The Dismas Hardy Novels

by John Lescroart

  Her tentative question nearly brought him to tears. “So what are we going to do?”

  “I’m not completely sure yet, hon. But your mother and I, we’re going to take care of you, no matter what. Maybe,” he said, “if I can get myself to abandon John Holiday . . .”

  “But you can’t do that. He’s your friend.”

  “Right.” Out of the mouths of babes, Hardy thought. “I know. But maybe I can make them think I stopped.” He stopped himself again. He was about to say, “Then set some kind of trap for them.” “But look,” he did say, “let’s believe for a minute there’s a really pretty decent chance that in a day or two they’ll have these people in jail.”

  “And then they won’t be after us?”

  “No.” He chucked her gently under her chin. “But they’re probably already not after you now, not really.”

  She looked up at him hopefully. “Promise?”

  Hardy hesitated. They had a rule about a promise being a promise, sacred and unbreakable. “I really don’t think so,” he finally said.

  He felt a small shudder pass through her. “That’s not a promise.”

  “No, I know,” he said. “But close.”

  29

  Hardy pushed open the street level door to the Freeman building. He crossed the foyer and got to the top of the staircase, then stood still a moment where it opened into the reception lobby. For the first time since the attack on David, he felt some sense of life here again. A half dozen people in the Solarium appeared to be taking depositions; three of the associates and a couple of paralegals stood by the coffee machine, deep in conversation; the steady whine of the copying machines filled in the background noise. Maybe he’d just happened upon a flurry, but the telephones kept Phyllis’s head down and hands busy.

  “Mr. Hardy. Dismas.” Suddenly Norma appeared at his elbow. “We missed you yesterday. Is everything all right?”

  He didn’t know the answer to that. Certainly everything didn’t feel all right. His family was still in hiding at McGuire’s. He was going on less than four hours’ sleep. Freeman was still unconscious. He hadn’t heard that Sephia and Panos had been arrested.

  “I mean, you never came in,” she said. “Some of us were worried.”

  “I had some work out of the office,” he said. “It hung me up all day.” Smiling politely, he pointed across the lobby to the other set of stairs that led to his office. “I don’t even want to look at the clutter on my desk, but I’d better get on up there.”

  “Of course, but I . . . I wanted to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For your inspiration the other night.” She gestured vaguely around the lobby, the steady hum of industry.

  “Well.” In truth, after Hardy had finished his little speech on Friday night, the Solarium hadn’t exactly exploded into wild applause. He’d told everybody good night and gotten out of there as quickly as he could, slightly embarrassed that he’d gotten caught up in the moment and exposed himself so openly as basically uncool. He felt sure that he’d given some of the younger people, especially, but also a few of the more cynical associates and paralegals, fuel for the fires of ridicule. He could easily imagine the snickering after he left. All in all, he wished he hadn’t done it at all, or failing that, that he’d thought of something light and gotten everybody laughing.

  But now Norma had her hand on his arm. “You shouldn’t be modest. Look what that did for everybody here.”

  Hardy couldn’t deny that the buzz was better, but . . . “I don’t really think that was me.”

  “Well, be that as it may,” Norma said, “everybody else does. And I just wanted to thank you again, to tell you how much it meant to me. And to the firm. It was the perfect note. You can see the results for yourself. Look around.”

  Hardy had already seen enough, and it did gratify him. With David in the hospital, though, and so many other problems hanging fire, he wasn’t quite ready to do cartwheels. Still, he gave the lobby a last glance. “Well,” he said, “I’m glad I could help. And now”—he pointed again—“the grind awaits.”

  He crossed over to the reception area, looked a question at Phyllis, who held up a finger, asking him to wait. After an impressive trifecta of “Freeman and Associates, would you please hold,” got the switchboard under control, she looked up and actually smiled as though she were happy to see him. New ground. “Lieutenant Glitsky has already called three times this morning. He says it’s urgent.”

  Glitsky had found out about Thieu when he opened the morning paper and read about his apparent suicide. It didn’t much convince him. Or rather, it finally did convince him of what he’d begun strongly to suspect. He decided on the spot that he wasn’t going into his office again today. A sworn policeman with a clear duty, he was going to do some real police work at last, on his own if need be.

  Hardy had already talked to Holiday, continuing in his counsel that the client should stay out of sight, don’t worry, they’d found strong evidence that might clear him before too long. He should just remain patient. By the time Gina Roake called, Hardy was on the other line with his second judge of the morning, Oscar Thomasino. The first one, this week’s magistrate Timothy Hill, had shot him down about quashing Holiday’s arrest warrant almost before Hardy got the question out. “Surrender your client, Diz. Then we litigate. That’s the process and you know it.”

  And Thomasino, who’d known and respected Hardy for many years, told him he didn’t see what he could do. He’d be happy to put in a good word to Jackman or Batiste on Hardy’s basic trustworthiness, even Glitsky’s, but didn’t think it would serve much purpose.

  When he finally got back to Gina at her office, filling him in about her talk with Hector Blanca, specifically about the helicopter to Nevada, she was in a clear and quiet rage. The General Work inspector had told her that he’d really like to help, but that the consensus among his superiors, and he tended to agree, was that the supposed attack on Hardy and John Holiday never took place at all.

  As to David Freeman, Blanca had just checked with the hospital this morning and he was very, very sorry—maybe Ms. Roake hadn’t heard?—but Freeman seemed to be going into renal failure. His kidneys hadn’t produced more than a teaspoon of urine overnight. Blanca liked Roake right away, and was possibly more straightforward than he would have been with someone else. Very probably, he told her, this would soon be a murder case, and hence outside of Blanca’s jurisdiction. But by all means, Gina should bring her suspicions to homicide.

  Hardy took her phone call as an opportunity to bring her up to date and she heard him out. She’d really been unaware of the escalations—the threats to the families, the probable murder of Paul Thieu. It seemed to galvanize her somehow, and when she heard that Glitsky would be at Hardy’s office to discuss possibilities, she told him she was coming, too. Something had to be done and she wanted to be in on whatever it was. Hardy told her to come right on up.

  So at a little before noon on a blustery and overcast Wednesday morning, Glitsky, Roake and Hardy had all gathered and now they sat in varying degrees of unease around the coffee table in Hardy’s office. Hardy had put on a pot and two of them were drinking coffee.

  Glitsky, of course, had his tea. Facing Hardy’s office door, he was explaining that after he read about Thieu this morning, he had finally been driven to speak to Special Agent Bill Schuyler of the FBI, who had expressed interest in Abe’s theory, but who said it would take at least a couple of days to arrange any kind of task force, and that’s if he could get his field director’s approval. Was Glitsky really saying he believed the head of homicide was involved in cover-up and murder? This could be a lot of fun, Schuyler agreed, but it was going to take a degree of manpower and some time.

  “Which is something we don’t have.”

  “Isn’t that a little dramatic, Diz?” Roake asked. “We get the FBI involved in a week or so, there’s plenty of . . .”

  But Hardy was shaking his head. “If they do anything,
it will take years. Wiretaps, following people, background investigations. Maybe trying to infiltrate the gang. By then, all of our physical evidence has disappeared. That’s if they do anything at all. And meanwhile, we’re dead.”

  “Besides which,” Glitsky added, “these people have just killed Paul Thieu. . . .”

  “Allegedly.” Roake’s knee-jerk reaction.

  “No, really.” Glitsky’s dark scowl ended that debate. “And there’s every reason to think they’re at this moment planning the same thing for Diz or me, or our families. Diz is right, Gina. It’s not overdramatic. Drama happens. There’s no time.”

  “So what do you propose to do?” Roake asked.

  Glitsky sat quietly, looked down at his feet, said in an uncharacteristic, almost inaudible voice. “I was hoping . . . I’m going to go down and make some arrests myself.”

  Hardy stared, looking for a sign that Glitsky was being ironic. He saw none. Which made his friend’s message clear and unambiguous, at least to Hardy. And it shocked him.

  First Moses, now Abe.

  Glitsky raised his eyes to Hardy, then Roake, continued with the charade. “Maybe park ’em in San Mateo County overnight, get some judge to listen.” This, Hardy knew, would never happen. No judge would ever listen under those circumstances. As no judge had given Hardy the time of day this morning. This wasn’t what judges did and he, Glitsky and Roake all knew it. But it didn’t make any difference. Glitsky was simply padding the pretense.

  But Hardy didn’t get to call him on it. At that moment, there was a quick knock, the door to Hardy’s office opened and John Holiday introduced his lanky figure to the proceedings. “Howdy, y’all,” he said, a genial grin in place. He wore a heavy sheepskin coat that reached midway down his thighs. He’d tucked his longish blond hair into an Australian shepherd’s hat, one side of the brim tacked against the crown. Smiling all around with the obvious surprise he’d pulled off, he turned to close the door behind him.

  By the time he turned back around to face them again, Glitsky had stood up. And now Hardy did the same, saying, “John, what in the hell are you doing here?”

  Glitsky, a baleful glance at Hardy, took a step forward. He had no choice. He was a cop and here was a man wanted for murder. “I’m afraid you’re under arrest,” he said.

  For Holiday, the surprise element suddenly and completely lost its charm. He glared with startled incomprehension at Glitsky for a beat, shot a look at Hardy, then with no hesitation half turned again, as though he were going back to the door. But when he came back around, he was holding a gun in his right hand. It was pointed down at the floor, but nobody in the room missed it or its import.

  “I don’t think anybody’s gettin’ arrested just right now,” he said, the quiet tone and soft Tennessee accent taking nothing away from his resolve. “Now, Lieutenant, you just sit down, would you? I won’t ask for your gun because I’m gonna assume you’ll act like a gentleman. But please keep your hands out where I can see them. Then we can have a civil discussion, all four of us.”

  Glitsky found his chair and took it.

  Hardy remained standing, folded his arms over his chest. “Jesus, John, what are you doing? How’d you get here?”

  Holiday made no effort to put up the gun. “My lady dropped me by the alley in the back. I came in through the garage and up the elevator. Don’t worry, nobody followed me. I’m sure.”

  “That’s not what I was worried about. Haven’t you ever heard that when you’ve already dug yourself into a hole, you ought to stop digging?”

  Glitsky concurred. “This is a big mistake.”

  Holiday was all agreement. “I can see that now, Lieutenant; you’re probably right. But I didn’t know anybody else was going to be here.”

  “Why don’t you put away the gun, though?” Roake asked. Then, to Hardy, “This is your client, I presume?”

  Hardy made the introductions, and Holiday bowed in a courtly fashion, although without ever taking his eyes from Glitsky.

  “So why did you come here?” Hardy asked again.

  “Tell you the truth, Diz, part of it was cabin fever. Mostly, though, I was thinking you and I might come up with a way to turn me in and guarantee my safety. That thing with your kids . . .” The words petered out. “Anyway, I figure if Panos thinks they got me, that ends. Am I right?”

  Hardy shrugged. “Maybe not all wrong. But the kid thing. You know Abe’s got the same problem?”

  Holiday looked across the room at Glitsky. “Have I got to keep this gun out, Lieutenant, or could we come to an understanding for the time being?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, you’re still under arrest. When I leave here, you’re coming with me.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Glitsky almost laughed. “You going to shoot to stop me? So you can do whatever you want with the gun. It’s not helping your case, as I’m sure your lawyer will agree.” He shot a glance over to Hardy, an invitation to back him up.

  But Hardy had gone bolt upright in his chair, his eyes glazed and faraway.

  Roake, across from him, spoke up. “Diz? Are you all right?”

  He came back with them. “What? Yeah, sure. John, put the damn gun away, would you? The rule is you don’t wave one around if you’re not prepared to use it.”

  “What if I am?”

  “Then you’re a bigger idiot than even I think you are, which is hard to imagine. Nobody here thinks you killed anybody, okay? You’re not about to start now.” He didn’t wait to give Holiday a chance to respond, but turned directly to the other two. “Abe and Gina, check me on something, would you? We’re assuming that Gerson pushed Thieu off the roof, right?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Holiday moving, sticking the gun back under his belt. “The question is why? Why right then?”

  Glitsky had clearly given this a great deal of thought. “Because Thieu put Sephia and Rez at Holiday’s when they denied they’d ever been there.”

  “And, John”—Hardy turned—“have they ever, to your knowledge, been to your place?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ That’s what I thought. So.” He came back to the others. “Doesn’t this mean that Gerson must have thought Thieu was the only person with this information? Otherwise, why kill him if somebody else is going to show up tomorrow and confront him with the same problem?”

  “Except by now Gerson has probably destroyed the tape,” Glitsky said.

  “Maybe not,” Roake said. “Especially if he figures nobody else knew about it.”

  Hardy nodded at Glitsky. “Assume, Abe, that Gerson doesn’t know that you know.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t. I specifically asked Paul to keep you and me out of it, and if anybody in the world was capable of that, it was him.”

  “Well, there you go.” He held up his hands as though he’d proven something.

  “Where, though?” Glitsky asked. “Call me slow, but I don’t see where you’re going.”

  “Okay, Slow. What exactly did Paul tell you?”

  Glitsky wasn’t sure where this was going, but Hardy seemed to have an idea, and at this point, anything was worth pursuing. “Just that he’d lifted Sephia’s and Rez’s prints from Holiday’s house. He had this tape. He was going down to play it for Gerson.” He lifted and dropped his shoulders. “That’s about it.”

  Hardy looked across the room. “Gina, you see it?”

  She nodded.

  Back at Glitsky. “Abe, now you can go to a judge and do an affidavit, which ought to be probable cause to search Gerson’s office, maybe even his home, for the tape. Odds are they’ll even have a copy of Thieu’s original fingerprint request and the results with the tape, showing Gerson knew its significance.”

  Roake had come forward to the edge of the couch. “So you’re saying Abe should get a warrant for Gerson’s house and office without telling anyone else in the PD?”

  “That’s the general idea, yeah. We’ve finally got some pro
bable cause and here’s our chance to use it.”

  Glitsky didn’t buy it. “Impossible,” he said. “Even if Gerson hasn’t already gotten rid of the tape and every one of those reports—which I know, if I were him, I would have—if we do find them we have no real proof of anything. And my career would be completely over.”

  “It seems to me like our only chance. You’ve got to get something on Gerson and squeeze him.”

  Glitsky was all concentration. “Don’t get me wrong. I love the idea, but it doesn’t go anywhere.” He looked up at Hardy. “And at best it still leaves Panos, who’ll then know we—that’s you and me, Diz—we haven’t backed off.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure I want to dare him to see how far he’ll go.”

  Holiday, who’d been listening all this while, suddenly butted in. Quietly. “How about this, instead? You call this Gerson and tell him you’ve got me.”

  “What do you mean, got you?” Glitsky asked.

  “In custody. You want to turn me over to him, but Diz here, my whizzo lawyer, doesn’t trust the normal procedure. He won’t give me up to anybody but you, Lieutenant. Gerson would believe that.”

  “And how does that help us, John? Or help you?” Hardy asked.

  “I’m not exactly sure about the nuts and bolts. But if Gerson knows that you, Lieutenant, are going to be some place at some time with me . . .”

  “You’d get ambushed,” Hardy said. “No way is that happening.”

  But Glitsky liked it. “If we could in fact get them all together on some pretext . . .”

  Roake went with it. “The fact that they’re all there together is probable cause right there, Abe. And you arrest the lot of ’em.”

  Glitsky, Holiday and Hardy just looked at her.

  After a moment, she turned pale, then crimson, then added in a flat tone. “There would have to be backup. I’m talking police, of course.”

  Glitsky went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “So I call Gerson and tell him where and when, and that it’s just me and you, Diz, and your client turning himself in to me. And that after I have John in custody, I will personally take him downtown for booking. I also tell him it’s imperative that no one else, including him, is there to blow the deal. Especially not him. But he’s going to think the three of us are out wherever it is, all alone.”