John Lescroart - A Certain Justice

'Devlin might have compromised their case on Kevin Shea,' Glitsky said. 'They don't want any of that on the record.'

'What record? We got no record.'

'That's right.'

Carl Griffin fixed his belt, scratched, frowning at the stain on his shirt. He wasn't going to waste his time trying to pretend he understood all this. He had just spent yesterday finding a guy with a knife wound, which had been that day's assignment. So what did the lieutenant want him to do today?

Glitsky sighed, still in his head with the other questions. 'I'll tell you what, Carl…'

The orders now were to go out to Dolores Park, try to locate the exact corner where Chris Locke had been shot – someone in one of the tent cities out there would have heard it, perhaps even seen something. Lots of people had been demonstrating, something would turn up. And when he found the spot, call forensics out there and run the battery, see what they came up with.

This was the kind of work Griffin did well. It gave him something to do and it would keep Abe from having to put Loretta through another round of trauma.

Griffin wasn't out of his office before Glitsky began punching Wes Farrell's number into his phone. Enough of this waiting – Rigby or not, he was going to make something happen.

Wes Farrell had stopped all drinking early the previous day and hadn't resumed after Sergeant Stoner had left at night. He had decided he had slipped up the day before with Lieutenant Glitsky, reading the man all wrong by trusting him. He thought that today he'd better be a little sharper if he was going to do any good work for his client and, while he wasn't ready to admit that his alcoholic intake had slowed him down or affected his judgment, he didn't want to take any chances.

He had been watching the television ever since he had gotten up and there had been no sign of Kevin's tape. Whether or not anyone would believe it, Wes had a hard time imagining that a news station wouldn't run it. True or not, they had to see it as a development in the case of the most wanted fugitive in the United States. It should have appeared on every station from here to Bangor, Maine, within minutes of its arrival at the station. What could have gone wrong?

He realized he had also erred in neglecting to ask Kevin for the phone number where he was, so he was reduced to waiting on the off chance…

And after his lecture the previous night about the probability of Kevin being the defendant in a murder trial, Kevin and Melanie might have decided – at last – to change their names and get into a witness-protection program. In Brazil, or something.

Bart was whining by the door, running around in little circles, needing to go relieve himself. Wes hadn't wanted to leave the apartment, thinking he should be there if Kevin or Melanie called, but the dog was giving him the guilts. It was nearly ten-thirty and he wasn't acting in the SPLA-approved manner. He could be fined, even jailed, his reputation smeared, branded as an animal-hater. Failing to believe in the anthropomorphism of animals was turning into the next cardinal sin among the PC set.

He looked down at his suffering pet, not wanting to allow Bart to experiment again with the newspapers in the kitchen. Could be a bad precedent – Bart might get so he liked it. 'Okay, guy, we gave 'em a chance. Let's roll it out of here.'

He opened the door and Bart rushed to the top of the stairs, whining and circling again. Not entirely trustful of the police, who had blindsided him only hours before, Wes atypically locked his difficult deadbolt, not that it would do any good if anybody really wanted to get in but it made him feel more secure.

He was four steps toward Bart at the head of the stairs when he thought he heard the telephone begin to ring. He cocked his head, listening over the dog's whine. Second ring. Yep, the phone.

'Perfect,' he said aloud, reaching into his pocket for the keys, which had caught on a loose thread in his pocket. He pulled and out came his comb and all his coins, flung all over the floor.

Ring.

The keys were stuck to the inside of his pocket, which was now pulled inside out. Swearing, holding the keys awkwardly, he crab-walked to his door. Bart came running up, barking.

Hey, master! Wes! My man. We're going out, remember? I've got to pee a river! I mean it. I'll do it in the hallway here if…

Ring.

He knew the trick. He could get the deadbolt on the first try if he calmly inserted the key all the way and then pulled it out the one sixteenth of an inch…

Ring.

… and wiggled it just the right amount. There!

'Shut up, Bart.'

The other lock was a piece of cake. In, turn, open.

Ring.

Cross the room, running, still holding the keys, which still stuck to the threads in the bottom of his turned-out pocket. Into the kitchen, the wall phone.

'Hello.'

Dial tone.

He dropped his hands in frustration and the keys, magically undoing their hermetic knot, fell to the floor. He stepped to the side and saw Bart looking up at him, moaning piteously over a fresh deposit.

His pocket still hanging all the way out, Wes stood stock still, then deliberately undid his zipper and pulled out his penis. 'I am a fucking one-eared elephant,' he told Bart, then tucked himself back in and went for a beer.

'That wasn't you?'

'No. This is the first time I've tried to call. We just plugged the phone back in. We wanted to get some sleep.'

'That's nice,' Wes said. 'So who was it?' He couldn't figure who else might have tried to call him. He never imagined it might have been Glitsky – not after the betrayal yesterday.

'I don't know,' Kevin said. 'How would I know who called you?'

Wes dropped it. 'Anyway, you get your nice sleep?'

'Yeah. We both feel better. Even my ribs…'

'Great. So what are you planning to do now?'

A short pause, then: 'We don't know, Wes. Maybe just wait.'

'You know what for?'

'No. We don't know what to do. Maybe wait 'til tonight and then try to get down to Mexico, then I don't know, call you when things maybe calm down, see if by then something's turned up. I mean, somebody's got to be out there who can say what happened. Besides me.'

'Don't you think they would have come forward by now?'

'Yeah. But maybe not. Maybe they're scared, too. I mean, all this stuff outside. But after my tape comes out…'

'Speaking of which…'

'Yeah, I know. We're calling the station right after this. Something went wrong there. Melanie says it must have been the guard.'

'The guard?'

"The place was closed up. She left it at the night desk.' Wes bit off his reply. He'd like a nickel for every time a detail like this had cost someone a case. You didn't drop things off with second parties – you delivered them to principals even if you had to wait all night. 'You want me to call the station, take it from there?'

'I thought you said it wouldn't do any good.'

'On the other hand, as you just pointed out, it might bring somebody out of the woodwork, a believable witness, and you might get out of this yet.'

'You think so?'

'I don't know, it's a big if. I wouldn't get my hopes up. But at least it's possible. As things stand now, you either run or you go to trial. It's probably worth doing, that's all I'm saying. I could do it for you, keep you guys out of it.'

He heard mumbling at the other end of the line, Kevin discussing it with Melanie, then he was back on. 'If you really would…'

'I said so, didn't I?'

'It's better than running, isn't it? It's the right thing?'

It was odd hearing someone ask that question nowadays, but Wes thought it very much in character. Kevin was a throw-back, a believer in doing the right thing – it was what had gotten him into this in the first place. All the right moves that had turned out so disastrously.