The Rule of Law

by John Lescroart

  “Good. Thank you.”

  Hitting the switch to end the connection, he swore in frustration at the interruption and pushed himself back away from his desk. Getting to his feet, he crossed over to the window looking down on Bryant Street, then suddenly turned in irritation as his intercom chirped again. Crossing the room and picking up, he said, “Andrea, what the hell?”

  “He says it is personal and urgent, sir.”

  A moment later the man stood in the doorway. He was wearing a charcoal business suit. The bulge of a gun was just visible under his left arm. In his right hand he held out a badge. His expression was at once weary and angry. Andrea, in a formfitting red dress, hovered in the background behind Schuyler, trying to look around the intruder so that she could somehow wordlessly convey her apologies to her boss.

  “Thank you for seeing me, sir,” Schuyler said. “I’m here to ask you a few questions on an investigation we’re conducting.”

  “What investigation? Into what?”

  “Into the death—the murder, actually—of one of your acquaintances from a few years ago. Peter Ash.”

  Ron settled a glance on Schuyler, then flashed a look around him to where his secretary was still waiting nervously, patiently wringing her hands. “It’s all right, Andrea,” he said. “You can get the door. Mr. Schiller—”

  “Schuyler.”

  “Mr. Schuyler and I ought to be done with whatever he wants to discuss shortly. Would that be accurate?”

  A non-smile. “However long it takes.”

  “All right. Still”—he looked behind Schuyler—“Andrea, the door.” She reached in and pulled the door closed behind them.

  “What do you want?” Ron asked. “I barely knew Peter Ash. I’ve got a speech to give in less than an hour. And what the hell is the FBI doing, investigating an ancient homicide here in San Francisco? That case is long closed.”

  “Yes, it is.” Schuyler reached into his coat pocket and took out a cell phone. “Recording,” he said into it, giving the place and date, Ron’s name, and the subject of his investigation, Peter Ash. He put the cell phone in his shirt pocket, sat down on the side of a wing chair, and started back in. “So you closely followed the original investigation into the murder of Peter Ash?”

  Ron picked another chair and sat. “Of course I followed it,” he said. “I’d met the man socially a couple of times. He seemed like a good guy and he was a fellow lawyer here in the city as well. A colleague. And then it turned out that one of my law partners killed him. So, yes, I’d say I had a little bit of a passing acquaintance with Peter Ash. And I don’t have any idea how I can help you with your investigation.”

  Schuyler ignored the comment. “Your partner, I take it, who allegedly killed Mr. Ash, was Geoff Cooke?”

  “That’s right. Partner and good friend, I might add. But I don’t know about the ‘allegedly’ part. There didn’t seem to be any doubt about that at the time.”

  “You mean Geoff Cooke killing Peter Ash?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you and Geoff Cooke had been friends a long time, isn’t that right? In fact, you were in Desert Storm together, were you not?”

  “Yes. Although what does Desert Storm have to do with the price of beans?”

  “Well, while you were over there, you both picked up a certain gun as a souvenir.”

  “All right. So what? Why are we talking about the guns we took home? There was nothing illegal in it. Are you saying Geoff and I did something illegal?”

  “No, sir, I’m not. I’m asking you about firearms that you and Mr. Cooke brought back to the United States. First Mr. Cooke. It is true, is it not, that to your knowledge he brought back two handguns?”

  “Well, yes, as far as I know, but—”

  “And you, sir, you also brought back two of the same sort of handgun. Could I ask you where your handguns are now?”

  “Look, I’ll be happy to cooperate with you. I’ve just got a speech to give”—he checked his watch—“in about twenty minutes now, and they’ll hate me if I don’t show up. So let’s cut to the chase: How can I help you?”

  “Thank you. I believe we were on the guns you brought back from the Middle East. A Tariq, I believe it’s called. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how many of these did you bring home?”

  “Two.”

  “And do you still have these guns in your possession?”

  “No. Neither of them.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “A few years ago, after one of the school shootings, we just decided to get rid of them. We didn’t want them around.”

  “Was this before or after Peter Ash was killed?”

  “I don’t remember. If I had to guess, I’d say before.”

  “And how did you get rid of them?”

  Ron appeared to be trying to remember. “We turned them in to the city. We have a gun abatement program, and I took the guns down and dropped them off just downstairs. Actually, it’s coming back to me now. I think this was the summer before Ash was killed.”

  Schuyler took a moment, then asked, “So you turned in both of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did they give you a receipt for these guns?”

  “They might have. I don’t remember. Probably.”

  “So you don’t remember if you kept it? A receipt.”

  “No, I don’t remember. I don’t know why I would. It would just have been more paper clogging up my life. I mean, who’d care? I probably just tossed it. But I really don’t remember.”

  Schuyler nodded with satisfaction. He was sure he’d gotten the felony lie he wanted from Ron Jameson. Proving it might present some challenges, but this was, he thought, a good start, and in any event would certainly put Jameson on notice that he was a true and valid target of this federal investigation. There would be no record of his guns having been turned in. Jameson might argue that a clerk had never signed them in or had stolen them, but this was not as easily accomplished as one might think.

  Beyond that, the simple fact that he had lied at all meant that he was hiding something. This vastly increased the likelihood, in Schuyler’s mind, that he was guilty of something, all the way up to and including murder.

  And if they didn’t have him yet, he thought, at least they were on their way.

  • • •

  AT A LITTLE after 2:00, Chet Greene dropped his boss back at the Hall after his Rotary gig, then pulled into his reserved space behind the building and checked his text messages. The first message he’d received from his fellow investigator Don Hancock, at around noon, had simply said: Acquired.

  Which meant that after a three-hour wait, he was now moving, on foot, following Dismas Hardy from the time he left his Sutter Street office to wherever he was going for lunch. Chet had done his homework and knew that Hardy went out to lunch in one of the city’s downtown restaurants almost every day, walking to and from his office. And today, thankfully, seemed to be no exception.

  Ten minutes later another text came in: Sam’s.

  Not really the biggest surprise in the world, Chet thought.

  The plan that he’d devised was to get a sample of Hardy’s DNA so that he could deliver it to Philip Nguyen at the police lab for comparison to the unidentifiable blood samples from Pier 70. Since Hardy would undoubtedly be aware of Chet if he showed up anywhere near him, he’d had to recruit his younger colleague Hancock, who was relatively new to the office and hence probably unknown to Hardy, but who was pretty sure that he knew Dismas Hardy on sight. Hancock was only too happy to get involved in something that smacked of real investigative work that did not include a desk.

  The last message, ten minutes ago, read: Occidental Cigar Bar & Grill. Home run. Pick me up.

  The home run in question turned out to be the cigar that Hardy had indulged in after his lunch. Don Hancock had followed him from Sam’s—where on his way out, he’d surreptitiously also pocketed Hardy’s wineglass as he pass
ed the table he’d eaten at—down Belden Alley to the Cigar Bar, and ordered his own Cohiba while Hardy smoked and chatted with a couple of guys with whom he seemed to be right at home.

  A half hour later, Hardy left his well-chewed and finished cigar in the ashtray on the bar, and Don had let him go outside with his pals before he put his own cigar out, then casually walked down to the back of the bar where Hardy had been sitting.

  The DNA-laden spent cigar disappeared from the ashtray into the Ziploc bag in Inspector Hancock’s jacket pocket.

  • • •

  JAMASON LEWIS CAME back home to his crib on Friday morning and by the early afternoon, his common law sister-in-law, Rayanne, had convinced him to turn himself in to the police, and then she had called Tully.

  It turned out that JaMason was terribly sorry that he’d killed Aretha, the mother of his children. The whole thing had been a mistake. He hadn’t meant to shoot anybody. He was just trying to make a point, get the woman’s attention, and also—not incidentally—get his half of the Almond Joy. They’d bought the king size anyway, both bars plenty big for one serving, and Aretha had been trying to lose weight, so really JaMason had just been trying to help her in that endeavor. Aretha had told him more than once to make her stop if she seemed to be thinking about eating more than one at a time.

  And then the gun went off.

  Not his fault, really. A total mistake.

  The two cops—he didn’t know: maybe they could somehow give him a pass on this one, since he so obviously didn’t mean to do it. Did they really have to take him downtown? Beth explained to him that, as it turned out, they did.

  “I mean,” he had argued politely, “I mean, unless something really weird be going down, this shit ain’t likely happening again. I just can’t see it.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Ike said, and snicked on the handcuffs. “Next time, just a thought: Maybe don’t pick up the gun.”

  So Beth and Ike, though not exactly in raucous high spirits due to the inherent tragedy of the situation, were reliving the humor of it all at their front-to-front desks in the Homicide Detail when Ike looked up and his expression went from smile to serious in a half second as he rose and brandished a salute. Beth, following his lead standing up anyway, turned and nodded as Chief Lapeer approached, followed closely by Grayson Brill, deputy chief of detectives, and Lauren Weeks, whom Beth knew to be the lieutenant of HR.

  This, she knew, was an execution squad.

  In spite of herself, she couldn’t suppress a half-swallowed chortle.

  At the sound, Lapeer turned and fixed her with a deadly look. “Is something funny, Sergeant?” she asked.

  “Probably not.”

  “That’s the right answer. There’s nothing funny going on around here at all. I suppose that after what happened to Lieutenant Juhle you both might not be surprised to see me.”

  “No, ma’am,” Ike said. He looked helplessly at his partner.

  Lapeer went on. “I thought that putting Lieutenant Juhle on administrative leave might send a bit of a stronger message to the troops down here, mostly including yourselves. But I see that it hasn’t had that effect.”

  “He let us do our job,” Beth said. “And that’s all we’ve been doing now.”

  “Well, unfortunately, that’s patently untrue. You both seem to be fixated on working outside the chain of command.”

  “Without Devin,” Beth said, “there is no chain of command in here, Chief. We’ve been dividing up the work as it comes in.”

  Lapeer’s nostrils flared. “I know what you’ve been doing. And it’s the same kind of politically motivated shenanigans that led me to relieve Lieutenant Juhle.”

  “With respect, ma’am,” Ike said, “that was not political. We don’t have a political agenda down here. In that case, we simply identified a more viable suspect than the one who’d been indicted. And we made a case, I might add, which was charged by Mike Wendler, an experienced member of the district attorney’s Homicide unit.”

  “And what about the Peter Ash case? A case, I might add, that’s been closed and considered solved for over three years now.”

  “What about it?” Ike asked. “We’re not working on that case.”

  “No? That’s funny. Because I have it on unimpeachable authority that there is an active investigation going on in that case—an investigation, I might add, that could only have originated in this office and whose aim is, once again, to embarrass or humiliate Mr. Jameson. And if that’s not political, I don’t know what is.”

  “All right,” Ike said, “but the plain fact is that we’re not investigating that case.”

  Beth cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Ike, but that’s not quite accurate.” She flashed him a “Forgive me” look and went on. “Okay, the other day I went and interviewed Bina Cooke, the wife of the man accused of killing Peter Ash.”

  “And why would you do that?” Lapeer asked.

  “Because that was my case when it went down and I’m still convinced that we settled on the wrong guy. And I thought Bina might supply me with a few answers.”

  Ike suddenly appeared shaken to his roots. “Beth?”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m afraid that sorry does not cut it under these circumstances. The net effect of this investigation is once again to embarrass the DA—”

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but I don’t want to embarrass the DA. I want to arrest him.”

  Lapeer skewered her with a look, then turned to Ike and the rest of her audience behind her. “That’s about as clear as I could hope it would be. I rest my case.”

  Coming back around to her two inspectors, she said, “I’m asking for your shields and your guns right now, pending the administrative hearing when we get it scheduled. You are hereby relieved of your duties. I’ve got a couple of officers waiting outside who will escort you out of the building. Your behavior—especially yours, Inspector Tully—is an embarrassment to the department. Inspector McCaffrey, I’m sorry you seem to have gotten caught up in the middle of this, but the fact that you did reflects poorly on your character and judgment as well.”

  37

  RON JAMESON SAT comfortably back in the chair behind his desk, thinking: Okay, they fired the bitch. That was good, but it isn’t going to be enough.

  It had been over three years and he should have taken care of her long ago, when he’d originally wanted to.

  Except that Kate had convinced him it wasn’t necessary. The case was closed and Geoff Cooke, not Ron Jameson, was the killer.

  End of story.

  Nobody in the real world, Kate had told him, even gave the matter a second thought anymore.

  And Ron had proven Kate correct by not only running for DA but winning. He was now, effectively, the establishment. If anything, Beth Tully’s continuing shrill belief in his guilt could be spun as almost a kind of mental illness on her part. She was not a danger to Ron or to anyone else, and he shouldn’t waste any time worrying about her.

  But today, with the visit of Special Agent Schuyler, he realized that she was still a very active player and a legitimate threat. In fact, if she’d gone out of the normal channels and straight to the FBI, which she evidently had, she clearly hadn’t lost any of her passion for bringing him down as the killer of Peter Ash.

  She was a driven woman and had to be stopped.

  The Schuyler visit had bothered him as an inconvenience, sure, but not because he thought there was any real chance of a reopened case convicting or even charging him but because it meant that until Beth Tully was truly out of the picture, and forever, he would never have peace in his life. She would always be there, pecking at the edges of things.

  She was never going away unless he made her go away.

  He could do that. He’d done it before.

  He’d figure out how. It would take him a couple of days, tops.

  Then he’d act. Get the damn deed done.

  • • •

  OUTSIDE HAD SETTLED into full
dark. Ron had been sitting, fantasizing and planning, at his desk for most of the past hour, and finally he’d pushed his chair back, stood up, and crossed over to the windows. Behind him as he stood looking down on Bryant Street, the green shade of the banker’s lamp on his desk dimly illumined the office.

  He barely heard the knock on the door and looked at his watch: 6:30.

  “Yes. Come in.”

  Andrea stood backlit and silhouetted in the doorway.

  They’d come a long way this past week, from the shoulder massages to the romantic lunch they’d had behind the curtain at Sam’s. The first tender kiss as they’d gotten up together, nearly bumping their heads in the limited space, laughing and then not laughing and then their lips meeting. Barely. Quickly. Then over.

  Phenomenal.

  But no acknowledgment of any kind as they’d arrived, separately, back at the office that afternoon. Or since, even today.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’m good,” he said. “I thought you’d gone home.”

  “No.” A pause. Then: “I’m still here.”

  “I see that.”

  He heard her sigh. “Long day,” she said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  She moved inside from the doorway, lifting her hand, holding something, although he couldn’t see what it was. “End of the day. End of the week,” she said. “I thought maybe you could use something special to drink.”

  “That’s very sweet of you. I think I might. Please, come on in.”

  She stepped forward, then turned and closed the door behind her. He heard the soft click as she pushed in the lock.

  Turning back, she held up something he couldn’t identify in the low light.

  “What is it that’s so special?”

  She moved a few steps closer and held up the bottle. He imagined he could see her smile. “Have you ever heard of Pappy Van Winkle’s twenty-year-old Kentucky bourbon?”

  “Only by rumor. Is that really it?”

  “It is.” She moved over to his counter, pulled out a glass, and poured.

  “How much did you pay for that, Andrea?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s for you. Whatever it is, it’s worth it if you like it.”