The Rule of Law

by John Lescroart

  Faro pulled one cup out from under the machine’s spigot. “I guess it could happen. Black?”

  “Black’s good.”

  “You got any ideas?” Len asked.

  “Not really. As I said, I’ve talked to some people, but the basic problem is that there’s no evidence that proves anything.”

  Pushing the button on a second cup, Len nodded. “I remember. I worked that scene right afterwards and, believe me, it was a madhouse. Half the force was down there. Nobody could figure out what it was all about. We worked it for three days, the scene.”

  “And got nothing?”

  “Mostly. Whoever the other guys were—the Russians, maybe—they knew how to clean up a crime scene. They must have been professionals with body armor, since apparently none of them even drew blood. Strout”—the medical examiner at the time—“had us sample every damn smear of blood on the pier, and all of it except for two small unidentifieds belonged to the bodies at the scene.”

  “And what about them? The unidentifieds.”

  Faro clucked. “Somebody got nicked or fell and scraped himself and bled a little, nothing like the gunshot wounds. And of course, even if there was a little blood and DNA, you could never prove how long it had been there. But in any event, no match with DNA on them, which makes sense if they’d just flown in from Russia and didn’t stick around so we could swab them for a comparison sample anyway.”

  “So how many of these pros were there, do you think?”

  “Nobody knows for sure. Four or five, and they must have come out shooting. We finally came to the conclusion that there must have been a delivery of diamonds involved, which the Patrol Specials were guarding.”

  “And what was Gerson doing there?”

  “A mystery. Although arresting Holiday seems to be the consensus. But again, why then and why there? Nobody knows.”

  “Any sign about how they got away, these Russian pros?”

  Len pulled his own coffee over in front of him. “You’ll laugh, but the rumor at the time was the helicopter, except nobody in the neighborhood remembers hearing or seeing it.”

  “So what’s that leave?”

  “What do you mean? What does that leave what?”

  “In terms of evidence.”

  “Well, not to get technical, but it leaves basically squat.” Len blew on his coffee and sipped. Suddenly he put his cup down and threw a glance up toward the ceiling. “Except the largest collection of shell casings we’ve ever recovered from one scene. Which means we’ve got a pretty good idea of the ordnance that the guests brought along to the party.”

  Chet put his own cup down. “How many different guns? Any of them Russian?”

  “Seven or eight guns, around there. I don’t remember exactly. As to Russians . . .” The idea seemed to bring Faro up short. “It’s funny, but I don’t remember hearing anybody ask that question before.”

  “So what’s the answer?”

  “I don’t know if anybody’s ever looked for that specifically. Not that it would necessarily lead to anything. These were casings we’re talking about, not the guns themselves.”

  “So best case,” Chet said, “it might narrow down whether it was in fact probably Russians or probably not Russians. If they come in with diplomatic immunity, these Russian killers, that undoubtedly means they brought along their guns from the mother country, right? But casings, they could have got them anywhere.”

  “Right,” Faro said. “Really no point in looking.”

  “You could eliminate about them being Russian.”

  “Not really. Not with certainty. Best I could get to is maybe. And even then, so what?”

  “So what is you got a Russian casing or a hundred of them, it tells us something,” Chet said. “But if they’re not there . . . you see what I’m saying?”

  Len nodded warily, noncommittal. “Who, for example, would the non-Russians have been?”

  “Well, John Holiday for one.”

  “Okay. I can buy him.”

  Like a tell in poker, Chet brought one hand down over his mouth. “Other people,” he said. “Locals.”

  “Or how about Russians who used American weapons?”

  “Or that, sure.” Clearly on a scent, Chet Greene went back to his coffee, took a sip, put the cup back down. “Let me ask you this, Len. Roughly how many of these casings are we talking about?”

  Len couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “I don’t know if anybody’s ever counted all of them, but I’d take a stab at around two hundred, four or five different calibers, and twenty or thirty shotgun pellets we dug out of the pier.”

  “Did you check them for fingerprints, or partials?”

  “As a matter of fact, I think we did. I’m sure we had Gerson and Holiday because Gerson was a cop and Holiday had a sheet, so they were both in the database. One of the rent-a-cops, too, although I don’t remember his name: Nick, or Rick. Doesn’t matter.”

  With a growing intensity, Chet came forward in his chair, pushing his coffee cup aside. “How about casings with no prints? Any of those?”

  “I would assume so. Though I wouldn’t have cared much about them, would I? I don’t really remember.”

  “No. Right. Of course. They don’t tell you anything, except some pros would have known to wipe them before they loaded up.”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, but here’s the big one, Len: Do you remember if you got any prints or partials that you couldn’t identify?”

  “I’d assume so, on a sample that big. There had to have been some, I’d assume.”

  “And why wouldn’t somebody’s prints show up?”

  “Because they weren’t in the old database.”

  Chet brought the flat of his hand theatrically to his forehead. “Of course. The old database.”

  Before the lab went over to the federal database, about ten years before, the fingerprints of anybody who’d been booked in California— plus cops, other first responders, government employees, some medical people—could be found in the old database. Which left a large sampling unrepresented. When they’d gone over to the federal database, that problem disappeared.

  “So,” Chet said. “You’re saying that basically no one’s gone back since then and run the unknowns through the new database?”

  “I would be very surprised if they had.” Len tipped up his cup and finished his coffee. This was, unexpectedly, a rather fascinating turn. Chet was correct. This would be virgin, unmined territory.

  God, Len thought, I love this job.

  Chet Greene hadn’t come down for any nefarious or political reason. He’d come down trying to lay his hands on evidence, and the unearthing of evidence was what Len Faro lived for—not his promotion or his pay grade but evidence. And why? Because bullshit walks, he thought, and guess what?

  Evidence talks.

  • • •

  “I KNOW.” BETH wore a mischievous grin. “I’m a bad girl.”

  “So bad,” Hardy agreed. “I’m slightly afraid to be sitting with you, to tell you the truth.”

  “Same back atcha.” Beth took in her surroundings—the low-slung sagging upholstered couches in the very back by some ancient Tiffany lamps, hard by the entrance to the bathrooms; about ten customers in the whole place, nearly empty here at nine o’clock on a Tuesday. “What is this place?” she asked.

  “This, believe it or not, is the oldest bar in San Francisco, the Little Shamrock.”

  “I know that. I just got it on Google Maps and drove here. But what’s your connection?”

  “I’m the majority owner.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “I’m not. I try to keep a low profile around it, but I’ve found it’s a good spot to pretend I’m not a working lawyer. Or where a cop like yourself can show up without anybody thinking it’s a meet with an agenda. You want something to drink?”

  “What are you having?”

  “Macallan 12. If you like Scotch, it’s hard to beat.”

  “Su
re,” she said. “Hit me.”

  Hardy got up, went around behind the bar, and poured out a couple of generous shots. In under a minute he was back, setting her glass on the low coffee table in front of her. She picked it up and knocked it against Hardy’s own. “Sláinte,” she said, and lifted it to her lips.

  When they’d both put their drinks down, Hardy met her eyes. “So your supervisor gets himself fired for making things uncomfortable for Mr. Jameson, then makes it a point to warn you and your partner off any of your own investigations, especially those that bring you into contact with the DA, and so the first thing you do is go talk to a witness on just such a case.”

  “I know,” Beth said. “I told you I was a bad girl. I’m also starting to think I might have a small problem with authority.”

  Hardy broke an appreciative grin. “I’m getting that impression.” He paused for a beat. Then: “So was it worth it, going back to your witness?”

  “Mostly. I think so. Geoff Cooke’s wife, Bina. She helped get my ducks lined up, at least. The main thing is that, first, she’s motivated to testify again if it comes to it. Jameson definitely lied to her about what he did with his souvenir guns from Iraq. He didn’t turn them in to the city, and they keep records of that. It flat out didn’t happen. In fact, one of his guns is probably still in the evidence locker, since it’s the gun that killed Cooke.”

  “Still,” Hardy said, “that’s not much. Maybe he lied. That’s it?”

  “He did lie to Bina. He also lied to me. If somehow he gets himself into a situation where he lies under oath to a federal officer—say, an FBI agent—that’s a felony and he could go to jail.”

  “True, except that you can’t really prove it—either that he lied or that it wasn’t his gun—and even if you could make that case, so what? Who—I mean who in law enforcement—is this Bina going to give her testimony to? Who are you going to give yours to, for that matter? If Jameson gets any wind of what you’ve been up to . . .”

  “Everybody’s so afraid of that dick.”

  “With good reason, Beth. Especially if he’s . . . if he’s what you think he is.”

  “He’s a literal cold-blooded murderer, that’s what he is, Dismas. Same as his wife, Kate, although actually she may be worse. No doubt in my mind.”

  “Okay. If all that’s true, then people are afraid of him for good reason, wouldn’t you say? Hell, I’m afraid of him, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Yeah, but at least you’ve taken him on with the recusal and the lawsuit and being Jeff Elliott’s source, to say nothing about talking to me.”

  “The wisdom of which is not yet apparent. But as for you, what are you planning to do with what you’ve got?”

  “Just before he got canned, Devin suggested that me and Ike should get in touch with the AG or the FBI. Have them start their own investigation. I mean, this is a double murder we’re talking about, which is some serious shit. Glitsky told me that he’s got a reliable connection in the FBI who—”

  “Wait, you’ve also talked to Glitsky on this?”

  “I did. He’s how I got to you in the first place, you remember. In fact, I’m expecting him down here with his connection any minute.”

  “Here? Now?”

  She flashed him a not-quite-sincere “Gotcha!” smile. “No time like the present. The clock is ticking here.” She glanced at her watch. “Pretty soon.”

  “And how did I get involved in this, again?”

  “You’re already involved, sir. It was Glitsky’s idea. He thought that, no matter what, you’d want to be part of whatever is going down.”

  “Really?” Hardy seemed for a moment to be almost in a state of shock. “They’re coming down here?” He looked down the length of the room to the front door, which opened as if on cue as Glitsky pushed his way in, another guy—in from central casting as an FBI agent—trailing in his wake.

  • • •

  FBI SPECIAL AGENT Bill Schuyler said: “I’ll tell you what: he lies to me and he’s got himself in a whole heap of trouble right there. It’s a felony to lie to a federal officer, as all of you may know. If it gets to it, that ought to tie him up in a couple of knots. We could take him into custody on that alone. But I must say,” he added to Beth, “you’ve built a pretty compelling narrative around him and his wife. I don’t think I would have come aboard normally, even with Abe’s gentle prodding, but this all sings to me. We’ve been aware of this guy for a while. Plus, now he’s a sitting DA with an arrogance issue. It’s a great opportunity. But I do see one potential problem and maybe it’s a big one.”

  “What is it?” Beth asked.

  “Well, we start sniffing around your old investigation, and even if he can’t connect you to us, he’s likely to put two and two together and realize that you, Inspector, have been the driving force here. You might want to be a little careful about your own safety until this shakes out.”

  “That’s why I came to you,” Beth said. “So it wouldn’t look like it was me.”

  “But it is you,” Schuyler said. “Sorry, but that’s the simple fact of it.”

  “You’re sorry?” Beth asked. “Is there any other way to take him into custody first?”

  Schuyler almost smiled. “You mean just go pick him up because we don’t like him?”

  “Or,” Beth said, “because he’s committed murder.”

  “Yeah, well, as your lawyer friend here can tell you”—he nodded toward Hardy—“I’m not always wild about it, but arresting somebody just ’cause we don’t like him, we frown upon that here in this country.”

  Hardy asked Beth: “What kind of file did you have on the Peter Ash case? You’ve said all along that you were close to pulling Ron in. You must have had something at least modestly compelling. I mean, some real evidence.”

  “I thought of that before we got here,” Beth said, “but there wasn’t anything until you put it together with the Geoff Cooke thing. And his lying about the guns. That’s verifiable. That’s on the record. He never turned any of those guns in, and they’re distinctive.” She turned to Schuyler and Glitsky. “If you can get him to tell you what he did with them . . .”

  Glitsky said, “He’ll just say that the evidence clerk didn’t enter the serial numbers right or stole them himself. So there’s no record? No clerical error. So what?”

  “Do you think,” Schuyler asked, “that you have something a little . . . firmer . . . on the wife?”

  “Kate?” Beth blew out a breath in frustration. “She made two mistakes, maybe even three, but tying them to her specifically could be a little tough.”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” Schuyler said. “What were they? The mistakes.”

  “First, Geoff Cooke was left-handed and behind the wheel in the driver’s seat. Kate was sitting in the passenger seat, so she had to shoot him from there. He didn’t hold the gun and shoot himself with his right hand.”

  “Okay,” Schuyler said, dismissing that explanation out of hand. “But in fact it could have happened. Not likely, I’ll grant you, but not impossible. What else?”

  “Kate wrote a suicide note, as though it were from Geoff, and sent it to his wife on his computer. Her name is Bina, but he never, not once, wrote her and called her anything but ‘Bean.’ He didn’t write that note.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Schuyler said, “but that doesn’t mean your friend Kate did, does it? Were her fingerprints on his computer?”

  “No. There were no prints on his computer, not even his. It had been wiped.”

  “So somebody killed him. So he didn’t kill himself. What about Ron?”

  Beth shook her head disconsolately. “Ron’s got a solid alibi for that night. Depositions with clients and associates. No chance it was him, though I’d love it if there was.”

  Glitsky finally spoke up. “You said she made three mistakes. What’s the third one?”

  Beth sighed in frustration. “The magazine in the murder weapon had two bullets missing. Which even
now, as I say it out loud, I realize it’s lame.”

  “What’s the significance of that?” Glitsky asked.

  “If you can follow me here,” Beth said, “she needed the casing from that gun to match the casing found in the car so that she could then plant it on Cooke’s boat, where Peter Ash was killed. That made it look like the same gun that Cooke had killed himself with was the one he used to kill Ash.”

  “Now you’ve totally lost me,” Schuyler said.

  Beth shook her head. “I thought I might.”

  “How about witnesses?” Schuyler asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Other people you were talking to. People who knew Ash or Ron or heard something.”

  “Sure. It was a big case. I’ve got a reasonable file.”

  “Well, with that,” Schuyler said, “I’m willing to go out and do a little canvassing. I have to tell you guys that even if everything you’re telling me is true, I’m hard-pressed to see a federal crime here. Jameson wasn’t in office at the time, so I’m not even sure we can call this an investigation into political corruption. But for the moment let’s let that slide and we’ll call it interagency cooperation.

  “You’ve made a decent case that Cooke didn’t kill himself,” Schuyler went on. “Okay, that doesn’t mean that Jameson or his wife killed him, but somebody other than himself certainly might have, and at least that’s a reason why the FBI ought to look into it. If anybody asks, it’s plausible to say that the wife—Bina?—came to us and asked if we could take another look. And that keeps you, Inspector, under Jameson’s radar, or we can hope it does.”

  “Great,” she said. “No, seriously. Great.”

  32

  THE NEXT DAY, for lunch, Ron Jameson decided to take a little risk.

  Sick and tired of hanging out in his office, and without even a small inclination to go to any of his previously scheduled meetings, he felt he needed to get outside before he went completely batshit.

  The risk lay in his decision to go to Sam’s, a longtime favorite of his and Kate’s.

  He thought that she was working at her soup kitchen as usual on Wednesdays, but he was not entirely certain. It mattered because this was going to be his first real date with Andrea. He had requested a two-person booth that closed for privacy. When they got seated, he’d order a cocktail for both of them and then they could share a bottle of fine wine. And see where the afternoon led them.