Still a bit nervous that the headache would return, she waited another minute or two to make sure she had regained her equilibrium, then left her bedroom and went downstairs and into the library, where she turned on the lights. Her safe was hidden behind a wall of books that slid out and turned when she pressed the secret button under the large mahogany desk.
She didn’t remember the last time she’d opened the safe, but she’d memorized the combination and in under thirty seconds she was reaching in to pull out the first of the two Tariqs. Both were wrapped in blue velvet Crown Royal bags. Placing each one of them on the blotter that covered most of the desktop, she removed them from their bags and picked them up, checking them out one by one. Neither held a clip. The clips turned out to be stored in the back of the safe. Bina reached in and took them out, one for each gun, no extras, checking to make sure that they were fully loaded.
Wondering which weapon, if either, was in better shape than the other, she hefted them one by one, pulled the triggers, checked the actions. She wasn’t particularly sure what she was looking for; her goal was to make sure that, when needed, the weapon would fire. They certainly had not been fired in several years.
She should probably take them to a shooting range, get them cleaned and test-fired.
Sitting down at the rolling leather-upholstered chair behind the desk, she held one gun in each hand, trying to decide which one she should use to avenge her husband’s death by killing Kate Jameson.
• • •
CHET GREENE THOUGHT it might have been the longest day of his life.
It turned out that fingerprint specialist Pat Daly had all the personality of a hermit crab: she would only come out of her shell for the split second when they’d pull up a match on her computer, which happened 39 times out of the 137 lifted prints they were checking. The rest of the time she methodically sorted the other lift cards according to some arcane system of loops and swirls and bifurcations that he didn’t understand.
Infuriatingly, Chet also came to realize that this was the second pass for the kind of identification they were trying to make. Last time, ten or so years ago, someone had gone through much the same process with all of the lifts and saved the matches, which included recognizable fingerprints for Homicide lieutenant Barry Gerson, Hardy’s client John Holiday, and the rent-a-cops.
And then, all of a sudden . . .
Daly and Chet suddenly realized at the same moment that a bunch of the lift cards were different from the others. Same case number but no description of where the lift was supposed to have come from, and no technician’s signature.
Chet sat back in his chair. “What the hell?”
“Probably just a technical error,” Daly said. “The technician was in a hurry and didn’t fill out the card completely. But they’ve all got the right case number and they’re all in the same file. They have to be from this case.”
“Pull these out,” Greene said. “Forget about the others. Concentrate on these.”
So by a little before 5:00 they were getting to the very last one of the thirty-nine lifts. This one, like all the others, turned out to be a match for a name—Jon Nathanson—that rang no bells with Chet at all. Who the hell was Jon Nathanson (four lifts)? Who, for that matter, was Debi Sullivan (three lifts)? Or Jorge Orosco, Stevie Sheppard, Tong Li (five, six, and one, respectively)? Could they have been involved in the Dockside Massacre? It seemed unlikely if not impossible. But if not, what were their fingerprints doing on these casings found at the scene? Or were these lifts from those casings at all?
He couldn’t help but notice there were no Russian names, either.
Chet had a list of a dozen names now that were matched in the new database, and none of them were Hardy or Glitsky or anybody else they were with.
Beyond that, they had nine more unmatched lifts, regardless of the new and supposedly universal database.
• • •
“SO I’M BACK at the front window at the lab, signing this huge bank box full of evidence back into the lockers. Have I mentioned that we got not even one familiar name with all the new hits?”
Sheila Marrenas nodded. “Once or twice.”
“Unreal. But true. Anyway, of course there’s a log-in/log-out page for all the files down there, but when I came in this morning I just scribbled my name, signing it out like everybody else because I was in a hurry, which is an unknown concept down at the lab.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, so on the way out, the day was shot anyway, and I’m just shooting the shit with the clerk there, wondering what could have gone on with these fingerprint lifts, so I ask the guy if he’s got a record of other times people have checked out this pile of evidence. For any reason. Turns out there is, and it’s on the computer by case number. So I ask if he’d mind taking a look, which of course he does, otherwise they wouldn’t have hired him. Anyway, at last he comes around and punches up the number. And guess what?”
“I’m guessing a familiar name at last.”
“Abe Glitsky. Seven years ago, when he was head of Homicide.”
Marrenas squinted across her desk at him. “He signed out the massacre file?”
“Yep.”
“What for?”
“It doesn’t say. Just that he took it out.”
“Out of the building?”
“No way to tell. He signed and took it out at the front desk one day, and two days later he brought it back and signed it in.”
“Was there some kind of new and ongoing investigation at that time? Did they reopen the case for some reason?”
“Not that I know of. There was nothing I saw in the file. And this time I really looked.”
“I believe you. What’d you find?”
“You want my opinion, Glitsky reopened the case himself; after all, he’s head of Homicide, he can make that call. He’s waited three years since the massacre went down. Nobody’s even sniffing around it anymore.
“And remember, this is about when they were changing over to the new, bigger database, so Glitsky got wind of that and decided he needed to get rid of the casings without a database match. And then he substituted the same number of random casings from his local shooting gallery—a hundred and thirty-seven if you’re counting. But even so, it wouldn’t have been that hard to do. Oh, and he also threw away the hard-copy prints that they’d lifted but couldn’t match. His, I’m thinking. And Hardy’s. And maybe some others of their friends.”
“Jesus.”
“That’s what I say.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t what I can do. He’s played this pretty smart. Even if I can get the DA to make a stink about it, Glitsky had every right to take files out of the evidence lockers, especially on dead cold cases like the massacre. Nobody was looking and he picked his time just right.”
Marrenas leaned back in her chair and put her feet up on her desk. “That’s what’s been so damn frustrating about this whole case, Chet, right from the beginning. You think you’re on the verge of finding some real evidence about who was down at that pier and what they all did, and then it all somehow goes away.”
• • •
DUSK WAS STARTING to settle. Kate sat at Peet’s, nursing her latte.
Things had gotten far worse on the home front since the last time Kate had talked to Patty Simmons after their soup kitchen volunteering last week. Of course, who could have seen or predicted all of the fallout from that awful “CityTalk” column, which seemed to have changed not only the public’s perception of Ron overnight but also his own state of mind? It wasn’t like him to be defensive, but he was snapping at everything and everybody. People didn’t understand him. People should support him. People should understand the stress he was under.
The fight he’d had with Aidan was a good example. True, the boy hadn’t given his father much of the benefit of the doubt about his motivations and decisions, but Ron’s reaction, or overreaction, had simply been over-the-top. He didn’t r
eally want to make their children feel afraid of him and unwelcome in their own home. He didn’t want to urge them to leave and stay away if they didn’t agree with him. That was just ridiculous.
And when she’d more or less sided with the kids on that one, he’d exploded at her! Whose side was she on, anyway?
How dare he ask her that? She, who was his protector in all things. How could he even think it, what with everything she did for him every day? To say nothing of literally saving him from prison by her own bold move, just when it had to be done.
But this was the other thing that she didn’t like to acknowledge: every time she thought about him getting angry at her, or taking her for granted, or yelling at her in front of the kids, her own reaction seemed to be getting worse and worse. Less and less tolerant and patient. That was not who she wanted to be, either.
But it seemed that now they were in some kind of downward spiral together. They were mostly polite to one another, yes, but she could feel the distance growing between them.
She couldn’t let that happen. Not after everything they’d been through together, the secrets they held. They needed each other. Nothing would convince her she was mistaken on that score. They had to be a team.
But Ron had to do his part, to be integral to it. After all she’d sacrificed for him, she wouldn’t tolerate him cutting her out of his life, and any hint of that brought her closer to a rage that she didn’t feel she could control. She had, in fact, killed to save him. He had to know that she would kill again to protect him if the need arose, but he had to acknowledge her. He had to love her.
“Someone’s deep in thought,” Patty said.
Startled out of her reverie, Kate flashed a quick smile. “Not really. Just . . .” Her smile spread across her face. “Just deep in thought, actually.”
“Would you mind if I join you?”
“Not at all. I was half hoping you’d stop by.”
“Does that leave the other half hoping I wouldn’t?”
“You’re such a goof. Of course not. Sit down.”
Patty pulled out her chair, put her coffee on the table, and sat with her own bright smile. “So, as the bartender said to the horse, ‘Why the long face?’ ”
Kate shook her head. “Just a little worried about Ron, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I noticed that they’ve been treating him a little rough in the news these past few days. But it’ll probably pass. These things usually do.”
“I know.” She sipped at her coffee. “It’s not the public stuff so much. He’ll probably ride it out, as you say. But do you remember last week when I was talking about all the time he’s not spending with his wife? That would be me, the wife, by the way. With all these problems he’s got to deal with . . . I’m sorry. I know I’m whining.”
“But you’re saying he’s spending too much time at work?”
A short, brittle laugh. “All the time is more like it.”
“That’s hard.”
“I guess I just don’t understand why he doesn’t want to come home and be with me at a reasonable hour. I’m a great cook. I’m always ready to make dinner, or we could go out anywhere. All of those meetings can’t be that important. The two of us are the solid, good part of our lives, and I’m afraid he might be losing track of that. Plus, of course, the new job and all that stress. But still . . . as you say, it’s a little hard.”
Patty drank from her own cup. “Do you have a night out together planned in the near future?”
Kate grimaced. “Maybe Easter, if he can make it.”
“Really. That bad?”
“Probably not. I’m exaggerating. But not by much.”
“Well, if he can’t plan in advance, maybe you should just go by and surprise him.”
“What? Do you mean at work?”
“If that’s where he is.”
“Well,” she said with a chuckle, “that’s a good bet.”
“So?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t want him to feel like I’m checking up on him or anything like that.”
“You wouldn’t be doing that. What’s to check up on? He’s in his office working, right?”
“Or out giving a talk someplace.”
“From which he returns to his office?”
“Probably. Usually.”
“You could call his secretary and find out.”
Kate looked at her watch. “She’s probably gone home by now. I gather that the staff at the Hall of Justice is pretty much nine-to-five.”
Patty said, “It’s your call. That was just a suggestion to shake things up a little, if you think it might help, as a kind of wake-up call. Let him know that you’re serious about needing more of his time.”
“It’s really not a bad idea. I just don’t know. I don’t want to be the pushy wife, either.”
“Well, nobody’s going to think you’re that. And there’s no hurry. It certainly doesn’t have to be today. It was just a thought.”
“And worth considering,” Kate said, then let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know why he has to make us go through this.”
“Hey, he’s a guy,” Patty said with sympathy. “Odds are he doesn’t even know he’s doing anything. He might just need a good kick in the pants.”
34
BETH AND IKE spent the better part of Thursday morning and now the early afternoon at the Holly Park projects, one of the most godforsaken areas in the city. Everything about the place screamed poverty and neglect: the walls were riots of graffiti; the original grassy lawns had long since given way to plain packed dirt which served as the resting place of hundreds if not thousands of syringes; garbage of all kinds dotted the entire landscape and blew around in the gusting wind.
They were there because they’d been next up in the rotating game that all the homicide inspectors had instituted in the wake of Devin Juhle’s dismissal. Chief Lapeer had not yet appointed anyone to take his place, and so assignments on new homicides fell to whoever was next up.
The latest victim was a twenty-one-year-old mother of two named Aretha Hood, who had been shot, presumably by her boyfriend, JaMason Lewis, in a dispute that Aretha’s sister, Rayanne, characterized as over a candy bar—an Almond Joy, to be exact. Rayanne was the only witness in the case, as she’d been at her sister and JaMason’s place getting ready to babysit while the young couple went out somewhere, when the argument had begun. JaMason had now fled.
Beth and Ike stood outside waiting for the arrival of the Crime Scene team and the coroner’s van. As usual when responding to calls in neighborhoods like this, response time didn’t seem to be much of an issue. It seemed there had been another homicide in a part of town with a better tax base that had assumed priority. It had already been four hours since they’d called in the request for the van. They knew that it could arrive any hour now.
And then, suddenly, mirabile dictu, an unmarked car with its bubble lit up came into view at a far-off corner, and two minutes later they were saying hello to Leonard Faro, head of Crime Scene Investigations. Faro was dressed as usual to the nines, in a dark olive Italian suit, thousand-dollar shoes, and a cashmere overcoat, soon to be covered for entry into the crime scene by a jumpsuit and booties. His soul patch hung like a well-trained bug of some kind under his lower lip, and he exuded enthusiasm and competence.
But as soon as he’d gotten the lay of the land from Beth and Ike, a wave of frustration seemed to flow over him. “So where are my peeps?” he asked them. “I headed out here a half hour ago and I thought they were way ahead of me.”
“Not yet, Len,” Ike said. “Nobody here yet but the station guys holding the fort, and us.”
“Darn. And I even gave them extra time, I thought.”
“This place is a tough draw.”
“Tell me about it.” He started to walk back toward the flat with the police tape over the door but suddenly stopped, stood still a second, then turned back to them. “Might as well wait for the team,” he said. “Who’s the sti
ff again?”
“Young woman, African American mother of two, kids with the sister next door.”
“Almond Joy addict, apparently,” Beth said, straight-faced.
Faro nodded soberly. “Stuff’s worse than Oxy. This is my tenth case this year.”
“Really?” Ike asked.
“No, not really, dipshit.” Faro shook his head in disbelief. “You ought to get out more, Ike. Really.” Shifting gears, he looked around as if sweeping the place for witnesses. “But hey,” he said. “I’m glad to see you two guys out here working in the field. I thought after the ‘CityTalk’ thing, you might have been going the way of Devin—which, your ears only, sucked.”
“There’s still plenty of time,” Beth said.
“For the moment,” Ike added, “we’re flying low, hoping nobody sees us.”
“Probably a good idea. Although I don’t see how our esteemed DA can be down on you working a case that’s supposedly closed when he’s got his own inspector doing essentially the same thing, and on a much older case.”
“Who’s that?” Ike asked.
“Chet Greene.”
Beth cast her partner a look, then asked Faro, “What’s he looking at?”
“You remember the dockside case?”
“Sure,” Beth said, “back in my childhood.”
“Well, childhood or no, it’s a murder case, so it’s never going away.”
“And what?” Ike asked. “Jameson thinks he’s going to get it solved and resurrect his good name, such as it is?”
“Something like that. Although I think it’s got a more personal edge.”
Nerves kicking in, Beth shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “How’s that?”
“Well,” Faro said, “it’s funny, because this comes back around, a little bit anyway, to you guys. The Valdez case and then the ‘CityTalk’ column?”
“Connected to the dockside thing?”
“Yeah.”
Beth nearly jumped at him. “In what possible way could that be?”
Faro nodded, acknowledging her intensity. “I know. Cool, right? It turns out—according to Chet—that Jameson believes that the guy who leaked all the details of Valdez to Jeff Elliott for the ‘CityTalk’ column was a lawyer in town named Dismas Hardy.”
The Rule of Law Page 27
