Hardy 10 - Second Chair, The

by John Lescroart

  "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 Phyllis 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?"

  She held up the envelope. "This is very cool."

  "What is it?"

  She handed it to him and he pulled out the pages.

  Dear Ms. Wu,

  I've been meaning to write to thank you and Mr. Hardy for all that you did for me, but I had so much work to make up at school, I never got the time. As I think you might have heard from my mom, Sutro took me back— some combination of Hal's money and Mr. Wagner making me sign a paper promising that I wouldn't bring a loaded gun to school again.

  Oh. Okay. Or what? I get expelled?

  Forgetting that we don't own a gun anymore, and as if that would stop me if I decided to. But don't worry, I agree that it's a bad idea.

  The other reason I haven't had time is that I've been doing some more writing— I started almost the day I got out, totally different stuff than "Perfect Killer." Working with the narrative voice, wondering if maybe it wouldn't hurt to have it be accessible, even friendly. Anyway, maybe I'm getting somewhere, since just today I heard back from McSweeney's. They say they want to publish my latest story. I thought you'd be glad to hear about that, and maybe also to hear that I'm so glad I didn't die when I tried to kill myself. So glad.

  You know the famous line from Anna Karenina? "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." Well, my time in my own unhappy family is getting to the end, and maybe when I get to going out and making one of my own, I can form it a little differently. The story McSweeney's is taking imagines a guy from a happier family, way later on. I hope you like it.

  Just remember one thing, though, would you? I made it all up.

  Brandt and Wu were at a table in the restaurant at the back of the Balboa Cafe. The waiter had brought their drinks, but both of them remained untouched. When Brandt finished reading Andrew's letter, he handed it gingerly back to Wu. It was a long minute before he said anything. "I don't like to think that I was trying to send him to prison for the rest of his life." He paused again. "I've never had a defendant be inno
cent before, you know that? It gives one pause."

  "You wonder if you've sent up somebody who shouldn't be there?"

  He thought about it for a few seconds. "Not really, no. I don't think so. I mean, Bartlett was unusual. At least I hope he was. But I don't know for sure, to tell you the truth. I'm sure Allan Boscacci thought what's his name, Welding, was guilty. In a funny way," he said, "it almost makes me feel better about the system. I mean, Andrew Bartlett got off, with me and Johnson both trying to bring him down. Sometimes it works."

  * * * * *

  Hardy and Glitsky hadn't seen much of each other for six weeks.

  In the aftermath of the Executioner arrest, and in spite of its successful conclusion, the media couldn't seem to warm to Glitsky's politically incorrect style. The many published and broadcasted comparisons with his role in the LeShawn Brodie debacle, combined with his alleged insensitivity not only to the legal, but to the basic human, rights of suspects, especially those that came from backgrounds riddled with abuse, prompted several public and private calls for his resignation. Other advocacy groups demanded investigations into the police department's decision-making procedures, and called for the formation of various committees to oversee (and second-guess) the command structure.

  How had it taken the police so long (nearly twenty hours!) to crib together the clues linking Lucas Welding with his son and his current identity? Why, even working with the luxury of an event number, had no one in the police department been able to discover sooner that the Executioner's victims had all been on the same jury? Surely, the records on these things should be more accessible. How had it taken so long to locate the address of the last victim, Wendy Takahashi? Better police work, quicker and more informed decision-making, would almost certainly have saved her life. How in the world had Glitsky seen fit to allow an unelected civilian to take part in a command decision involving the city's highly skilled and specialized TAC unit?

  And on and on and on.

  Fortunately, Batiste, Lanier, Jackman and the mayor himself— in a rare and somewhat surprising display of unanimity— had all closed ranks around Glitsky, shouldering their portions of the blame if, in fact, there had been any. Eventually, inevitably, the immediate outcry had died down.

  Although Glitsky knew, and hoped, that his days as deputy chief were probably numbered. He couldn't say it broke his heart. He'd even spoken to Lanier and Batiste about the possibility of becoming an inspector at large, where he could float between the investigations of different details without being burdened by an administrative portfolio. He wasn't a politician and everybody knew it, so why not let him work where he could do some good, instead of where, with the best of intentions, a great work ethic and even a record of success, he caused nothing but headaches for the department?

  For his part, Hardy had spent most of his time bringing his associates and partners up to speed on the workload surrounding what he called his "influence clients." He'd lost his taste for facilitating. What he liked best and did best was trials. Another of his associates, Graham Russo, had asked him if he'd consider another shot at second chair in a local potential death penalty murder case that would need an incredibly strong psychiatric defense to prevail. Russo was planning to argue some variety of mental illness to save his client's life. And in truth, Hardy had known golden retrievers with more brains than their client, who reminded him of Lenny in Of Mice and Men—"Tell me about the rabbits, George." The client had done some terrible things, it was true, but Hardy didn't believe the state should execute him. But whatever the outcome, it was going to be a complex and interesting case. Huge issues. He just wanted to be part of it.

  He'd spent the better portion of the rest of his time, at his own expense, boning up on immigration law— there was already an enormous market there, and in California it was only going to grow— and using the Salarcos as his guinea pigs. He'd secured the sponsorship of several of Juan's gardening customers (all of whom lived in comparative splendor), and though it was early in the game, he held out some hope that the Salarcos could avoid some of the bureaucracy and despair of the long-drawn-out citizenship process.

  Today, though, Sunday, the first day of June, Hardy and Glitsky sat seven rows behind home plate at PacBell Park. They both wore their Giants caps against the bright sunshine, had removed their jackets. Bonds had dumped one into McCovey Cove and they figured they'd gotten their money's worth already, although in truth the seats had been free, courtesy of one of Hardy's clients with season tickets.

  Hardy popped a peanut, chased it with a slug of beer. "Your gallbladder?"

  "That's the latest. They want to take it out." Glitsky sipped his Coke. "I told them no."

  "Why not?"

  Glitsky shrugged. "I've had enough metal in my guts over the past few years to last me a while. I'm not letting them cut me three more times, which is how they do it nowadays. My doc even said, kind of goofing, 'Yeah, it's like being stabbed in the gut. In fact, it is being stabbed in the gut.' Guy's a laugh riot."

  "Yeah, but if that's what's causing the pain . . ."

  "It's on the other side."

  "What is?"

  "The pain. It's on the other side from my gallbladder. It's called referred pain. They say it's fairly common. You get a whack on the toe and feel it in your arm."

  "Oh yeah," Hardy said. "That happens to me all the time."

  Glitsky threw him a look. "Me, neither. It's why I'm a little skeptical about the diagnosis. Plus, what I've got, it's not really pain, I mean like sharp pain. It's more a flutter."

  "Maybe it's your heart again."

  Glitsky shook his head. "Nope. I know what that feels like, and it's not that."

  "So if you don't let them take the gallbladder out, what are you going to do?"

  "Live with it. It's been a year already and it hasn't killed me yet. Treya's convinced it's all stress, and she's not dumb. During all that madness after we got Cottrell, it got pretty unbelievable, a knife in here all the time. Since then, it's seems to be getting better. I've got a theory."

  "I hope it's not relativity," Hardy said. "That's already been taken."

  "You remember when I got the event number for Boscacci, we were going to do the biggest manhunt in history?"

  "Okay."

  "So with all that effort and personnel, we pretty much came up with nothing. Not to swell your already large head, but if you hadn't talked to Mooney's wife, we'd never have got him."

  "Maybe."

  "Maybe, but the point is nobody's ever going to check, go back to it, find anything." He leaned in and lowered his voice. "I'm talking about us. Nobody's looking for us. Nobody's going to be looking for us. Ever. I don't have to worry every . . . single . . . damn . . . day that somebody's going to find out and my life's going to implode."

  Hardy noted the expletive with surprise. Glitsky never swore. He put a hand on his friend's arm for a second. "Nobody's looking, Abe. Really." He squeezed the arm. "Let it go," he said. "Life's too short."

  "I guess it's just I know that if I were back running homicide, I'd still be looking."

  Hardy had to grin. "That's what makes you such a joy to know. But let me ask you this: are your guts fluttering right now?"

  Glitsky sat back into his seat, concentrated a minute, shook his head. "No."

  "Let's call that a win, then, and move on."