He thought it said something about the building’s load of negative karma that after all the time he’d spent in it—it was also where he’d tried the great majority of his cases as a defense attorney—he still found the place oppressive. Back in the day the front doors at least had lent an air of expansiveness to the front lobby area. But since 9/11 the terrorism experts had closed all but one doorway, covering the rest of the front window glass with plywood.
Now everyone passed through the one door, waited in line, went through the makeshift joke of a security checkpoint, metal detector and all, and eventually emerged into the din and bustle of the ground floor, which housed not only the line for traffic court, serpentining its way out of the courtroom and past the elevators, but also the Southern Station of the San Francisco Police Department.
So uniformed cops were thick on the ground, as were lawyers, people visiting the jail upstairs, workers in the building. In its wisdom the city had also licensed a snack and coffee kiosk right out on the lobby floor, and the line of cheerful folks queuing up for their something to eat or drink often got tangled up with their counterparts happily awaiting their turn in traffic court. Hardy had heard that the record for most fistfights in a day over spaces in one line or another was six, although that was admittedly an anomaly. The average for actual blows struck was no more than one a week.
But because he’d met Harlen early to avoid the rush at Lou’s, it was high lunch hour when he got to the metal detector, and all the various lines within and without the lobby seemed to have merged into one cacophonous mob. Finally, getting to the front of his own line, Hardy put his keys and his Swiss army knife onto the desk next to the metal detector and walked through, picking them up without any acknowledgment from the cop manning the station, who was turned around the whole time, arguing with another cop about when he was going to get relieved so he could have some lunch.
Hardy felt he could have put a Stinger missile on the table, walked through the metal detector, picked up the rocket, and gone on his merry way, and no one would have been the wiser. He’d seen plain-clothes cops walk through with guns and had always told himself that this was because the station cops at the detector knew the plain-clothes, but really he wasn’t so sure. Maybe it was just a stupid system that didn’t work.
His sense of the surreal was heightened when he turned the corner and watched the stream of people coming through the completely unsecured back door between the Hall and the jail. The door was supposed to be locked, but anyone who worked in the building for more than a few months could get a copy of the key. And polite folks that they were, many would routinely hold open the door for anybody else trying to walk in at the same time.
Maybe, he thought, that’s why the cops at the metal detector were so lackadaisical. They figured that anybody who had a gun would probably have the sense to walk around the building and come in the back.
Finally, entertained by his musings, Hardy made it to the elevator, pressed “5,” and rode up pressed by the crush of bodies against the side wall, resolving he would never again come here for a social call, as he was doing now.
When he was being paid, okay, but this was lunacy.
By contrast the hallway on the fifth floor was a haven of serenity. Still with all the charm of an Eastern bloc housing project, still a sterile airless walkway with industrial green tile and fluorescent lighting, but peaceful nonetheless, somehow—strangely—comforting, even welcoming, after what he’d come through to get there.
He walked down about halfway and turned into the door marking the homicide detail. Neither of the two clerks assigned there were at their positions, so Hardy lifted the hinged counter that separated the room and went through to the hall leading to Glitsky’s office. With the metal detector still fresh in his mind and his Swiss army knife in his pocket, it occurred to him that he could quite easily take a few more steps into Glitsky’s office and cut his friend’s throat and walk out, and in all probability no one would ever know.
The thought brought half a smile. It was a funny world, Hardy thought, if you knew where to look.
Now here he was at Glitsky’s door, but it was closed, locked up. He knocked once, waited half a second. If Abe was in, traditionally the door would be open or at least unlocked. He turned to leave and heard a drawer slam inside. “One minute.”
Glitsky looked like hell—ashen and drawn—and for a moment Hardy thought that Zachary hadn’t made it and that Abe had only just heard.
“Tell me he’s okay,” he said.
“The same.”
“The induced coma?”
A nod, and Hardy took a breath of relief. Glitsky squinted out of the gloom of his office at his best friend. “What do you want?”
“Nothing. Just checking in.”
When Treya came by his house to pick up Rachel and take her to school that morning, Hardy had been stunned to learn from her that Abe had gone in to work. Treya, as usual, had defended him—they’d done the brain-opening surgery on Zachary Sunday morning and there was nothing to be done with him now for at least the next several days, during which time they’d be keeping him in what was apparently called a pentobarbital coma. Abe could either sit in the waiting room at the hospital going crazy, or go to work and hope the day passed more quickly. He’d chosen the latter.
Now, after another few seconds staring at nothing, Glitsky turned back toward his desk and Hardy followed him in. Closing the door, Hardy reached for the light switch, thought better of it, pulled around a chair, and sat. A diffuse light from the high windows kept the place from utter darkness, but reading here would be a stretch.
Glitsky sat with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes focused somewhere a foot or two above Hardy’s head. From time to time he’d draw a breath, but nothing so deep as a sigh. There was resignation in the wasted face, but no rage, usually Glitsky’s default emotion.
The lack of anger worried Hardy.
“Yesterday morning Treya said they’re keeping him unconscious for a few days,” he said at last. “You got any more than that?”
“No.”
“She said the operation was a success.”
“In the sense that he lived through it.”
“I thought it gave the brain room to swell.”
“Right. That’s what it does.”
“Then what?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what are you looking at? What’s the prognosis?”
Glitsky brought his eyes to Hardy’s. It seemed a long time before he spoke. “Either the swelling’s going to go down and he gets better to some degree, although we can’t know how much for a couple of months”—he hesitated—“either that, or one of the clots breaks up too much or any other random thing happens and he dies.”
The silence gathered.
“You know,” Glitsky said quietly at last, “I’m thinking it wouldn’t have been the worst result if the heart thing had killed him when he was born.” Zachary’s birth had been accompanied by the discovery of a heart murmur, which, though later found to be benign, had raised the specter of his early death from congenital heart failure. “At least that wouldn’t have been my fault.”
“This wasn’t your fault, Abe.”
Glitsky shook his head. “You weren’t there.”
“Treya told me what happened.”
“She wasn’t there either.”
“So tell me.”
Glitsky’s gaze went back to the ceiling. He unfolded his arms and put his palms flat on the desk. “He was right next to me. I mean, all I had to do was block him, one foot in front of that big fucking wheel.” Glitsky’s unaccustomed profanity hung in the room, a boundary crossed. “Instead I walked over to get his helmet, which should have been on him first.” He leveled his gaze. “Five seconds, Diz. Five stupid seconds.”
“You know why they call them accidents, Abe? They’re nobody’s fault.”
Glitsky lived with that for a minute. Then, “I think I’m going to quit.�
��
“Quit what?”
“This.” Glitsky gestured around at the office. “Here.”
“How would that help?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it wouldn’t.” He brought a hand to his forehead, rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “What were we saying?”
“I’ve got an idea,” Hardy said. “Why don’t you go home and get some sleep? Take a few days off while this shakes out.”
“And what? Just wait?”
“What else are you doing here?”
Glitsky looked through him for about five seconds. Finally, he nodded and started to push himself back from the desk, then stopped and reached for his telephone. He punched a few numbers, then after a moment spoke into the receiver. “Hey,” he said. “No, nothing new. Diz is up here. He thinks I ought to go home and get some rest. Maybe you want to do the same thing.” He waited, listened for another second or two, then said, “I’ll swing by and pick you up on the way out.”
8
When Hardy got back to his office on Sutter Street about twenty minutes after he’d left Glitsky, his receptionist/secretary, Phyllis, greeted him out in the lobby with a chilly smile and the comment that since she kept his calendar, it might be helpful if he shared his appointment schedule with her from time to time.
“But I do,” he said. “Religiously.” He put his hand over his heart. “Phyllis, I hope you know with an absolute certainty I would never, under any conditions, make an appointment without sharing every detail of it with you.”
Phyllis cast her eyes heavenward in her perpetual exasperation over her boss’s sarcasm. She threw a fast glance back over her shoulder, indicating a young woman sitting and perusing a magazine on the couch against the wall behind her circular workstation.
Hardy followed the glance. The woman turned a page in her magazine. “She’s here for me?” he whispered with a bit of theatricality. “It must be a trick to make me look bad in front of you. I swear I’ve never seen her before.”
Phyllis pursed her lips. “She says she has an appointment, referred by Harlen Fisk. A Mrs. Townshend.”
“Aha! She was supposed to call and make an appointment, Phyllis. Maybe she misunderstood. But the real good news is that this was not my fault.” At her skeptical expression he added, “Hey, it happens.”
Leaving his receptionist with a conciliatory pat on the arm, he breezed around her and in a couple of steps stood in front of his waiting guest. “Mrs. Townshend? Dismas Hardy. Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
She snapped the magazine closed and popped up to her feet, her mouth set in a prim line, her forehead creased with worry. Reaching out, she took Hardy’s hand in a firm grip, as though now that he’d finally arrived, she didn’t want to lose him.
“I asked Harlen to have you give me a call to make an appointment. I’m afraid I didn’t expect you to come right on down.”
She let go of his hand and brought her fingers up to her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry. I just thought . . . I mean, he told me where you worked and that he’d talked to you and I was free and just gathered—”
Hardy held up his own hand, stopping her. “It’s okay,” he said. “Timing’s everything and yours couldn’t be better. I was looking at a long tedious afternoon of administration, and now instead I get to chat with Harlen’s sister.” He broke a welcoming grin and guided her toward his office with a hand under her elbow. “Does that also make you the mayor’s niece?”
“Yes.”
“Well”—Hardy led her into his office—“I’m a big fan of Kathy’s as well. Since back in her own supervisor days.” Closing the door behind them, he motioned to the more casual of the two seating areas, a couple of wing chairs by a magazine table. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Wine? Something a little stronger?”
“Actually . . . well, it’s a little early, but I’m . . . I think I must be a little nervous. Maybe a glass of wine wouldn’t be too bad.”
“You don’t need to be nervous,” Hardy said. “Nothing we say in this room leaves here if you don’t want it to. Red or white?”
“White.”
“White it is.” Hardy crossed over to the mirror-backed, granite-topped wet bar that took up most of one of his walls. The bar was a bit of a showcase piece, with a golden inlaid sink and gold faucet, one open shelf for the oversized wineglasses and another for the china cups, a large commercial espresso-making machine, and a selection of teas, mixers, and spirits arranged along the rest of the free wall space. Opening the half-sized refrigerator, he stopped and turned back to her again. “Chardonnay or other?”
“Other, I think.”
“I think so too. Maybe I’ll join you.” He pulled out a bottle of Groth Sauvignon Blanc. Serving her, he said, “If you think the bar service here is good, wait’ll you see our legal work.” He flashed what he knew was his professional disarming smile, sat down across from her, and took a sip of his wine, silently prompting her to do the same. “Now how can I help you?”
After her first small sip she held her wineglass on her lap with both hands. “I think I’m in trouble,” she began. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Let’s see if the first part’s true first, then see where that leads us. Why do you think you’re in trouble? Because the police came to see you about your manager’s death?”
“Partly that. I don’t know how much Harlen told you, but Dylan was selling dope—marijuana only, I hope—out of my store.”
“Harlen told me you didn’t know much about that.”
“I didn’t. Not really.”
“Then you shouldn’t be in trouble.” He broke a smile. “That was easy. Next problem?”
“Really?”
“You mean really you shouldn’t be in trouble?” He didn’t feel he needed to go into the low-probability scenario of a forfeiture. “Yes, really.”
“But . . . well, I mean, I own the place. I’m the legal owner. If somebody trips and falls there, I’m the one who gets sued.”
Hardy sat back, put an ankle on a knee, and took another sip of his wine. “That’s not the same situation. Nobody’s suffering recoverable harm because they bought marijuana at your place. Who’s going to sue you?”
But she shook her head again. “I’m not so worried, really, about getting sued. I’m worried about—about the police coming to talk to me again.”
Against all of his training, and possibly because of the casual nature of Harlen’s request that Hardy have a chat with his sister, Hardy was tempted for a moment to come right out and ask her if she had in fact killed her manager. Though he didn’t for a minute think that this was likely, it was a question you normally didn’t ask, an unspoken rule of the defense business. Because if you, the lawyer, didn’t know, you would always be acting in technical good faith in your client’s defense. And, of course, in theory it wasn’t supposed to matter anyway. You argued the evidence that could be proved in court. Not necessarily the facts.
So, instead, he said, “I’m guessing you really don’t have anything to worry about.”
“I don’t know if that’s true.” She saw her wine sitting there on her lap and brought the glass to her lips. “Why would that be true?”
“Because your inspector, Bracco, used to be Harlen’s partner in homicide. Did you know that?”
“Okay, but what does that mean?”
“Well, the first thing it means in the real world is that Bracco’s going to find out you’re Harlen’s sister. Knowing Harlen’s inherent shyness,” he said with irony, “he might even know by now. So unless Bracco’s got something close to a smoking gun in your hand, he’s going to be inclined to cut you some slack to begin with. You’re the one who’s lost your manager, so you’ve been victimized by this murder too. Plus, your connection to the mayor isn’t going to make Darrel Bracco want to cause you any problems. Was he a little hard on you?”
“A little bit.” She hesitated. “He seemed to think that there was something weird about how much I paid Dylan, or something ab
out our relationship, I don’t know what. But it just made me uncomfortable.”
“It’s supposed to. It’s one of the things cops do when they interrogate people. They find a soft spot and go at it.”
“But why did he think it was a soft spot?”
“I don’t know. How much did you pay him? Dylan?”
When he heard the number, Hardy kept his face straight and took a quick breath to hide his surprise. “That’s a real salary.”
“I know. But he did a real job. He was good with the customers. I hardly ever had to be there. If ever. I felt he was worth it.”
“Well, then, who’s to argue? You own the place.”
“Right. But Inspector Bracco, he wanted to know if we socialized together, Dylan and I.”
“And?”
“And I told him no, which is true. But he seemed to think that was weird somehow. In spite of the fact that Dylan and Jansey had their own life and it’s nothing like mine and Joel’s.”
“Lots of business owners don’t socialize with their employees,” Hardy said. “I don’t see why Bracco would think it’s strange that you don’t.”
“Maybe because I told him Dylan and I had been friends in college. This was before he did his time in prison, of course.”
Hardy took a beat to let that settle. “I don’t believe I’ve heard about that yet.”
She shook her head. “It was a misunderstanding, a stupid juvenile mistake, call it what you will. He got involved somehow in a robbery and got caught. But long story short, when he got out, I was hoping to get the store up and going and . . . anyway, he started working for me.”
“So you were close friends in college?”
Hesitating, she tightened her mouth, checked out the windows behind Hardy. “We weren’t intimate, if that’s what you’re asking. We were friends.”
Hardy brought his glass to his mouth, sipped, waited. She had more to tell him and he wanted to give her the space. She scanned the corners of the room, telegraphing to Hardy the jumble of her thoughts. He sat, unmoving, giving her time.
A Plague of Secrets Page 6
