“Not as surprised as you’d think. I’ve talked to a few people myself. Have you found anything on Kensing’s list?”
Elliot gave the high sign and stopped as Lou came around and described today’s special, which involved eggplant, tofu, squid, and some kind of sesame oil–based sweet-and-sour sauce. Really good, he promised, maybe even a culinary breakthrough, although those weren’t the exact words he used.
When they’d all ordered the special, since there was no other choice, Lou moved to another table, and the buzz resumed at Jackman’s. Elliot leaned back toward Hardy. “But about those unexplained deaths? I know one thing is true. It’s a definite rumor.”
Hardy’s face fell. Was Jeff ahead of him on checking out the names on Kensing’s list? Maybe he’d discovered that eight of the others had died, like James Lector, of natural causes. “What do you mean?” Hardy asked.
“I said that wrong, I think. Calm down.” Elliot put a hand on Hardy’s sleeve. “I don’t mean it’s only a rumor, as in there’s no truth to it. What I mean is it’s a rumor, a lot of people are talking about it. If I could find a few more items like that, I’d like to patch them all together and get another column, but there’s no story there yet. I’ve talked to some people at Portola, but nobody has even one small factoid. It sucks.”
“What about our friend Ross?”
A shrug. “I did him already, you might recall. And after that, it’s pretty much a one-note samba. Ross and Mother Teresa don’t share a common worldview, but other than the fact that he’s greedy, heartless, and rich, I can’t seem to get another column inch out of it.”
“I may have something for you. Pay attention.”
Hardy then directed his attention across the table. “John.” He raised his voice so Strout could hear him. “I almost forgot.”
He took an envelope from his pocket and passed it across. “Do me a favor. Next time I give ten-to-one odds on anything, remind me about this one.”
As Hardy had intended, this little show engaged everyone’s interest. He’d originally planned the move as a way to make his case indirectly to Glitsky. If he could draw the group into a discussion on the Lector autopsy without having to labor over it, Abe might come to see that Hardy’s position wasn’t entirely self-serving, that it wasn’t a lawyer’s cheap smoke screen, either, that the idea had merit on its own and had been worth pursuing. Now, though, he realized that he could make a similar impression on Treya and trust that it would get back to Abe through her. For the truth remained—if he couldn’t get Glitsky working on his side, he would almost certainly never completely clear his client’s name.
Also, though still raw with anger, he wasn’t inclined to lose his best friend over his job. He already had sacrificed enough to his career.
To the chorus of questions, Hardy replied that it was merely the payment of a debt of honor. “I felt strongly that James Lector had been killed at Portola, as Tim Markham had been, although maybe not in the exact same way. And I put my money where my mouth was.”
Jackman and Freeman disagreed as to whether this was noble or idiotic, but the discussion did give Hardy the opportunity to segue into Wes Farrell’s situation with Mrs. Loring, which had been his other intention all along.
Elliot, he noticed, started taking notes.
But Jackman wasn’t letting Hardy off without some kind of a warning. They were standing on the corner of Seventh and Bryant just after lunch, waiting for the light. Jackman had held Hardy back under the guise of telling him an off-color joke about Arkansas vasectomies. These were quite common, it seemed, and involved a can of beer, a cherry bomb, and the inability to count to ten without using your fingers. When Hardy finished laughing, he found that they’d hung back enough now to be alone at the curb. Jackman was good with jokes because he never laughed at his own punch lines. No part of him was laughing now. “I did want to make one serious point, Diz, if you can spare another minute.”
The switch in tone was abrupt enough to be surprising, and Hardy’s expression showed it. “All right,” he said. “Of course.”
“Due to the nature of our deal, I’ve been working under an assumption that I’ve taken to be true, but—Marlene mentioned this to me last night, just before I decided to okay your request for John’s second autopsy—”
“That wasn’t me, sir. That was Wes Farrell. It’s his client.”
“Diz.” The voice was deep, nearly caressing. Avuncular, Jackman laid a hand that seemed to weigh about thirty pounds on Hardy’s shoulder. “Let’s not go there.”
Hardy thought these were as impressive and effective a few syllables as he’d ever heard. “Sorry,” he said, and he meant it.
“As I was saying”—Jackman’s hand was back in his pocket, they were strolling now in the crosswalk—“I’ve been working under the assumption that we are sharing our information. We’re giving you our discovery, and you in turn are giving us your client’s cooperation before the grand jury when he gets there. But beyond that, I would hope you’re also giving us—giving Abe, specifically—whatever information you uncover that doesn’t implicate your client.”
They walked a few steps in silence. Hardy finally spoke. “He’s not been in much of a listening mood lately.”
“I realize that, but I’d appreciate it if you’d keep trying.”
“That’s been my intention. But the deal was that my client would talk to the grand jury, not a bunch of cops in a small room with a videotape machine.”
“I take your point. But Abe seems to be skating toward the erroneous conclusion that somehow we’re all conniving to circumvent due process.” They’d reached the steps of the Hall of Justice and stopped walking. Jackman was frowning deeply. “I’m extremely sensitive to this issue. To even the appearance of it.”
“Has Abe actually said that?”
“No. But he doesn’t like being ordered not to arrest someone.”
“With respect, Clarence, that’s nothing like what you did. You admitted when we cut the deal that you probably didn’t have enough for a conviction, even with the so-called confession. And now he doesn’t even have that.”
“Which, I need hardly point out, is the latest complaint.”
Hardy nodded. “He’s in a complaining mood, Clarence. He thinks I saw the opportunity for emotional blackmail and took it. Which,
I
need hardly point out, kind of pisses me off. I didn’t and wouldn’t do that, and Abe of all people ought to know it.”
“Well, one of you big boys is going to have to find a way to settle your differences. And meanwhile, Marlene would probably like to be kept informed of what you’ve discovered, whether it comes through Abe or not. You’ve obviously got a few things going on. These autopsies, for example. And as an aside, let me say that as a courtesy, and in keeping with our spirit of mutual cooperation, it might have been appropriate to call them to our attention a bit sooner.” He waved off Hardy’s apology before it began. “It doesn’t matter. That’s water under the bridge. But don’t forget that I’ve gone out on a limb here, especially with the chief of homicide, on this call to let Strout go ahead. I’m hoping these…unusual exercises have a point, that your client isn’t going to do something stupid, or go sideways and refuse to talk at the grand jury. That would make me feel foolish.”
“That won’t happen, Clarence. But I can’t stand here and tell you I’ve got another suspect who’s any better than Kensing. The good news is I have some who aren’t much worse.”
Jackman took this news mildly. “Then you need to get Abe looking at them.”
“That’s my fondest dream, Clarence. Honest. Other than Wes Farrell’s autopsy paying off.”
“With what?”
Hardy’s face showed his apprehension. “At this point, Clarence, almost anything.”
They said their good-byes and Hardy watched Jackman’s back disappear into the building.
A press of humanity was hanging out on the steps, grabbing smokes or snagging last-minute legal advice, or simply ebbing and flowing from the hall itself. A couple of enormous Great Danes were chained to one of the metal banisters. Everyone who passed gave the two dogs a wide berth as they slept on the warm stone—due to the recent death of a young woman by dog mauling, the popularity of man’s best friend in the city was at an all-time low. At the far end of the steps, a young Chinese couple was having lunch on either side of a boombox that blared with Asian rap.
The smell of
bao
—those delicious buns of sticky dough and savory barbecued pork—made him suddenly realize how hungry he was. Lou’s special today may have broken new culinary ground, but most of the table hadn’t evolved to the point where they could appreciate it. Hardy hadn’t eaten more than three bites.
When he’d given Jackman enough time to disappear, Hardy went inside himself and rode the elevator to the fourth floor. Glitsky wasn’t in his office. Hardy walked out into the hall and punched a number into his cell phone.
Two rings, then the mellifluous tones. “Glitsky.”
“How’s Hunter’s Point?”
“Who’s this?”
“Take a stab.”
A beat. “What do you want?”
“Five minutes. Where are you really?”
“Department twenty-two.”
This was a courtroom on the third floor. If anything at all had been going on in it, Glitsky would have turned off his phone—not to do so would incur the wrath of judge Leo Chomorro. So the courtroom was dark or in recess and Glitsky was in hiding.
If Hardy was going to accuse Abe of withholding discovery from him—and he was—he was going to do it to his face. The lieutenant sat in the back row, the seat farthest from the center aisle. He looked over briefly at Hardy’s entrance, but didn’t seem inclined to make an effort to meet him halfway. Which made two of them.
“I just talked to Clarence. He’s of a mind that we should cooperate.” Hardy’s voice echoed in the empty and cavernous space. “I might have mentioned to him that that was a two-way street, but I didn’t.”
“That was noble of you.”
“I was wondering, though, why your inspectors never got around to checking who’d been near the ICU when Mark ham died. Did you just tell them that Kensing did it, so they didn’t need to bother?”
Glitsky’s head turned to face him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Bracco and the other guy, his partner, what they’ve been doing this past week.” Glitsky folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. Hardy took the nonresponse as a kind of answer. “Because I’m having a hard time understanding why they didn’t ask any questions at the hospital where Markham died. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? That would seem like a logical place to talk to witnesses, wouldn’t you think?”
“What’s your point?”
“I believe you told them to go there. That’s the first place you would have looked.”
“That’s right. It turns out that was one of the first places we did go. So again, I ask you, what’s your point?”
“The point is there wasn’t any sign of that in the complete discovery that you were supposedly giving me. The deal was that I got what you got, remember?”
“You did get it,” Glitsky said.
“I didn’t get anything on anybody at the hospital. And now you tell me your men were there. What do you think that looks like?”
Glitsky seemed to be mulling this over. After a second or two, he glanced at Hardy. “Maybe the transcripts haven’t been typed up yet.”
“Maybe that’s it. So where are the tapes without transcripts, since I also have a bunch of those?” But Hardy had been in the practice of criminal law long enough that he’d learned a few tricks used by police to enhance the odds of a successful prosecution. “Maybe,” he added pointedly, “maybe you instructed them to forget to run a tape.” This was a popular and not uncommon technique, the exercise of which was almost impossible to prove.
“It occurred to me,” Hardy went on, “that since you’ve decided I’m not playing fair, that you might as well do the same thing.”
Glitsky’s mouth went tight. His scar stood out. Hardy knew he was hitting Glitsky where it hurt the most, but he had to get through to him somehow.
“And as a consequence it took me four days to find out on my own what you already knew,” Hardy said.
“And what is that?”
“That there were any number of people with opportunity and maybe even motive to have killed Markham.”
But Glitsky wasn’t budging. “If you couldn’t find it, that’s your problem. My inspectors went and asked. They got a complete chronology for the whole day, from Markham’s admittance to…” Suddenly Glitsky stopped, threw a quick look at Hardy, then stared into some middle distance. His nostrils flared and his lips pursed.
“What?” Hardy asked.
Glitsky’s expression suddenly changed. Something he remembered made him draw in a quick breath, then visibly clamp down further.
Hardy waited for a beat, said, “I’m listening.” He waited some more.
Finally, exuding disgust and embarrassment, the lieutenant began to shake his head slowly from side to side. “They forgot to run a tape. It’s Bracco and Fisk, you know, their first case. They just didn’t follow protocol and…” He stopped again, knowing it was hopeless to try and explain further. No one, least of all Hardy, would believe him and, under these conditions, he understood that no one should.
Hardy first reacted as Abe expected he must. “I’d call that self-serving on the face of it,” he replied crisply. “How convenient that only just now, at the moment I catch you at it, the explanation comes back to you. And such a handy one at that.”
The sarcasm fairly dripped.
“There’s only one thing.” Hardy took a step toward the door to the courtroom, faced his friend, and spoke from the heart. “The thing is, I know you, Abe. I know who you are and I trust every part of it. If you’re telling me that’s what happened, then that’s what happened. End of story.”
“That’s what happened.” Glitsky couldn’t look at him.
“All right. Well, then, maybe somebody could write me up a report on what they found so I’m up to speed.” He pushed at the door, but then stopped and turned in mid-step. “Oh, and congratulations. Treya called and told Frannie.”
Then he was out in the hallway, leaving Glitsky to his demons.