Jamie O'Toole, jobless due to the loss of his workplace to fire, was bitter and angry. Jamie was a man who had lived in the city his entire life, had gone to Saint Ignatius high school and then done a year at San Francisco State, during which Rhoda (the name alone, he should have known), his girlfriend at the time, had gotten pregnant and he'd married her, which had killed five years dead.
Also, it left him without a college degree, which he would have gotten otherwise, he was smart enough. But the breaks just hadn't worked out for him so he could stay in school. So there he was, needing a job – any job – at the beginning of this recession, and he didn't care what they were saying about it in the newspapers, here in California it wasn't getting any better.
So he'd gotten into bartending – decent tips, most of the money under the table, where he could keep it instead of give it to Uncle Sam or, worse, to Rhoda. Guys had told him, 'Don't get so you're making any money on the books, the ex will just come and get the judgment upped.' And he had listened. Rhoda would do that to him, no question. Same as she wouldn't get married, though she was living with some dweeb in Richmond, because then he'd be allowed to stop his alimony. He supposed the child support would just go on forever, more money out of his pocket, another thing holding him down, keeping him where he was.
They were already giving out some federal emergency money and he had read the guidelines and realized he qualified – government always giving something away to somebody, usually not to him. He'd take it this time.
So he was waiting in a long cold line at the distribution place they had set up on Market Street – place was crawling with low life. Jamie O'Toole hated it, waiting with all those street people, shivering his ass off.
Then some guy, familiar, walks up to one side, and he's got it, he places him – the plainclothes cop, Lanier, that was it.
'How you doing, Jamie?'
'I'm cold, man. Witch's tit out here.'
Lanier was wearing a heavy flight jacket, corduroys, boots. He looked cozy, smiled. 'I was just out at your place. Your old lady said where we might find you.'
'Well, she got something right. Who's we?'
'My partner's parking around the corner. Be here in a minute.'
'I can't wait. Make my day. What do you guys want now?'
Lanier was standing almost on top of O'Toole, backing him away from the line. 'Same as before, just to talk.'
O'Toole went with it, a step at a time. 'What are you doin', man? I been waiting an hour here. This same shit again, Jesus. I'm so tired of this.'
Lanier got him to the corner, a distance off from the rest. O'Toole lowered his voice, punched a finger into Lanier's chest.
'You quit pushing me.'
Lanier smiled. 'You strike a police officer, I'll bust your head open. You think you're tired now…'
There a problem, Marcel?' Ridley Banks had appeared behind O'Toole and thought it seemed like a good moment to make his presence felt. Lanier smiled over O'Toole's shoulder at him. 'No, no problem. We're in the midst of the age of enlightenment here.'
O'Toole whirled around, took a beat noticing that Banks was black, then shrugged. 'Yeah, well, we got nothing to talk about. I told you everything I knew last time.'
Lanier grinned. 'Jamie, a smart guy like you, I figure everything you know ought to take at least an hour. Wouldn't you say, Ridley?'
'At least.'
O'Toole twisted his head back from one of the inspectors to the other. 'Well,' he repeated, 'I've enjoyed it. Now I gotta run.'
Lanier stepped in front of him again. 'There was one little thing, Jamie. The other day you said it was Kevin Shea, by himself, as far as you knew, that had done the thing with Wade.'
'I said I didn't know. I wasn't out there.'
'Oh, that's right,' Banks put in, 'I think he did say that.'
'Did he? Was that exactly it?'
'I think so. You wouldn't change your story, would you, Jamie? Where'd he get the rope?'
'What rope?'
Lanier smiled, humoring him. 'What rope, he asks.'
'If Shea was in your bar and left to go lynch Wade, what happened? Did he stop off at his car and grab a rope from the trunk, or what?'
'I don't know what happened. I didn't leave the bar.'
Now Banks stepped in closer, also smiling. 'He keeps saying that, you notice?'
Lanier nodded. 'Sticking to his story. Didn't see a thing. Good strategy.'
Banks moved in some more and now they had him surrounded. 'We think… actually we're pretty sure, Jamie… that the rope came from the hardware store next to your bar. What do you think about that?'
'I don't think anything about it. I wasn't there.'
'Whew.' Lanier, impressed. "This is some consistent story, Ridley. We'd better just give it up and go on back to the office.'
'The only thing is,' Banks said, 'that we found what looks suspiciously like a beer glass, or big pieces of several beer glasses, in the display window of the hardware store, and I think there's a chance one of those pieces is gonna have your fingerprints on it somewhere. We're checking.'
O'Toole's eyes were darting back and forth. 'I'm the bartender, guys, I would have touched the glasses.'
"That's right, Ridley,' Marcel said, 'he is absolutely correct.'
'Gosh,' Banks said, 'that's right. I must have forgot.' He snapped his fingers, as though suddenly remembering something else. 'I do wonder, though, about the lawnmower. The one in the hardware store's window? Did somebody take that into the Cavern where you might have touched it – mow some Astro-turf or something – and then go put it back in the display next door? What could've happened there, I wonder?'
'Are you saying my prints are on some lawnmower?'
Banks shrugged. 'We're checking, Jamie. We're just checking a whole load of stuff, you wouldn't believe. You think we'll get lucky?'
'I think we will, Rid.'
'I do, too, Marcel.'
The inspectors smiled at Jamie O'Toole. In spite of the cold, he'd broken a sweat. His eyes were moving, the gears in his brain nearly audible as they turned. 'Well, I mean,' he said, 'there had to be other guys. One guy couldn't have done it himself, could he? I mean, there was a bunch of guys. Everybody was drinking, you know?'
Lanier kept up that affable smile. 'We don't know, actually, Jamie, which is why we're being so… I don't know… pushy. We'd really like to find out.'
Banks said: 'You know Brandon Mullen and Peter McKay?'
'Sure, I know those guys. I already told you that.'
'They were there, they admit it. When did they leave?'
'When did they leave?'
'I think that's what I said. When did they leave? After Shea, before Shea, with Shea, when?'
'I think after.'
That's funny. They said before.'
Then it must have been before. Look, guys, it was busy. I can't remember everything.'
'Our lieutenant said you told him it was slow.'
'I thought he meant afterward.'
They kept it up for about five more minutes, then thanked him for his time and sent him back to the line.
Walking back to their car, Banks said, That was kind of fun. I believe the man went outside.'
Lanier nodded. That was a good idea. 'We ought to dust that window. Fire damage or no, we find one of Jamie's prints on anything…'
'I hear you,' Banks said. 'Time comes, it would be a neat surprise.'
45
Lou the Greek's was beginning to fill up.
Glitsky stood blinking in the corridor at the bottom of the stairway that led to the bar, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. An overriding smell of cabbage made him wonder what culinary delight Lou's wife had prepared for lunch that day. Though he often hung out doing some business or other in one of its tiny booths, Glitsky had stopped eating at Lou's a few years back after an unfortunate reaction he'd had to the place's home-made kim chee, which others of his friends swore by.
The cabbage smell now triggered a s
ense memory of that, and his stomach rolled over. He took a breath, steeling himself, and walked in.
A hand went up at the bar, and Glitsky, after making allowances for the hair (now in a ponytail) and a few extra pounds, realized that he had known Wes Farrell in another lifetime, had testified in a couple of cases that the man had been defending over the years. As he pulled up a stool, Glitsky was further struck by Farrell's attire – most of the people at Lou's worked at the Hall and wore some variation of the uniform. Farrell looked as though he had just come from the beach – he must be freezing, Glitsky thought, and said as much.
'My veins are ice. I don't feel a thing.'
Farrell was having a coffee drink, maybe just coffee. Glitsky motioned to Lou that he'd like his usual – tea. "That's handy in this town,' Glitsky said, 'not feeling the cold.'
'I don't know what it is, probably age, like everything else. I used to feel it, chatter my teeth, all of that. On the other hand, it could be I'm just anesth… anesth…' He broke a weary smile. 'Fucked up. Never could say that word, even sober.' He sipped his coffee. 'Right at this moment, for the record, I'm halfway back to sober, I think. Haven't had a drink in two three hours.'
Glitsky nodded.
'This is not a problem for me, I hope it's not for you.' Glitsky shrugged as his tea arrived in a cracked brown mug to match Farrell's. 'But enough about me,' the lawyer said, 'I want to tell you a story.'
'That's why I'm here.' Glitsky sipped his tea.
Farrell started to talk, quietly, now with no trace of a slur.
'That's what he says.' Glitsky, to be saying something, did not want to come across as gullible, but even wearing his most cynical hat, he still believed every word he had just heard.
Farrell, holding the high ground, did not need to push. 'You have any evidence that refutes it, any of it?'
"The picture seems to.'
'You got it here?'
Glitsky did not, but there was a newspaper behind the bar and Farrell leaned over and pulled it from the counter. 'Let's glance at this puppy a minute, what do you say?'
For not even close to the first time, Glitsky was face-to-face with the ultimate truism of observation – you saw what you expected to see. Now, looking at the picture that was convicting Kevin Shea all over the country, but with different eyes, Glitsky only saw what Farrell had described – Shea was grimacing with the weight of holding Wade up. He wasn't pulling him down, he was trying to save his life.
There were tiny clues, visible if you knew what to look for, if you were so inclined. The manner in which Wade's shirt was bunched, for example. If Shea had been pulling down, wouldn't one expect the shirt to be pulled taut to the body? And the rope, did Glitsky see the actual rope? Not much of it was visible in the picture – a few inches – but what there was did not seem to be perpendicular to the ground, which it assuredly would have been if it were holding the weight of two men.
And then, and most convincingly, there were the knife wounds. The information hadn't been released to the press. No one had even admitted to having one – Glitsky hadn't yet heard about Colin Devlin and Carl Griffin. They didn't officially exist – the very possibility of someone having a knife wound was part of Abe's mix, not the public's. They were one of his secrets, one of the little tricks that experienced policemen liked to trot out and go 'boo!' with. And now Farrell had preempted him on them, told him all about them, how they fit the picture.
Kevin Shea had had to cut his way through the crowd. He had slashed at the men closest to Arthur Wade. He was sure he had cut some of them. There had been blood.
And Arthur Wade had died of asphyxiation, which Glitsky knew from the coroner. He had not had his neck pulled on.
His tea had long ago gone cold. 'Well, Mr Farrell, I'd say you've got yourself a pretty good story.'
'It's not a story, Lieutenant. It's what happened. Kevin Shea is, if anything, a hero in all of this.'
Glitsky was thinking hard, not committing. If this were a normal case, if every media outlet in the Bay Area, if not the country, hadn't already run stories on the heinous life and career of the arch-bigot Kevin Shea, he would simply bring Farrell across the street and have a talk with the DA or Chief Rigby…
Hell, he was the head of homicide. He'd just be tempted to interview Shea and recommend the DA drop the whole thing right there. If it could be verified, and Farrell's knowledge of the knife wounds came close to meeting his criteria for that.
If this were a normal case…
'What's funny?'
Glitsky glanced sideways. 'Not much.'
'You looked amused.'
'Oh yeah. I'm often amused. Do you have any idea how much energy has been invested in your client being guilty?'
'Some. He's a little more on top of it than I am.'
'Where is he?'
'I don't know.'
Glitsky shot him a look.
'I don't know,' he repeated. 'He calls me. The boy's got a doubting nature, thinks I might turn him in for the rewards and he might not be all wrong on the right day.'
'I'd like to talk to him.'
'I could probably arrange that.'
'He should bring himself in.'
'That might be a little trickier. He's pretty convinced that if he gives himself up before this gets turned around somehow, he's dead.'
'He's being paranoid, you should tell him that. We've got protective custody, solitary-'
'Lieutenant, excuse me. We're doing fine here together, don't start bullshitting me now. You and I know, somebody wants to kill him, and we can assume somebody would for a hundred grand, he's gone. Jail or no jail. And he doesn't want to go to jail period. He didn't do anything wrong. What he wants is to get the word out. He saw you on the tube saying you needed some evidence, he thought you'd be the man.'
Glitsky consciously controlled his face. 'I'd be the man?'
'Get it to the DA, broaden the net, take it off him.'
Thinking of Elaine, Glitsky nodded. 'I can try that, but I'd still like to interview him.'
'He'd still be under arrest, though, wouldn't he?'
'Well, that's the grand jury, the indictment…'
'Can you quash the indictment?'
'Not at this stage. It's not in my province, anyway. The DA's got to withdraw the charges, which, look, you bring him down – backdoor it, I'll get him in to the DA personally. He'll listen, we'll go over the evidence we've got.'
'I don't think so. It's not about evidence. Not any more.'
To which Glitsky had no response. Farrell was right.
Lou came around to see if either wanted a refill and both declined. Behind them, the room was close to its capacity, elbow-to-elbow with the trade.
'And meanwhile,' Glitsky said, 'the city keeps on burning.'
"That's not my client's fault, Lieutenant. If he could stop it, he would. He's a good kid.'
This was an unexpected direction. 'He is? You know him personally?'
'We took some classes together,' Farrell said. 'He's a regular guy, normal as you and me.'
'So what's all this broken family, deep-South bigot, unstable personality?'
'That, sir, is quite possibly a young woman that Mr Shea had the bad fortune to sleep with and then tire of…'
Glitsky raised his eyebrows.
'… either that or the media needing to fill air time or blank paper.'
Glitsky had heard both explanations in different contexts too often before to be surprised, but the way they both fit in here – the hand in glove of it… he shook his head, nearly gagging on the last of his tea. 'How do I reach you?' he asked.
'I don't know when Kevin will get in touch with me, but when he does, I'll call you. Then we'll see where we go from there.'
Glitsky stood up. 'I'll do what I can.'
'You know, Lieutenant, I believe you.'
'Elaine.'
Alan Reston came around the desk – only yesterday it had been Chris Locke's desk – with his arms outstretched to greet her. She
rested her leather satchel next to her feet and stood, close to attention, letting him put his arms around her, raising hers to enclose him lightly because it would have been more awkward not to. He did not press her to him, though, merely held her an instant and let go, as an old friend might. Establishing that they were old friends, reminding her. 'This is a terrible business.'
'Yes, it is.'
'And losing Christopher Locke…' He didn't seem to have anywhere to go with that and let it hang in the room between them. Another bond. Chris Locke. His face twitched, out of nerves or fatigue, and he blurted, 'I'm glad you've come down. I was going to try to get by your office earlier, say hello but' – motioning to the papers piled on his desk – 'as you can see…'
'That's all right, Alan. It's okay if I still call you Alan?'
'Elaine…come on. Of course I'm Alan.' His grin came on and he started to reach out to touch her on the arm but stopped midway. 'Can I get you something, anything? You want to sit down?'
During her mother's first senate campaign, when she had still been a teenager, Alan Reston had been a jerk. In his mid-twenties at the time, and engaged (he was now married to the same woman), with a rich father and an ingratiating manner, Alan had an unshakable belief in his attractiveness to the opposite sex.
On the night of her mother's election, and emboldened by cognac, he had wagged his ding-a-ling in front of Elaine Wager in what he had thought was some kind of charming, harmless, celebratory way. He really seemed to think – or so he acted – that this was an acceptable mating ritual. After all, there was this obvious mutual attraction and they had been campaigning together and there was no reason… why, what was the matter? Didn't she know what this was for? What it was?
She had looked down and replied that it looked like a penis, only smaller.
It was the last time they had seen each other, until now.
She went to the couch and placed her satchel full of workpapers next to her. He pulled one of the wingbacks around to face her, but before he sat down she was talking. 'Have you talked to Art Drysdale? I was just by his office, I thought he might have been here. That's why I came by. I didn't want to bother you.'
A Certain Justice Page 22
