Thanks for the offer, but whenever it is when I get out, I’ll be finding my own place. There are programs here—Mr. Hardy laughs at the word, but they’re not all bad—that will help get me work someplace when I get out. A lot of it’s physical, but that’s all right with me. Maybe a gym, something like that.
The point is, I’m clean now. I’m going to stay that way. Start over. Maybe take a class in something. It’s a day at a time, just like they say, but I don’t think having you there to lean on is going to be any help.
Jeff and Dorothy sent me a birthday card. The kids signed it, too. Maybe you know that. I owe them big-time. If it comes up, tell them how sorry I am for how I treated them. Still am.
I’m at 174 pounds. Today I broke two hundred push-ups.
They just rang for lockdown. Got to go.
Glitsky had gone through the whole administrative fandango and had finally been reinstated in his old job. He worked one floor above Treya in the same building, but they hadn’t seen each other in eleven days.
Their last discussion—about whether they should consider having a baby and starting a new family of their own together—had been a little tense. It ended with her walking out of his place well after midnight with no apparent plans to return.
Now, at just after seven on the first day of summer, he stood in the alcove stoop of her apartment house and rang the outside bell and waited. He pushed the button again, waited some more. No response.
“Perfect,” he said.
He turned and went back out onto the sidewalk, looked up and then back down the street. It was a glorious evening, the sky clear blue overhead, the sun casting long shadows—Glitsky was standing in the shade from the apartment buildings across the street. On the warm breeze, he picked up a scent of something delectable from one of the restaurants a few blocks down on Clement—garlic and ginger, pork.
He turned all the way round once, undecided. He could come back. Call. Make an appointment for later.
But no. He knew he had to stay here and wait. It was too important.
He went back and sat on the edge of the stoop. A half dozen physical-fitness types jogged or biked or power-walked by him in various stages of comfort or pain. A couple of guys in a serious discussion walked by with their dog. Four kids appeared from one of the doorways halfway down the block and—shades of Glitsky’s own childhood—started a game of stickball in the middle of the street. It wasn’t the season, but he caught a whiff of crab.
Finally, he stood up again and walked to the curb. The evening sky had perceptibly darkened—the high clouds shone in purples and pinks. Treya’s building was completely in shadow now, and over the rooftops across from him, Venus appeared.
He knew it was her before he could have truly recognized her. Still nearly two full blocks away, she was walking with someone—her daughter?—an arm around her shoulder. Drawing in a breath, Glitsky checked his resolve one last time.
All right. He was going to do this.
He began to walk toward them.
When she saw him, she stopped. Glitsky did, too. Half a block still yawned between them. She turned to Raney and said something. Her daughter responded briefly, reached out a hand and touched her shoulder, then started to move toward Glitsky.
When she came abreast of him, she slowed, met his gaze with a somber one of her own, nodded. “Please be sure,” she said, and then had passed before he could think of anything appropriate to say.
They both came forward. When they’d closed to a couple of yards, they stopped.
He found himself incredibly taken with her physical presence—her hair pulled back severely from the strong, angular face. She was wearing stonewashed jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt with a New York Yankees logo over the left breast. The shirt seemed to shimmer with her breathing, perhaps her heartbeat.
“I used to hate the Yankees,” he began, “until Derek Jeter.”
Her mouth was tight, but she nodded. “Me, too. But I like them now. Raney bought this for my last birthday. I don’t get to wear it too often.”
“No,” Glitsky said. “I don’t imagine so.” San Francisco was a sweater town—sleeveless wouldn’t be in unless goose bumps became all the rage. He stood impotently before her for another eternity. Finally, he said, “Orel’s moving out in two years. He’s the last one. I’m done. I’ve done this.”
“You’ve only done it with boys. It might be a girl. You haven’t done a girl.”
If things had been different. The reference to Elaine hit him powerfully, brought him up short. “I’m fifty-two years old,” he said at last.
“I know that.”
“I’ll be seventy-three, minimum, by the time any child we have is twenty. You realize that?”
“Of course. I’ll be fifty-four. So what?”
“So a lot of things . . .”
She stared at him expectantly, angrily. “We’ve already done this part, Abe.”
“I know, I know . . .”
“So if it’s the same answer, we don’t need to do it again.”
He nodded. Time had completely ceased to exist. He forced his voice to work. “I didn’t come here because I had the same answer.”
She waited.
“I came here to say yes if you still . . .” He stopped, tripped up in the words, in wanting to get them perfectly right. “Yes,” was all he could come out with.
Her eyes began to fill and they moved toward each other. His arms closed around her.
“It might be unbelievably hard,” he whispered. “I might not live that long. We might . . .”
She pulled back far enough to put a finger against the scar on his lips. Her eyes bored into his face and a smile tickled the corners of her mouth. “What’s your point?” she asked, and shut him up with a kiss.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com
“A particularly strong plot.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Topical and full of intrigue.”
—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
THE OATH
When HMO excutive Tim Markham is hit by a car during a morning jog through his exclusive San Francisco neighborhood, he has the bad luck to be transported to one of his own hospitals…and winds up dead in his ICU bed. But in spite of the rumors about his company’s substandard care, this death appears to be a case of malice, not of malpractice—especially after Markham’s entire family is gunned down in their home.
Lt. Abe Glitsky has strong suspicions about a doctor with opportunity, means, and motives to spare. But working up a case against Eric Kensing might not be easy, especially when Glitsky has to rely on two bumbling rookies to gather the evidence. When defense attorney Dismas Hardy takes Kensing on as a client, both Glitsky and Hardy have to worry not only about losing the case, but about losing a best friend as well. And as the investigation leads to something bigger than they expected, they may both be in danger of losing their lives….
“Skillfully researched and executed…. The reliably excellent Lescroart carries on, delivering yet another winner.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[A] master yarn spinner…a stellar novel.”
—Booklist
“Hardy and Glitsky are like good wine, improving with time.”
—The Orlando Sentinel
“Lescroart skillfully balances his story, blending the action of the plot with the satisfying details of Hardy’s and Glitsky’s personal lives. The minutiae of marriages, children, and domestic routines not only round out the characters but provide a smart counterpoint to the cops-and-lawyer stuff. And unlike so many other authors, Lescroart handles social commentary with a deft touch.”
—The Cleveland
Plain Dealer
PRAISE FOR JOHN LESCROART’S PREVIOUS NOVELS
The Hearing
“A spine-tingling legal thriller.”
—Larry King, USA Today
“Highly entertaining.”
Chicago Tribune
“Excellent stuff.”
—The San Jose Mercury News
Nothing But the Truth
“The novel’s pacing is reminiscent of classic Ross MacDonald, where a week’s worth of events is condensed into a few hours….[A] winning thriller.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Riveting…one of Lescroart’s best tales yet.”
—Chicago Tribune
“A rousing courtroom showdown.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
The Mercy Rule
“A thought-provoking and important novel…. Well written, well plotted, well done.”
—Nelson DeMille
“Readers of The 13th Juror will already be off reading this book, not this review. Join them.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
Guilt
“Begin Guilt over a weekend…. If you start during the workweek, you will be up very, very late, and your pleasure will be tainted with, well, guilt.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
“A well-paced legal thriller…one of the best in this flourishing genre to come along in a while.”
—The Washington Post Book World
A Certain Justice
“Lescroart swings for the fences with a West Coast take on The Bonfire of the Vanities…. A richly satisfying thriller.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A gifted writer with a distinctive voice. I read him with great pleasure.”
—Richard North Patterson
The 13th Juror
“Fast paced…sustains interest to the very end.”
—The Wall Street Journal
Hard Evidence
“A hefty, engrossing legal thriller…compulsively readable, a dense and involving saga of big-city crime and punishment.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
Praise for John Lescroart
“Raymond Chandler once wrote that the test of a first-rate murder mystery is whether you would keep reading it if the last chapter—and the revelation of whodunit—were missing. In the matter of John Lescroart, I would keep reading any of his books, even without that last chapter.”
—Fort Worth Star-Telegram
ALSO BY JOHN LESCROART
The Hearing
Nothing But the Truth
The Mercy Rule
Guilt
A Certain Justice
The 13th Juror
Hard Evidence
The Vig
Dead Irish
Rasputin’s Revenge
Son of Holmes
Sunburn
THE OATH
JOHN LESCROART
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,
London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road,
Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2
Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads,
Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England
Published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin
Putnam Inc. Previously published in a Dutton edition.
ISBN: 978-1-1012-0968-4
Copyright © The Lescroart Corporation, 2002
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales isentirely coincidental.
This one’s to Pete Dietrich,
Bob Zaro,
and, as always, to Lisa—
Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
PART TWO
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
PART THREE
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
PART FOUR
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
At the beginning of this effort, my knowledge of medicine and the medical establishment was limited, to say the least. I’d especially like to thank Marcy St. John, senior counsel with Blue Shield of California, and Pat Fry, chief operating officer of Sutter Health, for the insights and information that helped somewhat bridge this gap in my education and knowledge. Also, thanks to two nurses for their help: my sister Pat Barile, and Cheri Van Hoover.
In the legal realm, as always I depend most heavily on the expertise of my great friend and collaborator Alfred F. Giannini of the San Francisco District Attorney’s office. Inspector Joe Toomey of the San Francisco Police Department has also been most generous with his time and expertise.
My day-to-day life is enhanced considerably by the competency and wonderful personality of my phenomenal assistant, Anita Boone. She is a treasure to work with and a joy to know.
No less heartfelt thanks—for a variety of other reasons—go to Tom Hedtke; Poppy Gilman; Carolyn Giannini; Jesse Tepper, president and founder of the San Francisco Little League; Peter J. Diedrich; and Dee Scocos. Richard Herman is a terrific author himself—go read him—and he supplied an important epiphany.
The names of three characters in this novel were supplied by the winners in charitable auctions; I would like to acknowledge the generous contributions of Margie Krystofiak to Serra High School of San Mateo, California; Frank Husic to Imagine; and Catherine Treinen to Cal-State Fullerton.
I am deeply indebted to all the people at Dutton for their tremendous support and commitment; in particular, I would like to single out Glenn Timony, Lisa Johnson, Kathleen Matthews-Schmidt, Susan Schwartz, and Kim Hadney for their yeoman efforts. Carole Baron has been and continues to be a terrific publisher, cheerleader, and friend; our regular discussions on book and other matters are a source of great pleasure, and have helped to sharply focus and improve the narrative of this novel. Mitch Hoffman is a great guy and superb editor; the book’s final shape owes much to his suggestions and good taste.
Barney Karpfinger remains the best agent an author could ever have, and a true friend as well. His artistic encouragement, level head, business acumen, and sense of humor are each as important as they are rare. Barney, you’re a true mensch, and I can’t thank you enough for everything.
Closer to home, perennial best man Don Matheson just keeps those good times coming; and Frank Seidl remains the king of wine
and laughter. Finally, my two children, Justine and Jack, continue to enrich my life on a daily basis. My borrowings of their concerns and life events continue to inform and hopefully enrich these novels and my life, both of which would be empty without them.
I will follow that method of treatment which…
I consider for the benefit of my patients, and
abstain from whatever is deleterious and mischievous.
I will give no deadly medicine to anyone if asked,
nor suggest any such counsel…
The Hippocratic Oath
For the love of money is the root
of all evils.
1 Timothy 6:10
PART ONE
Her stupid, old American car wasn’t working again. So now Luz Lopez was sitting on the bus with her sick son, Ramiro, dozing beside her. This time of day, midmorning, the streetcar wasn’t crowded, and she was glad of that. Ramiro, small for eleven years old, had room to curl up with his head on her lap. She stroked his cheek gently with the back of her hand. He opened his eyes and smiled at her weakly.
His skin was warm to her touch, but not really burning. She was more concerned about the cut on his lip than the sore throat. There was something about the look of it that bothered her. He’d banged it on some playground bars on Monday and today, Thursday, it was swollen, puffy, yellowish at the edges. But when the sore throat had come on yesterday, Ramiro had complained not about the cut lip, but the throat. Luz knew her boy wouldn’t make a fuss unless there was real pain. He was up half the night with gargling and Tylenol. But this morning, he told her it wasn’t any better.
The Dismas Hardy Novels Page 51
