John Lescroart - Nothing But The Truth

They’d come up to Canetta’s car, on their left. Glitsky pulled some latex gloves from his jacket pocket, handed a couple to Hardy, pulled his on, and stood over the yawning trunk.

‘What are we looking for?’ Hardy came up beside him.

‘There shouldn’t be anything,’ Glitsky responded. ‘The theory is it’s all bagged and labeled at the lab, or if they’re done boxed up in the locker.’ And in fact, the trunk looked pretty well cleaned out. Still, they checked the wheel wells, under the rug, under the speakers – everywhere.

Hardy went up the passenger side, Glitsky the driver’s. The front seat had been removed, although there was still fresh evidence of the blood Canetta had spilled on the rug. The visors had nothing stuck under or in them. The glove compartment was empty. In the back, it was the same story.

Glitsky wasn’t saying a word and though Hardy still wasn’t sure why they were doing this, he was along for the duration. Over at Griffin’s car, as with Canetta’s, they started at the trunk. There was a little more evidence that Carl had lived and worked in his vehicle – beverage stains, tobacco burns – but it had evidently been sanitized by a team of professionals.

At least, until they came to the back doors. The back seat and the rug in front of it contained the usual, by now, stains and odors, and Hardy was about to stand up when Glitsky made a sign. ‘Last one,’ he said. And they lifted the back seat up.

Hardy whistled.

Glitsky looked for a moment, his expression fixed. ‘Don’t touch,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

They crossed back to the guard’s booth, and Glitsky picked up the telephone and punched in some numbers. ‘Get me operations,’ he told the dispatcher. ‘Is Leon Timms on call? Good. Page him. Yes, ma’am, right now. Have him call me.’

Glitsky gave his number and they waited two minutes or less. The phone rang.

‘Leon, Abe. I’m down here at the garage and just had occasion to lift the back seat of Carl Griffin’s car. Yeah. Uh huh. Well, they missed this. Uh huh. I know. I am, too.’

He rolled his eyes at Hardy. ‘Well, listen, the point is that we’re behind the curve on this investigation, you might have noticed. Right. Leon, listen up. Just so we’re clear, I expect all that waste paper, Kleenex, French fries, sugar cones, condoms, coins, bullets, shoelaces, boxtops, coupons, lottery tickets – everything – to be checked out, bagged, and catalogued, and up at the lab by the morning. Starting now. Uh huh. That’s right, it is. I know. I don’t care.’

Hardy had no confidence that he’d be able to stay awake on the ride across town to Erin’s. Freeman’s building was closer, and there were still things to do there.

Now, on his couch back in his office, he fought to keep his eyes open. He had his legal pad beside him and had drafted the motion he’d submit to the court – to Marian Braun in fact – on vacating Frannie’s contempt citation. He checked his watch – nearly one o’clock.

He read another line, nearly dozed, and started awake.

There on the low table in front of him, weighted down by his gun, was every scrap of paper he’d accumulated over the past four days. He was going to read them thoroughly when he finished his motion. He started to fade again.

The gun. He’d berated himself recently for allowing himself to fall asleep with the gun in plain view next to him, and this time he wasn’t going to do that.

His legs didn’t want to answer him, his shoulder throbbed, and his mouth was dust, but he made himself walk to his desk, open the drawer, put the gun in, and lock it.

It seemed a long uphill mile all the way over to the light switch by the door and then back to the couch, but he finally made it, pulled his jacket over him, and fell to the side, asleep before he knew what had hit him.

It was nominally a breakfast meeting in the mayor’s private suite at City Hall, but none of the participants, except one, seemed to have much of an appetite. The plate of sweet rolls sat unmolested in the center of the long, rectangular table.

By ten minutes past seven the mayor himself – Richard Washington – hadn’t made his appearance. But everyone else had assembled and gotten their coffee poured by seven a.m., the hour his honor had appointed for this emergency session.

It was the first time Scott Randall had ever been inside the mayor’s offices and typically, although by a wide margin the youngest person in the room, he was unimpressed. Someday, he thought it was entirely possible he might wind up here himself. He’d do the walls a different color – something that said power a little more distinctly, though still subtly. Maroon, perhaps.

He stood off by himself beside the vast sideboard under an ornately framed mirror at the far end of the room. He was on his second Danish – he’d wolfed the first – and now sipped at his coffee as he surveyed the other guests. Sharron Pratt, his boss, was in an intense discussion with Dan Rigby, the chief of police, and Peter Struler – Randall’s own DA investigator.

The attendance of Marian Braun was a surprise to Randall – Superior Court judges often liked to pretend they were above the political fray. But she had obviously come at the mayor’s bidding, although she was fastidiously ignoring everyone, and obviously unhappy. Pencil in hand, ostentatiously making notes on some thick document in a three-ring black binder, she’d already been sitting at the table when Randall had arrived.

The mayor’s major domo was unfortunately named Richard, too. Scott Randall suppressed a smile recalling that the common name led to the inevitable sobriquets of ‘Big Dick’ and ‘Little Dick’ for the mayor and his assistant. Little Dick was chatting with a couple of staff members that Randall recognized, although their names escaped him.

Finally – Randall checked his watch: seven thirteen – Mayor Washington burst into the room. Purposeful, overworked, impatient, he was talking at high volume to a middle-aged woman who trailed behind him scribbling non-stop in a steno pad. Washington wore a camel’s hair coat over his suit. He was reasonably tall and nearly burly. Broken nose, veins in the face, a lot of unkempt gray hair. Walking fast as he came through the door, he kept coming until he got to his seat at the head of the table, when he stopped almost as though surprised at where he’d come to rest.

‘All right.’ He nearly bellowed, eyes all over the room. ‘Everybody here? Let’s get going.’

Little Dick had appeared behind him and helped him out of the overcoat, an automatic operation the mayor did not acknowledge in any way. By the time Washington was down in his chair, the woman had poured and flavored his coffee – three sugars and cream, Randall noticed – and had disappeared.

The mayor slurped from the cup, swallowed, and waited an instant for one of the staffers to stop fidgeting in her seat. After another moment, Marian Braun looked up, put her pencil down, and closed her binder.

Washington nodded at her and looked around the table, coming to rest on the young man near the far end. ‘You’re Randall,’ he said, pointing a thick finger.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How old are you, son?’

Randall bridled slightly at the condescension, but what could he do? ‘Thirty-three, sir.’

‘You married? Children?’

‘No. Neither.’

Washington had him on the hot seat and seemed content to let him cook a minute. He slurped some more coffee. ‘Somebody pass those rolls down here, will you? Thanks.’ He randomly grabbed from the pile, took a bite, and chewed. ‘You know why we’re all here.’ He wasn’t asking.

Randall swallowed drily. ‘The Frannie Hardy matter, I believe.’