John Lescroart - A Certain Justice

On the tube, Elaine – indignant – was answering another question. 'Well, the fact that he's gone this long without contacting the authorities argues compellingly that he has no reasonable defense. This office is proceeding on the assumption that he is dangerous…'

Slumped, Kevin said, 'Yeah, a major threat.'

'… and I urge any citizen who thinks they have seen Mr Shea to get in touch with the police or the District Attorney's office immediately.'

Farrell was shaking his head. 'Ah, the temperate voice of reason…'

'I've got to go in,' Kevin said.

'You've got to go in to that ? Are you listening to this, Kevin? To what's happening out there?' Wes shook his head, finished his beer, number three. 'We need to have ourselves a talk, you and me.'

The image on the screen had changed, and Farrell pointed his remote and turned up the sound. A man with a forbidding countenance was standing on the steps outside the Hall of Justice, collar up against the wind, obviously not enjoying the camera or the microphones in his face.

The male voice-over was explaining that '… Lieutenant Abraham Glitsky, the chief of the homicide detail, apparently doesn't share Ms Wager's certitude.'

And then Glitsky, terse: 'We continue to gather evidence. We're trying to get to the truth. That's all the comment I can give you.'

Glitsky was trying to get by but the reporter was in front of him again. 'What about Kevin Shea, Lieutenant? Shouldn't he be your focus? With the mayor's increased reward and the-?'

The camera closed in, and Glitsky said: 'Shea's a suspect. We want to question him, get his story. The end.'

'His story? But Ms Wager says…"

'Ms Wager is doing her job and I'm doing mine – collecting evidence.'

'But don't you have evidence?'

'No comment.'

'What about the picture?'

Glitsky appeared to consider his question. 'Pictures are open to interpretation. Now if you'll let me…' Pushing the microphone away, he brushed by the reporter through the Hall's swinging doors.

At the cut to the commercial Wes Farrell turned off the television. Scratching Bart's ears, he twirled his empty beer can on the arm of the futon and cursed.

'What?'

He turned to Kevin. 'Glitsky.' He gestured toward the TV. 'That guy – '

'What about him? You know him'

'We've done some business.'

Melanie came around in front of him. 'So why does that bother you? He sounded to me like he wasn't sure…'

'You got it. That's what he sounded like.'

Kevin sat up. 'So what's the matter with that?'

'The matter with that,' Wes replied, straightening up, 'is it means we got a chance. We go to him, we might even get a listen.'

'You mean you'll…?' Melanie glanced at Kevin and he raised a hand, slowing her down.

The room went silent. Wes twirled his beer can some more.

'Does that mean you'll help?' Melanie asked.

Wes looked at Kevin. 'Kevin, if it comes out you had any part in this, I'll kill you. I will personally kill you. I will hunt you down and kill you like a rabid animal, except slowly and painfully. Am I making myself clear?'

'I didn't,' Kevin said.

Wes swore yet again, shook his head, tried his empty beer can. 'You better not have.'

Glitsky was studying the second photograph, asking some questions on his own. The homicide detail was empty. Blessed peace. There was a note from Carl Griffin that he had gone down to interview a potential knife-wound victim. Good. Glitsky didn't have an alternative explanation yet for the cuts and bandages. But they were there and something had caused them. Perhaps it had been a knife. His father's friend Rachel had mentioned a knife. There was a knife in both pictures. Until he knew what had gone on with the knife he wouldn't have the whole picture, couldn't know for sure what had happened. So knowing would help. Knowledge always helped. No word yet from Banks or Lanier.

The telephone rang. 'Homicide, Glitsky.'

' Ashland, Hardy.'

The lieutenant pushed his chair back, put his feet on the desk. His best friend, Dismas Hardy, was calling him back from Oregon. 'I liked your message,' the voice continued.

Glitsky's entire message had been: 'Hardy, call me.'

'My favorite part was when you did that falsetto part from "Duke of Earl." A lot of old guys like you can't go that high anymore. I thought you were great.'

Glitsky reached for his cup of tea and sipped. 'You picked a good weekend to go away,' he said. 'How are things there?'

'In Ashland? Pretty good. The Tempest was awesome. The pinot noir's good, too. Oregon 's nice. Frannie sends her love.'

'You know that the world as we know it is ending down here?'

'I've heard rumors. It hasn't all gotten here yet.' Then, more seriously, 'How are you doing?'

'I get some time, I'll ask myself. You'll be the first to know. You hear about Locke?'

'I wondered if that was the silver lining we hear so much about.' Hardy and Locke had been professional enemies. Locke had fired him from the District Attorney's office, and then Hardy had gone on to embarrass Locke by presenting successful defenses in a couple of high-profile murder cases that Locke had been prosecuting. So there was no love lost between them. 'I'd be lying if I said the news broke my heart, but I didn't want the man dead, Abe. That's too close to home.'

'I know, Diz. The thought had occurred to me. I sent the kids away with my dad.'

'It's that bad?'

'I guess as long as we don't run out of water we'll survive. It feels like half the city's on fire. I'm trying to put 'em all out.'

'You need some help? I mean personally. You okay?'

'I'm hangin' in. I've had better weeks.'

'You let me know. Leave one of your scintillating messages. We'd come home if we had to.'

'It's not getting to that.'

'All right, but if it does…'

'I hear you. Thanks. Kiss your wife for me.'

'Okay. Where?'

Glitsky found himself chuckling and didn't want to give Hardy the satisfaction, so he hung up.

During the past forty hours Chief Rigby's office had taken on the flavor of a war room. A couple of tables had been moved in and pushed together, and on top of them had been taped a large map of San Francisco. A half dozen staffers were moving around, pushing and pulling pins in various locations, answering the several ringing telephones.

Outside the windows there was a drift of smoke to the south through what Glitsky knew to be a cold-blowing, thin haze of eye-burning smog. The afternoon sun broke through intermittently. Summertime, and the living was easy…

Rigby was standing behind his desk in serious conversation with Alan Reston, a man Glitsky knew slightly as a Sacramento politician with a formidable ambition. The deputy state attorney general had chaperoned Abe the couple of times he had gone up to the state capitol to talk to the legislature on some crime bill or other. Polished and well-spoken, he was about Glitsky's size and five years or more his junior. Now he was here in Rigby's office in a suit and tie. Glitsky had no idea what that meant, but he had been summoned here for a few minutes after he had gotten off the telephone with Dismas Hardy, and when he was summoned by Rigby he came.

Glitsky knocked at the open door, came around the double tables and over to his chief's desk. 'Sir?' he said. Then, to Reston, 'Alan.'

'Abe, good,' Rigby said. Reston barely nodded, which Abe thought was a little strange, but these were tense times. People weren't themselves. 'Let's go on outside a minute where we can talk.'

They paraded out in silence into the hallway, Rigby leading the way, Reston bringing up the rear, past a couple of doors to a deserted interview room. Without preamble Rigby was turned around facing Glitsky: 'This is more in the nature of a friendly discussion than a reprimand, at least at this stage. I want you to understand that, Abe.'