“Hell, Pat,” Cuneo said, “I’ve got about a dozen myself if you want one.”
“Yeah,” Lanier interjected, “but are any of them citizens?”
“Elizabeth Cary was,” Belou said.
“Yes, she was.” Glitsky filled in for those who didn’t know. “Couple of weeks ago now, Elizabeth Cary, a middle-aged, white housewife, was gunned down at her front door, one bullet in the heart. The shooter left no sign except a nine-millimeter casing.”
“Was there a slug?” Cuneo asked.
Belou shook her head. “No. Through and through, then through the drywall and stucco out the back of the house. We had CSI look for a whole day. They couldn’t find it.”
“So we don’t know if it was this Executioner or not?” Russell asked.
“Right,” Glitsky said. “He left us nothing. Now my question to all of you is: why does this sound familiar?”
“Excuse me, sir.” Cuneo had straightened up in his chair. “So you’re saying you think because we got nothing on these separate cases, that they’re related. With respect, that seems like a stretch.” He got agreeing nods from at least Russell and Taylor, and went on. “It’s like saying beer isn’t water, and milk isn’t water, therefore beer is milk.”
“I realize that.” Glitsky, knowing what he’d come down here to propose, was prepared to remain unruffled. “And of course it’s a good point. But on the other hand, since we’ve got nothing on these four homicides in this past fortnight, maybe the only way we’ll catch a break is to go outside the box. We can expect this Executioner to hit again, and until he’s kind enough to leave us a clue, maybe we ought to work with what we’ve got.”
“Which,” Evans said, “I thought was nothing.”
“No, Sarah, not quite,” Glitsky said. “We’ve got only the ballistics connection if we’re looking at the Twin Peaks killings. But if we go on the assumption, first, that Boscacci may have been an Executioner victim . . .”
Cuneo nearly jumped out of his chair. “Wait wait wait! You’re really losing me here, sir. You’re saying maybe the Executioner killed Boscacci? Next is Kennedy maybe, too, huh?”
Lanier came to Glitsky’s defense. “No one’s denying it’s a reach, Dan.”
“If we had anything else at all to follow up on the Executioner’s victims,” Glitsky said, “I wouldn’t waste anybody’s time talking about this. But the fact is, we don’t have anything.”
“And nothing with Boscacci either,” Cuneo said.
Glitsky: “Not quite. We believe it’s likely he was shot with a silenced weapon. In fact,” he turned to Lanier, “that’s why we need to have the lab reexamine the slugs from Twin Peaks.”
“They already ran ballistics,” Lanier said. “And the Boscacci slug was deformed so they couldn’t cross-check.”
“I know,” Glitsky said. “I’m not talking about ballistics.” He talked to the group. “Boscacci’s slug had a fairly distinctive scuff. Sometimes, if a silencer isn’t fitted properly, it scuffs a slug as it leaves the barrel, and normal ballistics wouldn’t pick it up, especially if the slug is deformed. But,” he added, “they get a visual match with the Twin Peaks’s slugs, maybe we’re in business.”
“So these are pro jobs,” Taylor said.
“Maybe,” Glitsky said. “In any case, it would be worthwhile to find out if anybody in Twin Peaks heard a gunshot. Or,” he turned to Belou, “near Mrs. Cary’s home?”
“Yeah, but so what?” Cuneo asked. “Every witness says they heard nothing, which is the answer every time I ask anything. They didn’t hear nothin’, they didn’t see nothin’, as far as they can recall if their memory serves them at that particular point in time they were out of the area code if not the hemisphere when the incident occurred. Then what? We’re going to consider that some kind of positive evidence?”
Glitsky remained calm. “At least positive enough so that the ATF will supply us with people who bought silencers. These we interview and try to find some connection between any one of them and any of the victims. At least it’s doing something, instead of just waiting for another strike.”
“And meanwhile,” Taylor said, “when the Executioner does hit again, then what?”
“Then, if he leaves us anything at all, we move on that, of course. But until we’ve got something better, we’ve got to eliminate other options, the best one being that a silenced weapon has killed four people instead of two.”
“And,” Lanier said, “we can know the answer to that by, say, tonight, if we all go out and canvass now, when witnesses are likely to be home.”
Evans chuckled softly. “That was subtle, Marcel.”
Lanier smiled all around. “Thank you. I like to think it’s the key to effective management.”
“So we’re approved on the overtime?” Russell asked.
This was always a thorny issue. Lanier hesitated, looked over to Glitsky, who nodded. “Put it all on the event number,” he said.
“One more thing,” Cuneo said. Everyone turned to him. “When we started talking about Boscacci, you said, first, you were going on the assumption that he was one of these Executioner victims. Was there something else?”
A muscle worked in Glitsky’s in his jaw. “I said first?”
“I believe so. Yes, sir.”
Another minute. “Sorry,” he said, “it’s gone.”
When Hal and Linda North came out of their son’s guarded room at the hospital, Wu and Hardy were there in the hall to meet them. After Wu introduced Hardy, Linda smiled and said, “Dismas? Wasn’t that the name of the good thief on Calvary?”
Hardy forced a smile. He didn’t feel remotely friendly. “That was him,” he said. “Not too many people know that. He’s also the patron saint of murderers.”
Linda tightened, drew herself up. “Andrew isn’t a murderer.”
“No, ma’am, he isn’t.”
Hal spoke up. “After all we’ve been through on that score, it’s good to hear somebody say that. So you’re telling me we’ve got a chance?”
“Don’t get me wrong. We’ve got some tough days ahead, but there’s some reason for guarded hope. There have been some developments in your absence. Besides, of course, this suicide attempt.” He fixed them both with flat eyes.
Linda read his look. “You probably think we’re horrible to have gone away, don’t you?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Hardy said. “Maybe I wondered a little.”
“About what?” Hal stepped protectively in front of his wife. “About what?” he repeated. “Us going south?”
Hardy said nothing.
“I asked Andrew and he said he was fine. He knew that we’d had the reservations for months and he was adamant we should just go. It was only for three days. He said he’d be fine. He was getting used to Youth Guidance. We didn’t know he’d do anything like this. How could we have known?”
“Mrs. North,” Hardy said, “Mr. North. I’m not accusing you of anything. It’s none of my business how you run your lives. For Andrew’s sake, though, it might be helpful if we knew where we could find you if we need to contact you while this is going on, but . . .”
“He knew where we were.” Hal was growing hot. He turned to Amy. “I was sure he’d have told you.”
“No, sir. He didn’t.”
“He can talk to us anytime,” Linda put in. “Both of our kids can. Hal and I, we’re always there for them if they need us.”
“There you go.” Hal took an aggressive stance between them, but spoke to Wu. “You could have called Alicia at home. You have that number. She could have reached us. Easily.”
“How did you find out?” Hardy asked. “About this?”
“I called the YGC to talk to Andrew as soon as we got home this morning. They told me. Then I called Hal and we came straight here.”
But Hal continued at Wu. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t think to call the house. Alicia could have called and gotten us back here hours ago.”
Wu matched his gaze, tightened her lip, turned to Hardy, who came to her defense. “Your daughter wasn’t home, sir.”
“What? Of course she was. We both talked to her.”
“We did,” Linda said. “She was home. Absolutely. She called us.”
“On her cellphone?” Hardy asked.
“Yes, I think so.” Linda looked from Hardy to Wu, then back to Hardy. “You’re saying she could have called from anywhere.”
“I’m telling you,” Hardy said, “that when they found Andrew in his cell this morning, they called your home first, then sent a squad car by—this is at four a.m., remember—and nobody was there. The first person they could reach with any connection to Andrew was Amy, at her apartment.”
“I don’t believe that,” Hal said.
“You check it out,” Hardy replied. “Won’t take you five minutes.”
“Now you’re calling my daughter a liar.” Hal directed his ire at Hardy. “Hey, you know what? We don’t need to take any more of this crap from you or anybody else.” He turned to Linda, grabbed her by the elbow. “Let’s go. That’s the end of this.”
But she held back. “I want to know the truth about Alicia.”
“You just heard it,” Hardy said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Hal snapped. “It’s another ploy to make us feel guilty and ultimately, I’m sure, to pay him more.”
“Pay me more? Here’s a flash for you, pal, if you haven’t already heard. I’m doing this for free.” Hardy was by now so mad at the man’s blindness and arrogance that he was tempted to throw a punch. Blood pounded in his ears. He felt he had to raise his voice to get above it. “And firing Amy? There’s a brilliant idea! Never mind how Andrew is going to feel if the one person who’s been standing by him since his arrest deserts him, too. You think that’s going to help his state of mind? His self-esteem? Of course, worrying about what Andrew’s feeling isn’t something you do much, is it?”
Linda stepped in front of her husband. “How can you say that? I love my boy. I do.”
Hardy forced himself to some semblance of calm. “You know, Mrs. North, I’m sure you do. But doesn’t last night tell you that maybe he’s not getting the message? That maybe he feels alone and deserted in the world?”
“That’s not because of us,” Hal said. “Our kids have had everything they need their whole lives, every opportunity.” He looked to his wife, took her hand, came at Hardy. “You keep wanting to bring this back to me and Linda. We are not at fault here. This is all because of Andrew—the lies he told, how he acted, who he is. He’s always been such a difficult kid. This is not me and Linda. We have been damn good parents.”
This, Hardy realized, would never go anywhere productive. “Look,” he said, “I’ve got two kids myself. Teenagers. I know what you’re talking about. My wife and I get a chance for time alone, we take it, too. But I might suggest—and this is true with me and my wife and maybe every other set of parents on the planet—that maybe you’re not as in touch with your son’s feelings as you think you are. He did, after all, just try to take his own life.”
After a short and tense moment, Linda broke the silence. “I’m going back in to him,” she said, “for when he comes out of it. Come on, Hal. Are you coming?”
With a surly look back at both Wu and Hardy, and no comment, Hal took her hand, and together they turned back toward Andrew’s room.
27
. . . And people wonder where they go wrong raising children,” Frannie said. She was already chafing at the bedrest edict, and against her doctor’s orders had been planning on coming downstairs to dinner. But Hardy had finessed her by bringing up the fettucine alfredo and serving her in the bedroom. Now he sat next to the bed, eating his own pasta from a television table.
“I don’t know if Hal and Linda wonder about that so much,” Hardy said. “Ask them and they’ll tell you. They’re not doing anything wrong. They’re great parents. They’ve worked hard and now just want to have some fun.”
“You can’t argue with the basic concept.”
“Okay, but getting it even a little bit right takes some energy. You check up on them from time to time, get in their faces when they need it; once in a while, God forbid, you say no. You make sure they know they’re loved all the time, even when you hate ’em.”
“Especially when you hate them.”
“That, too. See, it’s not that complex.”
“Although I’ve heard you say more than once that raising the little darlings is the hardest thing in the world.”
“That’s because I only speak in revealed truth.” Hardy went back to his food.
Frannie fell pensive. Time passed. Then: “Maybe they just got tired. The Norths.”
Hardy put his fork down. “Who doesn’t? But you’re still in their lives a little. Not that some percentage of them wouldn’t make it if you left, even a large percentage. But somebody like Andrew who’s already got obvious issues, it might occur to you he’s at risk, wouldn’t you think?” He shook his head, forked some pasta, chewed thoughtfully. “One of the kids I talked to at Sutro today was this girl, Jeri, pierced everywhere you could stick a needle, tattoos—the look, you know? Not my first choice for fashion consultant, but a really good kid. Solid, grounded, helpful. She was in the play with Andrew.”
“What about her?”
“Well, when she walked in, she was the one who fit the poster child image of troubled youth. But you hear her talking about Andrew or Laura, these kids who look like they’ve got everything, and she’s got the answer. She calls them gone parents. Even if they’re right in the house, they’re gone. And Hal and Linda aren’t even in the house all that much.”
Frannie reached over and put a hand on Hardy’s tray table. “So what happens now? With Andrew, I mean?”
“Well, they’re sending him back up the hill in the morning. Meanwhile, it looks like Amy’s on tomorrow.”
Frannie took a breath and let an involuntary moan escape. Closing her eyes, she let herself back down onto her pillows. “And what about you?”
“No. What about you? That didn’t sound too good.”
“I’m a little sore, that’s all.”
“That’s all. You didn’t by any chance forget to take your pain medicine, did you?”
She shook her head as far as the neck brace let her. “It’s not that bad. I don’t want to be drugged up.”
“If you weren’t already so hurt, I’d whup you upside the head.” Hardy got up and went into the bathroom, found her medicine and brought it back. “Here. Take these, would you? Give yourself a break. Tomorrow you can get up and suffer all day if you want.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Clear dishes, check on kids, take the rest of the night off.”
“On the day before a hearing? You’re kidding.”
“Yep,” he said.
“So what? Really?”
“Really? I don’t know exactly. I’ve got some phone calls. I’ve got to find something that might help this kid. Especially after what he tried last night.” He leaned over and she put a hand behind his neck, held him in the kiss for an extra second. When he straightened up, he said, “On the other hand, I could close the door and get these silly dishes off the bed, although with your medical condition we’d have to cut back on the usual acrobatics.”
“It’s a nice offer, but with the concussion and all, I really do have a headache.” She offered him a weak smile. “I hate to say that.”
“It’s fine. I really do have stuff to do anyway.” He sat down on the side of the bed. “But for the record, that was a nice kiss.”
“Thank you. I thought so, too. You know why?”
“Why what?”
“Why suddenly I thought a good kiss was in order.”
Hardy shrugged. “I thought it was just the usual animal magnetism.”
“That, too,” she said. “But also I’m liking this guy who showed up again recently. Caring for his clients, interacting with his ki
ds. All that sensitive stuff.” She touched his hand. “Really,” she said. “If he wanted to stick around, that wouldn’t be so bad.”
“He’s thinking about it,” Hardy said. “No commitments, though.”
“No, of course not. No pressure, either. But just so he knows.”
Hardy leaned over and kissed her another good long one. “He’ll take it under advisement,” he said.
As a matter of course and of habit, Hardy had left his card—home and business numbers—with all of today’s interview subjects. He had also asked for their own numbers and told all of them that he might need to call them as witnesses for Andrew, but this really didn’t seem too likely at the moment. None of them had given him a shred of evidence, and without that no judge would let him introduce even the most compelling alternative theory of the murders. Hardy had to have something real, and he had nothing at all, not even a reasonable conjecture of his own.
This last fact, considering that he’d come very close to actually believing in Andrew’s innocence, was the most galling. If someone else had killed Mooney and Laura Wright, he had no idea who it might have been, or what reason they might have had. Perhaps the most frustrating element was that Hardy now believed that Juan Salarco—or, more precisely, Anna Salarco—had actually seen the murderer as he fled from the scene and turned to look back at the house.
But because of the promises of the police for some kind of intercession on his behalf with the INS—promises Hardy knew to be empty—Salarco couldn’t admit that he’d made a mistake on the identification. Maybe he didn’t even accept that fact himself. Maybe all Anglos looked pretty much the same to him, especially young ones wearing cowled sweatshirts.
He was just finishing up a telephone discussion with Kevin Brolin, the psychologist who’d treated Andrew for his anger problems when he’d been younger, and whom Hardy wanted to testify the next day on the second criterion, Andrew’s rehabilitation potential. Brolin had been called by the Norths before they’d even flown home after the suicide attempt, and Hardy had talked to him earlier that evening at the hospital right after his little contretemps with Hal and Linda. Brolin seemed knowledgeable and sympathetic and, more importantly, convinced that Andrew had resolved the problems with his temper—in Brolin’s opinion, he was not a candidate for physical violence. He’d learned to channel that negative energy into creative outlets, such as writing and acting. Brolin even understood that he’d stopped eating meat out of compassion for the suffering of food animals.
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