Hardy 03 - Hard Evidence

by John Lescroart

  ‘This is Ken Farris. Who am I talking to?’

  Hardy told him. There was a pause.

  ‘I don’t understand. You’re with the San Francisco district attorney’s office? Is Owen in jail?’

  The telephone beeped.

  ‘If that’s your call waiting —’

  Farris cut him off. ‘We record all our phone calls here. Is that a problem?’ He didn’t wait for a response. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but what’s the D.A. got to do with Owen being missing? Is he alive, please just tell me that?’

  ‘I don’t know that, Mr Farris.’ He heard a deep exhalation — relief or frustration, he couldn’t tell which, and didn’t want to wait to find out. ‘What I’m calling about, how I’m involved here, has to do with a hand that turned up in a shark’s belly.’

  Hardy could almost hear Farris’s brain changing gears. ‘The one in the Chronicle? I read about that. What has that got to do with Owen?’

  ‘Maybe nothing. Mr Nash is a missing male, and the hand may be from an elderly male.’

  ‘What do you mean, might be? Did the paper have that? You think the hand might be Owen’s?’

  ‘I think it might be worth a look, that’s all. There might be some bit of skin with something you’d recognize, the shape of a fingernail, something. The fingerprints are gone, but…’

  ‘Don’t I remember something about a ring?’

  Hardy nodded into the phone. ‘There was a jade ring on the little finger.’

  The phone beeped again. All their calls? Hardy thought.

  Farris was curt. ‘Then it wasn’t Owen. He wore a gold wedding band on his left hand, but no other jewelry. What hand was it?’

  ‘It’s a right hand.’

  ‘Well, it isn’t Owen then. That’s definite.’ Farris sighed again, letting out some more pressure. ‘Thank God.’

  * * * * *

  Derek Graham had been a maintenance man in sewers for thirteen years. He was a forty-year-old Caucasian male supervisor with a wife and three children. As a tenured city employee, he was immune to just about anything that might threaten his job, but the political reality was that a white management person who lost his job in San Francisco would find it filled immediately by a member of any one of the myriad minority groups San Francisco called its own. Already, Hardy knew, the sharks were circling, and a righteous drug-bust conviction could put Derek not only in jail but on the street.

  For while it was still only a $100 misdemeanor to smoke marijuana in San Francisco, possession of anything over an ounce was interpreted as intent to sell and that was a felony.

  Derek’s city-issued Chevrolet Caprice with its ‘Buy America’ bumper sticker had a burned-out brake light. This turned out to be bad luck for Derek. He had just finished half a joint so he could get home a little relaxed and not snap at his kids when a patrol car pulled him over, the officer had smelled that smell and, with his olfactory evidence as probable cause, had searched the Caprice and found roughly eight ounces of sensimilla in the trunk.

  This led to a search of Derek’s house and the discovery of the hydroponic garden in the basement. Derek was in a lot of trouble, and he was very worried about it. ‘Look,’ he told Hardy, ‘I can’t lose my job.’ He was in Hardy’s office with his court-appointed attorney, a young woman named Gina Roake. Ms Roake hadn’t said a word since introducing Derek to Hardy five minutes earlier. Hardy had addressed his remarks to her at first, but Derek kept butting in, so Hardy went to the horse’s mouth.

  ‘Losing your job isn’t the half of it,’ he said.

  Derek was six feet tall and weighed, Hardy figured, about one-eighty-five. He had a handsome, clean-shaven face topped by a businessman’s haircut. For this meeting, at which he wasn’t particularly welcome by either attorney, he’d chosen not to wear a tie. But in dress slacks and a pressed button-down checkered shirt, he looked more than presentable. He could have been applying for a job at a construction site.

  ‘It’s not like I’ve done anything criminal. Hell,’ he said to Hardy, ‘you work for the city, what do you make?’

  ‘Growing dope is criminal,’ Hardy answered, ‘and my salary is irrelevant.’

  ‘I could look it up, but say it’s forty-five.’ Derek continued without pause. Hardy made $52,000 a year in his new job, and he let his suspect go on. ‘You got kids?’

  Hardy nodded.

  ‘Well, then, you know. You can’t make it on forty-five. Here I work for the city fifteen years —’

  ‘The file says thirteen.’

  ‘So split a hair. Thirteen. I work here thirteen years full-time and my wife and I are trying to raise three kids right, so she can stay home with ’em. Why have kids if you’re not going to raise them yourself, right? I got no record before this. I’m not whining, I’m just telling you the truth.‘

  ‘Raising your kids right includes marijuana horticulture?’ Hardy asked.

  ‘My oldest kid is seven. The grass is a second job, that’s all it is.’

  There wasn’t any doubt of that. Hardy made his fifty-two, but he owned one quarter of the Little Shamrock and that brought in another grand or so a month, plus Frannie had a quarter-of-a-million-dollar insurance policy from her first husband’s death, which they were saving for the kids’ college. But at least if they really needed it, it was there. Hardy knew what Derek was saying — it was hard to make it on one salary in these times.

  But Hardy, right now, was a prosecutor. He remembered Art Drysdale’s words, Illegal is wrong. He said, ‘You should have thought of that when you planted your garden.’ Not liking himself very much.

  ‘Who am I hurting? Tell me that. I’m no dealer. I got eight guys I off-load a key on.’

  Hardy held up a hand. ‘Now we’re talking. Any of these people have names?’

  Derek just shook his head. ‘Come on, man, these are normal people like me and you. How old are you, forty? Tell me you didn’t smoke a little weed in college.’

  Hardy couldn’t tell him that. He didn’t know many people of his generation, including many on the police force, who hadn’t had a hit or two of marijuana at one time or another. To him it was a nonissue. But, here he was, playing at — no, being — the law.

  Suddenly he turned and spoke directly to Ms Roake. ‘Could we have a conference, please?’ He looked pointedly at Derek. ‘There’s a reason the court appoints an attorney. The coffee shop’s down on one.’

  When he’d gone, Hardy closed the file. ‘Ms Roake. Gina, may I call you Gina? What does he want?’

  ‘He doesn’t want to lose his job, I think.’

  ‘Is there an automatic administrative removal on conviction? There’s no question the plea is guilty, am I right?’

  ‘The question is the charge.’ Gina gave him a tight little smile. ‘Misdemeanor, I don’t think so, but if we’re talking felony, he’s fired.’ Gina seemed to be about twenty, although she must have been older. She bit her lower lip. ‘I really think he just wanted the money to help his family.’

  Hardy fairly snapped at her. ‘People rob banks and kill people all the time to get money for their families.’ Gina stiffened visibly, and Hardy backed off. ‘Look, I don’t mean to jump all over you, but let’s not play his game. The guy was growing a good amount of dope, and that’s illegal. How about you think up some heavy misdemeanor that will satisfy me? I mean a good one. He pleads to that, pays a heavy fine, does some community service, I’ll try to sell that to my boss, and your man keeps his job.’

  Gina’s dark eyes brightened. ‘You’d do that?’

  ‘He goes near marijuana again — even a little recreational joint — and we’ll crucify him, clear?’

  She nodded her head, holding her hands tightly together in her lap, as though she were congratulating herself. ‘Oh, yes, yes. That’s wonderful.’

  She got up from the chair in a shush of nylons, shook Hardy’s hand, thanking him, and went out the door before he could change his mind.

  He’d just handed one to the defense. He wondered what E
lizabeth Pullios would say about that. On second thought, he didn’t have to wonder — he knew what she’d say.

  Thinking on that, he crossed his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling, brown water stains on the acoustic tile. ‘Wonderful,’ he said.

  8

  On the way into work Hardy had told Glitsky that his wife was coming downtown to meet him for lunch. Now his friend Abe was sitting in the snack bar, holding Rebecca, Frannie across from him laughing at something.

  Frannie’s face, her laughter, still had the power to make him forget the bad things life could dish out — it was more amazing to him that she could laugh at all. Only a little over a year before, someone had shot her husband in the head, leaving her a twenty-five-year-old pregnant widow drenched in the gall of that sorrow.

  He stood a moment, one step into the employees’ lunchroom, and took in the sight — Frannie’s glowing face, the life in it.

  Somehow, Hardy, who had known his own tragedy when he’d lost his infant son years before, and Frannie had gotten together, and suddenly the backward-looking emptiness had changed its direction and its essence. Now they were together; they looked ahead.

  Hardy slid in next to Frannie and kissed her.

  ‘John Strout is a funny guy,’ Glitsky said. ‘I was just telling Frannie.’

  ‘When did you see our fine coroner?’

  ‘I see him too much as it is, but this morning I thought I’d do you a little legwork.’

  ‘Abe does a great Southern accent,’ Frannie said.

  ‘Wha thenk y’all, ma’am. Jest tryn’ ketch the good doctuh’s flavuh, so to speak.‘ Abe switched back to his own voice. ’You may have got him mad, Diz, but he looked at the hand. I figured it would be easier for me to ask about it than you. Just routine. Is it a likely homicide or not?‘

  ‘And what’d he say?’

  ‘He said the guy might have done some karate, maybe some board breaking. There were calcium deposits on the knuckle of the middle finger and the little finger had two healed breaks. Oh, and the pad opposite the thumb was a little thick.’

  ‘That all?’

  ‘That’s a lot, Diz. Plus he did die recently. Rigor had come and gone, but Strout thought it was still a fresh hand.’

  ‘I love it when you guys talk shop,’ Frannie said.

  Hardy took his wife’s hand. ‘It’s a glamorous profession. Nothing else could have lured me back.’ Then to Abe, ‘It wasn’t a cadaver, then?’

  Glitsky shook his head. ‘Strout’s checked all the local med schools.’ He looked at Frannie. ‘Every couple years some med students steal a body and play some games. This doesn’t look like one of them.’

  ‘So it’s a homicide?’ she said.

  ‘A homicide’s just an unnatural death,’ Abe said. Rebecca was starting to get restless and Glitsky moved her onto his other leg, bouncing her. ‘And we don’t even have that officially until Strout says it is, and he won’t say till he’s positive, which means more tests to see if the hand is really fresh, which he thinks it is. Finally,’ Abe said, ‘even if it’s a homicide, a homicide doth not a murder make, much as our man Dismas here might like to try one. We’ve still got three options on cause of death —suicide, accident and natural causes — before we get to murder.’

  Rebecca began to squirm some more and suddenly let out a real cry.

  ‘Here, let me take her,’ Hardy said. He reached across the table and Abe passed the baby over. Immediately she snuggled up against his chest and closed her eyes.

  ‘The magic touch,’ Frannie said. ‘I’ll go get some lunch.’

  She got up, and the two men watched her for a second as she headed toward the steam tables. Hardy stroked a finger along his baby’s cheek. ‘You want to do me another favor?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s not much,’ Hardy continued, ‘a phone call.’

  * * * * *

  Hardy cleared seven cases in the two hours after his lunch: three DUI’s with priors, a shoplifting with priors lowered to a misdemeanor for a plea, one possession of a loaded firearm by a felon, and two aggravated assaults — a purse snatching and a soccer father beating up his son’s coach. None of these cases would have to go to trial and further clog the court system, and he was glad about that, but this plea bargaining was demoralizing and tiring.

  Glitsky appeared in his doorway just as Hardy finished taking care of the weapons charge — his toughest case of the day. If you were convicted of carrying a gun without a license in San Francisco, you went to jail. So people facing time in the slammer tended to prefer a jury trial where they perceived they’d at least have a chance to get off. But in this case Hardy had persuaded the guy’s attorney to plead nolo contendere and take weekend jail time. A sweet deal for both sides, all things considered.

  Glitsky perched on the corner of the desk. ‘So who am I talking to?’ he asked.

  Most of the prosecutors shared a room with one of their colleagues, but since Hardy had come on as an assistant D.A., his roommate had been on maternity leave, which suited him fine.

  Glitsky got up to close the door behind them and went and sat at the other desk. Hardy got through to Farris’s office, then Glitsky punched in so Hardy could listen. The receptionist told Glitsky to hold, and they waited through five of the beeps that signified the call was being recorded.

  Glitsky identified himself, referred to Hardy’s earlier call and told Farris about the new information from the coroner. As soon as Glitsky said the word karate, they knew they were onto something.

  Farris was silent a long moment. Then he quietly said, ‘Shit.’

  ‘Mr Farris?’

  Again an interval. ‘I’m here. Give me a minute, will you.’

  Glitsky waited, fingers drumming on the desk. Beep. Beep.

  ‘It might not be Owen. Lots of men do karate.’

  ‘When did you see him last?’

  ‘Friday around noon, lunchtime. He wasn’t wearing a jade ring then, just the wedding band. At least, I suppose he had the band on. I would have noticed something different, I think.’

  ‘But Mr Nash did practice karate?’

  ‘He was a black belt. He started it a long time ago, when we were in Korea.’

  Glitsky’s brows went up. He glanced at Hardy. ‘A bone in the little finger had been broken and healed twice,’ he said.

  Farris swore again, waited. Glitsky whistled soundlessly. Beep.

  ‘I think I’d better come up,’ Farris said.

  * * * * *

  Hardy almost forgot his appointment to apologize to the police chief, Dan Rigby. Glitsky was going down to Strout to see if he would be amenable to having Hardy around when Ken Farris arrived to inspect the hand. Frannie had called to tell him that at her next Ob/Gyn in a month they could expect to hear the new baby’s heartbeat, and would Hardy try to get the time off so he could go with her? Did he want to know if it was going to be a boy or a girl? She wasn’t so sure, herself, if she wanted to know. Also, she was so young the doctor didn’t recommend an amnio, and she hadn’t had one with Rebecca and she’d turned out fine. What did he think?

  Hardy, answering her questions, enjoying her excitement, idly flipped his calendar page and saw the note: Rigby 4:00.

  It was 3:55.

  He got to the chiefs office on the dot and waited outside for twenty-five minutes. He didn’t want Farris to have come and gone by the time he got out, but he couldn’t really push things too much here. The sergeant/ secretary had made it clear yesterday that he was not one of Hardy’s fans and by extension neither was the chief.

  The intercom finally buzzed on the sergeant’s desk. He looked over at Hardy and pointed a finger at the double doors.

  Dan Rigby sat back in a leather chair, still talking on the telephone. He had a boxer’s face, red and lined, and gray hair that was nowhere longer than a quarter inch. Hardy knew he often wore a business suit, but today he was in his officer’s uniform. It was meant to be impressive.

  Hardy
stood on the Persian rug before his desk, trying to hit on a suitable opening. Rigby, listening into the telephone, scrutinized him as he walked in. Hardy waited another minute. Then Rigby hung up and squared his shoulders as though they caused him pain. ‘You used to be a cop, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I worked a beat about three years.’

  ‘Then went to the law, right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Here it comes, Hardy thought.

  Rigby relaxed his shoulders, sunk back into his chair. ‘I often wondered about going the same way, though of course it’s worked out well enough, I guess. But getting away from the police end of it — I suppose there just wasn’t enough action anywhere else.’

  The law’s not so bad,‘ Hardy said.

  Rigby laughed hoarsely. ‘Naw, the law’s all pleading and bullshit. The difference is most of the time we all know, we damn well know, who did it, but you gftys, you lawyers, have got to prove it. Us, we know who did it, we catch ’em, our job’s over, just about. So I figure the thing about this incident yesterday, you got your hats mixed up. You get good training as a cop here, and it sticks with you, you think like a cop. Even when you’re over on the law side. Locke’s got a hair up because I called him and he does hate to be bothered with his department. But you and I got no gripe. You get a murder out of this, or a suspect, you just do us all a favor and keep us informed. We’ll go get the collar, and then you can do your job.‘

  The phone rang again. Rigby picked up the receiver and listened for a moment. ‘I don’t care what his constituency is, he does not get a police escort to…’ Rigby looked up, surprised to see Hardy still there. He waved him out of the room and went back to his call.

  Ken Farris stood next to the nearly leafless ficus by the window that looked out at the parking lot, his hands crossed behind his back.

  He had just come from the cold room, looking at a barely recognizable thing that had four appendages — the index finger was missing — and he went instinctively to the window, as though for air, although the window was never opened.