John Lescroart - A Certain Justice

In 1978 Loretta had been an administrative aide to California congressman Theo Heckstrom, and the two of them, among others, had gone down to Colombia on a fact-finding mission before the 'war on drugs' had been openly declared. On a flight from Bogota to Quito, Ecuador, their small plane had gone down deep in the Colombian jungle. Among the six people in the aircraft, including Heckstrom, Loretta had been the sole survivor.

Badly hurt herself, with a compound-fractured leg, she had remained in the plane's wreckage with the dead for four days, living on candy bars and plantains, before she was finally rescued and airlifted out and back to the United States. Most believed that the publicity associated with the tragedy had made her a household name in San Francisco, and had helped fuel her first successful run for Congress.

After she had won, Glitsky had also begun to hear the rumors about the million dollars – although the amount always varied – about the suitcase full of cash that Loretta had supposedly found on the plane and somehow spirited back into the country.

Now Glitsky was shaking his head. 'The small problem with this phantom money, Rid, is customs.'

Banks was ahead of him on that. 'There weren't any customs. Everybody seems to forget this. They sent a special plane down there to pick her up, get her out in a hurry. Diplomatic airlift direct to Mayo.' He repeated it. 'No customs.'

The room was getting stuffy, the air unmoving. Glitsky pushed his back against the bench, stifled a stretch. 'You think Oswald killed Kennedy by himself, Rid?'

Banks shrugged. 'Conspiracy theories, right?'

'Do you honestly think that if there was anything to all of this – and I'll admit it's a neat story – but do you think there is any way it wouldn't have come out? The woman's run – what? – four campaigns for office, two of them statewide, against people who I'd bet have some knack for finding dirt. Anything was there, it would have come up.' Banks didn't answer.

'You think I'm in denial here, Rid?' But there was a tone in it – half-joking.

'I'm telling you what a lot of guys working the street believe down to their toes, that's all. You know a lot of 'em. They're not generally into conspiracies.' The younger man slapped his hands on his thighs, took a short, sharp breath. 'Anyway, for what it's worth…'

The lieutenant pushed himself up and next to him Banks stood, too. 'It's worth knowing,' Glitsky said. 'Although this particular time, I think the senator might be doing some real good.'

'Okay.' His duty done, Banks nodded. 'I'll go put a call out to McKay, follow up on these guys, get 'em down here. You hear anything about Kevin Shea?'

' Nada . Guy's got any brains, he's in Scandinavia.'

They were at the double doors and Glitsky grabbed one of the handles, then stopped. 'Hey, Rid, I appreciate it, but you don't have to worry.'

'Okay, Lieutenant, I won't.'

Glitsky had wanted to protest to Ridley Banks that all he had done was drive the senator home. Except that wasn't all he'd done and he didn't want to start with small untruths. They tended to grow large and unruly.

As earlier with Lanier, he was hamstrung by the possibility that he would come across as saying too much. Banks was a good cop, and no group hung together like cops. Functioning as early warning, protective of his lieutenant, Banks was putting it out that people might be watching pretty closely. Were already hanging on the nuances. That maybe, on some level he couldn't define, Loretta Wager could be trouble for him.

And this – if he was honest with himself, and he tried to be – constituted a message Glitsky wasn't ready to hear.

He had given her his home telephone number and she had called him before he'd had his morning tea. Isaac had picked up the call and, handing it over, the expression he'd given Abe could have frozen a flame. Some instinct had told Ike that this wasn't a business call – it was a woman and his dad cared about her. And it was too… damn… soon.

When Glitsky heard her voice all that went away. She wanted to see him again, needed to, could they arrange something for today?

Which wasn't reasonable, probably not doable, but they were going to try.

She had gotten a hold inside of him, where he'd told himself he wasn't letting anybody in ever again. He didn't know what worried him more – that it was happening at all or that it might end.

'Well, here I am, a grown-up at last, wanted by the police and all, and I guess if I want to call my mom and dad, no one's going to stop me.'

Kevin shrugged at Wes. 'She's just got this way in the last day or two, I can't really figure it out.' But he knew he liked it.

Melanie gave them both a smile. 'Adversity,' she said, moving toward the kitchen's wall-phone.

Wes slumped on the couch in the living salon. His long hair was down and he wore a pair of khaki shorts similar to the ones he had sported the day before, and he had his bare feet up on the footlocker that served as a coffee table. In his right hand was a can of Coors Light, stuck into a styrofoam holder that read: 'Beer – it's not just for breakfast anymore.' Bart had his face resting in Wes's lap.

Kevin was trying to find a way to get comfortable.

Wes's furniture leaned to the austere – there was a large shaggy lime-green bathmat doubling as a throw rug, two canvas-and-wood director's chairs, two straightbacks. The 'couch' was a futon on a plywood frame set a foot off the ground. What with the other amenities in the salon – a television on the floor, a small extra refrigerator for beer, a brick-and-board bookcase, the bean-bag chair Bart slept on, various grocery items whose expiration dates had expired – Wes's apartment might manage to look homey only to someone who had grown up in, say, the Senegalese bush.

'You haven't heard then?'

'Haven't heard what?'

Wes had been living with the television all morning and filled Kevin in on the mayor's initiative this morning, the city stupid-visors' show of solidarity with the rage of the black community. In one of the director's chairs, Kevin shifted. He was afraid he was going to have to see a doctor, but this was more immediate. 'Two hundred thousand dollars?'

The mayor had not been able to get his half-million.

'Round it off to three hundred if you include the original hundred thou – that's a good hunk of change on your poor ass. I'm thinking of turning you in myself, retire to Costa Rica.'

'You're already retired.'

'But I'm not in Costa Rica.' Wes smiled, took a slug of his beer.

In the kitchen Melanie raised her voice. She had been on the phone for fifteen minutes. 'He is not lying. He just did not do it, Daddy.'

Wes made a face. 'Somebody believes you at least.'

Which brought a frown. Any hint of defensive banter was gone. 'You don't?'

Wes tipped up his beer can, found it empty, made a small show of getting himself another from the reefer, offering one to Kevin, who shook his head. And then, his inflection rising with each word, said 'Hey? You hear me? You don't believe I didn't do this?'

Melanie again, from the kitchen. 'NO I AM NOT.' She slammed the receiver against the wall box and it popped out again, smacking on the floor.

Wes settled himself back on the futon, no reaction. The kid had better learn the cold facts of the world.

'Goddamnit, Wes…'

Bart didn't like threatening noises made to his master and, although he knew Kevin, his back hairs went up and a low growl began. Wes patted his rear as Melanie appeared back in the kitchen doorway.

Kevin was laboring out of the chair. 'Let's go, Mel.'

Wes's voice was flat. 'What do you think you're doing? Sit down.'

Melanie, from the doorway: 'What?'