The Dismas Hardy Novels

by John Lescroart

  She thought that when the time came, if indeed he gave her any warning at all, she would bolt and try to throw something—the saltshaker, the chair she sat on. But she realized from his demeanor throughout this excruciating wait that he was just as likely to lick his finger, turn a page, check the window (as he’d done a dozen times), decide it was sufficiently dark, lift the gun without a word or warning and shoot her. Then unlock the door and walk downstairs and out into the sheltering night.

  Unable to bear watching his twitching finger any longer, she closed her eyes, trying to find some place of inner peace, but found there was nowhere she could go. This was the end of her life, and all she could feel was the coming void. Opening her eyes again, she watched him flip a page, glance at her as though she were a piece of furniture, look back down at his magazine, turn his head to the window, flip another page.

  The small hole in the barrel of the silencer, the finger dancing over the trigger guard, had so dominated her consciousness that she hadn’t looked at the window herself in what must have been minutes. But now she did and realized that the night had truly come on—she was looking at her own reflection now in the glass, as though in a mirror. There was no more light from outside to dissipate the image.

  He would not wait much longer.

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  The sound startled them both. Wu gave a little involuntary yelp and he jumped where he sat, the chair legs giving a little screech on the hardwood floor. At the same time, the magazine slipped and fell out of his lap. After all the silence in the room, the two sounds—the knock and the dropped magazine—seemed to Amy to echo like thunder.

  She shot a startled glance at him. He lifted the gun, his arm outstretched, centered on her heart. The gun never left her. His eyes went to the door, back to her. The initial moment of panic passed. She felt she could see him plotting what he would do. With the inadvertent noises from inside, there was no way to pretend that no one was home.

  Quickly, he pointed the gun at the door, then back to her, and nodded.

  “Who is it?”

  “Amy. It’s me. Diz. We had a meeting?”

  She turned to him. Mouthed, “My boss.”

  Something like a smile curled the corner of his mouth. All the better. He nodded. The message was Let him in. He got to his feet.

  “Just a second,” she said.

  In a few steps, agile as a cat, suddenly he’d come around the table and pressed himself against the wall by the door. He moved the gun up and now held it on her head. One foot from her head.

  Wu read his intentions with crystal clarity. When she opened the door, it would block him from sight until Hardy was inside. And then he would shoot. And then both of them would die. She couldn’t let that happen.

  What was he doing here? They hadn’t planned any meeting.

  She undid the chain, fumbling with it, her hands shaking.

  If she threw the door back quickly, could she disable him? She looked down for an instant, saw that he’d planted his foot to prevent that. The door could open only enough to let Hardy in, nothing more. And meanwhile he could fire at will.

  If she let him in, Hardy would die, too. She couldn’t be responsible for that. If she was going to die anyway, maybe at least she could warn him first.

  Her thoughts tumbling over one another, she watched as though from a distance as her hands turned the dead bolt, went to the knob, turned it.

  Dropping her hand, resigned now to the gun there at her ear, she heard herself saying, “I don’t feel well. You have to go, Diz.”

  “We need to talk,” he said, “face to face. It’s urgent.”

  Hardy knew she’d undone the chain. He’d heard her throw the dead bolt, watched the doorknob turn and heard the little click. The door was unlocked. He guessed she was stalling for time, but there was no more time.

  He grabbed the knob, turned, lowered his shoulder and exploded into the crack where he’d opened the door, hitting her with a tackle at the waist, taking her down with him.

  Before they’d even hit the floor, the four TAC unit specialists who’d crammed into the landing behind Hardy crashed in through the opening with their guns drawn, splintering the door completely off its hinges. There were another four behind them, and then yet another team, rushing unstoppable as a flash flood into the apartment.

  The force of the door flying back knocked the gun from his grip and somersaulted him back over the table and onto the floor. Crashing against the counter where Wu kept her dishes and cooking supplies, for an instant he lay stunned on the floor amid the splintered wood and broken glass. But in the half-second before anyone could reach him, emitting an animal cry, he made a last desperate scramble and lunge for his weapon.

  But he never made it, as the first pair of TAC unit specialists reached and fell upon him.

  Writhing and screaming, a run-over animal whose back had been broken, he grunted and kicked and gouged and spewed his vile rage until they’d gotten his hands behind his back and cuffed him. Now, facedown in his own blood and spread-eagled with a TAC guy on each leg and another kneeling on his back, he couldn’t move a muscle.

  Glitsky was standing in the doorway, his own gun drawn, but now held down at his side. He could see that his plan—well, his and Hardy’s—had worked. And they’d managed to pull it off without anyone having to die. Their backs against the wall, Hardy sat next to Wu on the floor, a protective arm around her. Wu’s head was down, her shoulders heaving a little as she cried out some of the tension.

  Fine.

  Glitsky walked over to where his troops had the suspect in righteous custody, and looked down at the now pathetic and restrained figure of the Executioner. They’d only discovered his name in the minutes before Brandt had called to say he knew where they could find him.

  The Youth Guidance Center bailiff, Ray Cottrell.

  The TAC unit police had wasted no time getting Cottrell up and taking him away, and now the room fairly buzzed with the spent energy and the detritus of chaos.

  In the destroyed half of the apartment, Wu, Hardy and Glitsky went to almost robotic wordless motion, getting the shattered door to one side and leaning it up against the wall, setting the table back on its legs, righting the chairs, two of them still unbroken, picking up the larger pieces of plates and pottery.

  At last, Wu sat heavily in one of the chairs. Hardy took the other.

  Glitsky crossed to the dish counter and filled a glass of water from the tap. He went over to the table and handed it to Wu, then went back to the counter, cleared a spot and sat on it. “How did he get here?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I had no idea he knew where I lived.”

  “But what did he want with you? You were—what?—twelve years old during his father’s trial. You had nothing to do with it, did you?”

  Seeming to notice the glass in her hand for the first time, Wu drank off half the water. She dropped her head and appeared to gather herself for another minute. Finally, she began to tell them what Cottrell had said he had wanted with her, as best she could explain it—her connection to the system that had mistakenly and tragically convicted his father.

  “No, more than that,” she said. “It wasn’t just that I was another lawyer. He saw me as exactly like Allan Boscacci had been when he’d prosecuted his innocent dad and sent his dad up. I was doing the same thing to Andrew Bartlett, bartering away years of his life when Ray knew Andrew was innocent.” She was coming out of her state of shock, and seemed suddenly to realize the import of what he’d told her. “Because he was the one who’d done what Andrew had been arrested for. Don’t you see? He killed Mooney and Laura.”

  “We’d pretty much gotten to that ourselves,” Glitsky said.

  She raised her voice a notch. “But he told me he did it. He actually told me. He called Mooney by name.” She turned to Hardy. “That’s important,” she said, urgency bleeding out of her. “It makes a difference.”

  “I know.” He put a hand over hers at the tab
le. “I don’t think Abe’s missing it.”

  Glitsky nodded. “We’ll get his statement, then see where we are,” he said. “But unofficially, I don’t think you need to worry. It’ll all come out.”

  “At least enough to clear Andrew,” Hardy said. “Let’s hope.”

  Wu let out a heavy breath. “But how did you know I’d open the door?” she asked. “I almost didn’t.”

  “I didn’t know that for sure,” Hardy said. “That was Plan A. Plan B was the door comes down anyway about five seconds later. Abe and I both thought it was worth a try to get you out of the way first.”

  They heard noises from out on the landing, footfalls and voices on the stairs. “I’m going to want a more complete statement from you tomorrow,” Glitsky said, “but we can let that go tonight.” His eyes went to the shattered door leaning up against the wall, the empty door frame with its hanging hinges. “Are you going to need a place to stay?”

  “She can come to my place,” Hardy said, turning to her. “If you’re good with that? Same spacious quarters and comfortable bed?”

  “Same night chef?” she asked.

  “It might be arranged.”

  At that moment, Jason Brandt broke from the ranks of police that were accompanying him up the stairs and stopped in the open door frame. “Jesus,” he exclaimed at all the damage. Then, seeing her at the table, he closed his eyes and blew out heavily in relief. Hardy and Glitsky might as well not have been there. “Amy, are you all right?”

  Her face lit up. “Jason. What are you doing here?”

  “What’s he doing here?” Hardy asked. “He’s the hero, that’s all.”

  Brandt shook his head in embarrassed denial, spoke to Hardy. “No. From what I hear, you’re the hero. I just—”

  Hardy cut him off. “You just figured it all out and called Chief Glitsky here and got us moving, that’s all. Without which none of this happens.”

  Wu was staring at Brandt. “But I told you to get away, Jason. To get out of here.”

  “I know.” He shrugged. “I snuck back up and listened at the door.”

  “But why? How did you know?”

  “Because I know you, Amy,” he said. “You wouldn’t have just sent me off. Not that way. No matter what. That’s not who you are.”

  Lanier and Ariola appeared from the steps, on the landing behind Brandt. Hardy turned back to Wu and saw that her eyes had brimmed.

  Brandt stepped into the room, out of the cops’ way. He hesitated, then came over behind Amy at the table. He put a hand on her shoulder, and Wu put her hand over his.

  In the door frame, Ariola said, “If we’re sealing this place up, we’re going to want to get to it pretty soon, Chief.”

  “All right,” Glitsky said. He motioned to the civilians. “When they’re ready to go down, let’s get that done.”

  Lanier spoke up. “Also, just a heads up, Abe, but there’s some people waiting for you downstairs,” he said. “Cameras.”

  Glitsky’s face went dark. He took in the scene here one last time, said “Swell” and pushed through to the landing.

  Out in the street, at the impromptu press conference, Glitsky stood in a circle of halogen and uniforms and spoke into a hastily assembled cluster of microphones. As usual at this type of event, he found himself on the defensive. “Well,” he said. “Assuming that our sharpshooter could not take him out, which was always a viable option, there were really two main objections to simply calling him up on the telephone or using a bullhorn to tell him he was surrounded.

  “The first was that we knew that he’d already killed seven people at close range and in cold blood. After some serious discussion downtown, we decided—”

  “Who’s ‘we,’ Chief?”

  “Myself, homicide Lieutenant Marcel Lanier and Dismas Hardy.”

  “The lawyer?” A woman’s voice. “What’s a lawyer doing making police decisions?”

  “Mr. Hardy didn’t make the decision, Claudia. He had some detailed knowledge of the situation and it proved useful. In any event, getting back to the original question, in view of Mr. Cottrell’s behavior in the past few weeks, if we announced our presence, we thought it extremely likely that he would simply kill the hostage and then himself. The second objection was that we thought we had a better plan.”

  “But one that exposed civilian lives to danger, isn’t that true?”

  “That’s true, but it was only one civilian and Mr. Hardy volunteered, and his involvement was crucial. Ms. Wu is his business associate and friend. And let’s not forget, if you don’t mind,” Glitsky said, forcing himself, “the operation was a success.”

  Another disembodied voice from out in the darkness: “Yes, but how sure are you that Ray Cottrell is in fact the Executioner?”

  “Close to a hundred percent. He confessed as much to Ms. Wu. But now that he’s in custody, you’ll be hearing lots more about that, I’m sure.”

  “I understand he was an abused child who grew up in a succession of foster homes.”

  “Is that a question?” Glitsky asked. “If so, I have no comment.”

  “Chief? What part of your decision not to use your sniper in this instance comes from the tragic results of the LeShawn Brodie situation?”

  “Well, first, that LeShawn Brodie decision wasn’t made by me or anybody else in this jurisdiction. Second, as I thought I’d already made clear, Mr. Ralston, we never made the decision not to use our sharpshooter in this case, and in fact that option was on the table throughout the course of the operation, if the opportunity presented itself. Which it didn’t.”

  “In other words, you approved the order to have Cottrell shot out of hand, but by the same token you elected not to give him a chance to surrender by letting him know that his options had run out and he was surrounded?”

  Glitsky brought one hand to his side and pushed in against the spasm there. He raised his other hand up against the bright lights. Trying not to look too menacing, and to possibly even look cooperative and friendly, and failing abysmally, he glared out into the invisible circle in front of him. “As I believe I’ve already explained . . .”

  35

  On the Wednesday of that week, at a little before one o’clock in the afternoon, Wu walked up the hall from her office and turned right toward Hardy’s, passing directly behind Phyllis’s workstation. The elderly receptionist obviously had eyes in the back of her head, because as Wu came abreast of her, she whirled in her ergonomic chair and actually held a hand up. “He’s busy and doesn’t want to be disturbed. Did you make an appointment?”

  Wu stopped, forced a polite smile. “I just opened my mail,” she said, holding up a yellowish manila envelope, “and he’ll want to see this. I promise.”

  “That’s what everyone says. All of you associates believe he’ll want to see you, which of course he does. He and I have discussed this. He’s happy to make time for the associates, but he’d really prefer that those times are convenient to him, not necessarily to them.” Phyllis possibly actually thought she was softening the message with her schoolteacher smile. “I’m sorry,” she said, as one of the phones in her bank rang behind her and she whirled around again to get it.

  Wu didn’t hesitate for a moment, but broke right as quietly as she could, got to Hardy’s door and knocked.

  “Ms. Wu!”—from behind her, as from the other side of the door she heard, “Yo!” and got herself inside.

  Her boss, coat off, tie loosened, was rummaging through the drawers of his desk. He greeted her arrival with a smile that seemed more or less welcoming behind the more obvious fluster of his demeanor. “How did you. . . ?” he began, and was interrupted by the sharp buzz of his intercom.

  He reached over, pushed the button and said “Yo!” again, this time into the speaker. He knew that of all the things hated by Phyllis, and in his experience this included nearly all forms of human interaction, his cavalier telephone greeting ranked near the top. He winked at Wu during the short, distinctive pause while Phyl
lis bit back her natural reprimand. “Mr. Hardy! I told Ms. Wu you weren’t to be disturbed, and she went ahead.”

  “I can see that, and I assure you that I’m already disturbed, Phyllis. It’s not your fault. I intend to have a word with her right away. Thank you.”

  He left his speaker on for a second or so while he began in a firm voice. “Ms. Wu, when I tell Phyllis I don’t want to be disturbed, I expect you and all the associates to . . .” Then he pushed the button, breaking the connection. “Charging the door isn’t very subtle, Wu. I need that woman, believe it or not. She’s very good at what she does, none better.”

  “Maybe, but she’s not very nice.”

  “She’s not supposed to be. If she were nice, people would walk all over her. As it is, some of your colleagues are afraid to go to the bathroom if they have to pass her station. So they stay at their desks, working all day. This is good for the firm.”

  Wu allowed a smile. “You really are becoming more and more like Mr. Freeman.”

  Hardy inclined his head an inch. “I’ll take that as a compliment of the highest order. Have you seen my darts?”

  “Your darts? When would I have seen your darts?”

  “I don’t know. But they were here yesterday or the day before, and now I’ve mislaid them. Second time in two months. I think I’m losing my mind.”

  “Maybe you’re just saving it for bigger things.”

  Hardy stopped his rummaging through his drawers, slammed the latest one closed. “Unfortunately, there’s not much sign of that either.” Scanning the room one last time for obvious places where he might have left them, he finally gave up and sat down in the big leather chair behind his desk. “So what’s important enough to risk the wrath of Phyllis?”