John Lescroart - A Certain Justice

Still, he remembered, he'd better call her first. Make sure.

He poured his tea out into the surprisingly dainty porcelain cup – one of the service that Flo had given him for their twelfth anniversary. He finished the last bite of the first egg, started cracking the second and continued his waltz through the rest of the paperwork – Locke's admission to the emergency room at SF General (where he was pronounced DOA), Strout's late lab microscopies corroborating his earlier assessment of the cleanliness of the entry wound – the car's safety-glass window had spiderwebbed, preventing any tiny glass shards from spraying inward. Other preliminary and follow-up reports: the trajectory of the bullet that had barely missed Loretta – across and slightly downward, just what you'd expect from a man standing outside firing in. The bullet itself -.25 caliber – the same size Lanier had predicted; also a match with the one taken from Locke's brain. Glitsky had entertained a small hope that there might have been fingerprints on the shattered window, perhaps even a shoe print on one of the fenders. Some hairs or fabrics. Something. But there were no surprises at all.

Which meant, unfortunately, nothing new to start with, no handle to wedge something open. They'd have to go back to the beginning, which meant bothering Loretta, locating the scene of the shooting, assigning someone to go cover the area, talk to neighbors, do forensics all over again.

He almost laughed. Assign some staff who would get to it exactly when?

Closing the folder, he noticed the clock again – not yet seven. Time was creeping, which he supposed was a clue that he wasn't having much of a good time.

He called Elaine on the stroke of the hour. She told him that Reston wasn't offering Kevin Shea as much as the time of day and that was the end of that. Shea could turn himself in, but then he was going to be treated like any other murder suspect. Maybe worse.

'I thought the priority was getting this guy behind bars, Elaine. So we could at least say he'd been apprehended.'

'This isn't me, Abe. This is Alan Reston.' She hesitated. 'I got the feeling he didn't necessarily want him behind bars.'

'As opposed to what? On the street?'

Elaine stammered, getting it out. 'I… I thought about this last night, what Alan might be doing.'

'I'm listening.'

'I explained to him everything you showed me yesterday, showed him how the second picture might be… anyway, all that. And he hinted that maybe it would be better if Shea didn't get to tell his story, if something happened that would keep everything, as he put it, clean and uncluttered.'

'Something like what?'

'Well, I mean, Alan never said any of this outright. It was just, he wasn't going to give Shea any real chance to come in, any reason to. Make it a no-win situation for him. Then, if it came to some kind of showdown, if he just got shot or something by a mob or by resisting while he was getting arrested

' Shot or something …' This was not possible, Glitsky thought. Then again, neither was anything else that had happened during the last few days. But Elaine must have misinterpreted something – there was no possible explanation for this as a remotely reasonable prosecutorial strategy. 'Listen, are you on the way downtown? Would you mind if I stop by your place and pick you up on the way in?'

'Well, I'm not going in. Not right yet.' She paused. 'The funerals.'

Glitsky had forgotten about the funerals. The information had crossed his brainpan sometime during the day yesterday, but he'd filed it someplace and hadn't retrieved it until now. The mayor had prevailed in his personal appeal to the families of Arthur Wade and Chris Locke to have their funerals at the same time and location (and thereby reduce the possibility of two separate riots) – at Saint Mary's Cathedral.

True, that had meant that Locke would not lie in state at the Rotunda of City Hall, but his wife had agreed. She didn't care about that. Not anymore. If it would ease the mayor's burdens, she would do what he asked.

'I'd like to stop by, anyway.' Glitsky had to get some answers, get a take on Reston, on what was happening. He had to push. She hesitated, then said, 'All right,' and gave him her address.

Wearing a two-piece dark charcoal suit with a light maroon shirt of raw silk, Elaine Wager opened the door to her apartment. Glitsky followed her into the living room with its view of the western half of the city. The furniture was green leather; there was a glistening ficus, a teak entertainment center with books in the bookcase. The tasteful young Spartan look. A framed picture of Loretta smiled at them from the bar counter that divided the room. He glanced at it.

'You look a lot like your mother,' he said. 'I guess I never really noticed it before.'

She smiled. 'Taller,' she said. 'Not as pretty, really.'

Glitsky let that go. She wasn't fishing for compliments. Then she surprised him. 'My mother told me about you two.' He tried to think of something to say. 'In college. Just so you know I know.'

'It wasn't a secret,' he said. 'It just hasn't come up much recently. Does it bother you?'

'No.'

'Good.'

'But she's coming by to get me in' – she checked her wrist – 'about forty-five minutes. I just didn't want it to be uncomfortable.'

Glitsky suppressed a smile. 'I'll probably be gone by then anyway. But I could see her and handle it. It was a long time ago.' He sat down on the front six inches of one of her chairs.

She took the couch, settled back a bit, closed her eyes and he recognized a pallor. 'How are you holding up?'

She let out a little mirthless sound. 'Fine. Great. Except I'm obviously in the wrong field.'

'Why do you say that?'

She gestured, dismissing it. 'What I said about Alan, it was mostly only a feeling, but I couldn't think of any other reason he wouldn't offer some kind of deal. Can you?'

Glitsky shrugged. 'He just came on the job. Doesn't want to get a rep as soft. The situation's pretty explosive…'

'That might be it.'

'But the point is, you don't think he's going to change his mind?'

She shook her head. 'No. I think what bothers me is that he says it would be betraying my mother.'

'How's that? She's the one pushing for Shea's arrest since the beginning.'

'I know. But Alan's her protegé. He's got a vested interest in protecting her interpretation of the lynching, Kevin Shea, everything she's been pushing for. And if the charges don't stick… anyway, it's the same theory I told you before. If Shea doesn't get to refute it, nobody made a mistake.'

Glitsky sat back in his chair. 'He can't be saying he doesn't want Shea to have a trial?'

'No. In fact he specifically keeps saying he does. But what's he going to say? I'm just not sure that I believe him. He's not acting like it.'

'Maybe I ought to talk to your mother. Maybe you should.' He slapped his knees and started to get up. 'And maybe we should get going, get this thing moving along. Even without a deal the odds are decent I can get Shea downtown. His lawyer talks the language. I'll call him as soon as I get downtown. You mind if I use your bathroom?'

She motioned. 'Down that hall, just off the bedroom.'

The bedroom blinds were pulled down. His eyes weren't adjusted and the light switch wasn't where it should have been next to the door, so he stood a moment until he could see, then crossed the room. The bed was made. Next to it, on the end table, was another framed photograph, something familiar about it even in the low light. He leaned over, picked it up. Chris Locke.

Next to her bed?

The pallor, the fatigue, the confusion… he stood, rooted to the spot.

The light came on overhead. Elaine at the door. 'I keep forgetting, they put this switch…'Then, seeing him with the picture: 'Oh…'