John Lescroart - The Mercy Rule

The building’s night bell sounded. This in itself was mildly surprising, since the only people who would normally be coming to the office at this hour would be night-owl associates who had their own keys. It was unlikely that it was a client, especially since Hardy was all but certain that he was the last person in the building. Probably, he thought, it was one of the city’s homeless who’d wandered up the small stoop to get out of the rain, pressed the lit button by mistake.

But it sounded again and he decided he’d better go check. The lighting in the hallway outside of his office was on dim. On the stairway, the same thing. The cavernous lobby ceiling had a few feeble pinheads of light. It was dark as a movie theater.

Hardy descended the curving main staircase and got to the circular marbled alcove at the bottom. Turning the dead bolt in the heavy wooden doors, he pulled the door open.

No one was there.

He stepped out onto the sidewalk to look. No one. Squinting through the rain at the car parked across the way, he couldn’t see anybody in the front seats. The back windows appeared to be darkly tinted. He couldn’t make out anything through them.

Enough of this. He was going home. First back upstairs to his office, where he’d pack his briefcase, and then out of here, out the front door again, down to the parking garage under the building. Home.

The back door to the Giottis’ car swung open. It had been essential to ring the bell to find out if anyone else was in the building, also to be sure that the third-floor light was Hardy. It didn’t look as though there was anyone else still working, but at a time like this one couldn’t be too sure. There were no lights left on in the lower-floor offices.

When the bell rang the second time, the person working upstairs got up, came all the way down, opened the front door, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. It was Hardy, all right, though not exactly the well-dressed version that he presented to the court, whose picture had been all over the newspapers, his sound bites on the news. This was the working attorney, tie undone, coat off, collar open. But even from across the street there was no mistaking him.

There were shadows now, moving in his office. He’d gone back up there. Now the thing to do was ring the bell again, wait for him this time, until he opened the door again.

Then do the thing.

Hardy was just going to finish these last three pages. Otherwise, he’d have to go back and reread the first twelve again to catch up to his place in the brief, to where he was now, if he wanted to reboard the paper’s train of thought. Now, the opening pages were still clear enough in his memory, the syllogistic rhythm of the argument unbroken. He went right back to the spot where he’d left off, picked up his pen, read a few words.

There was a sound.

His head came up and he listened carefully. There couldn’t be a sound. There was no one in the building and he’d locked the door behind him.

Or had he?

Suddenly he couldn’t remember if he’d turned the dead bolt back. It didn’t matter, really, since he was going back down almost immediately, but maybe…

No, he’d locked it. He was pretty sure. He’d be done here in two minutes anyway.

And he was.

He’d heard no other noise, although lost in his reading, hurrying now to finish, scribbling the odd note, he was not likely to have heard one anyway.

Finally, he finished the brief, closed it back to its cover, put down his pen, and leaned back in his chair. He looked up. A silhouette was outlined in the doorway to his office.

‘Mr Hardy?’

Hardy’s hand was over his heart. ‘Jesus Christ!’

‘Did I startle you? I’m sorry.’

‘No, that’s all right. As soon as I land I’ll be fine.’

‘Your wife said you’d be working late. I thought…’

‘It’s all right.’ His breath was coming back. ‘How’d you get in here? Was that you who rang the bell?’

‘Yes.’

He took another lungful of air. ‘Where’d you go?’

‘Nobody answered, so I went back to my car. Then – I must have looked away for a minute – I saw the front door closing behind you, then you moving around up here through the window, and I got out to try again, but this time the door was open.’

‘Okay,’ Hardy said. ‘Okay. But I’m afraid it’s a little late. I was just finishing up here, going home. I’m sorry. I can walk you back down, and we’ll make an appointment for tomorrow. How’s that?’

She stepped into the room. Hardy noticed that the strap to her purse was around her neck and that she was holding her purse in front of her with both hands. Or rather, that one hand was in the purse, the other holding it. ‘I’m afraid that won’t do.’

Hardy started gathering his papers, pushed away from the desk, started to stand up. ‘Well, I’m afraid it’s going to have to-’

‘Sit back down, please!’

Something in her voice. He looked back up.

She’d moved another step closer and pulled the purse away, down to her side. Her other hand held a small gun, and she trained it levelly on him. ‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’

‘No, ma’am, but you’ve sure got my attention.’

‘My name is Pat. I’m Judge Giotti’s wife. I’m really sorry to be meeting you like this.’

You’re sorry? Hardy thought. But he said nothing.

Pat Giotti made some clucking sound. ‘You and Mario had a long talk today. He told me all about it.’

‘Yes, ma’am, we did. But he hired me as his lawyer, he may have told you, and I can’t repeat anything he said to me. It’s attorney-client privilege.’

A dry, mirthless chuckle. ‘I know all about that, Mr Hardy. I also know it has no real teeth. I know all the ways it’s been abused.’

‘I wasn’t planning to abuse it.’

‘No, I’m sure you weren’t, not now. But something could happen. Someday. The point is I can’t be positive about it and unfortunately, that’s what I have to be.’

Hardy’s brain was on fire, trying to find a way out in a last desperate spurt of mental energy before it was silenced forever. But no ideas came – other than to keep her talking if he could. ‘Were you this polite to Sal before you hit him?’

Her voice was tight with tension. ‘I don’t think rudeness serves any purpose. I didn’t want to hurt Sal. I don’t think I did hurt Sal.’

No, Hardy thought, only killed him.

But she was going on. ‘But he would have hurt us. He would have ruined everything. Nobody seems to understand that. Even Mario didn’t, always saying Sal was harmless, Sal was his old friend, a good guy. Well, let me tell you, Mr Hardy, Sal was out of control. He wasn’t going to stop on his own. Somebody had to stop him. And it didn’t matter, that was the amazing thing. He only had a few months anyway. He was dead in a couple of months at the most.’

‘I know,’ Hardy said. ‘So what happened that you had to do anything?’

Keep her talking. Think. Think !

‘You really don’t know? Mario didn’t tell you this?’ A bitter laugh. ‘It’s so typical. He’s always doing things like this, leaving it for me to clean up after him.’

‘Tell me,’ Hardy said.

In her calm hysteria she kept the gun trained on Hardy’s chest.

Her body shifted, its language terrifying. He thought she would pull the trigger now, that it was over. He sucked in a breath.

‘There was that bomb scare, that day, Friday. A little before lunchtime. You knew about that, of course.’

He nodded.

‘When they cleared the building, the courthouse, Mario was out in the alley with his staff. Suddenly Sal is there, pulling him aside, all in a panic, telling Mario he’s got to get the money together, the money isn’t in his safe. He’s thinking Mario took it back somehow. He tells him if he doesn’t get it back, he’s going to spread the word about the fire. He won’t keep quiet any longer.’