"So you're really going ahead on that?"
"I really am." He narrowed his eyes. "Of course I am.
Why would you even ask that?"
"No reason, really." But after wrestling with herself for a minute, she came out with it. "I've just heard some rumors around here that that's why David got beat up, that it had to do with Panos, with scaring him off. Evidently, David himself mentioned something about it to Graham, talking about his bullet-proof self of course. Now, with this—everybody's heard it by now—so even if you're assigning billable hours, people might be a little reluctant, especially with you not really in the firm."
This was the first time Hardy had run up against this question. He'd always considered his irregular status visàvis Freeman & Associates an unalloyed good thing. He was merely the upstairs tenant and friend of the firm's owner, and as such was neither fish nor fowl—not associate, not partner, not even Of Counsel, and a bit of a loose cannon at that. He loved the freedom of it, the independence.
When David threw him work, he was often happy to take it.
But now he wondered if he could successfully assign it back to the formal associates, who in David's long-term absence (to say nothing of his death) might be out pounding the pavement for work before too long.
Among the associates, Hardy thought he could count on Graham Russo, who had once been his client and with whom he still had a good personal relationship. And maybe, in a week or more—after she worked down her current load—he might be able to use Amy. But other help from among David's legions was problematic at best.
And if David died, the ancillary support—Norma and Phyllis and the secretaries and paralegals who worked with the other associates—would all dry up overnight.
With his limited resources, Hardy wouldn't stand a chance.
He could promise all the billable hours in the world, but none of the associates would be laboring under any illusion.
Since it was a contingency lawsuit, if they didn't win, those hours would be written off. And what could he pay them in the meanwhile? Hardy couldn't float an island of suits, betting on the come, the way Freeman could.
The Panos lawsuit would be over before it began.
It was a morning of first revelations. Aside from his realization about the tenuousness of his position among the associates, for the first time it struck him how effective the violence against Freeman had been. Was. Especially if he didn't survive. Far from being the blunt instrument it had first appeared to be, the mugging was effectively a scalpel that separated him both from the lawsuit and the other associates.
For the sad truth was that Hardy alone had no power in the Panos matter. The plaintiffs were all the clients of David Freeman, not Dismas Hardy. Some he hadn't even met. Hardy wasn't any kind of real player, any kind of significant danger or threat to Panos, but merely a fly to be flicked away without a second thought. The realization washed over him like an acid bath. He must have shown it.
"Diz? Are you all right?"
He flashed a false grin. "Fine," he said. "I'm fine. I'm just thinking about how to do all I've got today. If Norma comes out of her office, would you ask her to please give me a call?"
Hardy's office was one flight up from the lobby, the only occupied room on the third floor. He took the stairs two at a time. His office door was closed, but a light shone under it from within. He stopped short of the opening, heard a quiet and dull but unmistakable thud, then after a moment, another one—someone was pounding something against his wall while he waited for Hardy to arrive. Putting down his briefcase, he stealthily tried the knob, which didn't give at all. He'd had enough experience with muggings and surprise mischief over the past couple of days that he wasn't anxious to get any more, and he turned back to the stairway.
The police could be here in ten minutes and whoever had broken into his office could explain it all to them.
Halfway down the stairs, a voice stopped him. "Diz?"
Holiday stood at the top of the stairs, grinning down at him, holding three darts up. "I thought I heard somebody pounding on up the stairs, but I wanted to finish my round.
Where are you going?"
Hardy climbed back up the seven steps he'd just descended. "I was just going to call the police, John. That would have been a good time." He reached the landing again and led the way inside, then closed the door behind Holiday. "How did you get in here? Wasn't the door locked? It was. And what were you doing?"
"Just shooting some darts. There was a bunch of keys down at the reception desk, and nobody was there. I thought you'd be up here in your office, to tell you the truth. Then when you weren't, I figured I'd just let myself in. I put the keys back."
"Good for you."
"This place is a ghost town today. Where is everybody?"
"It's a legal holiday." Hardy said it without a trace of irony.
"Hm. Well. But you're here, I notice, although you are a little late, aren't you?"
Hardy wasn't even slightly in the mood to explain his various delays of the morning, especially since the beginning of it all had been the breakdown of his children over the very client he now faced. "We had an appointment,"
Hardy said by way of explanation, "except if you remember, you were supposed to call me. Do you remember that?
Wasn't that what we decided?"
Holiday shrugged and walked back over to the dart line.
"Either way, we're talking."
Hardy got around his desk and put his briefcase on the top of it. "That's true, John, but I'm your attorney and I happen to know that there's a warrant out for your arrest, so all I can do now, as I thought I explained rather clearly last night, is help you turn yourself in." Hardy's voice took on an edge. "How about putting those things down a minute and talking to me?"
Immediately, Holiday whirled, all contrition. He placed his two remaining darts on Hardy's desk and spread his hands apologetically. "I thought we were talking. What happened to your hand?"
Hardy glanced down at his Band-Aid splint. He was going to have to invent a witty response pretty soon, but he didn't have the energy for it right now. "I whacked it against something." He sat down behind his desk. "Look, I'm sorry, John, but I'm a little stressed. But I suppose you are, too."
"Naw. It's just another arrest warrant." Holiday went over to the couch, plopped himself down on it. "So what do you think? What's the plan?"
"I wish I had one. I'm assuming you're not inclined to give yourself up."
"Good guess."
"Well, as your attorney, that's all I'm allowed to suggest."
"How about not as my attorney? I haven't paid you anything, have I? Can't we just be friends?"
Hardy's mouth turned up an inch. "Can't we all just get along?"
"Exactly, and apparently not too well. But you and me, we could."
"But even as just your friend, I'm still harboring you, and you're a fugitive."
Holiday shrugged. "Tell them I held you hostage or something."
"Though it might not be a bad idea, you know. Turning yourself in."
Holiday's eyes went wide. "You're out of your mind, Diz. I wouldn't last fifteen minutes in jail."
"Why not? You've been there before. It wouldn't be any worse than last time."
"Yeah, except this time someone would kill me."
"Why would they do that?"
"Because that's what these guys are doing, Diz. Think about it. I'm the only one left and the case is closed. As soon as I'm dead, it's a tight little package. Nobody goes looking for who really did it."
"And who are these people?" A grin flickered around Hardy's mouth. "You're saying they're cops? They can get you in jail?"
"They planted stuff in my apartment."
"The cops did? Why?"
"I don't know why, but it's not as far-fetched as you think. It happens."
"I'm sure it does, John, I'm sure it does." Hardy scratched at the top of his desk blotter. "Look, humor me a minute. If you've got solid alibis for al
l the murders, we could press for a quick prelim and have you out of there and cleared of all this in a week or two at the most."
"Not if I'm dead first."
"That's not going to happen. Not in jail. Do you know where you were when any of these last three men got killed?"
"Sure. Two of them, Randy and Clint, I'm positive. I was at work. In fact, you know, a cop came by the Ark the other day, before I even knew about Randy and Clint, and asked me if I'd been tending bar there the night before."
"What do you mean, a cop? A real cop? SFPD?"
"I thought so. The badge looked right. Some Chinese guy. He wasn't with Panos, I'll tell you that."
"And he asked you what?"
"Just if I'd been working at midnight the night before and could I prove it? I told him yeah and it seemed to satisfy him. That's why I'm blown away they got a warrant for me. I mean, they know I didn't kill Clint and Randy. I don't get it."
"So what about Creed?"
"Same thing. It was a work night, though there weren't as many customers, but somebody would remember. So maybe they think I wasn't the actual shooter with Creed anyway. I was just in cahoots with Clint and Randy." Holiday had gone into a full recline on the sofa, his hands crossed behind his head.
Hardy sat for a long moment, picking at the Band-Aid.
"You mind telling me again where you were the night Silverman got it? Last time we talked about it, not to put too fine a point on it, your alibi sucked."
Holiday got himself up to sitting again. He ran a hand through his hair, tugged at the side of his mustache. When he spoke, he wore a sheepish expression. "If you want to know the truth, my girlfriend and I had a fight and I went out and picked up somebody else, who I couldn't find again to save my life."
"That's what it might be, John. To save your life."
He shook his head.
"Did you go to her house?" Hardy asked.
"Yeah. Well, apartment, I think."
"So where was it?"
"She drove," Holiday said. "I dozed. I don't know."
"What about in the morning?"
Holiday made a face. "There wasn't any morning. I left right after ... anyway, I think I wandered around a bit."
"Drunk?"
"Possibly. Likely."
Hardy frowned. "Which means you really have no alibi at all for Silverman, is that right?" He didn't wait for an answer. "So where did you call from yesterday?"
"My girlfriend's."
A beat. "Another one?"
"The real one."
"The one you broke up with on Thursday?"
"Yeah. Her name's Michelle. I'm staying at her place."
"I'm happy for you. That's so special. So the story about the important man's wife ..."
"I made it up."
"Great!" Hardy said. "Swell. Let me ask you this. The paper said you lost a lot of money at Silverman's game the night before he died. Is that true?"
"Okay, but I didn't go to steal it back. I didn't, Diz. I swear to you."
"You swear to me. That helps. You swore to me about your alibi." Hardy shook his head angrily. "It might have been nice to know some of this a week ago." Collecting himself, he drew in a long, slow breath and let it out heavily. "Okay, John, suddenly my idea that you turn yourself in because you couldn't have committed any of the murders isn't so doable. Any one of them is good enough." He looked straight at him. "How am I supposed to believe you didn't do this after all? You got any suggestions?"
"I'm telling you. You know me, Diz."
"Right. But these lies, John. I can't think of a reason you'd lie to a friend if you weren't trying to hide something."
"I felt bad about the way things had gone with Michelle.
I didn't want to bring her into it. That's the truth. I swear to God."
Hardy was still working on his response to that when on his desk, the telephone rang, his direct line. He reached for it. "Dismas Hardy." Listening for a moment, he sat up straighter, uttered a syllable or two, listened some more.
He put a finger to his lips and pointed at Holiday. He talked into the receiver. "Sure, I read all about it this morning. I wondered whether—"
As he spoke, he reached out and pushed down on the button, breaking the connection in his midsentence. "That was a homicide inspector named Russell," he said, "asking if I'd seen you recently. Somebody must have told him that I represented you last time and he thought you might have looked me up again."
"That was probably me. He and his partner came by the bar."
"And you gave them my name?"
"Yeah."
"Terrific, John. Just great. You're batting about a thousand here with bad moves."
"I know, Diz. I know. I'm sorry. Did he say where he was?"
"He didn't get a chance. We can hope it was the Hall.
But I think you'd be smart to get out of here right now. I don't want to know where you are when they ask me, which they will. I'd be surprised if they think you're here now, but to be safe go down through the garage and out the back. Now go! Call me in an hour. We'll think of something. I'll be here. Go! Go!"
When the phone rang a minute later, Hardy picked it up again. "Inspector Russell? Sorry about that. We're having the devil of a time with the phones lately here. I don't know what it is, except aggravating. You, too, huh? I think it's everybody. But you were asking about John Holiday?
I'm afraid I don't know where he is. He's no longer my client."
Russell said he'd talked to Holiday just two days before and he'd mentioned Hardy by name as his attorney. Said they were close friends. Saw each other all the time.
"I hate to say this, Inspector," Hardy said. "But the man's been known to lie. Sure. Anytime. Good luck."
The lab tests from the Terry/Wills crime scene indicated that the stuff on the shoe in Terry's closet closely matched the gunk Thieu had collected at the Creed scene the day before—brake fluid, animal fats, peanuts and pepper flakes, no doubt from Kung Pao chicken.
Thieu was at his desk comparing the written transcription of a taped recording of one of his witness's interviews to the tape itself. While Russell was on the phone with Holiday's lawyer, trying to track the suspect down, Cuneo read over the lab report on the shoe and decided to thank the veteran inspector and to share the good news with him.
"Pretty cool, huh?"
Thieu put the report down. "That's enough matches for me. It's the same stuff, all right. Nice work. And I see you found more evidence at Holiday's place."
"It's been a lucky couple of days," Cuneo said.
"If you believe in luck."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing, really. It's just so rare when things fall together so well."
"I said the same thing to Gerson, but what am I supposed to do, look a gift horse in the mouth? This is about as solid as it gets."
Thieu made no comment to that. He had put down the transcript and his pencil. Now he took off his earphones and hooked them around his neck. He looked piercingly at Cuneo. "After I left the Terry/Wills scene yesterday, did you find anything that put Holiday there?"
"Not directly, no. But later in the day we did find money and jewelry from Silverman's at his place."
Thieu acknowledged that with a nod. "I heard about that. But no bloody clothes or shoes? Anything tying him directly to Terry and Wills? There was an awful lot of blood."
"He hadn't been back there, where he lived. There were three or four days' worth of newspapers down on his stoop."
"Ah, that would explain it then."
"Maybe he slept in his bar, I don't know. Or he's shacked up with somebody." Cuneo had pulled a chair around and was straddling it backward. He started tapping a beat with his fingers. "But that's a good call. We'll check the dumpsters and alleys between the Ark and Terry's."
"You can't ever have too much, I don't believe." Thieu leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his middle. Then he smiled politely and, wishing Cuneo luck again, said he had to get bac
k to his editing.
17
Holiday's phone call did not come one hour later as Hardy had suggested, so he had filled his increasingly wide-open morning with visits downstairs to less-than-enthusiastic associates and calls to his deposition witnesses in the Panos suit. He needed to bring them up to date on Freeman's condition and rearrange his calendar so that they could get back on some kind of schedule by, say, the middle of next week. If David still wasn't up to appearing, then Hardy would try to go it alone, or with minimal help, for a while.
It galled him, but he knew he might have to revisit the question of Kroll's settlement offer—four million was starting to look pretty good to him about now. But whether that or any offer was still on the table was uncertain. Hardy himself had already billed something in the order of three hundred hours to the matter in the past four months and now stood to lose all of that time and money if he couldn't make some magic in the relatively short term. So he talked to clients and filled time.
Three full hours after Holiday had ducked out of his office, his call-waiting signal went off. In his mind, by now he had just about come to the conclusion that Inspector Russell had staked out his office after all and that John had been arrested leaving it. And that after he was processed, Hardy would get the phone call.
He asked the client to hold a second, connected to the other line.
No hello, no identification of any kind. Just the words, "Big Dick," repeated twice. Then a dead line.
After he finished talking to the client, Hardy hung up and stared into the empty space between his desk and his dartboard.
The voice had been Holiday's, and he had obviously formed the impression that Hardy's phone might be tapped.
Hardy reflected that he also thought someone might kill him in jail. He might have found this paranoia amusing if he had any patience left.
Hardy thought about it for another thirty or forty seconds, then stood, threw the last two of Holiday's morning darts into his board—two elevens—and walked out, making sure the door was locked behind him. In the lobby, some semblance of normalcy had returned. Phyllis had returned to reception and her presence was somehow reassuring.
One of the associates sat with a client, visible through the glass walls of the Solarium. Norma's door was open and he saw her at her desk, talking on the telephone. Above all, a slight but audible hum permeated the open space. People were here, trying to carry on.
The First Law Page 25
