John Lescroart - Damage

“Are you kidding?”

Hardy shook his head. “Not kidding. As of a couple of months ago. She pointed out, and rightly so, I might add, that if somebody really wanted to get by her and into my office to see me, there was no way she could physically stop them. There would be nothing she could do. So I went down with her and we bought her a big ol’ gun. Three-fifty-seven Magnum. Hollow point slugs.”

“All to stop people from seeing you?”

“Without an appointment,” Hardy said. “That’s the crucial distinction.”

Farrell sat on one of Hardy’s Queen Anne chairs. “Like the appointment I didn’t have this morning? And to think I actually made a move in the direction of your door.”

“You’re lucky she recognized you and held her fire.”

“You don’t think that’s carrying the whole thing a little far?”

“I would,” Hardy said, “if it were true.”

Farrell sat back in his chair. “I’m slowing down. You really had me. Ah, but to discuss the possibility gives it a sort of truth. I have a T-shirt that says so.”

“You have a T-shirt for everything,” Hardy said. “You want some coffee?”

“Sure. Two sugars, please.”

Hardy stirred, carried the cup and saucer over. “People still not joking around too much down at the Hall?”

“Not as much as you might think,” Farrell said.

“So you haven’t heard about the two Canadians playing twenty questions?”

“No, but…”

Hardy couldn’t wait. He started right in. “So the guy who’s ‘it’ thinks up the word moosecock . And the other guy’s first question is, ‘Can you eat it?’ and the first guy goes, ‘Well, yeah, I guess you could.’ So the other guy thinks a minute and says, ‘Would it be moosecock?’ ”

Farrell had a mouthful of hot coffee when Hardy got to the punch line. His reaction was immediate, trying to hold the coffee in for a half second or so, during which time Hardy thought he might be choking. But then Farrell lost the fight altogether and exploded into laughter as a fine spray of coffee filled the air in front of him. “Oh God, Diz, I’m sorry. Your rug…” Farrell had his handkerchief in his hand; coffee was coming out his nose.

Another bout of hysteria shook him. And another.

Hardy whirled on the spot, quickly peeled off a couple of paper towels from the wet bar’s roll, went to a knee, and began dabbing at the rug.

Farrell came down with his handkerchief and joined him. But the residue of the laughter still hung there between them. The rug hadn’t sustained any major damage. Farrell got back up and sat again on his chair.

Hardy’s own grin creased his face. “I should have waited till you swallowed. Don’t worry about the rug. It’s my fault.”

Farrell sat back, sagging in the chair. “Wow,” he said. He took a few more breaths, retaining his equilibrium. When he’d gotten himself together, he got down to it. “I was just hoping to hear an objective voice around all this Ro Curtlee stuff, that’s all. I’m getting it from both sides in the newspapers, Sam’s barely talking to me, Amanda Jenkins still might quit over it. And we’re not even talking about Glitsky.”

“What about Abe?”

“He thinks Ro’s killed somebody else. A woman named Janice Durbin.”

“And she is?”

“The wife of the jury foreman at his trial. But Abe can’t arrest Ro again now, not after the fiasco last week. Crawford wants him shitcanned just on general principles anyway. And Vi Lapeer’s had to go to bat for him, which makes her own job security a little tenuous, to say the least. The whole thing’s just a complete clusterfuck, and Sam might be right thinking it’s all my fault. But I don’t really know what else I could have done, or could do now, for that matter.”

Hardy stalled for a moment, sipping his coffee. “What do you want to do?”

“Go back to Baretto. Just rewind the clock.”

“Unring the bell,” Hardy said. “If only we could. What would you do different?”

“I’d recommend in the strongest terms that bail would be inappropriate, that Ro was a killer and a danger to the community.”

“Forgive my ignorance, but what did you tell him last time?”

“Last time, I didn’t say anything. I sent Amanda to court and let her do her thing.” At Hardy’s look, Farrell went on, “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I buckled under to the Curtlees.”

“I don’t know anything about you and the Curtlees, Wes, so I promise you, that’s not what I was thinking. What happened, they lobby you?”

“They probably thought it was subtle, but it was more or less a full-court press.”

“And after that, you didn’t go chat with Baretto?”

Wes shook his head no. “But I wasn’t going to before that either.”

“Why not?”

“Besides the fact that it would have been totally unethical? I actually thought it was his decision. And, you know, ten million bail isn’t exactly chump change.”

Hardy sipped his coffee.

Farrell’s shoulders settled. He shook his head. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”

Hardy shrugged. “How long had you been in office when you made the call? Three days?”

“Something like that. But I had another chance last week with Donahoe and I blew that one, too. And now we’ve got another dead person and I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re going to see more of them.”

Hardy took a minute. “How about the grand jury?”

“I’ve got no evidence, Diz. And I don’t mean a little. I got nothing.”

“Then how do you know it’s Ro?”

“He leaves the shoes on his victims. Both women have a connection to his trial. He’s a psycho and he’s loving this.”

“That’s evidence. It might be enough for the grand jury. Then they indict him for both killings and there’s no bail.”

“So he gets arrested twice in a week? How’s that look?”

“Who cares? It’s happened before. And the grand jury’s going to take longer than a week anyway to get your indictment. Then send a SWAT team down and bring him in. Maybe you’ll get lucky and he’ll resist arrest again and you can shoot him dead.”

“Your mouth to God’s ear,” Farrell said.

Hardy shrugged again. “Look, Wes, you’re the DA now, not a private citizen, and certainly not a defense lawyer. Get used to it. Whatever you do, you’re going to make enemies. So, given that, the only thing you can do is what you think is right. You think this guy needs to be in jail, find a way.”

Farrell took this advice in silence. After some seconds, he reached out and sipped at his coffee. After he swallowed, he met Hardy’s eyes. “Shit.”

“I know.”

“I asked for this, didn’t I?”

“That’s the rumor.”

Farrell dragged himself to his feet. “Well, Diz, I appreciate the straight talk. And sorry again about the rug.”

“Don’t mention the rug. I’ll tell Phyllis the machine malfunctioned and spit coffee all over. She’ll want to buy a new one, and then I’ll say I really like this old one, in spite of the malfunctioning aspect. We ought to go around on whether or not to get a new one for a couple of weeks at least. It’ll be really fun.”

Farrell smiled in spite of himself. “Why again did I quit working here?”

“Destiny came calling. And you’re welcome back anytime. But Wes…?”

“Yeah?”

“While you’re still in public service, do yourself and everybody else a favor and put this fucker away.”

He picked up the phone in his office on the first ring. “Glitsky.”

“Lieutenant, this is Michael Durbin.”

Glitsky took a beat. “How are you holding up?”

“To be honest, it’s a challenge these last couple of days.”