John Lescroart - A Certain Justice

They were already giving out some federal emergency money and he had read the guidelines and realized he qualified – government always giving something away to somebody, usually not to him. He'd take it this time.

So he was waiting in a long cold line at the distribution place they had set up on Market Street – place was crawling with low life. Jamie O'Toole hated it, waiting with all those street people, shivering his ass off.

Then some guy, familiar, walks up to one side, and he's got it, he places him – the plainclothes cop, Lanier, that was it.

'How you doing, Jamie?'

'I'm cold, man. Witch's tit out here.'

Lanier was wearing a heavy flight jacket, corduroys, boots. He looked cozy, smiled. 'I was just out at your place. Your old lady said where we might find you.'

'Well, she got something right. Who's we?'

'My partner's parking around the corner. Be here in a minute.'

'I can't wait. Make my day. What do you guys want now?'

Lanier was standing almost on top of O'Toole, backing him away from the line. 'Same as before, just to talk.'

O'Toole went with it, a step at a time. 'What are you doin', man? I been waiting an hour here. This same shit again, Jesus. I'm so tired of this.'

Lanier got him to the corner, a distance off from the rest. O'Toole lowered his voice, punched a finger into Lanier's chest.

'You quit pushing me.'

Lanier smiled. 'You strike a police officer, I'll bust your head open. You think you're tired now…'

There a problem, Marcel?' Ridley Banks had appeared behind O'Toole and thought it seemed like a good moment to make his presence felt. Lanier smiled over O'Toole's shoulder at him. 'No, no problem. We're in the midst of the age of enlightenment here.'

O'Toole whirled around, took a beat noticing that Banks was black, then shrugged. 'Yeah, well, we got nothing to talk about. I told you everything I knew last time.'

Lanier grinned. 'Jamie, a smart guy like you, I figure everything you know ought to take at least an hour. Wouldn't you say, Ridley?'

'At least.'

O'Toole twisted his head back from one of the inspectors to the other. 'Well,' he repeated, 'I've enjoyed it. Now I gotta run.'

Lanier stepped in front of him again. 'There was one little thing, Jamie. The other day you said it was Kevin Shea, by himself, as far as you knew, that had done the thing with Wade.'

'I said I didn't know. I wasn't out there.'

'Oh, that's right,' Banks put in, 'I think he did say that.'

'Did he? Was that exactly it?'

'I think so. You wouldn't change your story, would you, Jamie? Where'd he get the rope?'

'What rope?'

Lanier smiled, humoring him. 'What rope, he asks.'

'If Shea was in your bar and left to go lynch Wade, what happened? Did he stop off at his car and grab a rope from the trunk, or what?'

'I don't know what happened. I didn't leave the bar.'

Now Banks stepped in closer, also smiling. 'He keeps saying that, you notice?'

Lanier nodded. 'Sticking to his story. Didn't see a thing. Good strategy.'

Banks moved in some more and now they had him surrounded. 'We think… actually we're pretty sure, Jamie… that the rope came from the hardware store next to your bar. What do you think about that?'

'I don't think anything about it. I wasn't there.'

'Whew.' Lanier, impressed. "This is some consistent story, Ridley. We'd better just give it up and go on back to the office.'

'The only thing is,' Banks said, 'that we found what looks suspiciously like a beer glass, or big pieces of several beer glasses, in the display window of the hardware store, and I think there's a chance one of those pieces is gonna have your fingerprints on it somewhere. We're checking.'

O'Toole's eyes were darting back and forth. 'I'm the bartender, guys, I would have touched the glasses.'

"That's right, Ridley,' Marcel said, 'he is absolutely correct.'

'Gosh,' Banks said, 'that's right. I must have forgot.' He snapped his fingers, as though suddenly remembering something else. 'I do wonder, though, about the lawnmower. The one in the hardware store's window? Did somebody take that into the Cavern where you might have touched it – mow some Astro-turf or something – and then go put it back in the display next door? What could've happened there, I wonder?'

'Are you saying my prints are on some lawnmower ?'

Banks shrugged. 'We're checking, Jamie. We're just checking a whole load of stuff, you wouldn't believe. You think we'll get lucky?'

'I think we will, Rid.'

'I do, too, Marcel.'

The inspectors smiled at Jamie O'Toole. In spite of the cold, he'd broken a sweat. His eyes were moving, the gears in his brain nearly audible as they turned. 'Well, I mean,' he said, 'there had to be other guys. One guy couldn't have done it himself, could he? I mean, there was a bunch of guys. Everybody was drinking, you know?'

Lanier kept up that affable smile. 'We don't know, actually, Jamie, which is why we're being so… I don't know… pushy. We'd really like to find out.'

Banks said: 'You know Brandon Mullen and Peter McKay?'

'Sure, I know those guys. I already told you that.'

'They were there, they admit it. When did they leave?'

'When did they leave?'

'I think that's what I said. When did they leave? After Shea, before Shea, with Shea, when?'

'I think after.'

That's funny. They said before.'

Then it must have been before. Look, guys, it was busy. I can't remember everything.'

'Our lieutenant said you told him it was slow.'

'I thought he meant afterward.'

They kept it up for about five more minutes, then thanked him for his time and sent him back to the line.

Walking back to their car, Banks said, That was kind of fun. I believe the man went outside.'

Lanier nodded. That was a good idea. 'We ought to dust that window. Fire damage or no, we find one of Jamie's prints on anything…'

'I hear you,' Banks said. 'Time comes, it would be a neat surprise.'

Lou the Greek's was beginning to fill up.

Glitsky stood blinking in the corridor at the bottom of the stairway that led to the bar, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. An overriding smell of cabbage made him wonder what culinary delight Lou's wife had prepared for lunch that day. Though he often hung out doing some business or other in one of its tiny booths, Glitsky had stopped eating at Lou's a few years back after an unfortunate reaction he'd had to the place's home-made kim chee, which others of his friends swore by.

The cabbage smell now triggered a sense memory of that, and his stomach rolled over. He took a breath, steeling himself, and walked in.

A hand went up at the bar, and Glitsky, after making allowances for the hair (now in a ponytail) and a few extra pounds, realized that he had known Wes Farrell in another lifetime, had testified in a couple of cases that the man had been defending over the years. As he pulled up a stool, Glitsky was further struck by Farrell's attire – most of the people at Lou's worked at the Hall and wore some variation of the uniform. Farrell looked as though he had just come from the beach – he must be freezing, Glitsky thought, and said as much.

'My veins are ice. I don't feel a thing.'

Farrell was having a coffee drink, maybe just coffee. Glitsky motioned to Lou that he'd like his usual – tea. "That's handy in this town,' Glitsky said, 'not feeling the cold.'

'I don't know what it is, probably age, like everything else. I used to feel it, chatter my teeth, all of that. On the other hand, it could be I'm just anesth… anesth…' He broke a weary smile. 'Fucked up. Never could say that word, even sober.' He sipped his coffee. 'Right at this moment, for the record, I'm halfway back to sober, I think. Haven't had a drink in two three hours.'