The Dismas Hardy Novels

by John Lescroart

  And so, she felt, was the system. Her job, her lifework—keeping some balance between the two—meant providing the best defense the law allowed to those who had fallen. Everyone had a demon; most people had several, from grinding poverty to sexual abuse, from unseen psychic trauma to pampered irresponsibility, and these demons would be served, forcing their victims to commit crimes against themselves and against the society that had maimed and scarred them. She’d always believed that the crimes should be justly punished, but that the criminals themselves—the human beings who did these things—ought to be viewed with an eye to mercy, with an understanding of what had led them to their acts.

  This was why now she felt so adrift, so foreign to herself. Along with the grief to which she had not even begun yet to grow accustomed, her desire for vengeance against the people who had done this to David—to David!—was making her feel, quite literally, insane. “If I knew who they were, Dismas. I swear to God, if they were here in front of me, I would personally beat them to death. Gladly.”

  Unable to concentrate, Hardy had left work early again. He had a Band-Aid of a splint around the pinkie and ring fingers on his left hand, but the others were intertwined on the table between them in the hospital’s tiny coffee shop. Cups sat untouched in front of them. “I’d say that’s natural, Gina.”

  “It’s not for me; that’s my point. It’s the polar opposite of everything I’ve ever believed. I would literally kill the sons of bitches.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Try me.” She brought her hands up to her face and wiped a palm down each side of it. “Oh, God, what am I saying? I’m losing it here, Dismas; I really am. What am I going to do with this?”

  “Have you slept yet? At all?”

  A brittle laugh collapsed into a pitiable cough. “I’m sorry,” she said when she’d caught her breath. “No. Sleep has not happened. Not to you either, I’d say.”

  He didn’t want to burden her with his own problems, his own fury and fears. He forced a smile. “I had a little bit of a tough night last night, that’s all. Car problems. Have you seen him?”

  She nodded. “They let me in whenever they can now. An hour or two. I try to tell myself he’s squeezing my hand back or something, but . . .” She shook her head in misery, bit her lip. Then, as though if she said it aloud it would be more true, she whispered, “His kidney function seems to be slowing down.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “It’s one of the things they measure. Of course if it stops entirely, it would be bad.” Closing her eyes, she sighed deeply. “I’m trying to prepare myself. I just feel so . . . so helpless and then so goddamned furious. I’m in there pleading with him, talking out loud like he can hear me, like I’m . . .” The words stopped. She looked across at Hardy. “You don’t need to hear this. You know.”

  He reached across the table and put his hand over hers. “You’re a big girl so I don’t have to tell you, but if you could sleep, it would help. Especially if you can’t do anything here.”

  “I keep thinking maybe he’ll wake up and if he does I won’t be there.”

  “He’d get over it. He might not even notice. No, never mind. It’s David. He’d notice.” He shrugged. “Still . . .”

  “Still, you’re probably right. Oh, and Sergeant Blanca came by here for a few minutes. He said he’d talked to you. He didn’t have much.”

  “He still doesn’t, not as of about a half hour ago.”

  A silence. Then Gina said, “They’re not going to find anything, are they? I wonder if it’s somebody I got off. If some scumbag was back on the street because I was such a goddamned whiz of a lawyer. Wouldn’t that be special?”

  Hardy squeezed her hand. “Don’t go there.”

  “I don’t know where I’m going.”

  Hardy hesitated for an instant, then decided that he’d known her for a long time. He could push a little. “Gina. Sorry to be a broken record, but how about going home, then to bed? Give the nurses your number. They’ll call you if there’s any change. This isn’t doing anybody any good.”

  “I’ll still want to kill them,” she said. Somehow the comment didn’t seem off the subject. It was as though they’d been talking about it all along.

  “I hear you,” Hardy said gently. “If it’s any help, so do I.”

  When she saw Holiday wasn’t gone, Michelle stood just inside her doorway, uncertain about whether she should simply turn and give him more time, or walk out and call the police herself. But she hesitated long enough for him to start explaining.

  The television droned near him. He stood in front of it, his coat back on. She assumed he had rearmed himself.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect you back so soon.” He took a tentative step toward her, then stopped. “Look, I’m sorry about everything. I didn’t mean to lie to you. I’ve got a bad habit of . . . never mind, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m going now in a minute. I just wanted to catch the news. Maybe see if they’ll show what I’m up against.”

  Still in her camo gear, including hat and boots, she came up next to him as the program began, then backed up and sat on the corner of the bed.

  Since it was both local and lurid, they didn’t have to wait long. The handsome and serious anchor hadn’t gotten twenty words into the lead story when Holiday nearly jumped forward to turn up the volume. “. . . these grisly Tenderloin murders. The victims have been identified as Clint Terry and Randy Wills. Terry, a bartender at a downtown watering hole, was a former football star with the . . .”

  “Oh my God.” Holiday folded himself down to the floor, cross-legged. As the anchor continued with the details, his head fell forward. After a minute, he reached up to support it with his hands, rocking his whole body from side to side.

  On the television, the story continued, running through a cursory review of the related killings and a tantalizing film clip of Crime Scene Investigators removing allegedly “highly significant evidence” from the scene, and closing with the not entirely surprising news, though no less unwelcome for that, that the chief suspect for that crime and also the murders last week of Sam Silverman and Matthew Creed, was John Holiday.

  He finally glanced up again at the mention of his name. His four-year-old mug shot filled the screen as the anchor finished up with the words that a warrant had been issued for his arrest and that he should be considered armed and dangerous. As they cut to the next story, Michelle walked to the set, picked the remote off the top of it, killed the power.

  Head in his hands, Holiday still rocked his whole body on the floor—back and forth, side to side.

  “John?” She reached over and touched his shoulder. “John, are you okay?”

  When he looked up, she wasn’t sure he even saw her. His eyes shone with panic. His voice, when it came, was a suddenly ravaged and hoarse whisper. “I don’t believe Clint and Randy are dead. They can’t be just dead.”

  She lowered herself down to the floor, facing him. He kept shaking his head from side to side. She reached out and put a hand on his knee, and she left it there.

  The sun descended enough so that a few bars of sunlight through the blinds inched up the wall over her bed. A dog barked somewhere in the neighborhood, the call was taken up by another; then both died away.

  Eventually, Holiday cleared his throat one time, again, didn’t meet her eyes, then began quietly, matter-of-factly. “What I do, see, is find somebody like you and then try to fuck it all up, cheat on you or do something else you can’t forgive . . .”

  “Shut up,” she said. “Just shut up. I get it. You don’t think I get it? I know what you do, what you always do. You know why? ’Cause I do it, too. It keeps things manageable, doesn’t it, making people you might love hate you when they start to get close? So my question to you is, ‘What are you going to do now?’ I’m talking with you and me.”

  “You told me to get out.”

  “Right. And you didn’t leave. You had most of an hour. What does that mean about us? Anything? O
r were you just afraid to go out because of . . . because of all this? And don’t tell me you needed to find out what they were saying on the television.”

  “No.”

  “What then? If your plan is to hang around and have a few more fights and go out on me to make me hate you, I can save you some trouble. Just walk out now, no hard feelings. Because do it again and I will hate you. I promise.” She stood up and went back over to the window, checked the blinds again. She turned back to him. “You didn’t kill any of those people, did you?”

  “No. I’ve never killed anybody.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  He nodded soberly. “The same people who planted whatever they found in my apartment.” He looked up at her. “I don’t understand this at all, Michelle. The last I heard, the police were talking to Clint about Mr. Silverman, and now they’re both dead.”

  She’d been pacing and now stopped over by the bed. “That lawyer who defended you last time . . .” Suddenly, her hands came up. “Christ, I don’t believe I’m talking about this. Lawyers and killers and planted evidence. I don’t want this stuff in my life, John. I really don’t.”

  He got up and came over to her. “It’s not my first choice either, Michelle. I’m not making this happen. I don’t want to be around it, either. I don’t even know what it is. If this thing ever ends, maybe I’ll make some changes.”

  “Maybe. Some. Wow.”

  “All right, not maybe. Definitely, and maybe a lot. But first there’s this, wouldn’t you agree? What were you asking me about my lawyer?”

  “Just that aren’t you still friends?”

  “So where are you now, John?”

  “At a friend’s. I locked up the Ark and I’m not going home.”

  “Ah, intelligent behavior at last. And so what do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t know. Talk to somebody. Whatever you do. I didn’t do this, Diz, none of it. I loved Clint. I liked Sam and Matt. I don’t know how anything got into my apartment. This whole thing is too weird.”

  “I haven’t had much luck with the too-weird-to-be-real defense, John.” Hardy sighed. “All right. You said there was a warrant? For your arrest?”

  “That’s what was on the news. You can check it out for yourself.”

  “I will. But in the meanwhile, I want you to think about something. If in fact there’s a warrant out on you, my only option as your lawyer is to advise you to turn yourself in. If you don’t, I can’t have anything more to do with you.”

  “Turn myself in for what?”

  “See if you can guess, John.”

  “But I didn’t do it.”

  “All right.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “That’s beside the point. If there’s already a warrant for your arrest, about the best I can do is arrange your surrender.”

  “That’s you the lawyer, Diz. What about you my friend?”

  “I’m afraid we’re the same person, John. Look, if you won’t take my advice, why don’t we both think about it overnight? You think about it, I’ll think about it. One of us might come up with something.”

  “What about now?”

  “What about it?”

  “I come over now to your place. We get something figured out.”

  “Then if I don’t call the police, I’m harboring a fugitive and lose my license. And though I love you like a brother, I couldn’t do you any good if I’m disbarred.” He paused. “Look, why don’t you call me at my office tomorrow morning? Something might have changed by then. I’ll talk to the DA, see what they’re going with. Meanwhile, you say nobody knows where you are? I’m guessing you’re not that uncomfortable. Just lie low.”

  “Diz . . . this isn’t exactly what I was hoping to hear.”

  “What can I tell you, John? It’s the best I can do.”

  Watching his television at home, Nat Glitsky had heard the news of the awful Tenderloin murders and then of the arrest warrant that had been issued in Sam Silverman’s death. Now he was in his son’s kitchen, sitting at the table having tea with his dessert, Abe’s day-old macaroons. For the first time since Rachel’s birth, the Hardys hadn’t shown up yesterday at the conclusion of their Date Night, so there was a full plate of them.

  Nat dipped his cookie into his tea, blew on it, put the softened morsel to his granddaughter’s lips. “Your daughter, she loves these,” he said.

  “Everybody loves them.” Treya was standing behind her husband’s chair, her hands on Abe’s shoulders. “Dismas Hardy thinks Abe should go into business making them. Abe’s Manna Macaroons.”

  “Such a name,” Nat said. “A name is an important thing. That Dismas, he’s not so dumb.”

  Abe liked that. “I’ll tell him you said so. He’s a glutton for praise. ‘Not so dumb’ ought to make his week.”

  Nat teased Rachel’s lips with the remainder of his macaroon, then brought it to his own mouth and popped it in. The baby’s little hand reached out. Her face fell in shocked surprise. A second later, her smile returned as a fresh cookie appeared in Nat’s grasp. He let her grab it and they played tug of war for a second or two before he let it go. She laughed in pure joy, stuffing the spoils of victory into her mouth. “Such a good girl,” Nat said. “I see great things. Someday she becomes the owner of Abraham’s Manna Macaroons.”

  “Abe’s,” Treya said. “Not Abraham’s.”

  “Shorter,” Glitsky said. “Punchier. Maybe I will go into baking after all.” Treya had come around behind Rachel and gave him a look.

  He gave her the same look back. “Baking’s a noble profession. Bakers have been baking probably longer than cops have been . . .”

  “Copping?” Treya offered a tight smile. “It won’t be too much longer. A couple of months, he said.”

  “Two months can be a long time if you’re in thumbscrews.”

  Nat nearly sprang forward out of his chair leaning over the table. “He says thumbscrews, plural. I don’t even see one.” He sat back down as though he’d proven something. “And for all the moaning and groaning, who did they call as soon as they knew about Sam?”

  “I believe that was Lieutenant Glitsky,” Treya said. “The pariah of Bryant Street.”

  “Courtesy only.”

  “Courtesy, he says.” Nat wasn’t buying.

  “I heard him.” Neither was Treya. She finally sat down at the table. “And since the only thing of interest and importance in the world, and hence the only thing worth talking about—never mind the precious lives of infants—is a homicide investigation, it just occurred to me that I’ll bet this is why Dismas and Frannie didn’t come by last night. He’s still John Holiday’s attorney, isn’t he?”

  Abe nodded. “I would think so.”

  But Nat exploded. “Wait a minute. What am I hearing here? This man who killed Sam? He’s with Dismas?”

  “He was,” Abe said. “I’d bet he still is.”

  “He’s trying to get him off?”

  “I haven’t heard Holiday’s even been arrested yet, Dad. But when he is, yeah. That’s what Diz does.”

  Nat sat unhappily with this intelligence for a second. “He’d do this, this defense work, for a man who’s killed four people. Did you see what this animal did to those men last night?”

  He shook his head. “No. I’d only heard they’d been killed.”

  “Only killed would have been mercy,” Nat said.

  He went on to tell his son some of the details he’d picked up. When he finished, Treya made a face of disgust, then asked, “And Holiday is wanted for all of these murders?”

  Abe picked up something in her tone. He wasn’t going to pursue it aloud right here. But in the past year, he and Treya had met John Holiday a few times at the Hardys’. He had seemed okay to Abe; Treya had positively liked him. And Glitsky very much trusted his wife’s instincts. He had seen enough of killings and murderers that he considered almost anyone, under the right conditions, capable of the act. But he’d never seen a sign nor
heard from Hardy that Holiday used drugs, the great instigator of horrible, irrational violence. If Holiday had been robbing Silverman’s store and got interrupted, if Creed had chased him into a blind alley, maybe . . .

  But the scenario with Terry and Wills, as his father had just explained it?

  “What?” Nat asked, seeing the look between them.

  Abe hesitated. Then, “Nothing,” he said.

  16

  Rebecca sat down to the plate of scrambled eggs her father had cooked for her. This morning, he’d cooked them for Frannie and Vincent as well, but neither of them typically appeared at the breakfast table until ten minutes after the Beck. By this time, whatever hot meal Hardy had prepared would have cooled—to him, cold scrambled eggs were an affront to nature—although his wife and son didn’t seem to notice, much less mind.

  His daughter took a first bite, said, “Yum!” then looked around. She didn’t miss much and wasn’t easy to fool. “Where’s the paper?” she asked her father.

  He casually sipped his coffee. “I don’t know.”

  She put down her fork. “What’s in it?”

  “What do you mean? What’s in what?”

  “The paper.”

  “I just said I didn’t know where it was.”

  She gave a threatrical sigh. “As if.”

  “As if,” he repeated, striving to match the teenage inflection.

  She ignored that. “As if you didn’t go out to the porch and get it like you do every single morning. Is it one of your clients?”

  It was his turn to sigh. He and Frannie had discussed it, along with the spin they would put on the smashed car window, and had decided it would be better for the kids if Hardy could get a few facts about the crimes for which John Holiday was likely to be arrested before he tried to explain it to them. Holiday wasn’t exactly Uncle John yet, as Uncle Abe was, but he’d been by the house a few times in the past year, almost immediately endearing himself to both children, although for different reasons. He treated Rebecca in a sincere and courtly manner that flattered her vanity; Vincent he treated like a grown man, no kid stuff. He played catch with him, arm wrestled, had taken both Hardy men to 49er and Giants games.