"Lanier?" Cuneo straightened up. "What about? What's Lanier got to do with anything?
You mean with Silverman?"
"I don't know." Gerson shrugged. "This Panos thing."
"What Panos thing?" Russell shot a look at his partner, came back to Gerson. "Are we missing something here, Barry?"
"I guess Glitsky's wondering why Panos got into it at all."
"Why?" Russell raised his voice. "I'll tell you why! He came down to Silverman's because one of his employees discovered the body, that's why. Then it turned out he happened to know about this poker game, which was the source of Silverman's stolen money. Next day he gives us names of the players in the game and one of them looks like he's with the guys who did it. What's the problem with that? Tell me that isn't good police work."
"I can't. It is. I don't have a problem, not with you. Not with the investigation either."
"I got another one for you, Barry," Cuneo said. "What's any of this to Glitsky anyway? Why would he give any kind of a shit?"
Gerson pressed his lips together, reluctant to diss a fellow lieutenant. Finally, though, he decided his inspectors needed to know. "My gut feeling is I believe he wants to get back into homicide, though God knows why. His dad knew Silverman. I guess he thought it gave him a wedge."
"And this helps him how?" Cuneo asked.
"I don't know, to tell you the truth. The kindest thing I can think is he's really trying to make himself useful somehow. I mean to us, to you. I've been trying to figure it out, but it baffles me." He shook his head. "Or maybe ... no."
"What?" Cuneo asked.
"Nothing."
"You were going to say something," Russell said.
Gerson looked at each of them in turn, considered another moment. "Well, I don't really think this is too likely, but if Glitsky starts to make you guys doubt your sources, maybe you get tentative, don't make the arrests you need to. You look bad, which makes me look bad, and pretty soon they want a new lieutenant up here."
"And they pick Glitsky out of a hat?" Cuneo asked. "I don't think so."
"Are you really worried, sir?" Russell asked.
Gerson was matter of fact. "I can't say I'm losing sleep.
But if you guys could bring in a quick collar here, it wouldn't break my heart. I ..." He went silent again.
The inspectors waited. Finally Cuneo said, "What?"
He sighed with resignation. "When I mentioned this to Batiste, he said there might be something else in play.
With Glitsky."
"What's that?" Russell asked.
Gerson paused again, lowered his voice. "I'd really like to keep this in this room, between us. All right?" Both inspectors nodded. "Well, it seems Lieutenant Glitsky has a couple of lawyer friends, we're talking good friends, defense lawyers, and they're the guys who are suing WGP. They can't very well have Panos get a lot of press for helping us solve a murder case right now—it'd make him look too good in front of the jury."
Russell came forward. "And you're saying Glitsky's working for these guys?"
Gerson backpedaled slightly. "I'm not saying anything.
I'm telling you what Batiste mentioned to me as a rumor, nothing more. To the extent it intersects with your investigation here, it's probably worth your knowing, although I don't know how much credence I'd give it. There's also talk that your suspect—Holiday, right?—he's been out working the streets, rounding up witnesses against Panos, too."
"Why? What would be in it for them?" Cuneo asked.
"They're asking thirty mil or so, which is ten to the lawyers if they win. Any small percentage of that is a nice payday for whoever was on the team helping them. How's that sound? Plus if we somehow screw up in homicide, maybe Glitsky gets the gig back here."
"We're not going to screw up, Barry," Russell said. "This one's falling in by the numbers. We brace Holiday in the morning, get him and his partners nervous about each other talking. Then somebody gives somebody up and we bring them all in."
"You're sure they're it?"
"The kid, Creed, he basically ID'd them." Russell spread his arms. "Show me anything else, Barry. No, this all fits."
It was full dark by the time Russell and Cuneo checked out. They planned to arrive at the Ark tomorrow at 10:00.
Holiday worked the early shift and they'd catch him there and have a long conversation.
Cuneo considered trying to talk Russell into going by and leaning on Clint Terry or Randy Wills more that night, but he knew that Lincoln would want to be home, a priority with him. Besides, Cuneo had his own date with Liz from Panos's office, and it made the second date difficult if you blew off the first one at the last minute. Finally, they'd already worked eleven hours today and there'd been nothing but stink about overtime lately. Cuneo knew that everything probably could wait until tomorrow and it wouldn't really make any difference. Certainly, nothing had happened since Friday. Cuneo was always frustrated by the pace of investigations; this case was proceeding as it should.
The two inspectors had not done any substantive investigative work on the Silverman murder since 8:30 the previous Friday night, when they'd gotten Creed's tentative identification of Terry, Wills and Holiday. It was now 6:30 on Tuesday, ninety-four hours later.
It was a small but welcome surprise. The attorneys had all finished with Aretha LaBonte's deposition by early evening. Hardy would be home by dinnertime. Up in his office, he called Frannie with the news, then checked his messages—nothing crucial—and packed some file folders into his briefcase. Downstairs, he stopped in the doorway to the old man's office. Dick Kroll, who'd stayed for a little chat, had gone, and Freeman was alone at his desk, lighting the stub of a cigar he'd started early in the afternoon.
"Do you have any idea how great it is to be able to walk in here without Phyllis stopping me to ask what I want?"
Hardy asked.
Freeman had the cigar in his mouth and spun it over a wooden match. When he had it going, he drew on it contentedly, then placed it in an ashtray. The firm's longtime receptionist, Phyllis, was a tyrant in the lobby, whose chief role was to block access to Freeman. Hardy's suggestions regarding her termination were a recurring theme that Freeman mostly ignored. "I believe Mr. Kroll is getting concerned," he said with satisfaction, "and not a minute too soon." He gestured ambiguously. "He just offered to settle."
"How much?"
"Four million. I must be losing my touch. I had him pegged at three and a half."
"I remember." Hardy stepped inside the office, sat on one of the chairs. "Still, it seems a long way from thirty."
Freeman blew smoke. "Yes, it does. Although, as Mr.
Kroll points out, it's a mil and change for us right now. He seems to believe that our compensation—yours and mine, the firm's—is the critical factor. He doesn't even consider that it might be about our clients. Or his, really."
Hardy crossed a leg. "So the four mil, what's that break down to?"
"Call it almost three hundred grand per plaintiff, which after taxes is a hundred and fifty."
"Still," Hardy said. "That's real money."
Freeman waved that off. "Pah! It's gone in a year, maybe two. Besides, it's his first offer. I told him flat no, not even close. But I did learn something."
"What's that?"
"Panos has four mil of his own that he's willing to give us, forget the insurance. Where'd he get that kind of money?" He chewed his cigar for a moment. "Anyway, I told him flat out that my intention was to put his client out of business. The man's a common gangster and he knows it."
Hardy grinned. "You should have just been honest and told him what you really thought. So what'd he say to that?"
"He got a little put out. Said making this a personal vendetta wasn't doing either of us any good. I was being irresponsible to my clients." Freeman clucked. "He also said he was going to approach you directly."
"Me? What for?"
"Evidently he thinks you might be more amenable to reason. I told him to help him
self. I hope you don't mind."
"Not at all. I'll just refer him back to you."
Freeman nodded, amused. "I told him that's probably what you'd do."
"And he said?"
"He said if it kept coming back to me, I was looking for trouble."
Hardy came forward. "He threatened you? Directly?"
But Freeman waved that off. "It wasn't even that. Cheap theatrics, that's all. That's what they do. They're cowards, basically. Wouldn't you agree?"
"Basically. But that doesn't mean they wouldn't try something."
"No chance. They're scared so they want to scare me.
It's all just posturing, besides which, as you well know, I'm bullet proof."
Hardy grimaced. "I hate when you say that."
The old man grinned. "I know you do; that's half the fun. But you watch, this time next week, they come back with six, maybe eight mil. We get there, I might even start listening. But I might not." He smiled contentedly. "Have I mentioned that I love my job?"
"Couple of times," Hardy said. "And I my family, to whose bosom I now fly. Can I drop you home?"
"Naw." He indicated the clutter on his desk. "I've got some work here. Gina won't be home for an hour or two anyway."
"Is she picking you up here?"
"Are you kidding me? It's what, six blocks? I need the exercise. See you tomorrow. Drive carefully."
At the dinner table, Rebecca was making a face of disgust.
"That is just so gross," she said.
"I think it's cool," Vincent retorted.
"It's not gross, Beck. They love each other."
"But he's so ... I mean, you know what I mean."
"Old?" Frannie offered. "Ancient?"
"Not just that. I mean, yeah, he's old, but also, I mean, like ..."
Hardy held up a warning finger. "Uh-uh, nice or nothing at all. This is David Freeman we're discussing. He is a great man and has every right to happiness and wedded bliss, just like I have with your mother." He gave Frannie a wink.
"And I with your father," she said.
"But, God." The Beck ignored them both, couldn't let the topic go. "I mean, think about Gina. She kisses him?"
She shivered at the thought.
"More than that, I bet."
"Thank you, Vincent," Frannie said. "That's enough."
"And since it is," Hardy said. "I've got a fun new game.
The Beck can go first." He turned to his daughter. "Here it is. You try to say a whole sentence without using the words 'like' or 'mean.' "
The Beck was a very intelligent child. She hesitated not at all before smiling cruelly at him. "Then I wouldn't be able to say that I like my daddy even though he's really mean."
This tickled Vincent, who held up both hands as though she just scored a touchdown. "Good one, Beck. Six points for the Beck."
Hardy grinned all around. "Six points, true, but unfortunately, grounded for life. It hardly seems worth it to me."
After dinner, the adults adjourned to the living room with the last of their wine while the kids cleared the table and started washing the dishes, a relatively new development in the Hardys' ongoing campaign to increase the quality of their life at home. Frannie sat on the couch with a leg curled under her, Hardy in his wing chair with his feet on the ottoman. Without benefit of the kids' comments, they had returned to the subject of Freeman's upcoming nuptuals. "Do you think he's all right?" Frannie asked. "I mean physically."
"David? He's a horse. Why do you ask?"
"Just that it seems so sudden. I wonder if he found out he's dying or something and maybe wanted to have his estate automatically go to Gina."
"He could just as easily put her in his will." He shook his head, smiling. "I think they love each other, strange as it may be."
"Why do you say that?"
Hardy sipped some wine, lowered his voice. "Well, the Beck wasn't all wrong at dinner. David's not exactly Brad Pitt, you know. He's not even Wallace Shawn."
"And this matters because ... ?"
"It doesn't, I know. We should be above all that superficial stuff. Still ..."
Frannie put on her schoolteacher look. "And we wonder why the Beck worries so much about how she looks."
Hardy was grinning broadly. "At her very worst, light-years better than David."
"I'd hope so, but just for your information, I would take a David Freeman any day over, say, a John Holiday."
"That's very noble of you, but I believe you'd be in the minority."
"And fortunately," she said, "I don't have to choose.
I've already got a perfectly acceptable husband."
"Perfectly acceptable," Hardy said. "And people say the passion goes." He finished his wine, looked at the glass as though wondering where it had all gone. "But you just reminded me ..." He was getting up.
"What?"
"I've been so swamped at work with these depos; I wanted to check in with John. The thing he called about Friday."
"Is he in more trouble?"
"Probably not. I hope I would have heard. I—" The telephone rang and got picked up in the kitchen on the first ring. He turned back to Frannie and made a face.
"Well, if that's Darren, there goes an hour."
But his daughter yelled back. "Dad! For you."
Matt Creed tried the front door, then shone a light around the spacious lobby of the Luxury Box Travel Agency. Everything was as it should be, and this was not a surprise.
This was the upscale portion of his route, close up to Union Square. In spite of the city's recent campaigns to discourage vagrancy in the high-tourist area, the vast majority of security problems this far north in Thirty-two still had to do with the homeless or mentally disabled population.
Unlike many of his colleagues, Creed didn't try to roust these unfortunates completely out of the beat. He didn't want them sleeping, parking their shopping carts, urinating or taking care of other personal needs in the doorways or elsewhere on the property of the client buildings, but beyond that, he was happy to leave them alone.
But tonight, late now, in the last hour of his shift, he had turned right onto Stockton and taken maybe ten steps when he saw an exaggerated movement, a shadow in the mouth of the alley across the street. Creed knew the spot pretty well. Since it ended at the delivery bay for a building on the next block over, it was more a driveway than a true alley. After the workday, in the lee of the prevailing winds and equipped with a dumpster that often doubled as a drop for leftover cooked food from some nearby restaurants, it had become a popular sleeping site for the area's homeless.
Normally, Creed walked right by it on the last leg of his route.
But when some kind of bottle came skittering up the street toward him, slamming the curb and shattering at his feet, he stopped. He would never have done so normally, but perhaps because of leftover jitters from his recent shootout, tonight he pulled his weapon and crossed over.
At the mouth of the alley, Creed could still hear the foot-falls of the man running away. He stopped there, then stepped to the side against the adjacent building to catch his breath. After the excitement at Silverman's last week, he considered just guarding the opening and calling for some backup. Roy Panos was undoubtedly somewhere in the beat and could be here in ten, max.
But then he thought about the grief Roy would give him.
A homeless guy throws a bottle in Creed's direction and he can't handle the situation himself. He needs backup. It might even cost him points with Wade, who made no secret of his disdain for cowardice, or timidity of any type for that matter. If you worked for Panos, you were macho or you were soon unemployed.
But Creed's jaw was tight, his teeth clamped down, all of his senses on alert. One part of him knew that it was all because of last week, of getting shot at. He thought of Nick Sephia's boast last night that getting shot at made him horny, and couldn't even find a shred of humor in it. Or truth. Even thinking about it now—But what was he thinking of? This wasn't anything like a burgla
ry in process. It was a homeless guy—Creed had seen him, or his shadow anyway. A homeless man who'd somehow scored a bottle of wine and got mad when it was empty. He probably hadn't even seen Creed, much less aimed at him. Shaking his head at his own demons, he realized with surprise that he still held his weapon, and he holstered it—whatever this was, he was sure it wouldn't call for a drawn gun—and turned on his flashlight.
Taking a last deep breath, he walked into the alley.
It wasn't much over ten feet wide, seventy or eighty feet deep. The beam on his light was strong, but at this distance still only dimly illuminated the dumpster at the end, on the left side. Normally, at this time of night, there would be a couple of guys sitting on the delivery dock, maybe three or four piles of debris that turned out to be men wrapped in their newspapers and layers of clothes at the small indentations of doorways along the alley. Tonight he saw nothing.
But the alley had no egress except the way he'd come in. The guy who'd thrown the bottle had to be hiding in or behind the dumpster. Creed walked another ten or twelve steps. "Hey!" he yelled, his voice echoing eerily off the walls on three sides. "Come on out here. We've got to talk."
Nothing.
Creed swore to himself, stood a long moment shining his light on the dumpster. "Come on," he said again. "Whatever it is, we'll get it worked out, all right?" He had half a mind to forget about it, to simply turn and walk out of the alley to Stockton and back to the precinct, where he could tell the lieutenant that there was this possible problem he might want to send some guys to look at. That wouldn't even involve either of the Panoses. And what was he going to do with this guy when he came out, anyway?
March him down to the precinct? Knock him upside the head? Clean him up and buy him some coffee? Not.
Screw it, he thought. This is dumb.
He turned around and started back toward the street.
He'd gone six or eight steps when another bottle exploded a few feet behind him, the broken glass spraying the ground around him with little diamonds. Creed nearly jumped out of his shoes.
But now, truly pissed off, he turned around. "Okay, asshole, you want to have some fun?" The beam from his flashlight preceding him, he raked the dumpster side to side and front to back. "Come on out! Don't be stupid." Ten feet back, he stopped again, gave the flashlight another pass.
The First Law Page 15
