The Keeper

by John Lescroart

  Had Cushing called Foster today and cut him loose? Glitsky couldn’t dismiss the possibility that however much this looked like a suicide, it was Burt Cushing cleaning up loose ends.

  Glitsky swallowed against his rising bile, chewed at his cheek. “You got anything else, Len?” he asked. “Before we take a look.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Faro said, “I was just getting to it. We’re having Christmas a little early.” He pulled a Baggie from another pocket and held it up in the light. “Bullet. From the cushion behind the seat.”

  Abby said, “Let me guess. Thirty-eight?”

  Faro shook the slug in its bag. He nodded. “Looks like. That would match the gun we found in his hand.” Then added, “You really know this guy, don’t you?”

  Abby broke a smile. “We were just getting close. And talk about Christmas—you might want to check that slug and the gun against the Katie Chase evidence.”

  JaMorris turned to her. “You think?”

  Abby shrugged. “Worth a try. How could it hurt?”

  While they’d been speaking, the coroner’s van had arrived, and the assistants were rolling their gurney over to Foster’s car.

  “Last chance to get a good look,” Faro said.

  Glitsky nodded. “Should we expect any other surprises?”

  “Not so much. But if you see something you want to talk about, let me know. I’ll be hanging around for a while.”

  “We’re on it,” Glitsky said.

  They walked over to the Honda, the two Homicide inspectors trailing a step or two behind Abe, who opened the passenger door and knelt down on the asphalt. There wasn’t much to see. CSI had taken the gun away. Foster, up against the other door, wore a herringbone sport coat over a canary-yellow dress shirt with the collar unbuttoned. A gold chain hung around his neck. There was a clean bullet hole in front of and a little above his right ear, with a line of blood flowing out of it down into his shirt. The rest of the blood and other matter had spattered the driver’s-side window, leaving the front of Foster’s body unsullied—the neatly pressed black slacks, black socks, alligator loafers.

  Though the klieg lights lit up the area like daylight, Abby handed Abe a flashlight, and he ran it over the rug and flooring on both sides, the passenger seat, the dashboard. With the exception of the fingerprint powder, the interior of the car was pretty much spotless.

  There was the bullet hole in the cushion behind his head.

  Glitsky turned to the inspectors and handed the flashlight back to Abby. A little rickety, he got to his feet. The car had a showroom finish in the bright lights. Leaning over, he took a last look inside. “Do you see something?” Abby asked him.

  “No,” he said, “but I know I should. I always miss something the first time. You guys notice anything?”

  “No.”

  “No.”

  Abe gave it a last glance, stem to stern. “Okay, then,” he said. “What do you say we call it a night?”

  57

  * * *

  CityTalk

  by JEFFREY ELLIOT

  According to sources close to the investigation, progress has been made in the case of the murder of DA Investigator Maria Solis-Martinez, who had been working on a case involving purported improprieties over the past year at the San Francisco jail, including the deaths of several inmates.

  In an earlier “CityTalk” column, an unnamed source made clear accusations against the Sheriff’s Department under Sheriff Burt Cushing and his chief deputy, Adam Foster, citing a conspiracy linking Ms. Solis-Martinez’s murder to the deaths in jail of inmates Alanos Tussaint and Luther Jones, as well as to the murder of Katie Chase, the wife of jail guard Hal Chase, who had been indicted and jailed for the crime.

  The outcry from public officials was immediate and strident. Mayor Leland Crawford, four Superior Court judges and no fewer than six city supervisors called this newspaper to demand a retraction. Sheriff Cushing threatened a lawsuit against the Chronicle. One of the most specific allegations concerned the death of Alanos Tussaint, first ruled an accident as a result of the alibi of Chief Deputy Foster at the time of the death.

  On Friday afternoon, DA investigators learned of gaps in Foster’s alibi. The next morning, Medical Examiner John Strout confirmed additional findings suggesting that the Tussaint killing was not accidental.

  On Saturday evening, perhaps feeling the noose tightening, Foster apparently shot himself in a Presidio parking lot. Investigators today confirmed that a note in his jacket pocket appeared to be an admission of responsibility for at least one of these deaths. Ballistics tests confirmed that the gun Foster allegedly used to kill himself—a .38 revolver found in his hand at the scene—also fired the bullet that killed Katie Chase.

  When apprised of these developments late Sunday afternoon, Sheriff Cushing issued the following written statement from his office: “I am shocked and saddened beyond words to learn that Adam Foster, my trusted deputy and friend for more than twenty years, has evidently taken his own life. I am further shocked by what appears to be evidence pointing to his involvement in corruption at the jail. If these allegations are true, that conduct would be out of character with the man I knew and trusted for all these years. I have ordered an immediate, thorough, and transparent investigation into all aspects of our jail policies and procedures, with an emphasis on anything that might have been under the control of Chief Deputy Foster. The public demands and deserves the highest level of integrity from its law enforcement officers. I intend to ensure that that standard of excellence is met in the jail at all times.”

  Meanwhile, Wes Farrell has announced his own investigation into the running of the jail, and invited the federal authorities to consider opening their own parallel investigation. In light of the ballistics evidence directly linking Foster with the murder of Katie Chase, DA Wes Farrell has ordered Hal Chase released from jail and all charges relating to his wife’s murder dropped. Asked about his reaction to this chain of events, my original source, who was primarily responsible for the DA’s investigation into these incidents, declined to comment except to say that “the evidence speaks for itself.”

  * * *

  THE IMPROMPTU GET-TOGETHER at Hal’s house that Monday night wasn’t what Dismas Hardy would have called a great time. After all, Katie was only a couple of weeks dead, and nobody could forget that. Her shadow hung over the gathered guests like a shroud. But there was no question that the fresh air of pure relief had washed the house clean of its psychic overload. It didn’t hurt that the fog had disappeared over the weekend, and the temperature had cracked seventy during the day. Downright balmy, by the city’s standards for midsummer, much less for December.

  The front door stayed open, and the food was an unintentional reprise of exactly what they’d had after Katie’s funeral—a large deli tray and some salads, rolls, and condiments. A good-sized crowd, anchored by Hal’s brother, Warren, Ruth, and Hal with his two kids—little Will in his arms and Ellen glued to his leg—the gathering was far larger than Hardy had expected. People were standing all around the living room and kitchen in conversational groupings. There were other surprises: The dreaded “in-law” women—Carli Dunne and Katie’s two sisters—were already there when Hardy and Frannie arrived; they’d apparently made peace with Hal right away. About a dozen guys near Hal’s age—likely other guards from the jail—half of them with their wives, were standing in a little pack by the ice-filled beer cooler; an older couple Hardy hadn’t met—neighbors?—chatted with a supermodel who Hardy figured had to be Patti Orosco. Another couple of guys, probably more guards, came in and headed over to say hi to Hal before hitting the beer.

  Frannie sipped from her plastic cup of chardonnay. “I’m a little surprised by all the guys,” she said. “You’d think a few of them would be laying low, wouldn’t you? I mean, after ‘CityTalk.’”

  “Why do you say that?” Hardy asked.


  Frannie lowered her voice. “Because it’s obvious—isn’t it?—that some of these guys must have known what was going on. I mean with the chief deputy. Right?”

  “I don’t know. Which ones?”

  “I don’t know that, not specifically.”

  “Specificity is what we like in the criminal biz.”

  “At least Hal, though. Don’t you think?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Diz. Come on. I mean, at the very least, he told Katie about the whole San Bruno thing. We know that.”

  “We do?”

  “Sure.”

  “How do we know that?”

  “Because Katie’s brother knew about it. Because Hal told her, and she blabbed to him.”

  “Maybe. But it could have happened other ways.”

  “You know it didn’t. And that means Hal was in on it with Foster, or at least knew about what he was doing, backing up his alibi. So Hal’s not out of the woods yet, especially if they do this investigation and really get to grilling him.”

  Hardy had been nursing his can of Bud, and now he took a pull at it. “Okay, say you’re an investigator, the dogged and brilliant Abe Glitsky, even. You get Hal into a cozy little room and close the door and ask him about Foster and the San Bruno thing. You tell him we know that Foster didn’t go to San Bruno that day because we know he was killing Tussaint at about that time. So we know his alibi’s no good. What does Hal say to that?”

  “First choice? He lawyers up, takes the Fifth, and says absolutely nothing without immunity.”

  “But if he doesn’t?” Hardy asked.

  “Sure he does. He’s got to. It’s his only chance.”

  “Not true. He says, ‘I was at San Bruno with the chief deputy. Prove I wasn’t.’ Which the prosecution, as we know, has to do.”

  “So they get one of the other guards and break him.”

  “How do they do that if he doesn’t want to talk?”

  “Okay,” Frannie said, “if I’m Abe Glitsky, for example, I go to his wife.”

  Hardy was shaking his head. “When they get her alone in the interrogation room, she tells whoever will listen that Abe scared her, coerced her, threatened her. Her husband’s a saint, and he never would have lied about something that important and illegal.”

  “So they do the audit Abe was talking about, and there’s tons of extra money with no explanation for it.”

  “Tons? Look around you. This is Hal’s house. Do you spot any insane displays of hidden wealth? Wasn’t money one of the big problems between him and Katie? Even if he and a few of these other guys were making, let’s go wild and say five grand in cash a year, it’s not going to change anybody’s life.”

  “Somebody will be more ostentatious.”

  “The only one who’s more ostentatious is Burt Cushing, and he’s got twenty years of practice on how to make that dirty stuff go away and come back clean.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying the turnout here is a show of strength and solidarity. If nobody talks, nobody goes down.”

  “So what happened that day with Tussaint?”

  “They can’t prove Foster killed him.”

  “But we know he did kill him.”

  Hardy, enjoying himself now, grinned. “No, we don’t. How do we know that?”

  “How about the piece of paper in Foster’s handwriting?”

  “Not even close to a confession. I defy anybody to tell me what that means: ‘Hal Chase didn’t kill Katie.’ Foster had the murder weapon, but it doesn’t mean he used it on Katie. The note doesn’t say he did. It doesn’t even mention any of the other killings. It’s a non-confession confession.”

  “But we know what it was, basically.”

  “Basically does not cut it. Basically is like almost. Which is, by definition, not good enough. Besides, you’re leaving out one other crucial element.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s so very San Francisco, I know you’re going to love it.”

  Frannie sipped and thought a minute. “I give up.”

  “You can get it. Look at how Cushing is already spinning it. The guards who might have been involved, those poor guys . . .”

  “Victims!”

  “Bingo. If they did anything wrong, they were forced to because Foster threatened and harassed them and would have at least fired them, maybe killed them, if they made any trouble. I think Cushing in one interview or another used the phrase ‘institutional terror,’ which you must admit has a terrific ring. I’m thinking by the end of this, any guard they identify as under Foster’s influence should get a medal if not some workers’-comp lifetime disability for the stress they had to endure.”

  “You are so cynical,” Frannie said.

  “People do say that, but . . .” Hardy tipped up his beer, leaned over, and kissed her cheek. “You watch.”

  • • •

  GLITSKY CAME THROUGH the open front door and made it a couple of steps into the room before Hal Chase saw him and said, “And here he is!” Much to his chagrin, for the second time in a week, Abe had to endure a spontaneous round of applause. He reacted to it as though he were being pelted with fruit, holding a hand up and ducking his head slightly, a sheepish grin creasing the contours of his face.

  A minute or so later, Hardy sidled up, Frannie at his side. “Go ahead,” he said, “hog all the glory.”

  Glitsky gave him a cold eye. “Please.”

  “No, really. All I did was put you on the case in the first place, give you direction and guidance, then get you hired where you had some authority. After which you take all the credit. But that’s all right. I don’t need the recognition. I can be magnanimous. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Thanks, I’ll try not to.” Abe gave Hardy’s wife a welcome hug. “Hey, Fran. Has he been like this all day?”

  “All tonight, anyway. It’s kind of sad, but he’s bearing up.”

  “Magnanimous,” Abe said.

  “That’s my man.”

  Hal broke up the banter by coming over to say hello. “Lieutenant,” he said, “I just wanted to congratulate you and say thanks. Great job.”

  Glitsky made a dismissive gesture. “I appreciate that, but it’s all because you picked the right lawyer, though he doesn’t want to take the credit.”

  “Whoever takes the credit, thanks to both of you. I never thought I’d be out this soon. It’s fantastic. I really can’t thank you enough.”

  “What’s the plan now?” Hardy asked. “Are you going back to work?”

  Hal glanced around as though someone might be listening. “I thought I’d give that a few days, hang with my kids a little, see what shakes out downtown.” After hesitating, he went on. “Tell you the truth, I’m kind of blown away by the whole thing. It never occurred to me that Adam could be part of it.”

  “More than part,” Glitsky said.

  “Yeah, well, that’s one of my concerns.” Venturing another look around, apparently satisfied that no one was paying attention, he stepped up closer to the trio and continued in a near whisper, “If Katie went directly to Cushing, the only play that makes sense is that Burt ordered Adam to take care of the actual dirty work. You know what I’m saying?”

  “The thought has occurred to me,” Glitsky replied.

  “Unless she had”—Hal cleared his throat—“unless the direct connection was to Adam. Which it wasn’t.” He paused, then said, “I don’t see how I can go back in to work. And I mean ever.”

  “What’ll you do?” Frannie asked.

  Radiating embarrassment, Hal said, “As it turns out, that’s not going to be a problem. The insurance, you know? Plus, me and Patti . . . nothing’s really in the way of that anymore, of us. It’s almost enough to make me think I can hope again.”

  “I th
ink you can definitely do that,” Frannie said.

  “Well, maybe. To tell you the truth, I’m feeling a little snakebit. I don’t even believe I’m standing here in my living room. And the plain fact is that Cushing is still out there.” He focused on Abe. “He’s on your radar, right?”

  Glitsky nodded, suddenly grim. “He’s on everybody’s radar. The question is, how do we get him?”

  “Or,” Hardy said, “should you even try to get him?”

  “What do you mean?” Frannie asked. “Of course they should try to get him. This is murder we’re talking about. Abe?”

  “I hate to say it,” Glitsky said, “but Diz isn’t all wrong. Foster did Cushing a huge favor. All the troubles at the jail, all the rumors, all the cover-ups, everything, they all get laid at Foster’s feet. He and he alone was the bad apple. On Saturday, after I went over and talked to Cushing, maybe he called Foster and told him it was all coming out, I don’t know. But Foster must have understood that he was going to get caught, and he decided to kill himself instead.

  “That clears the books. If Cushing’s smart, and he is, he lays low for the rest of his term, shuts down his underground economy, and all at once there’s no more impetus to clean things up at the jail. Because they’re already clean.”

  Hal’s face had hardened. “So you’re saying Cushing orders Katie killed, and he walks? What about Wes Farrell? What about the feds?”

  “Something could happen,” Abe admitted. “I’m just saying, given the way the real world works, there’s also a chance it might not.”

  • • •

  HAL CHASE ROLLED over and lay back on his bed. “Oh my God,” he said.

  Patti Orosco came up and kissed him. “Oh my God is right,” she whispered, snuggling in against him. “I have so missed you, Hal Chase. I don’t want us to be apart anymore, okay?”

  “We’re not going to be.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She pressed her naked body against his. “Do you think we were too loud?”