John Lescroart - A Certain Justice

Glitsky nodded.

'This is not a problem for me, I hope it's not for you.' Glitsky shrugged as his tea arrived in a cracked brown mug to match Farrell's. 'But enough about me,' the lawyer said, 'I want to tell you a story.'

'That's why I'm here.' Glitsky sipped his tea.

Farrell started to talk, quietly, now with no trace of a slur.

'That's what he says.' Glitsky, to be saying something, did not want to come across as gullible, but even wearing his most cynical hat, he still believed every word he had just heard.

Farrell, holding the high ground, did not need to push. 'You have any evidence that refutes it, any of it?'

"The picture seems to.'

'You got it here?'

Glitsky did not, but there was a newspaper behind the bar and Farrell leaned over and pulled it from the counter. 'Let's glance at this puppy a minute, what do you say?'

For not even close to the first time, Glitsky was face-to-face with the ultimate truism of observation – you saw what you expected to see. Now, looking at the picture that was convicting Kevin Shea all over the country, but with different eyes, Glitsky only saw what Farrell had described – Shea was grimacing with the weight of holding Wade up. He wasn't pulling him down, he was trying to save his life.

There were tiny clues, visible if you knew what to look for, if you were so inclined. The manner in which Wade's shirt was bunched, for example. If Shea had been pulling down, wouldn't one expect the shirt to be pulled taut to the body? And the rope, did Glitsky see the actual rope? Not much of it was visible in the picture – a few inches – but what there was did not seem to be perpendicular to the ground, which it assuredly would have been if it were holding the weight of two men.

And then, and most convincingly, there were the knife wounds. The information hadn't been released to the press. No one had even admitted to having one – Glitsky hadn't yet heard about Colin Devlin and Carl Griffin. They didn't officially exist – the very possibility of someone having a knife wound was part of Abe's mix, not the public's. They were one of his secrets, one of the little tricks that experienced policemen liked to trot out and go 'boo!' with. And now Farrell had preempted him on them, told him all about them, how they fit the picture.

Kevin Shea had had to cut his way through the crowd. He had slashed at the men closest to Arthur Wade. He was sure he had cut some of them. There had been blood.

And Arthur Wade had died of asphyxiation , which Glitsky knew from the coroner. He had not had his neck pulled on.

His tea had long ago gone cold. 'Well, Mr Farrell, I'd say you've got yourself a pretty good story.'

'It's not a story, Lieutenant. It's what happened. Kevin Shea is, if anything, a hero in all of this.'

Glitsky was thinking hard, not committing. If this were a normal case, if every media outlet in the Bay Area, if not the country, hadn't already run stories on the heinous life and career of the arch-bigot Kevin Shea, he would simply bring Farrell across the street and have a talk with the DA or Chief Rigby…

Hell, he was the head of homicide. He'd just be tempted to interview Shea and recommend the DA drop the whole thing right there. If it could be verified, and Farrell's knowledge of the knife wounds came close to meeting his criteria for that.

If this were a normal case…

'What's funny?'

Glitsky glanced sideways. 'Not much.'

'You looked amused.'

'Oh yeah. I'm often amused. Do you have any idea how much energy has been invested in your client being guilty?'

'Some. He's a little more on top of it than I am.'

'Where is he?'

'I don't know.'

Glitsky shot him a look.

'I don't know,' he repeated. 'He calls me. The boy's got a doubting nature, thinks I might turn him in for the rewards and he might not be all wrong on the right day.'

'I'd like to talk to him.'

'I could probably arrange that.'

'He should bring himself in.'

'That might be a little trickier. He's pretty convinced that if he gives himself up before this gets turned around somehow, he's dead.'

'He's being paranoid, you should tell him that. We've got protective custody, solitary-'

'Lieutenant, excuse me. We're doing fine here together, don't start bullshitting me now. You and I know, somebody wants to kill him, and we can assume somebody would for a hundred grand, he's gone. Jail or no jail. And he doesn't want to go to jail period. He didn't do anything wrong. What he wants is to get the word out. He saw you on the tube saying you needed some evidence, he thought you'd be the man.'

Glitsky consciously controlled his face. 'I'd be the man?'

'Get it to the DA, broaden the net, take it off him.'

Thinking of Elaine, Glitsky nodded. 'I can try that, but I'd still like to interview him.'

'He'd still be under arrest, though, wouldn't he?'

'Well, that's the grand jury, the indictment…'

'Can you quash the indictment?'

'Not at this stage. It's not in my province, anyway. The DA's got to withdraw the charges, which, look, you bring him down – backdoor it, I'll get him in to the DA personally. He'll listen, we'll go over the evidence we've got.'

'I don't think so. It's not about evidence. Not any more.'

To which Glitsky had no response. Farrell was right.

Lou came around to see if either wanted a refill and both declined. Behind them, the room was close to its capacity, elbow-to-elbow with the trade.

'And meanwhile,' Glitsky said, 'the city keeps on burning.'

"That's not my client's fault, Lieutenant. If he could stop it, he would. He's a good kid.'

This was an unexpected direction. 'He is? You know him personally?'

'We took some classes together,' Farrell said. 'He's a regular guy, normal as you and me.'

'So what's all this broken family, deep-South bigot, unstable personality?'

'That, sir, is quite possibly a young woman that Mr Shea had the bad fortune to sleep with and then tire of…'

Glitsky raised his eyebrows.

'… either that or the media needing to fill air time or blank paper.'

Glitsky had heard both explanations in different contexts too often before to be surprised, but the way they both fit in here – the hand in glove of it… he shook his head, nearly gagging on the last of his tea. 'How do I reach you?' he asked.

'I don't know when Kevin will get in touch with me, but when he does, I'll call you. Then we'll see where we go from there.'

Glitsky stood up. 'I'll do what I can.'

'You know, Lieutenant, I believe you.'

'Elaine.'

Alan Reston came around the desk – only yesterday it had been Chris Locke's desk – with his arms outstretched to greet her. She rested her leather satchel next to her feet and stood, close to attention, letting him put his arms around her, raising hers to enclose him lightly because it would have been more awkward not to. He did not press her to him, though, merely held her an instant and let go, as an old friend might. Establishing that they were old friends, reminding her. 'This is a terrible business.'

'Yes, it is.'

'And losing Christopher Locke…' He didn't seem to have anywhere to go with that and let it hang in the room between them. Another bond. Chris Locke. His face twitched, out of nerves or fatigue, and he blurted, 'I'm glad you've come down. I was going to try to get by your office earlier, say hello but' – motioning to the papers piled on his desk – 'as you can see…'

'That's all right, Alan. It's okay if I still call you Alan?'

'Elaine…come on. Of course I'm Alan.' His grin came on and he started to reach out to touch her on the arm but stopped midway. 'Can I get you something, anything? You want to sit down?'

During her mother's first senate campaign, when she had still been a teenager, Alan Reston had been a jerk. In his mid-twenties at the time, and engaged (he was now married to the same woman), with a rich father and an ingratiating manner, Alan had an unshakable belief in his attractiveness to the opposite sex.