The First Law dh-8

by John Lescroart

  "You know Wade."

  He came back to his wife. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to move Nicky again, that's all."

  It was her turn to frown. "Maybe you want to move him all the way out."

  "I can't," he said. "Rosie-"

  She held up a hand, stopping him. "Your poor sister Rosie."

  "She's had it rough, Claire."

  "Who hasn't? And Nicky's nothing but trouble. He's already cost us and it's going to get worse, you watch."

  "He's growing up. He's going to be okay."

  She shook her head. "When you were his age you had three beats already, your own business. Trying to help him is just throwing good money after bad. Anyway, where are you going to move him to?"

  "I was thinking the Ark."

  "Which we don't own, last time I checked."

  "Not yet." The seed of an idea had sprung. "But it turns out the owner of the place was with the guys that shot Sam Silverman. After they bring him in, he's going to need all the cash he can get his hands on. I'll pick the place up for a song."

  "And then give it to Nicky? There's better people, you know, Wade, even if he's family." She was a short, buxom woman and stared up at him defiantly, her arms crossed over her chest.

  After a minute, he leaned down and kissed her, conciliatory, on the cheek. "Nothing's written in stone, Claire." He smiled, took her arm, started to steer her toward the front door. "Now, who are we giving our money to tonight?"

  Hardy's daughter Rebecca had at last reached sweet sixteen years old and tonight she was going on her first solo date. She'd been out to the movies and the malls with mixed-gender groups of friends many times before, of course, but this was the homecoming dance and this boy, young man, whatever he was-a seventeen-year-old senior named Darren Scott-had asked her.

  Frannie had done herself up somewhat, too, for the occasion. She wasn't exactly Mrs. Cleaver, but she wore a skirt and a light salmon-colored sweater. She'd pulled her red hair back into a tight bun, applied some makeup-mascara and lipstick. Vincent, their fourteen-year-old son, had gone to a football game with some of his friends.

  Now Hardy was standing in the kitchen, alone with Frannie, while they awaited the Beck's grand entrance from her bedroom, into which she'd vanished after her shower about a half hour before. He was talking in that half-whisper parents sometimes adopt when their children might be within earshot. "It's just that I'm not exactly thrilled that the sum total of what I know about this guy who's taking out my daughter is his name, Darren Scott. If that's really his name."

  Frannie threw a glance back over her shoulder. "Dismas. Of course it's his name. It's all I've been hearing for weeks. Darren Darren Darren."

  Hardy was undeterred. "Doesn't mean he didn't make it up. Maybe he and the Beck are in on it together and are planning to run away. If I was making up a name, it would be Darren Scott. I mean it. If he honks from out on the street, she's not going."

  "I'll let you tell her that."

  "I will, too. Don't think I won't."

  "What?" Rebecca looked unimaginably grown-up in basic black, spaghetti shoulder straps, hemline three inches above the knee. Heels and hose. Sometime in the past year or so, she'd pierced her ears and now gold teardrop earrings hung from them, matched by a thin gold necklace Hardy had bought her. Her red hair, like her mother's, was up off her neck and some kind of glitter graced her cheeks and the bare skin beneath the necklace. "What?" she asked again, worry flitting over her brow.

  "Nothing," Frannie said, moving toward her. "Just your father being silly. You look beautiful."

  She spun in a pirouette, beaming now with her mother's approval. "What do you think, Daddy? "

  He found that he couldn't reply for a second, then cleared his throat. "I think this Darren Scott is one lucky guy. I hope we're going to get to meet him."

  Mother and daughter shared an amused look, and then Rebecca skipped across and put her arms around her father. "Of course you will. I'd never go out with anybody my favorite daddy didn't know. He should be here any minute."

  And as though on cue, the doorbell rang.

  "That's him!" The Beck turned back to her mother. "I look all right?"

  "It's not your looks…" Frannie began.

  "I know, Mom. It's who I am inside. But do I look okay? Really?"

  Frannie gave up on the mother lecture and hugged her. "You look perfect."

  Meanwhile, Hardy walked down the hallway, geared up to be polite and yet somehow firm and even awe-inspiring. He swiped at his eyes, opened the door, and it was Abe Glitsky.

  "Not with my daughter, you don't!" His voice was harsh. "Darren!" And he slammed the door in his friend's face.

  A couple of seconds later, he opened it again, grinning at his cleverness. He noticed that a lanky young man in a suit was standing behind Glitsky on the stoop, looking tentatively over Glitsky's shoulder. "Excuse me," he began. He appeared to be sufficiently terrorized to last through the evening. "Is this where Rebecca Hardy lives?"

  "He seemed like a nice kid," Glitsky said. "I doubt if he's even got a sheet."

  "There's a consoling thought if I've ever heard one. My daughter's dating a guy who's never even been arrested."

  They were at the dining room table, Abe with his tea and Hardy and Frannie finishing their wine.

  "Dismas has been preparing himself for this, so he wouldn't be too harsh," Frannie said. "Imagine if it had just been sprung on him."

  "I thought I was downright civil," Hardy said, "considering. That thing with Abe at the door was meant to be a joke. I had no idea Darrel was there."

  "Darren," Frannie corrected him.

  "Didn't I say that?"

  "That was just bad timing," Abe put in deadpan. "Could've happened to anyone."

  "Anyway, it'll give him something to think about later," Hardy said. "When he's wondering whether he should keep the Beck out past eleven-thirty or not."

  "I don't think that'll be much of a question," Frannie said. "In fact, I don't think it will even cross his mind, especially not after the six reminders."

  "Not six," Hardy said. "Not more than two. Abe was here. He heard. No way was it six, was it, Abe?"

  Glitsky sipped at his tea, looked up in all innocence. "I'm sorry," he said. "I wasn't paying close attention."

  Glitsky and Hardy had a chessboard set up between them on the dining room table. It wasn't much of a contest. Although Glitsky had won the vast majority of the many games they'd played over the years, they both pretended that they were fairly evenly matched.

  Hardy explained his poor record by the fact that since he was more excitable than his friend, he tended to see a move and act precipitously. And it was true that Glitsky was more patient, even methodical, in his play. It was also true that Glitsky never drank alcohol and Hardy would have a beer or two and sometimes, as tonight, an after-dinner cognac or two after he'd already had his wine for dinner. Hardy felt that the mere suggestion that this had any effect on his strategy or play was, of course, ridiculous.

  But Glitsky was happy to take advantage of whatever mistakes Hardy made, and he'd already made one that would be conclusive. So Glitsky made his next move, then sat back and relaxed a degree or two. He was already tired, as he'd done the wake-up call for their baby Rachel before dawn. She had a low fever and maybe a tooth was coming in as well, and Treya had basically done him the kindness of kicking him out for the night, freeing him to go talk about his father's demands and his job frustrations with his friend Dismas. It was her turn for baby duty. No need for both of them to suffer.

  Hardy studied the board, raised his eyes. "You don't look good."

  "Neither do you. So what?" Glitsky let out some air. "But I admit I am a little tired."

  "Ha! The excuses begin."

  "For what?"

  "For when I beat you here."

  Glitsky kept all expression out of his face. He picked up his mug of tea. "We'll see. I believe it's your move."

  "See? He worries." Hardy lifted his snift
er and studied the board. He understood that Glitsky thought he had an advantage, but danged if he could see what it was. After a minute, he looked up. "I'd take a teething daughter over a dating one anytime."

  "You want," Glitsky said, "I'll bring Rachel over. We can trade."

  "No thanks!" Frannie from the front room where she was reading.

  "Okay, we'll leave daughters," Hardy said. "So moving in the other direction, what's the problem with your father? Is he all right?"

  Glitsky pushed his chair back far enough from the table so that he could cross a leg. He let out a long breath. "You hear about Sam Silverman?"

  Hardy shook his head. "Don't know him. What about him?"

  "He was Nat's best friend. He ran a pawnshop by Union Square and somebody shot him last night in his store. It's still your move, by the way, if you don't want to concede, which you should. Anyway, Nat doesn't seem to get it that I'm not in homicide anymore. He asked me if I'd look in on the investigation and make sure they're on track. Like that. So, much against my better judgment, I went downstairs and talked to Gerson today…"

  "In homicide? How'd that go over?"

  "About like you'd expect. After the parade, the welcome kind of wore off pretty quick. Gerson even found a way to mention it to Batiste. Evidently, in one of those strange coincidences you read so much about, the topic just happened to come up while they were having lunch."

  "Imagine that," Hardy said.

  "Right. But in any event, Frank called me off. Period. Not that I was on. Are you going to move someday?"

  "I'm savoring the anticipation," Hardy said. "So what about Nat?"

  "Nothing, really. But I've got to tell him and he's not going to like it. He might even decide he's got to go talk to somebody himself which-no matter what-would be a disaster."

  In the kitchen, the telephone rang and Frannie, although she was farther away in the living room, jumped up to answer it. "It might be one of the kids," she said by way of explanation as she passed by them. She got to it and after a short, amiable-sounding talk, she was back in the doorway. "It's John Holiday. He says it's important."

  "I bet." Hardy pushed his chair back. "Two minutes," he said to Glitsky.

  "You want to move first?"

  He paused and pushed a pawn up one square. "You're dead very soon." Then turned toward the kitchen.

  Ten minutes later, Hardy came back into the dining room, where Frannie and Abe were sitting side by side at the table. As he'd talked to Holiday, he'd heard the two of them erupt in laughter several times. This, especially from Glitsky, was a rare enough event in itself to warrant comment, but then as soon as Hardy looked, he saw the cause of it and didn't have to ask.

  They were going through a stack of birthday cards that Holiday had been randomly sending Hardy now for over a year, whenever he ran across one that was particularly funny or insulting or both. The latest was a lovely, romantically out-of-focus picture of a forest of redwood trees with streams of sunlight shining through them and a gorpy poem extolling their majesty and incredible longevity, "adding to the magnificent beauty of the earth for thousands and thousands of years." When you opened the card, it read "Thanks for planting them."

  "These are pretty good," Abe admitted.

  Hardy nodded. "I laughed at the first seventeen of them myself."

  "I wish I'd thought of this. Hey." He snapped his fingers. "Maybe it's not too late."

  "It's way too late," Hardy said.

  "Was it important?" Frannie asked.

  Another shrug. "Everything's relative." He moved back up to his chair and hovered a moment over the chessboard, raised his eyes quickly to Glitsky. "You moved something."

  "Just one little knight. It was my turn."

  "That's all you moved?" He stared back down, saw it, swore under his breath.

  "Tut-tut." The lieutenant wagged a ringer, then checked his watch and stood up. "But enough of this wild partying. I think I'd better go spell Treya."

  "So what did you decide about Nat?" Hardy asked, somewhat unexpectedly, out of context.

  The question stopped Glitsky and he considered for a minute. "He'll get used to it, I suppose. I just hate to disappoint him." They'd gotten to the door. Frannie had opened it, and Abe was putting on his jacket.

  "You want," Hardy said, "you and I could do a field trip to the crime scene tomorrow. Maybe get a tidbit for your dad, make him feel better, like you're working on it. Maybe we even do some early Christmas shopping."

  "I'll check my social schedule," Glitsky said, "but sounds like a good idea. You'd really do that?"

  "Sure. What are friends for? Say ten, eleven?"

  "I'll let you know."

  When he was gone, Frannie closed the door and turned to him. "Maybe do some early Christmas shopping? Since when?"

  "It could happen," Hardy said.

  "Okay, but what else?"

  "But that call from John? It turns out it was pretty important. The police want to talk to him about this guy Silverman's death. Abe's father's friend."

  "What about him?"

  "Whether he was involved somehow."

  "Involved? How could John be involved? In what way?"

  "In the way of whether he had something to do with killing him."

  6

  The sun broke through while Hardy read the morning paper at his kitchen table, waiting for Glitsky's call, which never came. He finally called Abe's and left a message at around eleven. Next he tried Holiday at home-useless-then at the Ark. Nothing.

  His own house had been empty now for an hour and a half. Though for years he'd fantasized about the magic day when he and Frannie's lives weren't ruled by the schedules of his children-the lessons and ballgames, the colds and homework and simple stuff that had cluttered his every waking moment for the past sixteen years-now that the time was upon him he wasn't sure how much he liked it.

  Frannie was dropping the kids off somewhere and in an ironic turnabout he wasn't sure he fully appreciated, she was seeing one of her clients on a weekend morning. Technically still a student, Frannie had gotten hooked up with a psychologist friend of hers, Jillian Neumann, and was working about twenty accredited apprentice hours a week in family counseling.

  So with the day looming empty as his house before him, Hardy went into the kitchen and took his black cast-iron pan down from where it hung off a marlin hook behind the stove. He ran his knuckles across its surface-silk.

  Automatically, he threw in a big pinch of salt-Frannie had switched to kosher salt and kept a bowl of it open next to the burners-and turned on the gas. He went to check the refrigerator, grabbed a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale from the top shelf, opened it, and drank. In two minutes, he'd cut up garlic and scallions, poured in some olive oil, added leftover rice, a can of sardines, a good shake of red pepper flakes. It occurred to him that he was eating too often at Lou the Greek's if he found himself hankering for this kind of treat, but the smell pushed him onward. Soy sauce, some plain yogurt, and then, finally, an egg to bind it all. When it was done, it looked awful but he almost couldn't wait to get back to the table to dig in. He thought it was even possible that he'd stumbled upon one of Lou's wife Chui's secret recipes such as Athenian Special Rice or even, wonder of wonders, Yeanling Clay Bowl.

  First, though, before he sat down to eat, he kept the heat up and threw in more salt. Swiping at the bottom of the pan two or three times with a dish towel, he then dumped the contents into the garbage can. The magic pan was as it had been before he began-black, gleaming, oiled.

  As he ate his masterpiece, his thoughts returned-if in fact they'd ever left-to Holiday. To most outside observers, the failed pharmacist was not typical of Hardy's friends. The serious overdrinking, the gambling, the women. Certainly, bartending and trying to keep the bar he'd inherited afloat, he wasn't working on any kind of career. That alone set him apart. Beyond that, Holiday had ignored his earlier friends until he lost them. He'd burned out his parents and the rest of his solidly suburban family, rejected their valu
es and hopes for him.

  This was because John Holiday had no real hopes anymore himself. They'd been dashed six years ago when his wife and eight-month-old baby daughter-Emma and Jolie-had been killed by a hit-and-run driver who'd run the red and never even slowed down.

  Hardy, too, had lost a child. In another lifetime, he'd had a son, Michael, who'd lived seven months. A couple of years into his first marriage, to Jane Fowler, the child had somehow pulled himself up over the bars of his crib one day, fallen to the hardwood floor. For about ten years after that, his own marriage and fledgling legal career having collapsed under the weight of the grief, Hardy drank Guiness Stout, bartended at the Little Shamrock. Like Holiday, he was glib all the time.

  So Hardy knew what made Holiday the way he was. He didn't blame him, wouldn't judge him, didn't expect anybody else to understand the connection. It was what it was.

  He was no longer eating. He was considering his friend's life, and wondering if it could now have led him to a murder.

  Holiday grew up in a middle-class home in San Mateo. His father, Joseph, ran three independent and successful sporting goods stores until they were bought out by a nationwide chain in the eighties. His mother, Diane, stayed at home with the kids-John, his younger brother Jimmy, and their two sisters, Margie and Mary-until Mary was in kindergarten; then she went back to teaching.

  He went to an all-boys Catholic high school, lettered in baseball and track, became the school's "blanket" player- the best all-around athlete whose name went on the blanket that hung in the school's gymnasium. For a time he held the WCAL record in the half mile. Popular with students and faculty alike, he was secretary of the student body his senior year. Academically, he was sixth in his class with a 3.88 GPA, a National Merit and California State Scholarship Finalist, and a lifetime member of the California Scholarship Federation.

  These accomplishments were impressive, but said little about Holiday's essence. Evidently between the ages of fifteen, when he lost his virginity, and thirty-one, when he got married, his chief persona was sexual predator. The first time was with Anne Lerner, a neighbor and friend of his mother, who…