not even the bull's-eye.”

“Bull's-eye's the killer.”

“Of course it is. And you've described it all so perfectly, I feel like I was there, witnessing it all firsthand. The thrill of victory.”

“Especially the last round,” Hardy said. “Could you believe how I cleared my mind, instead of thinking about it and letting the tension get to me? That's what could have done me in. But no, I just picked those suckers out of the board, walked back to the line, turned, and threw. Bam. Bam! BAM!”

“I think you did mention the mind-meld the first time. Or the second. One of them, anyway.”

“And that's not what astounded you?”

“No. Actually, it was nothing about the dart game.”

“Do you want me to guess?”

“I don't think you could, so I'll tell you. What astounded me is that my client's husband came to your office this morning and asked you to be his lawyer because he was afraid they were going to charge him with murder, and then you met Abe for lunch and got him on board as your investigator. And all of this was really further down your list of interesting things that happened today than your perfect score in Twenty Down.”

Hardy shrugged. “I've had lots of clients, Fran. But never a perfect game. Think about it. What would you rank higher, interest-wise?”

She stared at him. “Amazing.”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

“Is there anything else you'd like to tell me about the perfect game? Or do you think we might chat for a minute about Hal and his situation?”

“Phyllis didn't seem to fully appreciate it, either,” he said. “That woman is a major trial. I asked Abe if he thought he could kill her and get away with it. He didn't think so.”

“Really, though, enough. Okay?”

“All right.” Hardy reached for the wine bottle and emptied it into his glass. “What do you want to know about Hal?”

“How was he?”

“Depressed and worried. Sleep-deprived. About what you'd expect. Homicide—not Missing Persons—had just come by and interviewed him, and he got the impression they were going to charge him in Katie's death, and he thought he might need a lawyer.”

“Why were they going to charge him?”

Hardy shook his head. “They weren't quite there. But they were looking at him basically because he's the spouse. That's always the first stop, as you may know. I told him it was early in the game and he probably didn't have to worry yet, but I'd get going, and I'd get Abe started just in case.”

“Where does Abe come in?”

“If Hal does end up arrested, I'm going to need an investigator, since Wyatt's out of town. Better to get in early if it comes to that.”

“Do you think it will?”

“I don't know. Coming to me at this stage was a bit unusual, but he seemed legitimately freaked out. Have you ever met him?”

“No. But I feel I know him a little through Katie.”

“What do you think?”

“You mean, did they have such serious problems that I thought she might be in physical danger? I'd have to say no. She was just having some troubles with full-time motherhood and deciding to stay at home with the kids instead of working.”

“What did she do when she worked?”

“Pharmaceutical sales. She made a fortune.”

“What's a fortune?”

“Two hundred, two fifty.”

“Thousand dollars? A year? Can I get into pharmaceutical sales?”

“I don't think so. I think you have to be young, female, and pretty.”

“Two out of three isn't bad. Young and . . . well, I'm more handsome than pretty, but that ought to count.” Hardy sipped wine. “So she was making this kind of money and then just stopped? I can see why they were having problems.”

“Diz, it wasn't mostly about their problems with each other. You know I can't go into detail, but it was self-esteem stuff, her place in the world, whether she was a good enough mother, like that.”

“No talk of divorce or abuse?”

“No.”

Hardy blew out a heavy breath. “So nobody knows,” he said.

“Nobody knows what?”

“Anything.”

11

G
LITSKY OPENED HIS
eyes in the darkness, at once fully awake.

Treya lay on her side next to him, an arm stretched out across his chest. He turned his head enough to read the time on the digital clock on his dresser: 6:14.

He lay still another minute, then carefully lifted her hand and moved it over nearer to her. She stirred but did not awaken. Throwing off the blankets, Glitsky swung out of the bed and went into the adjoining bathroom.

Since school started in September, he'd gotten into the habit of waking up to the alarm at six-thirty, throwing on some sweats, going into the kitchen, and assembling whatever they were having for breakfast. Afterward, he'd kiss Treya goodbye and drop the kids at school, then come home to read the paper. Eventually—say, by ten or eleven o'clock—he'd shave, shower, and throw on some old jeans and a T-shirt for hanging around the house while he read and read and then watched television and read some more.

Today, by the time the alarm went off, he had already shaved and showered. Opening her eyes, Treya saw him standing in front of the dresser in pressed slacks, buttoning up a black dress shirt. “Where are you off to, sailor?” she asked.

“Just getting a jump on the day, that's all. I'll go get the rats moving. How's French toast sound?”

“Perfect. You're making?”

“I am.”

“If you want to save that nice shirt, put on an apron.”

Glitsky looked over, nodded, and pointed at her. “Good call.”

•  •  •

A
FTER HE LEFT
the children at school, Glitsky drove downtown, parked in the Fifth and Mission garage, and walked down a block to the offices of the
San Francisco Chronicle
.

In the almost-deserted basement, a heavyset, gray-bearded reporter named Jeff Elliot was sitting in his cubicle, staring at his computer. For about twenty years—far exceeding the predicted life span of a man suffering from multiple sclerosis—Elliot had been writing a column on page three called “CityTalk,” a staple of San Francisco's media diet. When he'd started out, he was slim, clean-shaven, and baby-faced, and he got around town pretty well with the occasional help of crutches. He'd even been able to drive in his specially rigged car. Now, though the newspaper supplied him with a car and driver, he rarely strayed out in the field. His sources either phoned in their information or came to him. After all of his time on the job, his contacts in the city were second to none. If there was a story to be told, Elliot probably knew something about it.

He and Glitsky had a lot of history. Once Glitsky had been shot making an arrest, and while he was in the emergency room and expected to die, Elliot had written an obituary column praising him as a cop and a person. Word that Abe was going to live arrived just in time to keep the column out of the paper, but it had been typeset and ready to go; Glitsky had a framed copy of it hanging in the hallway of his home.

Now Glitsky knocked on the doorframe, and the reporter pushed himself away from his desk, turning as his wheelchair slid back. His face broke into a welcoming smile. “Look what the wind blows in. Dr. Glitsky.”

The men shook hands, and Glitsky sat himself down on the ancient leather armchair next to the cubicle's opening. They caught up on personal stuff—kids and wives all good, life going along—before Elliot said, “I'm thinking this is not purely a social visit. Which in itself is interesting, since, if I'm not mistaken, you're still retired.”

“I am, although you seem to be one of the few who know. I stopped by the Hall yesterday, and nobody seemed to realize that I'd been away. I think I could have gone back to my office and set up shop and nobody would have blinked.”

“Devin Juhle might have been a little perplexed.”

“Okay, him, but nobody else.”

“So what were you doing at the Hall? Business?”

Glitsky played it casually. “I'm doing some work for Hardy.”

Elliot's steel-wool eyebrows went up. “You're going private?”

“I wouldn't say that. Just a little freelance. I wondered if you might be able to tell me anything that isn't in the public domain about Hal Chase or his wife.”

Jeff squinted into the distance for a second, then came back. “The wife who's gone missing?”

“That's her.”

“Is she dead?”

“We don't know yet.”

“If she is, did he kill her?”

“Homicide seems to think so, but he says not. He came to Hardy. Diz is choosing to believe that there's more here than meets the eye, and he thinks I'm the guy who can sleuth it out. Whatever it is.”

“And you think I might know something?”

“You usually do.”

“Well, let's see.” Elliot closed his eyes and took a deep breath or two. “Nothing in the immediately downloadable brainpan.” Holding up a ­finger, he swung around in his chair. “Hal, right?” He tapped on his ­keyboard, waited a second or two, then nodded as the screen filled. “Okay, maybe this has nothing to do with his wife, but . . . he still works at the jail?”

“Yep.”

“Have you talked to him about what he does there?”

“No. I gather he's your basic guard. What do you have?”

“Same thing, nothing. But any time I see the words ‘San Francisco County Sheriff,' my antennae go up. It's not the best-run show on the planet. Maybe you've heard.”

Glitsky, of course, knew the general reputation, which was not good. San Francisco was a geographical anomaly in that the physical boundaries included both an incorporated municipality—the city—and a state jurisdictional entity—the county. Thus, two law enforcement agencies—SFPD and the Sheriff's Department—coexisted, cooperated, and sometimes overlapped, but were totally distinct entities. The chief of police was appointed by the mayor. The sheriff of San Francisco County was elected by the voters. With a visiting dignitary or demonstration or riot, the agencies might cooperate, but for the most part, they had separate jobs.

The sheriff supervised the bailiffs who were responsible for the safety and security of the courthouses, the guards who ran the jails, and the jails themselves. The department's only other function was eviction, which had become something of a higher-profile responsibility in recent years, when the number of home foreclosures in the city had gone through the roof. The common perception was that the eviction deputies were not always the souls of sensitivity during these difficult exercises.

SFPD was responsible for all the other law enforcement in San ­Francisco, including homicides. In the case of a jail death, both agencies had jurisdiction. SFPD would handle any possible criminal implications in the death. The sheriff would run an internal investigation on how someone in custody could have died.

“Here,” Elliot continued. “Here's what I mean. The latest, a week and a half ago. ‘Inmate Dies Following Arrest.' You read about this?”

“Probably, though I don't remember specifically. It's common enough that I didn't pay much attention.”

“Most people don't. Who cares about inmates? But look, it's the sixth inmate death this year and the third in three months. This one was an overdose. And those six deaths don't even count the overdoses where guys didn't die, or serious injuries from other causes. The jail might be the most dangerous neighborhood in town.”

“That's what I mean by common enough.”

Elliot leaned forward and read from the screen. “Angel Deloria. Forty-seven years old, doing ninety days on a probation violation. No apparent signs of foul play or suicide. Heroin overdose.”

“Your point is? What's this got to do with Hal Chase? Or his wife?”

“Maybe nothing. Probably nothing. As I said. But if you want to scratch around Hal Chase, I could pretty much guarantee that if you talk to him about what's going on at the jail, about the culture of the place, you'll get a few surprises. Anything Burt Cushing's involved in probably has dirt sticking to it someplace.”

This abrupt segue to the sheriff himself brought Glitsky up short. “Do we know that Hal Chase knows Cushing, other than he's his boss's boss, or something like that?”

“No.” Elliot sighed and pushed back his wheelchair again. “It's probably wishful thinking on my part.”

“What is?”

“Thinking your guy Chase might be the way to get inside over there, to find out what's really happening.”

“And ‘over there' is where?”

“The Sheriff's Department. I figure there's got to be a crack in the armor someplace, but three or four years now, I've been waiting and watching and hoping—you should see my files—and nothing ever seems to develop into a real story, which in my soul I believe is a big one. Have you met our good sheriff personally?”

“Couple of times at law enforcement events. If I remember, he gravitated toward the political side. I never had a conversation with him.”

“Probably just as well. He's one of those guys, if his lips are moving, he's lying. Anyway, I was thinking that if you've got a legitimate reason to talk to your guy Chase, he might say something about how things are going, in a general way, at the jail and environs. If he did that, and you thought it smelled funny, maybe you could relay some of that back to me.”

Glitsky sat back and crossed his legs. “What are you looking for?”

Elliot pointed at his computer. “Let me show you something. These files I've been keeping.” A few keyboard strokes, and he leaned in to read his screen. “Here's last October. Another inmate, Alanos Tussaint, died of blunt force trauma to the head, suffered when he evidently slipped and fell in a holding cell at the jail. In a jail full of people, nobody noticed him on the ground, unconscious, for an hour. Mr. Tussaint's death was investigated and apparently found to be accidental, since there was no follow-up story of any kind, and believe me, I looked.”

“What were you looking for?”

“Well, trauma to the head . . . what would you have been looking for?”

“You think he was beaten?”

Elliot shrugged. “Another inmate talked to the SFPD and said some guards were involved. Later, he retracted that accusation. And nothing ever came of it. No prosecutions, no nothing. You want another one?”

“Sure.”

“Okay.” A few more keystrokes. “Back to August, three heroin ODs in one night, which leads to the question, ‘Where are these guys getting super-pure and therefore deadly black tar heroin if they are already locked up in jail?' Do you think it's remotely possible that guards could be smuggling drugs into the population? And if that's the case, can the sheriff really be unaware of it?”

“You think Cushing's part of all this?”

“The short answer is absolutely. Though he runs a very tight ship and nobody's leaking. And that's just stuff around the jail, not even counting the irregularities and problems with the evictions he's in charge of.”

“You want to get him,” Glitsky said.

“I think he's a corrupt despot and a menace, Abe. But he's got loyal people, I'll give him that. Loyal as only fear can make you. And as you well know, the code of silence among the guards makes the Mafia look like a gossipy quilting bee.”

“I've heard that,” Glitsky said. “But interesting and provocative as all this is, we've come a long way from Hal Chase and his missing wife.”

Elliot broke a chagrined smile. “I know. Sorry. I got wound up. It's just I hear about any little tenuous connection to Cushing, and I start thinking this might be the big break I've been looking for.”

“I'll keep an open mind, but except for here, I haven't heard a whisper about Cushing in any of this. If anything pops, I'll let you know.”

“You da man, Abe,” Elliot said. “And hey, welcome back.”