John Lescroart - A Certain Justice

Now Glitsky had no deal to offer in exchange for Kevin Shea coming in, but Farrell wouldn't yet know that. So why hadn't he called?

He stuck his index finger into the small pan, stirred. Almost ready, and the doorbell rang.

A strip of gauze covered the narrow glass window beside the front door, and he moved it to one side. No one was out on the landing. He opened the door.

'If I were a trained assassin you'd be dead right now. Why are you crying?' His friend Dismas Hardy had pressed himself against the house on the stairway, stepping out when the door had opened.

'I'm not crying, I was cutting onions. I thought you were in Ashland.'

'Rumor had it that Hamlet could be missed this year. I'd just spent a week in the wilderness, camping with a three-year-old and a five-year-old. We got worried about the house with all these fires you mentioned when we talked. Seemed like a good time to come home.'

'Not so good, actually.'

They were inside, halfway to the kitchen. 'Maybe you don't remember the experience of camping with toddlers,' Hardy said. 'You ever do that with your guys?'

'Sure. Lots of times. Peace, tranquility, the experience of nature.'

'Except for the peace and tranquility part.' Hardy leaned over the stove. 'Umm, chili. I don't think I've had chili in a year. Smells great.'

'You're not having it now, either. This is the only can in the house, the first time I get a whole can of chili all to myself in like fifteen years.'

'A whole can? You can't eat a whole can.'

'Watch me.'

'This is cruel and unusual, making me watch this. Fritos even!'

Glitsky was pouring Tapatio sauce over a large serving bowl – a normal soup bowl wouldn't have been nearly big enough to hold the mixture of chili, onions and cheese, covered by a whole bag of Fritos that Glitsky had layered over the top. He stopped long enough to point. 'The door's where you left it. Close it on the way out.' He took a mouthful, providing more sound effects than he would have if he'd been alone.

Hardy sat across the kitchen table. He was wearing his non-lawyer clothes – jeans, a long-sleeved green-and-white rugby shirt, tennis shoes. He had placed another bowl in front of himself, as well as an oversized spoon, but Glitsky had ignored the hint. 'You're turning into a mean person, Abe. I hate to see that.'

Glitsky swallowed. 'You don't know the half of it.' He spooned more chili. 'The promotion's gone to my head,' he said. 'That's probably it.'

Hardy watched his friend eat for another minute, then – when it didn't appear that guilt was going to work its magic – stood up and went back into the kids' hallway.

Presently, Glitsky heard the familiar drone of the news on the boys' television. He poured a little more Tapatio over the chili, picked a Frito off the mass. The name Kevin Shea came through, and when he heard it a second time he picked up his bowl, stuck the spoon in and walked out of the kitchen back into the kids' hallway.

Hardy was lounging on Isaac's bed, hands crossed behind his head, catching up on all he had missed. A commentator was talking about the effect Mr Shea's tape was going to have… 'What tape?'

'They're going to play it again. They just said.'

'When?'

'Soon. Wait.'

Glitsky came into the room, pulled around a wooden chair, sat on it backward and put his chili down onto the floor, by which time Kevin Shea's face had filled the screen.

'… and I didn't do any part of this. I was in the bar, and when everybody started moving I got kind of propelled outside. I saw what was happening to Arthur Wade and I tried to push myself through the crowd. I took out my Swiss Army knife and cut a few people who were in my way. The police should be looking for people with knife cuts, not for me…

'Mr Wade was already off the ground when I got to him, and I swear to God I was trying to hold him up , not pull him down. I gave him my knife so he could cut himself down. But then they… the crowd… they knocked that away, and then somebody hit me and I went down. Then I got kicked in the head. I don't remember after that, except when I looked up, Arthur Wade was dead. Some guys came and threw me into a pickup truck and got me away from there. They said they'd kill me if I said anything about what happened.'

There was a pause in the tape. Hardy said 'southerner,' and Glitsky responded 'Texas.'

Shea was continuing. 'I have not left the city. I want to tell what really happened, but every time I've tried to contact the police and get some protection they have… they have betrayed my trust.'

'That's b.s.,' Glitsky said.

'Just now – it is Thursday night – my lawyer told me that he had been followed home by the police after going downtown and trying to arrange my surrender. I don't want to run away – that would make me look guilty, and I haven't done anything wrong . I don't know what else to do, so I'm making this video. I hope someone listens to it. I did not do this. You have to believe me.'

As soon as the tape went blank, Hardy answered it. 'I don't.'

The station broke for a commercial and Glitsky muted the screen. Hardy was sitting up. 'Good strategic idea, though, to get the heat off himself. But it's going to backfire. Who's the lawyer?'

'Wes Farrell,' Glitsky told him.

'I heard he'd retired. He hangs out sometimes at the Shamrock, doesn't he? I should ask Moses. I'd never let a client of mine do that.'

'Why not?'

"Cause it reeks of guilt, that's why. It's going to blow up in his face.'

'It might be true, though.'

Hardy shot him a glance. His friend Abe the cop did not often come down on the side of suspects. 'What do you mean?'

'Well, the part about Farrell being followed home is bullshit, but the rest of it.'

'Hello? If one part of it is false, you can bet the rest of it is. Typical client mistake. They put in too much and then can't take it out.' He picked up the bowl of chili and got it grabbed away from him. He scowled. 'So how come you think it might be true?'

Glitsky was punching Fritos down with the spoon. 'The knife wounds he mentioned – his version is about the only explanation for them. Other things.'

Hardy nodded. 'Secret police business, no doubt.'

'Secret enough.'

In the living room now, Glitsky threw Hardy another bag of Fritos. 'But,' he said, 'that's all it said.'

The conversation, with a few hairpins, had gotten around to the cryptic note about Mo-Mo House. 'So what's the "watch this" part?'

'It was a joke Ridley Banks told me.'

Glitsky repeated the joke and when he had finished Hardy pulled a Frito from the bag and chewed on it. 'That's it? That's the whole thing?'

'It's also an IQ test,' Glitsky said. 'If you don't think it's funny you're dumb. Try it on your friends, you'll see.'

But Hardy was pondering it – the note, not the joke. 'I'd wait and ask Banks.'

'I would, too, but he's not around. I get the feeling it's not a coincidence.'

'So what could it be?'

'Well, you know, I've asked myself that question.'

Hardy got up and walked to the window, the early afternoon rays of sunlight beginning to come through. Hands in his pockets, he stood still. 'Whatever it was, he didn't want anybody who might read the note on your desk to recognize what it was about. You guys have an office business going on between just the two of you? Maybe whatever you were talking about – you and Banks – when he told you the joke, if you call that a joke? Kind of a memory jog?'

'No. Nothing.'

But of course there had been. He wasn't going to tell Hardy about it – he hadn't mentioned his new relationship with Loretta to a soul and wasn't about to start now. But suddenly he recalled the exact moment yesterday with Ridley, the look between them when he'd been about to mention something else about Loretta, something to warn his lieutenant about, but Glitsky had cut him off – he hadn't wanted to hear more slander about Loretta.