The First Law

by John T Lescroart

  "Talk to me," he said.

  Hardy was at the door and raised a hand in silent fare-well. Glitsky, listening with one ear, snapped his fingers, got his attention, waved him back in. "Yeah, I'm here," he said into the mouthpiece. He listened intently for almost a full minute, then said, "I appreciate it, Marcel. Thanks."

  Hardy stood right at the door. "What was that about?"

  Glitsky raised a hand and settled a haunch on the corner of his desk, his face hardened in concentration.

  Hardy couldn't take it. "What, for Christ's sake?"

  Glitsky expelled a lot of air. "One of Panos's guys got shot last night. The kid who found Silverman. Creed.

  Matt Creed."

  "You knew him?"

  "I only met him once, Monday night, a couple of hours after I left you, in fact. But he made an impression. Remember I told my dad it was a bad idea to go to Silverman's when nobody in homicide called him back?"

  Hardy nodded. "Sure."

  "Well, he went that night anyway and I had to pull him out. Creed was there."

  "Doing what?"

  "Just walking the beat. He saw the light and stopped.

  Then I showed up. We had a little party together. But a nice kid."

  "And somebody shot him?"

  Glitsky's head dropped, came back up. "Last night. On the beat." He paused to let Hardy digest it. "Marcel was just talking to Paul Thieu and heard about the connection to Panos. He thought I'd want to know."

  "Why's that?"

  "We had a talk about Wade recently, Marcel and I. I thought maybe he could pass a message along to Gerson.

  Save him some trouble." A shrug. "Turns out he couldn't."

  "What was the message?"

  "That maybe Panos wasn't the guy to help out homicide on Silverman. Or anything else, for that matter."

  "And he'd been doing that?"

  "Trying. He'd given them some names, among them your friend Holiday, who Creed originally ID'd as one of the guys who broke into Silverman's, by the way."

  "Well, that's wrong. John had ..."

  Glitsky held up a hand. "Relax. Creed changed his mind.

  No ID. He was calling the case inspectors and letting them know."

  "Did he?"

  "I don't know. I'd assume so. Besides, what does it matter? You said Holiday has an alibi, and you'd never lie for a client."

  Hardy declined to comment, found his chair, and was sitting again. Finally, he said, "Suddenly I'm willing to believe that Panos had something to do with David."

  Glitsky nodded slowly, the professional cop in him less than completely willing to commit. "It does invite inquiry."

  "So how do we do it?"

  "Do what?"

  "Inquire."

  Glitsky scratched his cheek. "You might profitably mention something to Blanca. Maybe something got left at the scene. David's. But this could be nothing.

  Just a coincidence."

  "Theoretically, I agree with you. I'll keep it in mind."

  "Just so we're on the same page. And also, so you're clear, I'm not going anywhere near it. The latest poll results are in, and the consensus is it's not my job."

  12

  San Francisco's crime lab, one of several buildings in a facility that had originally been built by the Navy, had recently been refurbished and was now pretty much state of the art. The facility also housed the TTF unit, or Tac Squad, and served as the PD's armored car lot. Although its location in Hunters Point was as far from desirable as possible, the ancient hamburger stand called Dago Mary's just outside the compound made it something of a destination for the law enforcement community.

  Russell and Cuneo had finished their lunch with Roy at John's Grill. Then they'd gone back to the Ark, pounded on the doors again, sat outside for most of another useless hour. Apparently the place wasn't opening today, at least not before nighttime. Finally Cuneo gave up on the stake-out and they'd driven to the Marina District, to Holiday's address, where several newspapers in the doorway argued that he'd been away for a while.

  Russell couldn't pass Dago Mary's without a pit stop.

  Hell, they were right here anyway, Russell argued. It wouldn't take fifteen minutes. They would have plenty of time to pick up their ballistics results from the lab and roll back uptown on the undoubtedly related Creed/Silverman murders. Get some warrants. Kick ass.

  By the time they got past the guard tower, parked, and arrived at the lab's reception, they'd burned fifteen more minutes. A small room with a desk, phone and computer, enclosed on their side with glass, blocked any view of the lab itself within. When the inspectors entered the lobby area, there was no one at the desk. They waited awhile in the hopes that a body would appear.

  Cuneo craned his neck trying to be seen. He sang out a strong, "Hello!"

  "Here we go," Russell said. There was a button next to the door that led inside and he pressed it. Silence. "Maybe it rings inside." He pressed and held it this time.

  "Hey! Hey! Enough with the bell! We're coming."

  The door finally opened to reveal a small, pale, middle-aged man in Dockers and a button-down plaid shirt. A wash of wispy dark hair fell sideways across his forehead—if he'd had the right mustache, he would have been a ringer for Hitler. The plastic name tag over his left pocket read "M. Lester," and Mr. Lester was frowning. "Keep your shirts on, boys, what's the problem?"

  Cuneo pointed at the reception desk. "Nobody seems to be minding the fort, is all."

  "Yeah, well, Sherry's out today. Sorry."

  "Well," Cuneo said, "we're here for some ballistics results. Homicide. My partner here, Russell, he marked it urgent."

  The frown grew more pronounced as Lester turned to Russell. "I emailed you about that."

  "I never got it."

  The man persisted. "I sent it off as soon as I got yours.

  Couldn't have been five minutes later."

  "I still didn't get it," Russell said. "What was it about?"

  "Your evidence. I asked if you could pick it up while you were still at the Hall and bring it down here. We're getting killed by the flu. Half the staff is out sick. We got nobody to drive the shuttle even."

  Cuneo drew a breath, kept an exaggerated calm in his voice. "And so, because my partner had marked his email 'Homicide—Urgent,' and you didn't hear back from him, you called a patrol car or got a messenger to bring this critical evidence down to your lab so that we'd have our ballistics results in time, perhaps, to save a life or two, or at least get some scumbags off the streets. That's what you did, right? Tell me that's what you did."

  In spite of the strikeout on ballistics, Cuneo reminded Russell that for all their efforts, they still needed to talk to John Holiday. He might have come in to the Ark since they'd last been there, and Cuneo voted that they go back for the third time that day and try again.

  "There's no way, Dan. He's gone."

  "I don't think so."

  "Why not? He doesn't come to work. His apartment's deserted. He knows we've put him with Terry and Wills on Silverman. If it were me, I'd be long gone."

  "Except that, if you recall, Roy Panos said he talked to him last night. Stopped by the Ark and there he was working behind the bar. Nothing's changed between last night and today."

  "Except Creed got shot. Not exactly nothing."

  Cuneo glanced across the seat. "Agreed. But if Holiday was bartending, and Roy says he was, then he didn't do Creed, did he? He knows we're not after him for that. So no way does it get him to run if Silverman didn't."

  This shut Russell up for a half block or so. "Don't get me wrong," he finally said. "I'm itching to drive back uptown and talk to him, but if we don't have ballistics, what are we talking to him about? Especially if he wasn't any part of Creed?"

  "I never said he wasn't any part of it. He just didn't pull the trigger. But that still leaves Terry and Wills. In which case Terry's the shooter both times. We might mention some chance of immunity for Holiday if he'll give them up, see if he bites."


  "If he's there."

  "Even if he's not, we'll learn something. Maybe get another chance to talk to Terry."

  "And if he is, we're his friends."

  "That's the ticket," Cuneo said. "Give him a chance."

  Randy Wills checked his lipstick in the bathroom of his apartment. He'd bathed and shaved all over less than an hour ago. Looking down, he smoothed the front of his skirt, then came back to the mirror. Luckily, he'd never had a heavy beard, and now a close shave and makeup base gave him the smooth cheeks of a very pretty woman with luminous eyes, a delicate nose and jawline. He wore a luxuriant, natural-looking chestnut wig. A black turtleneck covered his Adam's apple—the only giveaway that he wasn't what he seemed.

  Outside, it was coming to dusk. The back window in the bedroom let in a thin late-afternoon light, and he looked around the room and then into the front rooms—the kitchen and living room—with something approaching real contentment.

  He and Clint lived in a street-level apartment on Jones, less than a quarter mile from the Ark. It didn't look like much from the outside, but they'd turned it into a nice home—the best place Randy had lived in since he'd left New Mexico at sixteen.

  When Randy got to the Ark, he struck a momentary pose in the doorway—hip cocked, breasts thrust out. Clint was behind the bar, of course, talking to a couple of customers, and he looked up without any sign of recognition at all. Only a friendly nod, as if Randy were just another customer. Could it be he didn't recognize him at all? Was he that beautiful tonight?

  Taking a stool next to one of the customers, he crossed his legs and arranged himself at the bar. "Hello, Clint,"

  Randy said, "I'd like a vodka gimlet, please."

  Clint's customer, a puffy-faced man, was staring at him.

  The other man, black, leaned over the bar. "Who's your friend, Clint?"

  Randy smiled all around and made some eye contact. He offered his hand to the closer man. "I'm Randy Wills," he said, in his most feminine voice. "Randy with an 'i.' " Then, to the other man, "Hello." He'd get a rise out of Clint yet, he thought.

  But Clint simply looked down, shaking his head. Surprisingly, the puffy-faced man didn't take his extended hand.

  Instead, he preferred a badge, introduced himself and his partner.

  Clint reached across the bar and put his big hand over Randy's. "I'm sorry," he said. "They just got here. They're looking for John."

  "Why?" Randy turned to the inspectors. "What did he do?"

  "We want to talk to him," Russell said. "We understand he was working here last night."

  "That's right," Terry said.

  "But you're here tonight?"

  "For another hour or two. Then John comes on."

  "Tonight?" Cuneo asked. "I understood he worked mostly days, though."

  "Mostly, I guess, you're right. But it varies. We're pretty flexible here, really."

  "Good for you," Russell said. "So you weren't here last night then?"

  "No, I already told you, we ..."

  Cuneo butted in. "That's right, you did." He turned to Randy. "We were just talking to Clint here about what he did last night. I'd like to ask you the same thing. What you did."

  Clint started to say something to him, but Russell leaned in, one ringer extended in warning. "Uh-uh-uh. No hints."

  "What I did?" Randy checked with Clint, who nodded almost imperceptibly. "When? Last night?"

  "That's right, last night," Cuneo said.

  Eyes over the bar. "I was with Clint. Why?"

  "We'll get to why," Russell said. "Just now we'd like to know how you spent your night last night. Unless there's some reason you'd rather not tell us."

  "No. Nothing like that. Why would there be?" Another look at Clint. "Well, early we had dinner at home; then we went to Finocchio's for the show," he said. "We were there together. I used to work there." Into their stony silence, he added, "I'm a dancer. Well, used to be."

  Cuneo said, "That was pretty good." He turned to his partner. "They've got some code."

  Russell jumped right in. "You talk to anybody at Finocchio's while you were there? What time was that, by the way?"

  "I don't know. What time, Clint? Eleven, twelve? Somewhere in there."

  "No hints," Cuneo repeated. "My partner asked if you talked to anybody."

  "I suppose the waiter. He might remember."

  "Uh-huh. And what time did you get there?"

  "I really don't know exactly. I don't remember."

  "Later than ten?"

  "Maybe. It seems like it. Why? What happened last night?"

  "What happened last night, he asks," Cuneo said to Russell. Back to Randy. "As if it's news to you, a patrol special named Matt Creed got shot dead about three blocks from here."

  Shocked and appalled, Terry put his hand to his heart.

  "Not Matt," he said.

  Cuneo pointed a finger at him. "Spare me that shit." He threw an ugly look at his partner, tapped twice on the bar, obviously reining himself in. After a minute more, still fighting himself, he picked up a glass from the gutter and spun it. Finally he whirled on Randy. "So I'm asking you again, tell me what you did last night?"

  "I told you. We ate and then went to a show."

  "And you were there until what time?" Cuneo pressed.

  "Where?"

  Suddenly Cuneo grabbed a glass from the bar's gutter and flung it at the bottles behind the bar, where everything exploded in a spray of glass and noise. "You want to fuck around, you fucking queen? You want to fuck around with me? I'll show you fuck around!"

  But Russell was up, next to Cuneo, ready to restrain him if he took it any further.

  Terry had ducked, then backed away, and now he'd come back forward, his hands shaking on the bar. "Really, inspectors, really. We didn't do anything. We didn't do anything. "

  For a long dead moment, there was nothing but the sound of labored breathing in the bar. Then Russell leaned over and punched a finger into Clint Terry's chest. "This isn't close to over," he said. "Don't leave town. Stay where we can find you." He turned to Cuneo. "Let's get out of here before somebody gets hurt."

  The inspectors killed an hour at the building housing the Tenderloin Task Force, talking to the Patrol Special liaison to see if any information had surfaced on the beat or with any of the regular patrol cops during the day. Nothing.

  Then, calmed slightly and primed to finally get a word with John Holiday, they came back, yet again, to the Ark.

  It was full dark outside and the place had six paying customers. Terry and Wills were gone and a man fitting the description of Holiday was behind the bar. Before they'd even sat, he had napkins down in front of them.

  "Good evening, inspectors," he said. They hadn't even started and he was ahead of them. "What're you drinking?"

  "We're not," Cuneo said. He put his badge on the bar and sat on his stool. "We'd like you to answer a couple of questions."

  "Sure," he said, then smiled. "Give me just a minute, though, would you?" He walked down the bar, had a word with a customer and pulled a bottle of beer out of the refrigerator. After he'd opened and poured it, he was back in front of the inspectors. "It's bad luck in the bar business to let your customers get thirsty." Another smile. "You sure you don't want anything? It's on me."

  Cuneo had gotten himself seated. The fingers of both hands were already tattooing the bar. "Enjoying yourself, aren't you?"

  A nod. "Every minute, inspector. Life's short enough and this isn't dress rehearsal. Now what did you say I could do for you fellows?"

  "You can answer some questions," Russell said. "Like where were you last Thursday night?"

  Holiday clucked as though he were sorely disappointed.

  "Oh, that kind of question. This is about a crime, isn't it?"

  "You know what it's about," Cuneo snapped.

  "Actually, I'm not sure," Holiday said. "I was working here last night when Matt Creed got shot, so it's not for that. But if it's about any crime at all, I'm sorry, but I
can't help you."

  "Last Thursday night," Russell said again.

  "Darn," Holiday said. "It's sad, too, because I know the answer to that one and I think you'd like it. But my lawyer told me he'd kill me if I answered questions from you guys about any crimes without calling him first."

  "So you talked to your lawyer?" Russell said. "Why'd you do that?"

  Holiday had his smile stuck in place. "We're close friends," he said. "We talk all the time. He's a great guy, really. Dismas Hardy. You know him?"

  "And he told you not to talk to us?" Cuneo asked. "Why was that?"

  "I had some legal troubles a while ago. He just found it a better policy. Your lawyer's not there, some policemen take advantage. You wouldn't believe."

  "So call him," Cuneo said. "Tell him to come down."

  "I would, but it's Date Night. He and his wife, they go out every Wednesday. He says it's the secret to his happy marriage. It wouldn't do any good, anyway—if he came down—he wouldn't let me talk to you. He's really strict about it."

  "How much money did you lose at Silverman's?"

  Cuneo asked.

  Holiday sighed. "Can't say. Question. Oops, look at that.

  Another customer with an empty glass. Back in a New York minute. Don't go away."

  Holiday went down the bar again, took two drink orders.

  As he was pouring the second, the inspectors filed past him on their way out.

  "Nice talking to you!" he called after them. "Have a nice night!"

  13

  Date Night might have been the key to the Hardys' marriage, but they weren't having a happy one.

  It had started, naturally, with another stop at the hospital. Hardy hadn't wanted to go again—it would be his third visit there today—but Frannie insisted that she wanted to see David. Before she'd seen the damage, she had some sense that in some way she could help. Make him more comfortable, maybe bring him cookies tomorrow.

  Something.

  She'd heard the word "unconscious," of course, but the concept and reality of deep coma hadn't yet struck home.

  She confessed this forty minutes later to her husband, before she'd even gotten her glass of wine, while she was silently crying in their back corner booth at Fior d'Italia.