John Lescroart - A Certain Justice

Glitsky swallowed. Friendly discussions that began this way weren't typically his favorite. Reston had moved up, and Rigby included him in his gaze. 'I believe you know Mr Reston, our new District Attorney.'

'Sure, but I didn't know…' He put out his hand. 'Congratulations, Alan.' The handshake was perfunctory. Glitsky turned back to Rigby. 'Is something wrong? What's this all about?'

'This is about the television news,' Rigby replied. 'Specifically, you being on it.'

'But I wasn't-'

The chief stopped him with a hand. 'Listen. I know. We saw it. We heard you. I've ordered a tape if you'd like to see it. You know we've got a community-relations person, Abe. Someone who gets paid to do this.'

'I'm still not sure I know what I did.'

Rigby told him. 'You went public questioning our investigation, which is complete. The man's been indicted.'

He took a moment to digest that. 'With respect, sir, some reporter stuck a microphone in my face and I think I said maybe twenty words.'

'Eighteen too many,' Reston said.

'The District Attorney is correct,' Rigby said, and Glitsky noticed the formal tone. Rigby, too, was being played here. Jobs must be at stake, including his own, the one he had worked his life to get to. Okay, then, if they wanted to do it that way. 'The correct response,' Rigby went on, 'is "no comment." '

'I' believe that was what I said.' But Glitsky knew the truth – if you were accused like this, it was no-win. The more you denied that you'd done something wrong, the more it proved you had.

And Reston picked it up. 'I know this comes across like we're a couple of hardasses, Lieutenant.' In Sacramento, Glitsky had always been Abe, Reston had always been Alan. Now, clearly, things had changed. 'But there has been a great deal of effort expended on a lot of fronts trying to create a… a consistent direction in controlling this situation. We don't want to confuse and stir up things more than they already are.'

'I'm not confused,' Glitsky said. 'I must be ignorant of some basic facts about the evidence we've got – '

'Facts aren't at issue right now,' Rigby said.

'That's what I keep hearing. But I'd be interested to find out the District Attorney's position on that when he takes Kevin Shea to trial.'

'By then we'll have all the facts…'

Glitsky wasn't going to escalate this. He needed his job, and he also felt he was doing it right. 'Let's hope they're the right ones,' he said mildly.

Reston seemed sure enough. Maybe he didn't want to fight either. Not yet. 'They will be,' he said.

His message delivered, Rigby had other business to attend to. 'Just so it's clear, Abe. This whole thing is on a higher level than you or me. The public needs a…'

Glitsky helped him out. 'A spin?'

'Exactly. A spin.'

Reston smiled, and it seemed genuine enough. He put out his hand again, and this time it was firm. 'I knew you'd understand, Abe. We just can't afford to mess with this. Shea is the villain here. We don't want to muddy the waters. Right now he is the best solution to this crisis. He did it. We get him… he is guilty… and the city can move on, start the healing process.'

His face straight Glitsky looked to his chief, then to the new district attorney. 'You got it,' he said to both of them. 'No problem.'

Next to John Strout in the chill air of the forensics lab, Glitsky was shivering. The body of the late Christopher Locke lay, mostly under a blanket, on a gurney in front of them, his head protruding. Strout put a gloved hand under it and raised it a couple of inches. 'Back here,' he said.

Glitsky forced himself to look. It was a small hole, clean and round, behind and a little under Locke's left ear. It might have been invisible had not Strout shaved the surrounding hair. He focused on the spot alone, trying not to see the face, trying not to recognize in it anyone he'd known, talked to, shared jokes with, even if he hadn't been all that fond of the man. He wasn't entirely successful.

'Anything funny?' he asked. 'Anything you didn't expect?'

Strout shrugged. 'Not really. Why?'

'No reason. Force of habit. Maybe I'm just getting in the mood for something funny.'

'Yeah, I know what you mean.' Strout let the head down gently but did not pull the blanket right up. Instead, turning it all the way to one side, so that the hole was up, he leaned over it. 'Powder burns about what you'd expect, maybe a little heavy – '

'Glass?' At Strout's questioning look, Glitsky clarified it. 'From the car window? Shards around the wound?'

The doctor shook his head. 'Shatterproof. It's a city-issue car. I wouldn't expect many, although the microscopic ought to be done any hour now, tell us for sure. You getting at something?'

Glitsky set himself back, flat on his feet. 'You know, John, I'm not getting at a damn thing. I don't know what I'm doing, just pulling at every straw I come across, see if maybe it's attached to something. Tell you the truth, I think I'm overworked lately. And seeing people I know dead doesn't seem to help any.'

Strout straightened up, pulled the sheet up over Locke's face. ' Y'all are sure gettin' that way,' he drawled. 'You think it's a little cold in here?'

He started leading the way out to his office, a large square room lined with bookshelves and well stocked with a variety of ancient and medieval instruments of torture displayed under glass. He stopped on the way to his desk to blow the dust off a spiked mace that graced a pedestal to the right of it. 'One of the DAs was by this morning, handlin' the Arthur Wade thing. Poor girl was a mess.'

'Elaine Wager?'

Strout nodded. 'Started goin' into cause of death – asphyxiation – that whole thing, and she goes 'bout as white as her genes will allow.' He allowed himself a small grin. 'Manner of speakin', of course.'

Glitsky nodded. 'You find any knife wounds on Arthur Wade?'

Strout, by now seated behind his desk, took a moment. 'Knife wounds? No. Rope burns, lacerations, cuts and scrapes, but nothing like a clean cut.' He raised his eyes. 'More straws?'

'Yep.'

'You don't mind a little advice, Abe? Little prescription for some peace of mind?'

'Yep.'

The coroner folded his hands. 'Keep pullin' at 'em,' he said. 'You just never know.'

'Homicide, Glitsky.'

'Lieutenant Glitsky, this is Wes Farrell. I'm an attorney.'

'Sure, Mr Farrell, I know who you are. How can I help you?'

'I'd like to talk to you about Kevin Shea.'

Glitsky was halfway out of his chair, snapping his fingers, trying to get someone's attention outside in the homicide detail so they could pick up a phone, maybe run a tape, at least be a second party. He couldn't see anyone through his open doors at the moment, although he was sure someone had been at one of the desks when he'd gotten back from Strout's.

But no one was appearing. He sat back down.

'Are you representing Shea?'

'I think I know where he is.' A pause. The voice was slurred, as though Farrell had maybe been drinking. Glitsky looked at the clock on the wall. No, that was unlikely – it wasn't yet three o'clock. Still…

The voice continued. '… and I'm in contact with him. He's very much afraid and would like some assurances before he turns himself in. He wants his story heard.'

'All right, then, Mr Farrell. I want to hear it.'

'Where can I meet you?'

'Where are you? You want to come down to the Hall?'

Another long pause. Glitsky heard some discussion over a covered mouthpiece – Shea was right with him. My kingdom for a tapped phone, he was thinking.

'Lieutenant?'

'I'm here.'

'I'd prefer if we could meet personally, alone, you and me.'

'Is Shea going to be with you?'

'No. I'm coming alone. It would just be me.'