Hardy 11 - Suspect, The

by John Lescroart

  The lasagna—one of her specialties—was cool enough to eat. She took a bite, closing her eyes and savoring it, glad she'd made it with the hot Italian sausage rather than the mild, the sauce from the vine-ripe fresh tomatoes she'd picked up last month at the Ferry Building.

  All in all, she thought, the night had been a success, a definite win for the home team, although Stuart wasn't quite seeing it in that light yet. But Gina had no doubts that getting him into custody, especially given the weakness of the case against him, was by far the best course of action he could take, albeit still one fraught with risk. Indeed, though, it was the only one that made any real sense.

  More than that, in making the argument to him, in dealing with his very real and legitimate concerns, in the intensity she had to draw upon to prevail, she recognized a flame of passion in herself for the law and for her work that had lain as a near-dead ember for the better part of three years. That had been part of the general malaise and shutdown she'd experienced after David's death. But if nothing else, tonight had validated her return to her vocation in an immediate and gratifying way.

  This was the right thing for her to be doing, the best use of her time and talents. Over her client's reservations and even violent disagreement, and whether he saw it or not, she had already done him a world of good. If she had not prevailed, if Stuart had become the object of any kind of real manhunt, when there would have been no question that he was in armed flight from prosecution, his prospects could have been terminally dashed. And she had prevented that. It felt good—better than good. A breath of fresh air after too long underwater.

  Ten thirty.

  The dishwasher cycles competed with the background music turned down low on the radio, but Gina was aware of neither. Her second glass of wine was still full on the reading table next to her. She was in her reading chair by the living room's front window, having already read through all of her notes and other miscellany in the folder she was keeping on Stuart. The thin blue volume of the ever-popular California Evidence Code now lay open on her lap. She made it a point to read it through once a year as a discipline. She'd gone through nearly two thirds of it at this one sitting, and though she would have denied that it was pleasure reading, it wasn't by any means a chore.

  This was the nuts and bolts of her work. Lawyers talked in numbers—Penal Code sections, Criminal Code, Evidence Code, numbered Jury Instructions. It was the language, and she was as immersed in it as she would have been in cramming her rusty Italian if she was planning a vacation to Cinque Terre.

  At first she was not sure whether it had been anything at all that had caught her attention and made her look up. Dishes rattling, settling in the dishwasher? She scanned the room, saw nothing that caused the noise and was about to go back to her book, when here it was again, unmistakable. She glanced up at the clock on her mantel, frowned and dog-eared her page. Though her front-door entrance was slightly recessed from the street and not visible from her front windows, she looked through those windows anyway and saw that someone had parked illegally on the sidewalk directly across the street. So she crossed over and used the peephole, then turned the dead bolt and opened the door.

  "Hey." Jedd Conley in his business suit, hands in his pockets, projecting—for him—an unusual reticence. "Is this a bad time?"

  "It's a bit of a surprising time. But no. I mean, it's okay." She pointed out behind him. "Is that your car? You'll get a ticket, parked there."

  But Conley shook his head. "Legislative plates. Not automatic, but most cops recognize them and cut some slack. I think I'll be safe."

  "So what can I do for you? Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine." A quick, nervous smile. "Slightly uptight, maybe."

  "You want to come in?"

  "That'd be nice. Thanks."

  She stepped back, opening the door, letting him in. "So what are you uptight about?"

  "Life. My work. The usual. I don't know why I said that, though, why that came out." He let out a breath, tried another smile that didn't quite succeed. "I'm fine."

  "Okay, good, then that's settled. Can I get you a drink? I've got a little of everything."

  "Some scotch wouldn't be bad."

  "It never is. Maybe I'll join you." She was moving behind the bar. "Have a seat somewhere. Is Oban okay?"

  "Oban would be perfect."

  "Perfection is my goal," she said. "Ice?"

  "In a single malt? Surely you jest."

  She shrugged. "Some do. Though for the record, I don't either." She had her special glasses out on top of the bar, filling them about halfway, a good couple of shots each, and carried them over to where he was sitting on the couch facing the fireplace. "Public health notice," she said, "leaded crystal. Drinking from these glasses could cause health problems and may impair your ability to operate heavy machinery."

  "God forbid," Conley said. "I think I'll risk it."

  "Brave man." She handed him his drink.

  Holding the glass up, checking the generous pour with obvious satisfaction, he clinked her glass. "A woman after my own heart." Drinking a little, he settled back. "Thank you. I'm happy to inform you that you've attained your goal."

  "My goal?"

  "Perfection."

  "Well," she said, surprised at the flush she felt rising in her face, "my pleasure."

  When she'd finished with Stuart's folder, she'd tossed it onto the coffee table; she hadn't really noticed, but the picture of all the pals from the Bitterroot camping trip had slid out most of the way. Now Jedd picked it up, turned it over. "This has to do with Stuart's case somehow?"

  "I don't know," she said, "probably not." She explained about the threatening e-mails, and Stuart’s contention that the picture proved he hadn't sent them to himself, since he'd had no access to a computer.

  "Or anything else," Jedd said. "But don't get me wrong, it was a great trip. At least till the ride home."

  "What happened on the ride home?"

  "My damn car threw a rod. Cost me two grand. I didn't feel right about asking my fellow campers to chip in, but they could have offered. It put a slight pall on my memory of the trip. But still"—he put the picture back into the folder—"I guess it was worth it. Getting away is always worth it."

  "Yes it is." Gina by now was seated at the far end of the couch, and she turned to him. "So what can I do for you, Jedd?"

  "I don't know, really. I was out at one of Horace's endless events tonight just over at the Fairmont—you know Horace Tremont?"

  "Not personally, but of course."

  "You know he's my father-in-law?"

  "I remember reading about all that when you got married. Your wife is Lexi, right?"

  "Right. The lovely Lexi." He smiled, but his inflection put an ironic spin on the words. "Anyway, it seems that Horace and some other of his kingmaker friends wanted to feel out my interest in running for the Senate."

  "The U.S. Senate? Would you want that?"

  He shrugged, at least feigning nonchalance. "It's something to think about. I'll be termed out next year in the Assembly. I'm going to want to do something. I don't know, it might be fun. We'll see. It's a long way off. Anyway," he continued, "when the meeting broke up, I got to wondering how things had gone after you talked with Stuart. Since I was so close to you up here, I took a chance and drove by and saw the light on and thought you might be up."

  "I'm surprised you knew I still lived here."

  He shrugged, smiled. "Tell you the truth, I wasn't a hundred percent sure until I saw your name in the mail slot. But I don't think I could have imagined you anywhere else. The place looks great, by the way. Terrific furniture. Cool art. I don't even remember the bar."

  "That's because it wasn't here the last time you were. I remodeled about ten years ago, then added some stuff for David, even though we spent most of our time together at his place."

  "Well, you always had great taste. It's beautiful." He raised his glass, toasted her and drank a sip. "So," he said. "Stuart. How'd it go?"<
br />
  Relieved to turn away from the personal stuff about herself, Gina took a sip of the scotch. She felt herself begin to relax. "Finally, okay. It took the phone call, then a trip down to San Mateo and a lot of convincing, but he's coming in and giving himself up tomorrow, ten o'clock. Very reluctantly, I might add. But he'll show."

  "You must have been persuasive as hell. When I talked to him, he wasn't spending any time in jail, period."

  "Well, he's not that much better, but I got him to go along."

  "How'd you do that?"

  Gina smiled. "My usual. Equal parts charm, guile and threats. I made him an offer he couldn't refuse."

  Conley enjoyed the phrase. "I thought he was a grieving widower."

  "Not that kind of an offer, Jedd." She lifted her legs up onto the couch and tucked them under her. "So the Senate thing? Is that what you're uptight about?"

  Conley paused, threw her a direct look. "You don't let much get by you, do you?"

  "You'd be surprised. You said it was work and life. Running for the Senate seemed to qualify."

  "Well." He sipped his drink. "Sometimes the profile is difficult to manage, that's all. It gets inside you." Apparently making up his mind to tell her about it, he went on. "As for uptight, I had to let go my assistant today and if history's any judge, she's going to slap me with some kind of bullshit lawsuit, when the plain truth is the woman was just incompetent and couldn't do the job. But you fire anybody nowadays, you become the bad guy. You know this. Hell, everybody knows it, and still it goes on." He sighed in frustration. "Anyway, it's done now. I'm just hoping I documented everything correctly. We'll see what happens."

  "Well, if you need a lawyer . . ."

  He chortled quietly. "I'll keep you in mind, thanks. Maybe she won't do anything. Because God knows I made sure I never did anything even remotely suggestive around her. If there's one thing I've learned in life, if you're going to mess around, you don't dip your pen in the company inkwell. If you choose to mess around at all, that is." He drank off some more of his scotch.

  A silence, pregnant with their mutual history, gathered in the spaces between the low-volume tinkle of piano music from Gina's radio.

  Jedd finally looked down the length of the couch at her. "You know, Gina, I said it the other day when you came to the Travelodge, and I meant it then, but I'll say it again. You haven't aged a day in twenty years."

  "Not true," she said, "I've aged about twenty years, and I feel every one of them."

  "Well, you don't show them. No makeup, hair still wet . . . and look at you right now. You're just incredible."

  She gave him a long and piercing look. A smile tickled the corners of her mouth, and then slowly she shook her head from side to side. "I don't think so, Jedd. Nice try, but it wouldn't be a good idea."

  "It was never a bad idea with us. If memory serves, and it does."

  "Yes, it does. But it would be now. A bad idea."

  "Why? What would be different?"

  "You being married, for one thing."

  "Lexi wouldn't ever have to know. We used to be pretty discreet, if I recall."

  "But I would know, Jedd. A girl's got to have a few rules, and not sleeping with married men is one of mine."

  "Okay, we won't sleep."

  "No," she said.

  He wagged his head back and forth. No hard press, but he was enjoying the game. "It doesn't really seem right."

  "It does to me, I'm afraid." She finished her Oban and got herself upright, off the couch. "I'm flattered, Jedd, really. You've made my week. But no's got to mean no."

  "Fair enough, if you really mean it." He was up, then, closing the small space between them, standing in front of her. "I'll make a deal with you. If you can still say no after one small kiss, I'll take it as your final answer."

  She looked up into his eyes, confident enough, amused enough, to give him a full smile. "My momma didn't raise no fools, Jedd. Now you can either finish your drink and go, or you can go right now, but we're not doing this. Any little part of it. You need to go home and kiss your wife."

  "She'll be in bed."

  "So wake her up."

  "Come on, Gina. It's not about her. It's about you and me."

  "There is no you and me, Jedd." Ducking around him, giving herself room, she stopped behind the couch. "If you leave your wife, after the divorce is final, I might let you buy me a drink, and we'll see where that might take us. But even then, it's not a promise. It's a maybe."

  "You're a cruel woman, Roake."

  "I am," she admitted. "And getting crueler all the time." Crossing over to the door, she put her hand on the knob and turned back to face him. "Now, are you going to finish your drink first or just walk?"

  Accepting defeat with a nod, Jedd toasted her silently again, and drained his drink. Placing the glass carefully on the coffee table, he got to the now-open door and stopped. "You can't blame a guy for trying," he said.

  "Well, you can a little bit," she said. "Good night, Jedd." With a gentle shove, she moved him along until he was outside, then closed the door behind him and, with a sudden emphasis, she threw the dead bolt hard enough to make sure he heard it.

  It took Juhle about an hour with his cell phone-tracking technicians to trace the approximate location from which Gina had called him to arrange Stuart Gorman's surrender the next morning, and most of another hour to arrange for two SF police officers and their squad car and some San Mateo County SWAT-team backup to meet him when he closed in for the arrest.

  Cell phone technology possibly hadn't been much a part of the normal police arsenal the last time Gina had worked a major case, but now Juhle thought that everyone in the crime business must know that it was child's play to pinpoint a locale from a phone call. Wyatt Hunt had told him in passing that Gina had been out of the game awhile, and that Stuart was her first murder case ever, but even so he was amazed and happily surprised when she called him on her cell phone in Stuart's presence.

  And especially after the hardball she'd been playing with him on the interview and everything else, he wasn't in the mood to be doing her any favors anyway. And if Gina thought that Juhle could know the whereabouts of an armed suspect who was the object of a murder warrant and knowingly let that person remain at large for even one extra minute, she had another think coming.

  So no sooner had Juhle gotten off the phone with Gina than he told his wife that he'd be out late, and put some wheels in motion. The cell tower site gave him a confined area to search. All the district cars started checking out parking lots for vehicle license numbers—by now, the plates Stuart had stolen had been reported. The result was that at 11:21 p.m. Juhle flashed his badge at the night clerk at the Hollywood Motel, showed the man a recent picture of his suspect, and was told that the man he sought had checked in this afternoon under the alias of Stuart Ghoti. The clerk specifically remembered because he paid cash, which he did not see too often. He was in Room 29, around the corner and about halfway down the block.

  Now, just after 11:30, Juhle had the street blocked off in both directions by the San Mateo County presence, and had his own San Francisco team of two officers out of their car, accompanying him to the motel room door. All of the men had their holsters unbuttoned, ready for action.

  Stopping at the door, Juhle listened for a minute and heard the low hum of a television that also cast its flickering glow on the window blinds. He figured he had enough adrenaline flowing now to pull a locomotive uphill, and tried to gather himself to get control over his emotions and excitement, but it was a losing battle. For one last time, he considered other options, such as having one of his backup people call the room. Or even simply knocking on the door and announcing himself. But he'd already rejected those options— Stuart Gorman might try to flee through them all in one of those situations; he might learn that he was surrounded and, panic-stricken, commit suicide with the gun that Juhle believed in his heart that he still and had always had with him.

  No, the thing to do was what h
e'd decided to do. A no-warning storming of the room. None of this bullhorn, come-out-with-your-hands-up bullshit. They had the "door opener," a massive, cylindrical metal weight on chains. One swing at the flimsy motel door would be all it took. Looking side to side at his two acolytes, he nodded.

  The wood shattered as if it were balsa, the door flew backward, and Juhle followed it in, hitting the light switch just inside.

  Stuart, a deer in headlights, leaning back on pillows set up against the headboard, took in the situation in a heartbeat, then threw a lightning glance at the pistol that was still out next to him on the bed table.

  "Don't even think about it!" Juhle yelled. "Put your hands over your head! Now!" Juhle was crab-walking straight toward him, his gun centered right between Stuart's eyes to make sure he had his complete attention. Three steps later, Juhle had Stuart's gun in his left hand, his own in his right. His backup team was already all the way across the room, on the far side of the bed, their own weapons out, leveled at the suspect.

  For a long moment, time froze. No one moved. The television nearly masked the sound of the men's heavy breathing.

  Finally, Stuart said, "You're making a mistake."

  "I don't think so," Juhle said. Then added, "Being a smart guy, you probably already figured this out. But you're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent..."

  23

  At 9:00 a.m. sharp on Wednesday, September 28, nine business days after Stuart Gorman was arrested on a charge of first-degree murder, with a cheerful "Good morning," his attorney walked into the reception area outside the office of San Francisco District Attorney Clarence Jackman. Gina, in high dudgeon at what she took to be Juhle s lies and even betrayal, had scheduled this appointment on the morning after Stuart’s arrest. His preliminary hearing was scheduled for the next day in Judge Cecil Toynbee's courtroom, Department 12.