John Lescroart - A Plague of Secrets

“And you had to answer?”

“Every time or I’m in contempt. I mean, that son of a bitch Glass treated me like I was a major criminal, but I’ve got nothing to tell him. Then after all that Joel busts my ass anyway.” The big man blew out heavily. “And you notice Kathy’s lost about ten pounds. Ten pounds on her, that’s like fifty on me. And it isn’t her new exercise routine, believe me.”

“I hadn’t heard they’d called her yet.”

“No. That’s what’s so awful. They’re keeping the big ax-testifying with the grand jury-over her head. Glass waiting to see what happens down here in court, maybe. I don’t know, but it’s eating her up too. Like literally. I think that’s what more or less got her to come down here. Put the fucker on notice, show him she’s not afraid.” He leaned in closer. “But let me tell you something, Diz, between me and you. She is.”

From his own experiences with Joel-arguing with him over billing, cash flows, trial strategy, his treatment of Maya-Hardy had known that Glass’s campaign against the families was taking a serious psychic toll. Now, though, Harlen’s totally uncharacteristic outburst-the man was a professional politician, after all, he never lost his temper-had made Hardy realize how deep the knife cut, how threatening the grand jury must be, how very real loomed the possibility of ruined careers and even prison time. Now Hardy took his own deep breath. “Well, Harlen,” he said with a mustered calm he didn’t come close to feeling, “we’re still a long way from done here. That’s all I can tell you. We’ve got to let it play out.”

Hardy let Fisk go through the metal detector and then stepped aside out of the line and walked back to the other familiar face he’d noticed in the lobby behind them. Chiurco, in a coat and tie, looked well-rested and clear-eyed as Hardy shook his hand. “Hey, Craig,” he said. “You here with Wyatt?”

“No. Wyatt told me to come down here and see if I could be of some use.”

This wasn’t the most impressive offer Hardy had ever heard. The only thing Craig had to talk about was Maya’s presence outside Levon’s flat just before or after he was murdered. Which meant that if Hardy put him on the stand, all he could do was damage the case further.

But then, suddenly, unexpectedly, an idea surfaced. “Something you could do,” he said. “With all the craziness, you and I never talked about whatever you found out about Levon and Dylan.”

“Sure, but I’ve got to tell you, beyond the robbery and his address, it wasn’t much.”

“Wyatt didn’t ask you to follow up on any of that?”

Craig shook his head. “No. And I don’t really know what it would be. I think you guys know all I know.”

“Probably,” Hardy said, “but maybe you know something you don’t know you know. Stuff you might have seen with Maya at the door.”

This brought a frown. “Tamara kind of hinted that maybe I’d want to mess with my story if-”

But Hardy jumped all over that. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. I’m not talking about making up a story. Just if what actually happened might change an argument or something.”

“Well, whatever you’d want.”

“You want to set a time? Give me an hour?”

“Sure. When?”

“Tonight, tomorrow night? Call Phyllis at my office and she can set us up. You okay with that?”

“Of course.”

“Good. So now if you’ll excuse me”-Hardy indicated the courtroom behind him-“Her Highness awaits.”

Upstairs, Glitsky let Bracco and Schiff into his office, closed the door behind them, and walked around his desk to his chair. He had hot tea in his SFPD mug and he pulled it in front of him and cupped his hands around it.

Not that he was cold.

He felt he needed a prop-something immediate and proximately painful-to take the edge off his main emotion at the moment, which was a fine amalgam of embarrassment, disappointment, and fury. As a further subterfuge-to all appearances this was simply a chat about procedures-he’d bought a couple of Starbucks frou-frou coffees downstairs and had put them on the edge of his desk in front of where his inspectors were sitting.

Schiff pretty obviously hungover.

And now, motioning to the coffees, Glitsky said, “I hear those are great. Orange macchiato, or something like that. Treya swears by ’em.”

Bracco reached forward, took a cup, removed the plastic top. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome. Debra?”

She raised a palm. “Maybe in a minute, thanks.”

The tension among the three of them taut as a wire.

“Are you feeling all right?”

A brisk nod. “Little bit of a rough night is all.”

Glitsky kept his eyes on her. After a minute he sipped his own tea. “It takes some getting used to, but you can’t let that stuff get to you.”

She didn’t reply.

“You have a tough day of testimony,” Glitsky said, “it’s part of the job. Comes with the territory. You shake it off and do better next time. At least that’s my experience. The coffee might really help.”

Schiff sighed and reached for the cup.

“Of course,” Glitsky continued, pressing his hands around his mug, focusing on the heat in his palms, “it’s preferable if you make sure your evidence is rock solid before you’re stuck with explaining something that might not make much sense.”

Schiff, her mouth set tight, let a long, slow breath out through her nose. She left the paper coffee cup where it sat on the desk and straightened back up in her chair. “It made perfect sense, Lieutenant. People have been known to cover their tracks, and she did. It doesn’t mean she wasn’t there.”

“No, of course not.”

“In fact, she was there.”

“Well, in fact, to be precise, she may have been at the front door.”

“She was at the front door, Abe. Her fingerprints and DNA say so.”

“That’s true, sir,” Bracco said.

Glitsky’s eyes went from one to the other. “All right. Still, the Preslee count isn’t too wonderful, is it? If it wasn’t for Vogler, in fact, you and I both know it wouldn’t have been charged. Why do you think that might be?”

Schiff wasn’t backing down. “Like I said, she planned it and pulled it off. And let me ask you something. Did you get your take on this from your friend Mr. Hardy?”

The scar through Glitsky’s lips went a little pale in relief. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, Debra. It’s way beneath you, and maybe just a result of how you’re feeling this morning, huh?”

“I’m feeling fine.”

“Good. Because I did want to ask you both about something. Never mind your write-ups or your testimony or what Maya Townshend might or might not have done at Levon’s place, how do you, either of you, explain to me the complete absence of blood from any of her clothes or shoes or anything else you looked at? And before you start, let me give you my analysis and you tell me where I’m wrong.”

For the next few minutes Glitsky outlined it for his inspectors. He wrapped it up by saying, “And this isn’t a question of admissible evidence or lack of sufficient proof to convict. I’m talking here the actual fact of what happened.”

Schiff didn’t even hesitate. “The actual fact is she killed him. Her husband lied when he corroborated her alibi. Either him or the housekeeper. Happens all the time.”

Glitsky’s mug was tepid by now; it was failing to serve as a calming device. “You’re saying she got home, when, before she picked up the kids?”

“She might have. We don’t know.”

“But we do know, don’t we,” Glitsky replied, “what time she got the call from Preslee? Couple of minutes either side of two, right? And we know she picked up the kids at three sharp. So you’re telling me she gets this call at her house on Broadway, decides on the spot to kill Preslee, drives out to Potrero? And by the way, I did it this morning coming in. No traffic, city streets, twenty-two minutes one way. So anyway, she sits down and drinks some water and maybe smokes a joint with Levon, whacks him with the cleaver, then cleans up with a lot of care, and she’s got time to dump her blood-spattered clothes before she gets the kids?”