Dead Irish

by John Lescroart

  He had never really been a radical, of course. An activist, yes, but within the system. The kind of man he still was—working for the homeless now, or getting some of the businessmen in the parish to hire boys from the projects.

  “A few of us were volunteered to assist Father, that’s all. He had an idea—who knows, it might have worked—that there should be a gun drive where every unregistered piece could be turned in and the citizen would get an immediate amnesty, no questions asked.”

  Father shrugged at Dismas. “I’m afraid we were all a little naive back then.”

  The sergeant came to Father’s defense. “It didn’t do all that bad. I was surprised we got the response we did.” He turned to his friend. “Got about a hundred and fifty weapons citywide.”

  “One hundred and sixty-three.”

  Father and his memory. Rose was proud of it. She walked over to the pitcher and picked it up. The sergeant held out his cup for more.

  Father believed, he was saying in his humble way, that it was better to try things and fail than not try at all. They didn’t know it wouldn’t work until they tried it.

  “I know,” Sergeant Glitsky replied, “back then anything seemed possible. The times they were a-changin’.”

  Father sat back in his heavy chair, sighing. “Ah, yes, those changin’ times. Back then Reagan was governor. Now . . .”

  All the men laughed.

  “Thanks, Rose, a little more, please. Now what brings you gentlemen to the church’s door this fine morning?”

  Darn! It was more about the Cochran boy’s death. And Father had seemed to be getting over that the last day or two. At least his appetite had returned. Perhaps the accident with Steven had forced him to turn his mind to more immediate problems, but that’s how life was, wasn’t it? One thing after another.

  She put the pitcher down and went back to her dusting. There was some talk about Dismas hearing Father’s confession, but that didn’t make any sense, then Father was talking about Eddie coming by with that problem.

  “When was that, Father?” the policeman asked. “Do you remember?”

  “Actually, he came by twice. Once, I believe it was the Wednesday before . . . before he died. As I mentioned to Dismas the other day, one of his coworkers had said something about not having to work for very long, that he and Mr. Polk wouldn’t need much money pretty soon. That he, Eddie, didn’t need to worry about building up the business again.”

  Father came forward now in his chair. “Eddie was a very smart kid. He put a few things together and came up with the idea that Polk was going to do something illegal—he didn’t know what. So he came by here and wanted my take on some options he’d worked out. But at that time he really didn’t know much, so he left pretty unresolved. Anyway, when I saw him the next time—”

  “And when was that?”

  Father looked out the window, trying to remember. “If I’m not mistaken, that was Sunday.”

  Rose frowned, trying to remember something. Lord! It was hard always remaining a silent fly on the wall. But then she saw Father look at her and smile. She lit up with contentment. With his memory, he was undoubtedly right, and that was the end of it.

  “In any event”—he turned back to the others—“he had kept on kind of pushing Alphonse to say specifically—”

  “Alphonse? The employee was Alphonse . . .” That seemed to excite the sergeant. Rose was forgetting to dust.

  “Yes, I think that was the name. Anyway, evidently Alphonse wasn’t too bright and said something about drugs.”

  “Well, excuse me, Father, but it’s not clear to me where you come in.”

  She knew this was a hard question for Father. She knew where he came in—for Eddie, for two dozen or more other people, really for anyone who asked. But how does he tell the sergeant without sounding like he’s bragging?

  “Oh, I think Eddie just wanted someone to talk to about it.”

  “About what?”

  She was getting a little annoyed at the sergeant. He didn’t have to push—Father would tell him.

  “What he should do, I guess.”

  “This is what he was telling me,” Dismas said to his friend, “at the Shamrock.”

  Father nodded sadly. “You had to know Eddie. He was”—he paused, then went on a little more quickly—“he was kind of like all of us were back in the sixties. Thought it was his business to be involved. That if he just stuck his head in and pointed in the right direction, people would see it. He would go and talk to Mr. Cruz—you know him?” Both men nodded. “And see if there might be some way to get back his business for a period of time while Army—Eddie’s company—rebuilt. Then in the meanwhile, if that happened, he thought he had a chance of talking Polk out of it”—he paused—“out of doing something wrong, something that might hurt him.”

  Now Father hung his head. “So he asked me about it, and I”—his eyes turned back to the room, pained now—“I, wizard counselor that I am, said he might as well go ahead, that he didn’t have anything to lose.”

  Silence. He didn’t need to add—nothing except his life.

  “One more thing,” Hardy was saying as he got into his car. “Last night I remembered another thing Cruz had lied to me about.”

  “Cruz? Oh yeah, Cruz.” Glitsky was late for another appointment, not at his most attentive.

  “I asked him about the scene—his parking lot—what shape it had been in. He told me it was pretty bad.”

  “And it wasn’t?”

  “No, Abe, wrong point. How could he have seen it? His boy, secretary, whatever, told me it was cleaned up by the morning.”

  Glitsky thought a moment. “Maybe he saw it on the late news, ran down to check it out.”

  “Who called it in?”

  Abe rolled his eyes to the still-clearing sky, reached into his car and handed something over the roof to Hardy. “You coming down for the Polk interview? One-thirty?”

  Hardy nodded.

  “So study the report between now and then and bring it back with you.”

  Hardy took the folder.

  “But as you’re going through it, checking out Mr. Cruz, say two words to yourself every couple minutes, would you?”

  “What’re those, Abe?”

  “Alphonse Page.”

  22

  MATTHEW R. BRODY, III, was the managing partner of Brody, Finkel, Wayne & Dodd. The firm had twenty-eight associates and the entire fourteenth floor of Embarcadero I.

  Brody, forty-one, stood six feet four and had lately begun using Grecian Formula on his thick head of (now) black hair. He wore a charcoal pin-striped three-piece suit, the coat of which now hung on the gilt rack inside the door to his office.

  His face still looked as young as he wished his hair did, with a wide but shallow forehead, a patrician nose, a strong chin. The only moderately distinctive thing about his looks, and it wasn’t much, was his upper lip, which was too long by a centimeter. He would have worn a mustache—did, in fact, while he was in school—but his wife had told him it made him look foreign, so he’d cut it.

  (It was one thing to shoot hoops with blacks and have a beaner roommate, she’d told him after he’d passed the bar, when she’d decided to marry him, but another altogether to look like a successful attorney.)

  Brody didn’t build the firm to its present status by taking on poorer Latino clients such as those litigating against La Hora for distribution hassles. But neither did he do it by being unfriendly or turning down clients.

  In the La Hora matter, he had gone to bat for Jaime Rodriguez because he was the cousin of his college roommate Julio Suarez, who, in turn, just happened to run the most successful construction company in Alameda, which was currently developing a three-and-a-half-acre waterfront mall about two miles from the naval station. Coincidentally, Brody was handling the paper on that development.

  Rodriguez had been distributing La Hora in Lafayette and part of Richmond. After meeting with Brody, he had talked all of his fellow distrib
utors, except the main guy in San Francisco, into the co-op lawsuit.

  After he’d studied the facts of the case, Brody got into it a little. It wasn’t often he ran across a real human issue. This wasn’t wills or codicils or a contract featuring an endless series of “WHEREAS” followed by a “NOW THEREFORE.”

  Of course, there wasn’t much money in it, but it wasn’t strictly pro bono either. Hell, someone had to represent these folks. He felt good about it.

  From his desk in his corner office he could see the clock on the Ferry Building. It was eleven-thirty. He was prepared for the meeting. He was always prepared, he knew, but when Judge Andy Fowler sent someone his way it was doubly important to have done his homework.

  Donna buzzed him and told him Mr. Hardy was here. He had, of course, checked back with Andy about Hardy. Used to be the son-in-law. Brody tried to recall if he’d ever met Jane’s first husband, but that had been before he was successful enough to have joined Olympic and gotten to know the judge. Still, he was ready to recognize him if he looked at all familiar.

  He didn’t. The man was a little too casually dressed for Brody’s taste. Andy had said Hardy was an attorney, and there were rules of dress within the fraternity. But then, Hardy didn’t practice law anymore, so maybe something else was going on.

  He declined coffee, tea, anything, which was good. Brody had said he’d give him an hour, but hoped it wouldn’t take that long. Interesting cases were one thing, but let’s not forget time was money. Hardy did thank him immediately for his time. Maybe he was still in the club.

  Brody shrugged and smiled. “When His Honor beckons . . . How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to find out, if I may, if this man Cruz might have had a motive to murder one of Sam Polk’s employees.”

  Brody sat up straight, then fished for a cigar in the humidor on the desk. He didn’t like being surprised when he ought to know what was happening. Lighting the cigar gave him a moment. He took a stab in the dark.

  “Polk, the San Francisco distributor?”

  “That’s him.”

  Brody inhaled the cigar. He probably hadn’t heard the name in six months, but he hadn’t taken memory training for nothing.

  “There’s been a murder in this case?”

  Hardy shook his head. “We don’t know for sure. There’s two dead people as of now, with an angle to Polk. There may be some connection to Cruz.”

  “Two?”

  Hardy explained.

  “You know, Mr. Hardy, Polk is not one of my clients.”

  Hardy obviously didn’t know it. “I thought you were handling it.”

  “For everybody but Polk. He was the only one isn’t Mex . . . Latino, among the distributors, but he was also the first and the biggest. He wasn’t interested in the suit.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. He wouldn’t even meet with me to discuss it, although my other clients tried to bring some, uh, leverage to bear.”

  “How was that?”

  Brody held up a hand. “Nothing illegal, I don’t mean that. No threats or anything. Just some business incentives.”

  But Hardy pressed a little. “And when he didn’t come on, did it really hurt your case? What I’m wondering is, could someone have tried to scare Polk by hurting his people? Then maybe there was an accident?”

  Brody acted legitimately shocked. “Oh God, no. No chance. All this went down months ago. At that time I would have given a very qualified maybe to that theory—very; now, it’s not even possible. You must be out of litigation awhile. Anything in recent history couldn’t be relevant.” Hardy said okay, and Brody continued. “I don’t understand it really. It, the lawsuit I mean, was to Polk’s advantage.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to pay the legal fees.”

  Brody shook his head. “Minimal. In my opinion, I think he just stopped caring about his business. He’s an older fellow, probably rolling in money, maybe just figured it was as good a time as any to hang ’em up. His daughter was killed, you say?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “And the other one, his manager?”

  “We don’t know he was killed. In some ways it looked like a suicide, maybe was made to look like a suicide. The police leaned that way until Linda was killed. But now they’ve got a suspect for Linda and they’re willing to consider they’re related.”

  “Just too much coincidence to buy, right?”

  Hardy thought that was it.

  “And you think Mr. Cruz might have had a motive . . . ?”

  Hardy walked over to the globe and gave it a spin. He appeared to be thinking hard. “All I know, or think I know, is that Cruz lied to me twice while I was interrogating him. I’d like to think he did that for a reason.”

  “Why did he let you talk to him? He’s stonewalling us.”

  “Eddie’s body was found on his lot. We had a lying contest—I told him I was a cop.”

  “I hope you didn’t tell Andy that.”

  “No, I don’t think the judge would approve. Anyway, I got to see him and he lied to me about having known Eddie. I also think he was there at or near the time Eddie was killed.”

  Brody whistled, sitting in one of the comfortable chairs in front of his desk. “If you can prove that, you’ve got something.”

  Hardy took the other chair, saying, “I know. But if my uncle had tits he’d be my aunt.”

  Brody drew on his cigar, shaking his head. “The case really pisses me off, you want to know the truth,” he said. “Here’s this guy, Cruz, needs more money like a toad needs warts, and ruins his relationships with people he’s worked with for years. Friends, even.”

  “Socially?”

  “Not really. He’s got no personal social life, though he’s big in, as they say, the community.”

  “Well, that’s a contradiction, isn’t it?”

  “Not really. The community is his ad base.”

  “So why’d he do it? Cut these guys off, I mean. Wouldn’t that hurt him the same way?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s nine guys spread out all over the Bay area. And it’s not the kind of news the TV or the Chronicle’s likely to jump on.”

  “What is?” Hardy asked.

  “Well, if El Dia prints it, it’s publicity bullshit and sure as hell La Hora isn’t going to run the story.”

  “So what are you building your case on?”

  Brody crossed a long leg. “Oral contract. Past performance.” He rolled his cigar slowly in his right hand. “Actually, we’re almost to the point of going for a settlement and calling it a moral victory, though don’t quote me on that.”

  “Who’s ‘we,’ your clients?”

  “We is the firm.”

  Hardy followed that. The case was nearly lost. Brody had said almost, and Hardy had known lawyers like Brody who didn’t use the language carelessly. He mentioned it to him.

  “We got a private eye looking for dirt on Cruz, but I’m skeptical of finding anything.”

  “Why would that even matter?”

  Brody shrugged. “As I say, I think it’s a waste of effort, but my clients felt if we got to the last resort, and we’re there now, we might try some form of legal blackmail.”

  “Like?”

  “I don’t know. It’s what we’re looking for. Something to harm his image with the community, make him lose the ad support if it comes out. Then my clients remain discreet in return for a return to their original distribution contract.” Brody stood up, looked at his watch. “Long-shot city,” he said.

  Hardy got up too. The interview was over. “You have any leads on that? He beat up his dog, or what?”

  “No. We’re dealing with the macho thing. There’s some rumor he might be gay.”

  Hardy had to laugh. “I can’t believe it. Here in San Francisco?”

  “I know. But it’s no joke among the Latinos, let me tell you. It’s another bit of news that doesn’t make the papers, but any Saturday you want you go down to Mission Park on Dolores and
you can check out the Mexican gangs beating the shit out of anybody who swishes even a little.”

  “So if Cruz is gay?”

  Brody made a face. “It might be some leverage, that’s all. It’s probably nothing.”

  Hardy thought of something. “What if Cochran had found out Cruz was gay, say, and tried to use it himself? Get back Cruz’s La Hora distribution business for Polk that way? Or, maybe, keep the cash for himself ?”

  “That’s a lot of ifs, but given all of them, I’d say you might have a motive there.”

  Hardy thanked him, they shook hands, and again Brody was alone in his office. The clock on the Ferry Building said it was just past noon. The fog had completely burned off, and the flags along the Embarcadero were flying in what looked to be a light breeze. He loosened his tie, sighed, and returned to his desk, punching impatiently at his intercom.

  Here was Hardy, thinking Eddie Cochran had been the nicest guy in the world. One of the bona fide good ones. He’d known him pretty well, and had bought his act completely—but it couldn’t have been an act, this is Eddie we’re talking about. Hell, he was married to Frannie, and she was the sister of Hardy’s own best friend. Didn’t he have to be a wonderful person?

  And besides, Hardy thought as he picked at his dim sum (waiting for one-thirty, when Polk would talk to Glitsky), they weren’t even suspecting Cruz. Alphonse Page was the suspect.

  Okay, say Eddie had known Cruz was gay, and had known all about Polk and his drug deal. Now, how about he puts the squeeze on Cruz, or wants a cut from Polk, or both?

  No. That wasn’t Eddie.

  Was it?

  23

  GLITSKY PRIDED HIMSELF not on being smart, but thorough. Though he didn’t even remotely think that Sam Polk had killed his own daughter, he had gone ahead and run a little background on the man—you never knew what might turn up.

  Hardy’s tip or hunch or whatever it was about a drug connection looked like a winner—the cocaine on the desk hadn’t been blown there on a passing wind—so he had ordered a guy to check out his recent banking activity. There, aside from an amateurish run to different bank branches, he had found enough to warrant calling up the DEA. He didn’t really care about the drug deal—what he wanted was leverage on Polk during the interview.