'Excuse me,' he said. They stopped talking, both of them turning to him. 'I'm just going back to see if my girlfriend's okay.' He pointed to the unpaid bill. 'She's got the money with her. In case the waitress comes, sees we're both gone' – he flashed a grin – 'would you please tell her we didn't cut out on the check. We'll be right back.'
The nice cop nodded, said sure, and Kevin was gone.
Melanie, white as death, shivered by the back door, which was clearly labelled 'Emergency Exit Only. Alarm will Sound.'
Kevin stopped in front of her, studied the sign. 'You ready? Let's go.'
'What do you mean, let's go?'
He took her hand, bringing her along with him, pushed into the bar that held the door. No sound. The door opened into an alley.
Margot Simms pulled up behind the police car that was parked by the curb in front of Pizzaiola. 'What's that doing here?' she asked of no one, getting out of her car.
She had already positioned a man each at the opposite ends of the alley that ran the length of the block behind the restaurant. She and the last one – Sam the Van Man – were going in through the front door.
Simms had decided that there would be no point in making a fuss. No sense inviting resistance or worse. Kevin Shea would have no idea who she was – just another customer – until she flashed her badge and, if need be, pulled her weapon.
Standing just inside the door, surveying the room, she did not see anybody resembling Kevin Shea. There were only about twenty tables – and it took that many seconds. One of the tables, back by where a couple of city cops were sitting, had not been cleared off yet but its seats were empty. She turned and issued an order to Sam to check the bathroom.
Back with the policemen, she identified herself, took out Kevin Shea's picture, asked them if they had seen anyone who looked like…
A frozen glance between the men. One of them cattle-prodded, almost knocked the table over jumping up, reaching for his gun, going into the hallway. Simms followed in hot pursuit.
Sam came out of the bathroom. 'Nothing,' he said.
They were gathered in the narrow hallway. The older San Francisco cop hesitated by the back door, then pushed.
Nothing.
He let it swing all the way closed. Pushed at it again. 'Alarm must be out of whack,' he said.
'I literally thought I was going to die,' Melanie said. They were turning off Haight onto Stanyan, fifty yards from the lobby entrance to Ann's building. 'What are we going to do about the bill?'
Kevin gave her the eye. 'You're worried about the bill?'
'Well, you just don't walk out without paying.'
'Sometimes you do. It's called situational ethics, I think.'
'We're going to go back and pay them sometime, though, aren't we?'
Kevin squared her around to him and kissed her. 'Yes,' he said. 'That's a very important point and I concur that we should do it at the first opportunity. Which might not be tonight.'
She snuggled up against him, the relief flooding through her.
'Okay. But let's try not to forget, okay?'
'I won't forget. I've got a mind for this kind of stuff.' He kissed her again. 'You are such a dork,' he said tenderly. 'I don't know why suddenly I'm so in love with you.'
She came up as though she were going to kiss him back, but instead took his bottom lip in her teeth, held him there, whispering with equal gentleness, 'Birds of a feather.'
64
Before dinner Dismas Hardy had loaded up about five hours worth of opera on the CD player and now a male tenor – beyond Pavarotti, Glitsky wasn't too hot on the names – was barely audible, singing to break your heart. His heart.
After leaving Loretta, Glitsky had originally planned on zipping by here, getting the lowdown on Hardy's interview with Farrell, then calling Farrell and moving out on Kevin Shea.
As soon as he had come in he had called Farrell's number but there had been – maddeningly – no answer. Why didn't the man have an answering machine? All lawyers had answering machines – Glitsky thought they had dispensers for them in the bathrooms at law schools.
Then he had come into the kitchen and given Hardy's wife Frannie a kiss hello and Frannie had taken one look at him and said he was staying for dinner and that was the end of that. It was obvious that he wasn't taking good care of himself. Just look at him – what did he weigh anymore? What was the matter with him? He should at least think of his children.
Frannie was Moses McGuire's little sister, a petite woman with long flaming red hair, skin the color of cream, green eyes. More than a decade younger than Glitsky and Hardy and everybody else he saw outside of work, she was idealistic, headstrong, quite beautiful.
When Flo had died, and though the Hardys had two young children of their own, Frannie had taken all of Glitsky's boys for a month while he had pretended he was starting to get his life back together. It was a crucial time – and it had enabled him to find, interview and hire Rita; it had given the boys some sense of continuity when they needed it most. And it had given him an excuse to come someplace and not be alone after work.
So tonight they had fed him – Dismas and Frannie were turning into some sophisticated eaters, but Abe thought there were probably worse fates. They called it risotto, whereas Abe would have said rice and fish, but by any name it tasted good. He even had most of a glass of wine. White.
A half shot of Stoly during the day, a glass of wine at night. He was turning into a drunk. And speaking of drunk…
He'd called Farrell again. Or tried. It was frustrating to realize that his own sense of urgency involving Kevin Shea didn't appear to be shared by the suspect's own attorney. Or maybe it was – it could be they were having a meeting, a strategy session. He thought of his meeting with Farrell at Lou the Greek's, Hardy's description of his own tête-à-tête with Farrell in the Shamrock, and had come to the conclusion that whatever Farrell was doing, it was over drinks.
Well, he'd have to be patient.
Over dinner they had covered the riots, Abe's kids and his dad, Monterey, Ashland, the production of The Tempest, camping in general, which led to the Glitsky household's rules committee, on to early childhood development (the Hardys' kids were five and three, respectively), somehow over to Supervisor Wrightson, the city's wrong-headed policies on affirmative action, then on to events at the Hall, Art Drysdale, Chris Locke, the future of the United States political system. The usual stuff.
The subject of Loretta Wager had come up as well. As had Elaine. In catching up with the week's events, Hardy had not been thrilled by the role the two women had played – the rush to the indictment of Kevin Shea, the cynical way they had manipulated the media.
But Glitsky – not really wanting to dissemble in front of his friends – had segued to a different topic, saying all of that was just politics. Nothing to talk about. And how about these green beans – how did Frannie keep them so crisp? With all of the other topics they did not get around to the specifics of Hardy's talk with Wes Farrell, the fact that the search warrant had been served by a DA's investigator. It just never came up.
Now Glitsky sat on the low couch in the warm and spacious – compared to his – front room of the Hardys' house. He couldn't help noticing with some measure of regret and envy that there wasn't a large and unsightly changing screen – as there was in his own cramped duplex – separating the living area from the sleeping area. Of course, there was no need. The Hardys didn't have a nanny. Frannie stayed at home with the two kids. Dismas went to work. Old-fashioned, but there it was. The way it had been with him and Flo, and the way it wasn't anymore.
An oak fire crackled in the fireplace and he could hear his friends in the back of the house, the familiar and comfortable chit-chat as they got dessert together.
Frannie appeared now from the kitchen – her hair was back in a ponytail and she wore a white 'Cal' sweatshirt and Nike running shorts and sandals, no socks. Carrying a tray with two pots and cups and cookies, she set it down on the coffee
table in front of Abe, sat kitty-corner to him in Hardy's lounger. 'What do you say? Let's be bold and not watch television tonight.'
Glitsky smiled, began squeezing some lemon over his tea. Frannie did think of everything. 'You mean just talk?'
She nodded. 'Unusual but I say go for it.' She reached over, grazed a hand lightly on his knee. 'We haven't talked about you at all. How are you doing?'
Stirring his tea, studying the swirl of the liquid. 'I'm fine.'
Frannie poured herself some coffee, adding a little cream from a carved crystal pitcher. 'I think what I like about you most, Abe, is your gushing nature, the way you just spill out everything that's on your mind.'
He kept stirring the tea. 'I'm fine, Frannie. Really. That's all there is to it.'
'Well, you seem, if you'll pardon me, a little run down.'
'It's been a long week.' He sipped. 'I'm fine, really.'
Frannie nodded. 'Dismas says if you say you're fine three times in under a minute, you're not.'
'Dismas says that, huh?'
'And if you add "really" at least once, you really aren't.' She was leaning forward. 'You said "really" twice. I noticed.'
He had to chuckle. 'Maybe this is one of your husband's theories that will prove unfounded.'
'What is this heresy I hear?'
Hardy arrived from the kitchen through the dining room with a snifter of something. 'One of my theories?'
Frannie looked up at him. 'Abe's fine,' she said. 'Really, he says.'
Hardy nodded. 'Good.'
'He doesn 't want to talk about it.'
'Better.' Motioning for Glitsky to slide over, Hardy found a place on the couch. 'I don't want to talk about Abe either.'
'There's nothing to talk about,' Glitsky said. 'I'm working, life's going on.'
Frannie was shaking her head. 'You have not had a date in one year and three months.'
Glitsky had been through variations of this scene before. His scar stretched through his lips. 'That's 'cause you're already taken.'
Frannie beamed at him, said to Hardy, 'He's so sweet.'
'A cupcake,' Hardy agreed. 'In spite of what everybody says.'
'But really, Abe…' Frannie didn't want to give it up.
Glitsky slapped his thighs, was standing. 'But really, guys, I've got to try Wes Farrell again.'
Farrell finally answered his phone. He sounded sober, pumped up. 'I just talked to my client, Lieutenant, not twenty minutes ago. He's very anxious to get this thing moving. So am I. Your friend Hardy indicated to me that you had some kind of plan and I'd like to know what you have in mind.' Then, more sharply: 'I did think you might have tried to get in touch a little earlier.'
Glitsky snapped back. 'You weren't home. I did try. And I was around all day yesterday. You were going to call me, maybe you don't remember?'
There was a brief silence, then the reply, curt and formal. 'I thought I explained that adequately to Mr Hardy.'
Glitsky could feel the spirit of cooperation slipping away. The lawyerly tones were kicking in, the defense vs. the prosecution, and Glitsky was with the prosecution. Hardy had become Mr Hardy. Glitsky was going to lose Farrell and therefore Shea and everything else if he didn't rein in the general antagonism that was threatening to overcome him, the frustration.
'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I'm afraid I haven't had any real time with Hardy. His message to me was that you'd talk to me. That's all we got to. I'm glad you are.'
Another pause, Farrell perhaps considering his sincerity. 'So what's your idea?'
Now it was Glitsky's turn to hesitate. How much did he dare tell? 'I've spoken to Senator Wager,' he said. 'Alan Reston is her protegé and he's our stumbling block, yours and mine. She promised me she'd talk to Reston, convince him to cut Shea the slack he needs, guarantee him some safety.'
'You talked to the senator personally?'
'Yes.' Then, feeling he needed to explain: 'We went to college together. We know each other.'
'That's a fortuitous relationship. And she said she'd do it?'
'She said she'd talk to Reston, yes. She seemed confident she could convince him to soften up some, make some guarantees, which is all Shea needs, right? That hasn't changed?'
'Not as far as I know. But that's his minimum, Lieutenant. He still wants to come in, get his story heard. I should tell you, though, I'm going to try very hard to get this whole indictment quashed. It's bogus.'
Glitsky figured now was as good a time as any to cement the newly wrought alliance. 'You need me to give my two cents to anybody, Mr Farrell, I'll say what I think.'
'And what's that?'
'I don't think your boy did it. I don't think the evidence says he did it. He may even have been the hero here. I think he ought to walk.'
Glitsky heard the sigh of relief over the phone wire. 'I appreciate that,' Farrell said.' Can I ask you another question?'
'Sure.'
'You got any leads on who might have been behind it, the mob, the lynching?'
Glitsky decided he could share that information, such as it was. 'A couple. Nothing firm, but yes, there are some things, some other people we're looking at.'
'I wanted to hear that.' Dead air. Then: 'So when are you going to hear back from the senator? Or Reston?'
'I'd expect by tonight sometime, morning at the latest. Loret- the senator couldn't reach Reston at the office and left a message for when he got home. No one knows when that's going to be but she said it was urgent. He'll call her.'
'I should probably get an answering machine,' Farrell said out of left field. 'But that timing works. I'm talking to Shea at nine in the morning.'
'I should have heard before that. And you'll be around? This number?'
'I'm not leaving. I'll be here.'
'Okay. I'll call you.'
'All right. And, Lieutenant?'
'Yeah?'
'Thanks. This is above and beyond.'
'It shouldn 't be, it should be how it works.'
'Yeah, well,' Farrell said, 'if my uncle had wheels he'd be a wagon.'
Glitsky cut it short at the Hardys'. Something in their domestic bliss, so obvious and unforced, wrenched at his insides tonight. He didn't know if he was pulling away from the memory of Flo and the life they'd shared, so similar in many respects to the Hardys', or experiencing a kind of foreshadowing of the loss he was bound to feel with Loretta.
No question about it – the two of them would never sit, legs casually intertwined on the couch they'd bought after much discussion with the money they'd saved for it. He knew they would never live in her house together – in the mansion Dana Wager had built in Pacific Heights. Nor she in his, with the boys. Loretta was a United States senator and her husband had been one of the developers who had helped refashion San Francisco's skyline into what it was today – high-rises and pyramids and glass monoliths to the edge of the famous bay.
Glitsky was a working cop.
It wasn't going to last – no sense pretending it was, and he'd been doing that. Perhaps seeing the Hardys dosed him back up with reality. He and Loretta had now, but they had no future. He knew he had to face that, prepare for it, accept it – he simply wasn't ready to just yet.
He climbed the darkened twelve steps and let himself into his house. After turning on the light in the hallway he went to the closet, removed his flight jacket, hung it up. The thermostat on the wall read sixty-one degrees – without his jacket on it felt like ten below. He moved the heater lever all the way to the right and within moments heard the heater kick in, felt air begin to move around him. The furnace had a distinctive smell when it hadn't been turned on in a while and it kicked in now, dusty and stale.
He stood as though rooted in front of the thermostat for a long time. Something had stopped him dead. It wasn't a specific thought, or a thought at all. He just didn't move. There was nothing to move for – if everything stopped now, nothing would ever get worse.
Or better.
He was in the kitchen, more lights on,
getting more tea – habits, habits. He didn't want to drink any more tea, but, all alone now, he found himself afraid – no, not afraid, nervous - that if he stopped doing things he would just stop, period.
The water wasn't boiling yet. He went back into the kids' hall and checked the two rooms, the closets, the lock on the back door. In his bedroom, the photograph of Flo was still turned down on his bureau and he picked it up, staring at the once-so-familiar face for a long time.
The light on his message machine was blinking and he walked over to it, pushed the button.
'Dad. Hi. It's Isaac. Grandpa says he thinks we should stay down here another couple days and we were thinking… like if you've got the weekend, it's not that far, I mean you could be down here in a couple of hours.' A pause. 'If you want. I mean, we'd like it. Okay?'
Something rushing up at him, Glitsky pushed the stop button, sat down heavily on his bed, his back bent, holding his forehead in his hands.
He talked to all the boys – Isaac, Jacob, Orel – hearing the difference in the way they talked. Only two days with his father and they were back to the way they used to be with him and Flo, back before he had begun to think only in terms of their protection. He had to stop thinking like that. Had to.
His father Nat came on. They were having a great time. They'd gone to the Aquarium again, a minor-league baseball game, bought eight Dungeness crabs…
'Eight?'
…and shelled and eaten them on the breakwater.
'… not kosher I know, but, Abraham, I tell you, crabs like these, Solomon would have eaten these crabs, believe me.'
Tomorrow they were going to temple in the morning, 'since I don't think these boys, they're going so much, am I right? It can not hurt them.' Did Abe think he could make it down to Monterey? It was the boys' idea – they missed him. Nat lowered his voice. 'Even Isaac,' he said, 'he misses you.'
He would try. If he could clear up the Kevin Shea thing by, say, noon, there was a chance…
A Certain Justice Page 37
