John Lescroart - The Mercy Rule

He would turn Sarah loose on it too. She wouldn’t share any of Glitsky’s reluctance. Whoever had killed Sal Russo was her enemy, her man’s torturer, and Sarah was going to bring that person down if she could.

Could it have been Giotti? Hardy visualized the affable and brilliant jurist. He could, though it was a big ‘maybe,’ imagine the judge helping Sal kill himself, as Hardy had argued that Graham had. Try as he might, though, and much as the symmetry appealed to him, he couldn’t see Giotti murdering Sal. Not struggling with his oldest friend who was now a feeble old man, then knocking him out, fatally injecting him with morphine.

And that, Hardy reminded himself, is precisely what had happened, regardless of the story he’d made so convincing to the jury, to the city at large.

Far to the west the sun finally kissed Twin Peaks, then abruptly dropped below them. Downtown fell into shade as though somebody had drawn the blinds; the glare that had been bathing the lobby off the polished wall vanished. The startling sudden dimness, the transformation in the feel of the cavernous room, pulled Hardy, blinking, from his thoughts.

Automatically it seemed, his eyes went to the wall – etched marble with gilt inlay. Here were the names of those who’d died fighting fires in the city since before the Great Earthquake and Fire of ‘06.

The lobby had mostly cleared. Echoing footsteps from behind him, muffled voices carrying from a great distance.

Hardy stood transfixed, a premonition tickling at the edges of his consciousness. He moved a step closer to the wall, focusing down from his wide angle.

Another step, feeling it somehow before he recognized anything. It was here.

And then, suddenly jumping out, appearing as out of a Magic Eye poster, there it was.

He blinked again, now forcing himself to slow down. To make sure of what he was seeing.

R-A-N-D-A-L-L.

One letter at time, he told himself. Don’t miss one and get it wrong. Not now.

G.

Okay. Stop and make sure. He raked the name slowly, left to right.

P-A-L-M-I-E-R-I.

It was just a name on a wall. But he knew that it was more, much more: it was the key to everything.

Randall Palmieri could have died in 1910 or 1950 for all Hardy could be sure, but he was certain that wasn’t the case. His bones and heart knew that Palmieri had died in November of 1979, fighting the fire that had burned down the Grotto.

He retraced his steps back to the fire department’s door, but it was closed now, locked up.

Timing, he thought; life’s little reminder that you couldn’t control a damn thing.

He looked at his watch – five-ten. He was furious at the efficient office he’d admired fifteen minutes before. He bet the fire department opened punctually at nine too.

All but running now, he descended the front steps and hailed another cab.

Insane frustration.

The Chronicle archives were also closed for the day by the time he arrived there. From a pay phone across the street he placed a call to Jeff Elliot, who he hoped would be working late in the basement. Jeff always worked late. He worked early. He worked all the time. Hardy’s plan was that he would give Jeff the scoop first. The columnist would be satisfied with that. It was the way things were done.

But, of course, Jeff wasn’t in. Hardy didn’t even leave him a voice mail message. He wanted answers now . He’d waited long enough.

Without giving it much thought he got the number of the federal courthouse – another government office sure to be closed – and found that it was. He got a recording.

Which didn’t mean that no one was working in the building. All right, perhaps the receptionists and some secretaries had gone home, but Hardy knew the law business and it was an absolute certainty that the judges’ offices at the federal courthouse were little beehives of activity even as he stood here shivering. Graham had told him that while he’d been clerking for Harold Draper, there had been times when he hadn’t gone outside the building for three days in a row.

So someone was there.

His instincts were telling him to slow down now. Fate was lobbying to make him stop. Nobody was around. The message was loud and clear: This wasn’t the propitious moment. It wasn’t meant to be. He should stop and think about the implications of all his discoveries and hunches and methodically follow things up tomorrow and the next day and the one after that.

But he was so close. So close. He felt it. Suddenly he couldn’t wait. It was right here and it would escape if he gave it the chance. He couldn’t do that.

Rather than fight for another parking space, he legged it down Mission a couple of blocks, freezing now in the stiff gale. Jaws clenched, he told himself that all his working out over the past months was finally paying off. He made it to the courthouse in under five minutes.

This time he was unmoved by the immensity of the building, the solid bronze doors that extended to over twice his height, the iron lanterns that had come from some Florentine palace. These doors, as he’d expected, were closed. But there was the other entrance by the gate to the parking area, in front of the Lions Arms, in the alley.

The security guard had seen it a hundred times. Here was some frantic lawyer who’d missed a deadline, waving him over, wanting to get into the building, perhaps have his brief accepted although it was half an hour late. The odds of that, he knew, were slim and none.

‘Is Judge Giotti still in? I’d like to see him.’

‘Business hours are over, I’m afraid.’

‘This isn’t strictly business. It’s not court business.’

‘Is the judge a friend of yours?’

The lawyer seemed to think about it. Maybe he was a friend of the judge’s and didn’t want to presume on it. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He asked me to keep him up on the progress of a case of mine. I’ve got a few things to tell him about.’

The guard looked Hardy up and down. The rule was ‘When in doubt, don’t’. The judges got a lot of their work done after the formal workday, and all of them hated being interrupted. But if this guy was a friend of Giotti’s…

Of course, if he were a friend, he’d have a private number. On the other hand, he wasn’t pushing, really, though he was cold right at the moment and probably wouldn’t mind being inside. ‘You want to wait a sec, I’ll go check with his office, see if anybody’s there.’

‘They wouldn’t even take a message?’ Graham didn’t have a high regard for the denizens of the federal courthouse in any case, but even he was surprised that no one had come down to talk to Hardy.

‘Apparently they were busy.’

Hardy had cooled off, figuratively, since striking out with Giotti’s office too. He was back on Sutler Street, at his desk. Graham had come up on his summons. It wasn’t much after six in the middle of the week, and the gristmill was humming along nicely. Hardy’s original inclination was to get Graham to help him do some research on this ancient fire situation. He could use Sarah’s help too.

But in the middle of venting his frustrations Hardy had changed his mind. He wouldn’t be giving anything else away in this case until he’d narrowed it down somewhat. If the fire had been important in Graham’s life, Hardy would give him the opportunity to talk about it. But if it hadn’t, he didn’t want Graham and Sarah asking around indiscriminately, raising warning flags for whomever he was hunting.

This investigation now, finally, was something Hardy felt he had to keep under his own close control. The outline of what he sought was still fairly nebulous. He reminded himself that Jeanne Walsh had never heard of Sal Russo; her mother, Joan Singleterry, had never mentioned him. Perhaps, even, Graham’s Joan Singleterry had never been Joan Palmieri. He had to get all that straight first.