The First Law dh-8

by John Lescroart

  "At least you're alive."

  "Actually, no. Probably not. You've got a much better chance at getting to be dead in fact. Why? 'Cause Pablo threatens to kill you if you mess with his dope business. You don't want dope around your kids, but you can't go to the law, so you decide you've got to kill Pablo. Then Pablo's brother Jose, who also doesn't think the law is going to punish you, comes and shoots your ass. So then your brother, or father, or mother… Anyway, you see where this is going."

  "Except look at you right now. Your family's driven out of your house. Where's your law there? Who's protecting you now?"

  "Still, the law. Look, Mose, if Panos wasn't worried about somebody doing something about it, he would have come for me long ago. He could have grabbed the kids, or shot them, when he took the picture."

  "Maybe you're forgetting he did shoot some people."

  "Maybe I'm not. But if I believe that the whole purpose of law is to take violence out of the hands of individuals, like you and me, and Panos for that matter, how am I supposed to justify going after him myself? As soon as I do that, I am so fundamentally like him that there's no moral distinction between us."

  "Oh, no shit. He hits you, you can't hit him back? Are you giving me that?"

  "I'm saying that if I go outside the law, then I can't expect anything from it anymore. And I'm not willing to give that up. It's pretty basic."

  "It's pretty bullshit, you ask me."

  "Oh yeah? So what happens, then, after one of the shots you fire at Panos or Sephia misses them completely, but kills the poor old lady eating her Cheerios three houses down? Or the mom pushing her baby half a mile away? You don't think that happens? You don't think that's the main thing that happens with every fucked-up drive-by shooting you ever heard of? Once these things start, there's no controlling what happens next. People get killed who had nothing to do with it. And then, guess what? Those innocent people want to see the law punish you. And they've got every reason to expect that it will. Whether or not you started the whole thing. Once you're in it, you're the bad guy. Period."

  Moses tipped up his glass, rattled the ice a little, tipped it up again. "If I knew for a fact who took that picture, I'd get real close and put a slug in the fucker's brain. I'd do it tonight, swear to God."

  "And then your life, from then on, is never the same."

  "I wouldn't tell anybody. And nobody would know my connection to you and Frannie. The cops would never even think to talk to me."

  "Except if they did. And then what about Susan and your girls?"

  McGuire was shaking his head. "Not going to happen. Listen, Diz, you got gangbangers killing each other all the time. You're telling me the cops even look real hard? So you get a known dirtball like, say, Sephia, who dies violently, and who's going to get all worked up over it? Nobody. Probably not even his family, if he's got one."

  Hardy acknowledged that truth with half a nod. "I wouldn't exactly weep and gnash my teeth myself."

  "See?"

  "But there's a difference between someone being dead and you making someone be dead."

  "That's what you keep saying. But you and I have both pulled a trigger, Diz. Killed people we didn't even hate. We both know we could do it again if we had to. My question is how far do they have to push you before you do something on your own?"

  "Pretty far, I'd guess. Where it turned into real self-defense."

  "Which is pretty much after the fact, isn't it?"

  "Yep. I think it has to be."

  "And you're okay with that? You can live with it?" His brother-in-law's face was etched in concern that showed as though magnified by the dim light. "No, let me put it another way," he said. "I hope you can live with that. I hope your family can. I really do."

  Hardy drained his own glass. "Me, too, Mose. Me, too."

  Hardy was still dressed-jeans and a pullover-sitting on a two-person love seat in the back of the apartment, in the old laundry room that Susan had converted into a studio for her music students. It was quiet here, away from the beds, and he didn't want his own restlessness to keep anyone else up. A single, large, north-facing window revealed a smattering of lights stretching out toward the Presidio- he was up six stories-but the view, so lovely in the light, didn't captivate. He stared out, more through it than at it, aware but unthinking, or at least not thinking discrete thoughts.

  Since he'd gotten into bed, then given up and come in here, his mind had returned again and again, unbidden, to David Freeman. Visions of him in his bed in the ICU. The damage they'd done to him, even should he survive it, a result about which Hardy had little confidence. A cold premonition had entered his gut along with the renewed conviction that these were very dangerous men, now perhaps made more desperate by their inability to isolate and destroy John Holiday. And without him, Hardy believed, they were surely, eventually doomed. They had to get to him, any way they could, as quickly as they could. And no mistake about it, Hardy believed that the surest route to Holiday was through him.

  Another nonthought, a bother, a twinge, like a pestering insect alighting again and again on the surface of his consciousness, was that he should in fact disengage himself from Holiday, at least until things shook out here somewhat. Call Kroll and get that message delivered. As Moses had argued, he should save his family above all else, and he could do it without going outside the law. He'd never even taken a retainer from Holiday. There was no legal issue.

  After all, he told himself, Holiday would probably be okay without him now. The evidence would set him free. Hardy didn't need to stay involved. The rationalizations gnawed.

  "Dad?"

  He started as though from a doze, but he hadn't been sleeping. "Hey, Beck."

  "Are you all right?"

  "Sure. Having some trouble sleeping, that's all. How's my little girl?" Sixteen years old, five foot five, 110 pounds. His little girl.

  "I know you hate it," she said, "but I'm scared."

  "Oh, babe." He looked up and caught the shining streak of a tear on her cheek. "Come here." He shifted to one side, patted the cushion next to him. "Have a seat next to your old man." He longed to tell her that there was nothing to be scared of-the perhaps comforting lie was almost out of his mouth-but he couldn't make himself say it. She was too old for that now; she'd feel patronized, and he didn't want that.

  In a moment, her feet tucked under her, she was curled up against him, under his arm-all flannel and bathrobe, long hair and a slightly stale breath that he loved. At first, this seemed to be all she needed, and he absently stroked her hair as he had done since she'd been a baby. He felt her weight settle almost imperceptibly and she exhaled a shallow sigh, quietly but audibly. "You okay?" he asked. "A little better?"

  "A little."

  "But still scared?" He felt her head move up and down.

  "Well." He couldn't resist the impulse to comfort her. "Maybe it's really not as bad as we thought originally…"

  "But those pictures, Daddy…"

  "I know. I know what they were trying to do there, and that's what makes us afraid. And it worked, didn't it? But I went and saw Uncle Abe tonight and I really think there's a good chance now that the police will be able to… to do something."

  "Like what?"

  "Like maybe arrest these people. Some new stuff's come up. They're going to have to act on it. And when they do, we'll get back to normal."

  "But what if they don't?"

  Hardy sighed. "They probably will, Beck. You don't have to worry about that."

  "And that's why you can't sleep, either? Because you're not worried anymore?"

  Hardy tightened his arm around her. Sometimes she was too perceptive, he thought, for her own good. "I'm still a little worried," he conceded.

  The Beck squirmed out and sat up, facing him. "It's just that I don't understand these people. Even if they wanted to hurt you, why would they want to hurt your family?"

  "Because they know that nothing, really, would hurt me more."

  "Okay, but then wha
t do they think? That you'll just go away? I mean, the logical thing is that you'll just get crazier and come after their families. Doesn't that make sense?"

  Hardy, again, didn't feel that he could be completely forthright. "I wouldn't do that. I couldn't do that. That wouldn't be right."

  "Why not? If they came after us? I bet you would. I know you would."

  "Well, luckily they haven't done anything physical to you or Vince yet, so we don't get to find out. I don't really want to find out. I'm plenty mad at them for what they've already done." This time he couldn't stop himself from lying. "But I really think this is pretty much over, Beck. Tomorrow night at this time we're back in our own beds. You'll see."

  "But what if we're not?"

  "Then the night after."

  She frowned. "Now you're just trying to make me feel better."

  "Not just now," he said. "All the time."

  "But I need to know what's really happening."

  "What's really happening…" He drew a deep breath, came out with a deeper truth. "I don't know for sure what's really happening, Beck. I don't want you to have to go through this."

  "But I'm already in it, Daddy. We're here."

  "I know." He gathered her back against him. "I know." The city lights blinked in the windblown dust outside. Hardy tightened his arm around his girl. "I don't think I've been much of a help tonight, have

  I?"

  "I'm still a little scared, if that's what you mean."

  Hardy sighed. "That's what I mean."

  "You can't protect me against my feelings, Daddy."

  "I know," Hardy said. "And that just breaks my heart." He wondered anew whether he could protect her from anything at all, and a fresh wave of anger swept over him. All the words in the world to the contrary, he suddenly knew he would kill without mercy if anyone harmed his girl. And maybe it wouldn't hurt her to have some intimation of that, in spite of what he'd just told her to the contrary. "You know how I said I wouldn't do anything if something happened to you?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, if I could stop it before it could get to you, if it got to that…" He didn't finish. "I'm speaking hypothetically, now, Beck. But there's absolutely no way I'd let anybody hurt you."

  Her tentative question nearly brought him to tears. "So what are we going to do?"

  "I'm not completely sure yet, hon. But your mother and I, we're going to take care of you, no matter what. Maybe," he said, "if I can get myself to abandon John Holiday…"

  "But you can't do that. He's your friend."

  "Right." Out of the mouths of babes, Hardy thought. "I know. But maybe I can make them think I stopped." He stopped himself again. He was about to say, "Then set some kind of trap for them." "But look," he did say, "let's believe for a minute there's a really pretty decent chance that in a day or two they'll have these people in jail."

  "And then they won't be after us?"

  "No." He chucked her gently under her chin. "But they're probably already not after you now, not really."

  She looked up at him hopefully. "Promise?"

  Hardy hesitated. They had a rule about a promise being a promise, sacred and unbreakable. "I really don't think so," he finally said.

  He felt a small shudder pass through her. "That's not a promise."

  "No, I know," he said. "But close."

  29

  Hardy pushed open the street level door to the Freeman building. He crossed the foyer and got to the top of the staircase, then stood still a moment where it opened into the reception lobby. For the first time since the attack on David, he felt some sense of life here again. A half dozen people in the Solarium appeared to be taking depositions; three of the associates and a couple of paralegals stood by the coffee machine, deep in conversation; the steady whine of the copying machines filled in the background noise. Maybe he'd just happened upon a flurry, but the telephones kept Phyllis's head down and hands busy.

  "Mr. Hardy. Dismas." Suddenly Norma appeared at his elbow. "We missed you yesterday. Is everything all right?"

  He didn't know the answer to that. Certainly everything didn't feel all right. His family was still in hiding at McGuire's. He was going on less than four hours' sleep. Freeman was still unconscious. He hadn't heard that Sephia and Panos had been arrested.

  "I mean, you never came in," she said. "Some of us were worried."

  "I had some work out of the office," he said. "It hung me up all day." Smiling politely, he pointed across the lobby to the other set of stairs that led to his office. "I don't even want to look at the clutter on my desk, but I'd better get on up there."

  "Of course, but I… I wanted to thank you."

  "For what?"

  "For your inspiration the other night." She gestured vaguely around the lobby, the steady hum of industry.

  "Well." In truth, after Hardy had finished his little speech on Friday night, the Solarium hadn't exactly exploded into wild applause. He'd told everybody good night and gotten out of there as quickly as he could, slightly embarrassed that he'd gotten caught up in the moment and exposed himself so openly as basically uncool. He felt sure that he'd given some of the younger people, especially, but also a few of the more cynical associates and paralegals, fuel for the fires of ridicule. He could easily imagine the snickering after he left. All in all, he wished he hadn't done it at all, or failing that, that he'd thought of something light and gotten everybody laughing.

  But now Norma had her hand on his arm. "You shouldn't be modest. Look what that did for everybody here."

  Hardy couldn't deny that the buzz was better, but… "I don't really think that was me."

  "Well, be that as it may," Norma said, "everybody else does. And I just wanted to thank you again, to tell you how much it meant to me. And to the firm. It was the perfect note. You can see the results for yourself. Look around."

  Hardy had already seen enough, and it did gratify him. With David in the hospital, though, and so many other problems hanging fire, he wasn't quite ready to do cartwheels. Still, he gave the lobby a last glance. "Well," he said, "I'm glad I could help. And now"-he pointed again-"the grind awaits."

  He crossed over to the reception area, looked a question at Phyllis, who held up a finger, asking him to wait. After an impressive trifecta of "Freeman and Associates, would you please hold," got the switchboard under control, she looked up and actually smiled as though she were happy to see him. New ground. "Lieutenant Glitsky has already called three times this morning. He says it's urgent."

  Glitsky had found out about Thieu when he opened the morning paper and read about his apparent suicide. It didn't much convince him. Or rather, it finally did convince him of what he'd begun strongly to suspect. He decided on the spot that he wasn't going into his office again today. A sworn policeman with a clear duty, he was going to do some real police work at last, on his own if need be. Hardy had already talked to Holiday, continuing in his counsel that the client should stay out of sight, don't worry, they'd found strong evidence that might clear him before too long. He should just remain patient. By the time Gina Roake called, Hardy was on the other line with his second judge of the morning, Oscar Thomasino. The first one, this week's magistrate Timothy Hill, had shot him down about quashing Holiday's arrest warrant almost before Hardy got the question out. "Surrender your client, Diz. Then we litigate. That's the process and you know it."

  And Thomasino, who'd known and respected Hardy for many years, told him he didn't see what he could do. He'd be happy to put in a good word to Jackman or Batiste on Hardy's basic trustworthiness, even Glitsky's, but didn't think it would serve much purpose.

  When he finally got back to Gina at her office, filling him in about her talk with Hector Blanca, specifically about the helicopter to Nevada, she was in a clear and quiet rage. The General Work inspector had told her that he'd really like to help, but that the consensus among his superiors, and he tended to agree, was that the supposed attack on Hardy and John Holiday never took place at all.

 
As to David Freeman, Blanca had just checked with the hospital this morning and he was very, very sorry-maybe Ms. Roake hadn't heard?-but Freeman seemed to be going into renal failure. His kidneys hadn't produced more than a teaspoon of urine overnight. Blanca liked Roake right away, and was possibly more straightforward than he would have been with someone else. Very probably, he told her, this would soon be a murder case, and hence outside of Blanca's jurisdiction. But by all means, Gina should bring her suspicions to homicide.

  Hardy took her phone call as an opportunity to bring her up to date and she heard him out. She'd really been unaware of the escalations- the threats to the families, the probable murder of Paul Thieu. It seemed to galvanize her somehow, and when she heard that Glitsky would be at Hardy's office to discuss possibilities, she told him she was coming, too. Something had to be done and she wanted to be in on whatever it was. Hardy told her to come right on up.

  So at a little before noon on a blustery and overcast Wednesday morning, Glitsky, Roake and Hardy had all gathered and now they sat in varying degrees of unease around the coffee table in Hardy's office. Hardy had put on a pot and two of them were drinking coffee.

  Glitsky, of course, had his tea. Facing Hardy's office door, he was explaining that after he read about Thieu this morning, he had finally been driven to speak to Special Agent Bill Schuyler of the FBI, who had expressed interest in Abe's theory, but who said it would take at least a couple of days to arrange any kind of task force, and that's if he could get his field director's approval. Was Glitsky really saying he believed the head of homicide was involved in cover-up and murder? This could be a lot of fun, Schuyler agreed, but it was going to take a degree of manpower and some time.

  "Which is something we don't have."

  "Isn't that a little dramatic, Diz?" Roake asked. "We get the FBI involved in a week or so, there's plenty of…"

  But Hardy was shaking his head. "If they do anything, it will take years. Wiretaps, following people, background investigations. Maybe trying to infiltrate the gang. By then, all of our physical evidence has disappeared. That's if they do anything at all. And meanwhile, we're dead."