'Yeah, but you won't get the support, Lieutenant. What you need is to get closer to compliance.'
'But isn't that for the PD as a whole…?'
'Well, yes, originally, but this was the idea I took to Chief Rigby. He liked it.' Wrightson was pumped up about his role in all of this. 'Look, the force needs money and this is the way it's going to get it. The quotas – we don't call them that, of course – we amend the compliance-factors language so that it applies to each individual detail instead of the department as a whole.'
'But homicide is… it's the top of the pyramid. I mean, you don't just plunk people into homicide and make them inspectors to fill some quota – '
Wrightson's eyes were shining now, his color high. 'Where have you been, Lieutenant? This is San Francisco. Of course, that's what you do.'
'But-'
'This should make you especially happy – '
The scar in Glitsky's lips was white with tension. He could feel it. He didn't want to react angrily to Wrightson. Not personally. Not this morning. Not with all the other thin ice he was walking on. Maybe Wrightson was right – he was out of step and should be delighted at lowering the admissions standards for his detail.
But he couldn't stop himself. 'It makes me puke,' he said.
So much for the first two items he had left in the center of his desk the night before – Rigby's urgent call and the two messages from Greg Wrightson. Glitsky flashed his badge at a black-and-white out on Polk in front of City Hall and bummed a ride back to the Hall of Justice.
All these Halls and no shelter to be found.
Rigby had told Glitsky he was off the Kevin Shea matter, but on reflection Glitsky realized that he hadn't been specifically told to stop supervising his troops. Had that been on purpose, he wondered, Rigby covering his own ass in case Glitsky was on the verge of coming up with something? At the very least, that interpretation gave Glitsky an argument in the event he got called in front of the Police Commission.
In ten minutes he was back in his office, Carl Griffin sitting across from him, as angry, if that were possible, as Glitsky was. The inspector had a gooey-looking red stain on the front of his shirt. Either the remains of a jelly donut or he'd been wounded in the line of duty and hadn't noticed.
'So I caught Feeney' – this was another assistant district attorney, Tony Feeney – 'last night before I went home, got a tentative okay on immunity for him being in the mob if Devlin testifies. I got everybody down here, this morning eight sharp. Devlin, his dad, his lawyer, the whole gang, and Feeney comes in and announces no deal.'
'No deal at all?'
Griffin popped a couple of sticks of gum. 'Nada. Alan Reston isn't giving deals. New policy. How's he gonna get any witnesses, I ask, if he don't trade for nothing? So Colin Devlin's lawyer says why you wastin' our times, and they all go out, get a nice breakfast someplace.'
Glitsky was sitting all the way back in his chair, fingers templed in front of his mouth. 'What was this Devlin going to say?'
'Well, you had us looking for guys in the mob-'
'I remember, Carl. And Devlin admits he was there?'
'Not only there, he was part of it. His version – what he told me yesterday – started coming down to being that he got swept up in the mob, couldn't get out of it, and got between Arthur Wade and whoever was trying to get to him.'
'Did he say why somebody might have been trying to get to Wade? Trying to cut him down maybe? Did he see who it was? Kevin Shea, for example?'
Griffin was shaking his head. 'None of that. Sorry. I tried but the guy got his Achilles tendon cut in half, Abe. He went down like a sack. It never got beyond that, at least for him. But how we gonna-?'
'I know, I know. Wait a minute.' He brought his feet down. 'If Devlin was in the mob he'd be an accessory…' Glitsky was thinking that without a deal they could still arrest Devlin on that fact alone.
'Sure, that was the plan, but nope. I ran that one by Feeney, too, before everybody'd even left, while Devlin's lawyer was still there. I told him, "Look, you don't cut him a deal, what are you gonna want me to do, arrest him?" and Feeney looks at me and says what for? So I tell him 'cause he was in the mob and he tells me without Devlin's confessing to it there's no proof of that, so I tell him he did confess, more or less. Admitted he was there, at least. The guy just shrugs. Doesn't necessarily prove intent, he says. Christ! Whose side these guys on downstairs? Who is this Reston asshole anyway? Where'd he come from?'
'Devlin might have compromised their case on Kevin Shea,' Glitsky said. 'They don't want any of that on the record.'
'What record? We got no record.'
'That's right.'
Carl Griffin fixed his belt, scratched, frowning at the stain on his shirt. He wasn't going to waste his time trying to pretend he understood all this. He had just spent yesterday finding a guy with a knife wound, which had been that day's assignment. So what did the lieutenant want him to do today?
Glitsky sighed, still in his head with the other questions. 'I'll tell you what, Carl…'
The orders now were to go out to Dolores Park, try to locate the exact corner where Chris Locke had been shot – someone in one of the tent cities out there would have heard it, perhaps even seen something. Lots of people had been demonstrating, something would turn up. And when he found the spot, call forensics out there and run the battery, see what they came up with.
This was the kind of work Griffin did well. It gave him something to do and it would keep Abe from having to put Loretta through another round of trauma.
Griffin wasn't out of his office before Glitsky began punching Wes Farrell's number into his phone. Enough of this waiting – Rigby or not, he was going to make something happen.
56
Wes Farrell had stopped all drinking early the previous day and hadn't resumed after Sergeant Stoner had left at night. He had decided he had slipped up the day before with Lieutenant Glitsky, reading the man all wrong by trusting him. He thought that today he'd better be a little sharper if he was going to do any good work for his client and, while he wasn't ready to admit that his alcoholic intake had slowed him down or affected his judgment, he didn't want to take any chances.
He had been watching the television ever since he had gotten up and there had been no sign of Kevin's tape. Whether or not anyone would believe it, Wes had a hard time imagining that a news station wouldn't run it. True or not, they had to see it as a development in the case of the most wanted fugitive in the United States. It should have appeared on every station from here to Bangor, Maine, within minutes of its arrival at the station. What could have gone wrong?
He realized he had also erred in neglecting to ask Kevin for the phone number where he was, so he was reduced to waiting on the off chance…
And after his lecture the previous night about the probability of Kevin being the defendant in a murder trial, Kevin and Melanie might have decided – at last – to change their names and get into a witness-protection program. In Brazil, or something.
Bart was whining by the door, running around in little circles, needing to go relieve himself. Wes hadn't wanted to leave the apartment, thinking he should be there if Kevin or Melanie called, but the dog was giving him the guilts. It was nearly ten-thirty and he wasn't acting in the SPLA-approved manner. He could be fined, even jailed, his reputation smeared, branded as an animal-hater. Failing to believe in the anthropomorphism of animals was turning into the next cardinal sin among the PC set.
He looked down at his suffering pet, not wanting to allow Bart to experiment again with the newspapers in the kitchen. Could be a bad precedent – Bart might get so he liked it. 'Okay, guy, we gave 'em a chance. Let's roll it out of here.'
He opened the door and Bart rushed to the top of the stairs, whining and circling again. Not entirely trustful of the police, who had blindsided him only hours before, Wes atypically locked his difficult deadbolt, not that it would do any good if anybody really wanted to get in but it made him feel more secure.
He was four steps toward Bart at the head of the stairs when he thought he heard the telephone begin to ring. He cocked his head, listening over the dog's whine. Second ring. Yep, the phone.
'Perfect,' he said aloud, reaching into his pocket for the keys, which had caught on a loose thread in his pocket. He pulled and out came his comb and all his coins, flung all over the floor.
Ring.
The keys were stuck to the inside of his pocket, which was now pulled inside out. Swearing, holding the keys awkwardly, he crab-walked to his door. Bart came running up, barking.
Hey, master! Wes! My man. We're going out, remember? I've got to pee a river! I mean it. I'll do it in the hallway here if…
Ring.
He knew the trick. He could get the deadbolt on the first try if he calmly inserted the key all the way and then pulled it out the one sixteenth of an inch…
Ring.
… and wiggled it just the right amount. There!
'Shut up, Bart.'
The other lock was a piece of cake. In, turn, open.
Ring.
Cross the room, running, still holding the keys, which still stuck to the threads in the bottom of his turned-out pocket. Into the kitchen, the wall phone.
'Hello.'
Dial tone.
He dropped his hands in frustration and the keys, magically undoing their hermetic knot, fell to the floor. He stepped to the side and saw Bart looking up at him, moaning piteously over a fresh deposit.
His pocket still hanging all the way out, Wes stood stock still, then deliberately undid his zipper and pulled out his penis. 'I am a fucking one-eared elephant,' he told Bart, then tucked himself back in and went for a beer.
'That wasn't you?'
'No. This is the first time I've tried to call. We just plugged the phone back in. We wanted to get some sleep.'
'That's nice,' Wes said. 'So who was it?' He couldn't figure who else might have tried to call him. He never imagined it might have been Glitsky – not after the betrayal yesterday.
'I don't know,' Kevin said. 'How would I know who called you?'
Wes dropped it. 'Anyway, you get your nice sleep?'
'Yeah. We both feel better. Even my ribs…'
'Great. So what are you planning to do now?'
A short pause, then: 'We don't know, Wes. Maybe just wait.'
'You know what for?'
'No. We don't know what to do. Maybe wait 'til tonight and then try to get down to Mexico, then I don't know, call you when things maybe calm down, see if by then something's turned up. I mean, somebody's got to be out there who can say what happened. Besides me.'
'Don't you think they would have come forward by now?'
'Yeah. But maybe not. Maybe they're scared, too. I mean, all this stuff outside. But after my tape comes out…'
'Speaking of which…'
'Yeah, I know. We're calling the station right after this. Something went wrong there. Melanie says it must have been the guard.'
'The guard?'
"The place was closed up. She left it at the night desk.' Wes bit off his reply. He'd like a nickel for every time a detail like this had cost someone a case. You didn't drop things off with second parties – you delivered them to principals even if you had to wait all night. 'You want me to call the station, take it from there?'
'I thought you said it wouldn't do any good.'
'On the other hand, as you just pointed out, it might bring somebody out of the woodwork, a believable witness, and you might get out of this yet.'
'You think so?'
'I don't know, it's a big if. I wouldn't get my hopes up. But at least it's possible. As things stand now, you either run or you go to trial. It's probably worth doing, that's all I'm saying. I could do it for you, keep you guys out of it.'
He heard mumbling at the other end of the line, Kevin discussing it with Melanie, then he was back on. 'If you really would…'
'I said so, didn't I?'
'It's better than running, isn't it? It's the right thing?'
It was odd hearing someone ask that question nowadays, but Wes thought it very much in character. Kevin was a throw-back, a believer in doing the right thing – it was what had gotten him into this in the first place. All the right moves that had turned out so disastrously.
And Wes realized he had no choice either. The way Kevin was now was the way Wes had tried to be, had believed in being, before events in his life had soured him on believing anymore.
It was irrational blind faith, but giving solace to Kevin and Melanie, committing to help them, Wes realized he felt a whole lot better about himself than he had in a long time. It was the trick he had forgotten ever since Mark Dooher, since his wife… sometimes people didn't screw up on you. That was the thing he'd forgotten. You had to take chances. If you didn't you were dead, or might as well be.
'Wes?'
'Yeah, I'm sure. I do think it's your best shot, Kev. If you run and you're caught… no telling what would happen.' He didn't have to draw a picture. 'For now, I'd say lay low. Wait another day. Nobody knows where you are. Maybe something will break in your favor. You can always run, but once you do that, you're committed.'
57
Glitsky was home for lunch. He was never home for lunch on a workday but he had spent the rest of the morning assigning cases, following up with his inspectors who weren't working Kevin Shea in one way or another, checking over some other autopsies, scheduling courtroom appearances, liaising (an FBI word if ever there was one) with Special Agent Margot Simms on the 'progress' of the Kevin Shea investigation. The FBI had decided that this was a civil-rights case and that the federal government had at least parallel jurisdiction in the matter. They didn't need to be invited to investigate by the local police anyway, no more than they would if they were looking into the murders of civil-rights workers in the deep South. Now, on their own authority, they were on hand, and Chief Rigby seemed inclined to let them take whatever glory the case might provide, or whatever heat. Special Agent Simms was more than happy with this arrangement, although she hadn't been much interested in knife wounds, Jamie O'Toole, photographic inspections, the Mullen/McKay cousins, Rachel from eastern Europe, any of that.
What did interest Simms was the personality profile that depicted Kevin Shea as armed and very dangerous. Glitsky thought this had probably originated from Elaine Wager's outburst to the media, then been goosed up by FBI staff researchers who knew what they were looking for, and hence often found evidence of it, even when the data wasn 't particularly compelling.
Knowing the FBI and their propensity to shoot first, Glitsky had tried to set Simms straight on that notion. But she clearly didn't want to hear it – this was the kind of high-visibility case a young female agent needed if she wanted to get really equal and make her own bones among the men who hadn't been afraid to use firepower when the situation had called for it. If they needed them – she wasn't telling Glitsky they would, but if they did – she had two weapons specialists, including a marksman, at her disposal.
Next she wanted to know what Glitsky thought of Wes Farrell, was he their best bet to make contact with Shea – maybe a federal tap on his phone line? Special Agent Simms was 'connected' to a federal judge who, she said, would issue a warrant to her to go look for just about anything 'on half a molecule of ten-year-old DNA' whenever she asked.
Glitsky had said he thought it was possible that Shea and Farrell would telephonically connect. He'd kept his face impassive the whole time.
He had really just been spinning his wheels all morning, waiting to have meaningful discussions with two people – Ridley Banks and Loretta Wager.
Banks had not appeared at the office – not unusual in itself, he was a field inspector – but the no-show left intact the mystery of the Mo-Mo House note, which was the next item of those Glitsky had centered on his desk. Perhaps whatever that was about had nothing to do with Kevin Shea, and therefore Glitsky could officially pursue it. (When Wes Farrell hadn'
t answered his phone he had to shelve even his informal hunt for Shea. He had no trail to follow. Maybe Special Agent Simms would put him onto one.)
And he knew that Loretta was at one of the burials and would be neither at home nor her office until the early afternoon, at least. He kept telling himself that he wanted to talk to her so soon, now, again, for business reasons. He could even wait if he had to – it wasn't that he needed to talk to her for anything personal. Whatever they had to decide about each other would develop in its own time… Finally, he had given up on trying to appear busy and had driven home.
Now he was watching a pan filled with canned chili through tearful eyes chopping an onion. He'd already grated up the remains of a rock-hard lump of what looked like cheddar cheese that had been stuck in the back of the refrigerator.
He was still worrying the question of talking to Loretta about all of this; he had been in the bureaucracy long enough to know that going over your supervisor's head was the quickest and most thorough way to threaten your position and reputation. But he'd put enough of the pixels together to be getting a fairly clear image of what was happening, and he realized that the solution to the problem might well lie with Loretta Wager. It was all, as Strother Martin had observed to Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke, 'a failure to communicate.'
Glitsky would have to go to Loretta, who was undoubtedly unaware that Alan Reston, in his zeal to please his powerful benefactor, was abusing his new-found power, the authority of his office, to undermine the interests of justice. Reston (Glitsky reasoned) was going on the assumption that Shea had to continue to look guilty – if he wasn't guilty it would make Loretta look bad… Glitsky didn't think Loretta gave a good goddamn about that, she didn't want the guy railroaded. But Reston's position was that he didn't want to deal, just now, with anything that appeared to weaken the DA's case against Shea.
It was typical – short-sighted but common enough that it didn't even mildly shock him. Reston, the new guy, wanted to deliver his first major case to the person who had managed his appointment. He would be a hero. It would make Loretta a hero too. Everybody wins. And to a career prosecutor like Reston, it was an article of faith that Shea, like every other defendant on the planet, was certainly guilty of something.
A Certain Justice Page 30
