John Lescroart - Dead Irish

“It’s not wasted if somebody killed him.”

“True. But we got nothing pointing anywhere. We get something, anything, we go back on it. It’s not like it’s closed-it’s equivocal. We haven’t given up, technically. We’re just putting it on hold in lieu of evidence. Vince, look, we’re in the collar game. You want to make it in homicide, bring in your collars. These other ones, put ’em on your desk. Check ’em every few months. Keep an open mind. But if nothing sticks out after three, four days of looking-and I mean nothing…” He shrugged.

“Cruz wouldn’t see you today?”

“Too busy today, he said.”

“Does he think you’re a cop?”

“Abe, I’d never impersonate a police officer. That’s a felony, I’m pretty sure.”

“But he might, at your first interview, have reached the conclusion that you were of the city’s finest?” Glitsky tolerantly scratched at the scar that ran between his lips.

“It’s always surprising what the mind can sometimes come up with,” Hardy said. “I guess it’s possible he thought that if he let his imagination run wild.”

Glitsky’s telephone rang. It was five o’clock, and Hardy settled back, relaxed. It had been a long day, but not without its rewards. Even Cruz refusing to see him had been instructive.

Into the phone, Abe was saying something about angles of knife wounds, heights of suspects. Hardy listened with one ear. It was real, that kind of stuff, like his problem with Eddie Cochran having been right-handed.

Glitsky hung up. As though there’d been no interruption, he continued. “So what about when Cruz realizes that you’re not a cop?”

“Why would he do that?”

Glitsky tried to sound patient. “Because, Hardy, cops get interviews. They don’t say, ‘Sorry, I’ll come back tomorrow.’ They flash their buzzer and say, ‘Look, I’m busy too.’ ”

“I never used to do that.”

“Which is not to say it’s not the proper procedure.” The inspector got up abruptly. “Want some coffee?”

Hardy shook his head. “If you got a beer?”

Glitsky reached into the drawer under the Mr. Coffee and tossed Hardy a warm sixteen-ounce can of Schlitz. “Alcohol is forbidden anywhere in this building.” He didn’t go around again behind his desk but sat against the edge of the steel file cabinet sipping at his black coffee, waiting.

Hardy pulled the tab on the can, sipped, and grimaced. “It ain’t Bass Ale.”

“Fresh, though. It’s probably only been in there about two years.”

After the first taste, though, it didn’t bother Hardy. He took another. “So what’s suicide/equivocal?”

“Suicide/equivocal means Strout-the M.E.-wants to straddle the fence.”

“Why?”

“ ’Cause he’s got a rep for not being wrong.”

“But I’ve got to have it come down one way or the other.”

Glitsky stared out the window, sipping his coffee.

“Yo, Abe,” Hardy said.

“Griffin came by and said it was a bullshit verdict, should have been a righteous suicide. He said he’d recommended that to Strout.”

“So he’s not inclined to do anything else?”

Glitsky motioned to his desk. “There’s the file. He gave it to me, said I should tell my friend-that’s you, Diz-to call him if you found anything. So no, I’d say Griffin’s not gonna do much.”

“But the case is still open?”

Glitsky shrugged. “Some cases stay open. It’s a technicality.”

“It sucks.” Hardy drank half the can of beer as Glitsky continued memorizing the skyline until he finally said, “If you got anything, I’ll listen.”

“I got nada ,” Hardy admitted. “Cruz told me a flat-out lie. I directly asked him if he’d known Eddie Cochran and he paused, thought about it, and said no. I wonder why. That kind of thing.”

“And he wouldn’t see you.”

“Yeah, that.”

They were silent. Outside Glitsky’s office, there were sounds of people going home. Hardy could see the traffic backing up on the Oakland Bridge. He drank some warm beer, then reached over and grabbed the file off Glitsky’s desk, began leafing through the few pages.

After a minute, Hardy tapped the file. “Like here. Look at this.”

Glitsky came to stand over his shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s weak,” he said.

“ ‘I’m sorry. I’ve got to…’” Hardy read. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Maybe he had to go to the bathroom.”

“Maybe anything. Griffin calls this a suicide note?”

“He doesn’t say not.”

Hardy closed the file. “Abe, this isn’t exactly what you’d call compelling. Where’d they find it?”

“In the car.” Glitsky pointed down on the page. “See, there. In the car.”

“Not on his person even? He might’ve written this a year ago.”

“I know.” Glitsky crossed to the window, leaned out over to see the street down below. “Maybe something else is going on.”

“Yeah, and maybe that something is screwing Frannie out of her insurance.”

Glitsky, without turning around, nodded. “Maybe.”

Hardy went back to reading, tipping the beer back. “And this? Griffin couldn’t tell me this?”

“What?”

“The gun was fired twice. What? Ed wanted to take a few rounds of target practice so he’d be sure he didn’t miss?”

Glitsky said nothing. Hardy turned more pages, paused at the photographs, closed the file and drank more beer. “Sucks, this really sucks.”

Glitsky went back to the file drawer and leaned against it. “I tell you what, Diz. You find me some evidence for feeling like that.”

Hardy nodded. This was a first-time, maybe one-time offer. A good sign. It undoubtedly nagged at Glitsky too. Hardy forced himself to look back at the pictures of Ed, the gun maybe a foot from his right hand. Under his head, a large pool had formed, looking black under the camera’s lights. He stared at the picture a long time, the body lifeless, lying on its side, perhaps two feet from the building.

“You also wonder, if he killed himself, that he wasn’t sitting back against the building when he pulled the trigger,” Hardy said.

Glitsky finished his coffee and dropped the Styrofoam cup into the wastebasket. “Yeah, you do,” he said. “It’s a marvel how much there is to wonder about.”

ARTURO CRUZ had the top down on his Jaguar XK-E, enjoying the rare warm evening as he drove up out of China Basin on his way home.

Last night, he’d been furious with Jeffrey. For one of the first times since they’d been together, they hadn’t made love. Jeffrey had gotten huffy and stormed out before dinner and hadn’t come back until this morning.

So when he walked into the office, all Cruz could think of was his relief that he was back, and he hugged him, his anger forgotten, the reason for the fight, everything. If he was back, then everything was okay.

And everything had been all right again. A good day, a good issue on the streets, another good one put to bed. The May figures of La Hora had come in and ad linage was up six percent over last May. Revenues up over fourteen percent!

And the revenue increase was all because of their circulation, on which they based their ad rates. And now, with distribution going in-house, the bottom-line figure would skyrocket next year. If they could keep El Dia away from their market share. But they would do that. La Hora was the better paper. El Dia was still a rag, maybe five years away from quality.

Still, the threat, though distant, caused him to frown. He had to keep his eye on the ad linage. If that dipped, even a little, it might mark a trend. He’d better have some projection graphs made tomorrow.