The Ophelia Cut (17 page)

“I didn’t think of it that way at the time. He just looked lost.”

“But this guy, Sammy,” Sher continued, “he’s got definitely attractive eyes.”

Liza studied the easel. “I guess he does. He did.”

“Just the mouth now,” Gus said, “and we’ll have him.” He looked across at Liza. “If you please?”

She closed her eyes, and he started on the mouth.

C
ONTRARY TO
D
ISMAS
Hardy’s hopes and predictions, after weeks of wrangling with the courts, at least a few of the Alcoholic Beverage Control cases—including Tony Solaia’s—did not appear to be going away. Liam Goodman had kept up his campaign with the press and other news outlets, bolstering his position with a flood of statistics purporting to show that the city had become a safer place since the raids. In what may have been a simple coincidence but remained persuasive, traffic accidents and DUI arrests involving minors were down nearly 35 percent over the past months.

All too familiar with the ways that statistics could be manipulated to prove almost any proposition, Hardy remained skeptical about the raids’ true efficacy, though he had to admit that the numbers appeared to back up Goodman’s claims.

Those numbers were not Hardy’s pressing concern. His immediate problem came, ironically, in the form of another of his defense bar colleagues, Janice Rodriguez, who shared offices with another low-rent lawyer. The two attorneys had also picked up clients from the conflicts pool in the wake of the bust. They were two Ukrainian immigrants—Igor Povaliy and Vadim Gnatyuk—who, as it turned out, were in the country and working behind the bar at Burning Rome illegally. Knowing that they would be kept in custody before being summarily deported, the two friends had concocted a conspiracy theory that, were it not proving so difficult for Tony, Hardy would have admired for its cynicism and elegance.

According to Messrs. Povaliy and Gnatyuk, Liam Goodman and the ABC were not by any stretch making up their claims of illegal activity in certain bars, as evidenced by the nice little side business in fake IDs and drug sales that they had been running out of Burning Rome. As soon as the seriousness of the charges became clear to them, they decided to kill a couple of birds with one stone—they could stay in the country via a special arrangement known as a work permit, issued to witnesses of certain crimes if they assisted the prosecution by cooperating in a case in which they were involved; and they could also lay the blame on Tony Solaia, another bartender named Rona Ranken, and the bar’s owner, Tom Hedtke, who, according to the Ukrainians, were the true conspirators in the manufacture and sale of the phony IDs and the drugs, as well as the sale of liquor to minors.

Today Hardy sat at the large circular table in what they called the solarium on the main floor of his law offices. It was a large circular room, perhaps twenty feet in diameter, most of it—including the entire roof—made of glass. A veritable forest of indoor plants—palms, ficus, Japanese maple—seemed to bloom in perennial profusion, lending to the feng shui of the space a softer aspect than your typical law firm’s conference room.

Next to Hardy, Gina Roake was taking some documents out of her briefcase. “What I don’t understand,” she was saying with a bit of heat, “is why Wes is going along with prosecuting these bartenders at all. The businesses, the owners, okay, maybe, but most of these guys, like your Tony, what were they supposed to do? Double-ID everybody? And by the way, even if they did that, they would have just seen the same fake IDs that the kids showed at the door. On what legal theory can these charges be sustained?”

“Conspiracy,” Hardy replied. “Everybody—the owners, the bartenders, the guys checking IDs at the door—they all knew the truth about what was going on.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I agree with you. And for the record, so does Wes. Meanwhile, he’s stuck.”

“He’s the DA, Diz. He can get himself unstuck. Just say no. Dismiss the charges against the bartenders, if nothing else. Or at least get ’em knocked down from felonies. I mean, really? Felonies? State prison?
That’s just absurd. Especially when we know that Igor and Vadim are pure flat-out liars trying to save their own sorry asses so they won’t be deported.”

Hardy nodded amicably. “My call is that Wes is letting it play as it lays for a minute, and then he’s going to step in.”

“But why let it play at all when it’s so wrong on the face of it?”

Hardy, with a tolerant glance at his partner, said, “You’ve been practicing law for how long and can still ask that question?”

Roake sighed. “I know. You’re right.”

“One step after another,” Hardy said. “Eventually, something happens.”

“Sounds like a Russian novel.”

“Pretty close. Maybe Ukrainian.” Hardy sat back in his chair. “Changing the subject, did you read about the guy from Goodman’s office? Rick Jessup?”

Roake nodded. “Yeah. Awful.”

“It is awful. It’s also potentially close to home. Brittany McGuire—Moses’s daughter?—went out with him once a couple of months ago.”

Roake closed the folder she was perusing and turned toward her partner. “Are the police talking to her?”

“Not that I’ve heard, but I haven’t talked to Mose since it happened. I wouldn’t be surprised if they get around to it.”

Gina was silent for a moment. “What’s her situation now? Brittany’s?”

“You’re going to love this. She appears to be hooking up with Tony Solaia.”

Gina cocked her head. “Really?”

“Really.” Hardy broke a small smile. “It’s a bit of a disappointment, too, you want to know the truth.”

“Why’s that?”

A shrug. “For starters, he’s got at least ten years on her.”

“Last time I checked, didn’t you have at least ten years on your blushing bride?”

Hardy grinned. “I knew you’d say that. And you’re right, but it seems different with them.”

“That’s for starters, and it’s ridiculous, so let’s discount it. What else?”

“What else is that it strikes me as a little . . . inappropriate. Moses
gives him a job to tide him over when he’s going through a tough time, and then he starts going out with the guy’s daughter?”

“Maybe he didn’t mean to. Maybe it’s true love.”

“Of course,” Hardy said. “Romantic soul that I am, I’d never rule that out. But she’s my niece, and I worry about her. Tony’s charmed and insinuated himself into a pretty sweet situation, and I guess he moved so fast, I’m leery. Especially since I’m the one who basically put everybody together.” Hardy stared out into the middle distance. “Anyway, I don’t know why I got on to Tony. He’s not the issue.”

“So what is the issue? Is there one?”

“I hope not. But evidently, that breakup between Brittany and Jessup—if you can call it breaking up after just one date—didn’t go too well. Jessup wanted to see her again, and she wasn’t going there. After a few days of stalking her, he apparently pushed her or something—”

“What do you mean, stalking her? He physically attacked her?”

“She fell or tripped or was pushed or something. The bottom line is he did something that put her in the hospital. It’s a little unclear exactly what it was. Brittany wouldn’t say, or even admit that Jessup did anything. But Moses got suspicious and went down and had a few words with Jessup until he verified what had happened.”

“Uh-oh. And how’d that go?”

Hardy nodded grimly. “You know Moses. About like you’d expect. He told me he gave Jessup a bit of a tune-up and didn’t think he would be much of a problem for Brittany anymore.”

Gina grimaced. “You think the cops will want to talk to him?”

“It would be a miracle if they didn’t. I kind of wanted your take on it. I also thought, on general principle, that you ought to know.” He didn’t have to draw Gina a map. Moses in jail, where he might mention the massacre while under stress, or possibly get drunk and talkative on jail-made hooch, was a situation they needed to prevent at all costs.

“I appreciate that.” Then, “You don’t really think he had anything to do with this latest? With Jessup’s murder?”

Hardy leveled his gaze at her. “No comment.”

A
LTHOUGH THE
J
ESSUP
homicide was taking up most of their day-to-day time and imagination, Brady and Sher were almost always working on more than one homicide, and today events surrounding the homicide of Daniel Dejesus were demanding their immediate attention.

On the Sunday one week before Rick Jessup’s death, Mr. Dejesus, a low-level gangbanger from the lower Mission District, got himself shot by an assailant in a passing car as he stood on a street corner either minding his own business or selling drugs.

The accounts varied.

Although it had been broad daylight and the street was well populated with pedestrians, no one had seen anything. But now, a week and two days later, Juan Rios, the owner of Taco Rios—the taqueria in front of which Daniel had spent his last minutes—decided that he needed to talk to the inspectors who’d interviewed him a week before.

It seemed that Juan had rushed out after hearing the shots and taken a photograph with his cell phone of the getaway car as it drove away. The picture had been in his phone since he’d taken it, but he had wanted to wait and see if somebody else would come forward with evidence, so it wouldn’t have to be him. As it was, Juan wanted assurances of protection for him and his family if he was going to be any kind of witness. In any event, he wanted the violence in his neighborhood to stop, and the police were welcome to the picture of the car to do with as they saw fit, even if Juan wasn’t personally involved.

The two inspectors spent a frustrating but possibly important hour with the local restaurateur. They said they understood what he wanted, but people in hell wanted ice water. If he were subpoenaed, he would come to court and testify or, with the deepest sorrow and regret, they
would come and put him in jail. They didn’t leave with his commitment to testify, or any deal about his protection, though they did have a good shot not only of the red low-rider Chevrolet but of its license plate. With that, even lacking Rios’s testimony, Sher and Brady thought they might be able to shake something loose in the case.

After they got back in their car, Sher turned the ignition but did not shift it into gear. She stayed in the parking place, her face expressionless, her eyes half closed.

“Don’t let him get you down,” Brady said, “he’s just scared. He’ll come around, and even if he doesn’t, we—”

Sher held up a hand, stopping him, and turned her head. “We’re morons,” she said.

“No. We had to get what he had, even if—”

“Not that,” she said, cutting him off again. “Jessup.”

“What about him?”

“Not him. Let’s start with her, the rape victim.”

“Who shall remain nameless because—”

“Right. Privilege. But guess what? We know that our victim, Jessup, dated her a while ago, right? And she must have dumped him, since we also know that he was trying to get back with her.”

“Okay. But so what?”

“So how hard could it be?”

Brady thought about it for two seconds, then said, “Goodman’s office. City hall. Where he worked.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” she said, slamming the car into gear, peeling out into the traffic.

T
HE SUPERVISOR WASN’T
in and hadn’t been since a half hour after he’d gotten the news about Jessup. In Goodman’s absence and with the tragedy, the office had ceased to function. Diane Galen had sent the interns home at lunchtime, and when Sher and Brady knocked on the locked outer door, she greeted them with a weary politeness, then led them into a small and windowless conference room where she apparently had been sitting with a cup of coffee.

They’d gotten through the preliminaries, and Sher had started to give Diane their condolences, when the woman waved her off rather
abruptly. “This is a very difficult and confusing time,” she said, “and I don’t mean for this to sound callous, but I’m afraid that I wouldn’t say Rick and I were exactly friends. We didn’t see each other outside of work. I think he considered me and the interns somewhat beneath him. He made it very clear that there were the professionals—which included himself and Mr. Goodman—and then everyone else was more or less staff. Although in terms of longevity in the office, I am by far the most senior.”

Sher leaned forward, elbows on the table. “He didn’t share many of his personal feelings with members of the staff?”

“No. He did see Mr. Goodman outside the office from time to time.”

“In your opinion, would anyone here besides Mr. Goodman know anything about Mr. Jessup’s personal life?”

“I don’t think so. Although you could ask the interns when they come back in, which should be tomorrow.”

“Will Mr. Goodman be back then, too?”

“I hope so. We haven’t been in contact since he left yesterday.”

“So they were close? Mr. Jessup and Mr. Goodman?”

Diane found something of interest in the grain of the table, and she studied it for a moment or two. “Perhaps less close than they used to be. You know they came to work here together from Mr. Goodman’s law practice before he was elected. I don’t suppose it’s any secret that Mr. Goodman is thinking about running for mayor and that Mr. Jessup had
planned
to move up with him.”

The inspectors exchanged a glance. This was far removed from what they’d come here to discuss, but they would get to that in due time. They were investigating a murder, and if an unexpected path opened up, it was usually worth exploring. Brady took the ball from his partner and said, “Did those plans appear to be changing?”

Diane took another minute, then she sighed. “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but Mr. Jessup had a pronounced streak of arrogance that, most of the time, in public, he managed to camouflage very well. He was very jealous of his place in Mr. Goodman’s life. In the past few months, trying to control access to Mr. Goodman, he managed to alienate a few large donors to the campaign, notably Jon Lo, and I think Mr. Goodman became aware of that, or was made aware of it. Some days
there would be a palpable tension in the office. I don’t know if Mr. Goodman now would be a source for information about Mr. Jessup’s private life.”