John Lescroart (11 page)

“What do you mean?” Hardy asked.

Glitsky turned to him. “I mean why Elaine? That's what I keep thinking about? Why Elaine?” Hardy couldn't remember ever seeing Abe so distraught, so downright human. Even while his wife was dying, he had kept his public facade in place. And now he was in visible pain.

His wife's theory on the nature of Glitsky's true involvement with Elaine Wager teased at Hardy. “I didn't realize you two were that close.”

Glitsky's head went down. He parted the blinds with his fingers, let them go. When he raised his head again, he was biting at his lip. He stared ahead into nothing. “All right,” he said at last.

And told him.

 

Frannie wore a basic black cocktail dress. Pearls. Spaghetti straps over her lovely shoulders, which were often lightly freckled during the summer, but now—midwinter—the color of cream. Her bright red hair was severely pulled back, held with a thick gold ribbon. She was waiting at the bar, one knee crossed over the other, a lot of fine leg showing.

The enormous, high-ceilinged Redwood Room, paneled with an entire tree's worth of wood—hence its name—is one of the more elegant and festive locations in a city that is packed with them. Standing in the room's doorway, catching sight of his beautiful wife, listening to the first-rate piano music, Hardy could almost for a moment forget the case that, now that he'd seen the “confession,” promised to dominate his life for at least the near future.

He fancied that this was the way San Francisco used to be. Or, if not that, surely how it liked to remember itself. Hardy wore jeans and corduroys with his sweatshirts around the house, but he gloried in the fact that he lived among people who sometimes dressed for dinner, who
lived a bit on the large side of life, celebrating the good things in it. Thank God.

But it wasn't just the physical confidence on display wherever he looked. This room was an oasis in the vast desert of cultural vulgarity. It fairly buzzed with energy and optimism, sure, but that was because there wasn't one television set to assault your peace and insult your intelligence. No advertising posters desecrated the walls. He loved the place. He loved his wife for thinking to meet here, for the reservations she'd made to wherever the great new place might turn out to be.

Unconsciously, he straightened his tie, checked himself in the mirror, thinking that it was just plain neat to be a part of this, San Francisco at the turn of the new millennium. He crossed to his wife, kissed her and got kissed back, pulled a seat at the bar, gave a last expansive glance around at the glorious room. “This is the way the world should be, you know that?”

 

The new place was called Charles Nob Hill.

Hardy gave it a ten.

They sat at a table for two in an alcove of their own. The waiter won their hearts by having the same name, Vincent, as their son. Young, knowledgeable, not too funny, he had mastered the art of appearing when needed, and otherwise being invisible. The restaurant's walls were soft to the touch, upholstered. With the candlelight and muted golden color scheme, a burnished glow filled the room. Hardy had eaten foie gras on port-poached figs, then slices of rare duck breast over some ambrosial vegetables, Frannie her raw oysters and salmon. Now they were holding hands over the table, splitting a decadent chocolate torte while they savored the last sips of their excellent Pinot Noir.

“I still can't get over it,” Frannie said. “Or why he didn't tell us.”

“He never even told her, Frannie.”

She was shaking her head. “But I really don't understand that. How could he not tell his own daughter?”

“Maybe he thought it wouldn't help her to know.” Hardy sipped his wine. “He didn't know himself until a few years ago. He didn't want to intrude.”

But his wife had no doubt. “She would have wanted to know. She would have dealt with it somehow. And Abe and Loretta Wager? The senator?”

“There's that, too. The political side. Not exactly Abe's long suit, I think you'd agree.”

“Although he now seems to be in it up to his neck.”

Hardy nodded. “At least that far. Maybe even over his head.”

“Where he can't breathe.”

“I hope not.”

They fiddled with the dessert crumbs. Frannie sighed. “So what is he going to do now?”

“Follow up. Try to get Pratt not to use the confession. And that isn't going to happen.”

“Then what?”

“I don't know. Resign, maybe.”

“Abe won't resign. The job's his life.”

“He talked about it. It would be a stand against Pratt.”

“I don't see that. What I see is that she'd love the brutal cops manhandling the poor but guilty suspect. She'd play it both ways.” Suddenly, she put down her fork and stared across the table at her husband. “Dismas, she might even prosecute him.”

“He'll be okay, Fran. He's a survivor.”

But she was shaking her head again. “I'm not worried about him surviving. It's how he's going to live. He's not exactly Mr. Cheerful on his best day. Now, without a job, without something to do . . .” Her voice faded away. “And I suppose if Pratt goes ahead, you will too.”

He nodded. “I already called Dorothy and Jeff. At least I've got to do the arraignment.”

“And when is that?”

“That would be tomorrow morning.” He made a face. “I can't let Pratt hang this kid on bad evidence.”

“And of course that means your claim will have to be that somebody else killed Elaine?”

“Looks like.”

“So you and Abe . . .” She gathered herself, drank off the last drops in her wineglass. “Well, maybe you both can try taking care of each other.”

But he shook his head, making light of her worries. “It won't come to that. Abe and I—”

“Don't!” She pointed a finger at him. “Please don't say you're bulletproof.”

“I never would,” he replied. “That's David Freeman, not me. I am merely methodical and fabulously competent.”

“Those are useful traits. Now why don't you use them to make Vincent materialize so we can go home and get to bed.”

CityTalk
By Jeffrey Elliot

In a highly publicized talk before the Commonwealth Club yesterday afternoon, District Attorney Sharron Pratt put on a new hat and, like the others she's tried on in her bedeviled administration, this one doesn't fit her too well either.

Yesterday's reincarnation of our most chameleonlike elected official featured herself as the tough-talkin', straight-shootin', crime-stoppin' Avenger of Evil in our fair city. And about time, too. With a new election coming up this fall and her poll numbers at an all-time low, Ms. Pratt needed something to perk up her fuzzy-headed liberal image and lackluster conviction rate.

Although she has gone to bat big-time for the interests of her political cronies and contributors, especially in the ongoing Gironde matter—at this rate we may never have a finished airport—this district attorney has declined to prosecute any number of lower-profile offenses, including prostitution, recreational drug use, vagrancy, trespassing, vandalism (especially graffiti-tagging, which she terms a “creative expression of underprivileged youth”) and many others, up to and including murder if it appears the death might have been motivated by the proper political position. If it's not Ms. Pratt's kind of law, she's not going to prosecute anyone for breaking it.

Nevertheless, yesterday's talk marked a breakthrough, as it seemed to acknowledge for the first time that at least part of her job as the city's chief
prosecutor is to put criminals behind bars. Actually, in a flurry of hyperbole, she took things rather farther than that, actually going so far as ask for the death penalty for the young man who is accused—though note, not yet convicted—of killing former assistant district attorney Elaine Wager.

The man's name is Cole Burgess. He is my brother-in-law. He is twenty-seven years old, a college graduate, a homeless person and a heroin addict. Though he has confessed to the crime, he does not remember committing it. He expects to plead not guilty, and a jury will have to convict him, then sentence him to death. To do so, it will have to ignore the man's blood-alcohol level as well as the fact that he was suffering from heroin withdrawal. The jury will need to overlook that, except for drugs, Cole Burgess has little criminal history, much less a history of violence. He is no worse than two dozen other murderers where Ms. Pratt has declined to ask for special circumstances, much less death.

And yet she has already passed her verdict on Mr. Burgess, and has rendered her judgment. Politics dictate that she must call for the death penalty.

The district attorney has chosen well the first victim of her war on crime. Cole Burgess isn't going to have many defenders. A straight white male, he is politically unconnected in our Balkanized burg. As a homeless man, he is already hated by the majority of San Francisco's citizens, who have grown weary of panhandlers and bums. As a heroin addict, he is confused, outcast and without hope.

One is hard-pressed to believe that Ms. Pratt does not know all this, and has not considered it cynically. But it will get her votes, and she's going to need every last one.

She should be ashamed of herself.

 

Although it wasn't ten blocks from his own duplex, Glitsky had never before been to the home of the chief of the Inspectors' Bureau, Captain Frank Batiste.

Now, still before eight o'clock this miserable morning, he found himself shrouded in fog, ringing the doorbell on the front porch of a charming Victorian house on Cherry Street. He'd passed from the sidewalk up through a trimmed yard. A couple of matching white wicker chairs claimed some proprietary spots on the porch, thriving plants sprouted out of pots all over the place. For a fleeting moment, he felt a stab of envy. Batiste had been Glitsky's immediate predecessor as head of homicide. Other cops whose careers had followed pretty much the same trajectory as his own, how could they live in such serenity? How did they get there? Not that his place was a dump, he didn't think so, anyway. It was clean, but . . .

The thought, unwelcome in any case, got interrupted by the door opening, Batiste's honest face, his hand outstretched. “Hey, Abe. You're the first one here, come on in.”

“Sorry to bother you at home, Frank.”

A “get real” look. “Please. You want some coffee? No, I remember.” Batiste snapped his fingers. “Tea. Earl Grey okay?”

“Better than that.”

“Good.”

They walked the long hallway to the back, Glitsky vaguely aware of the family pictures all along the wall, the dozens of sports trophies on a long, thin table. He'd known Frank for twenty years and was hardly aware that he was married, much less the father of what looked to be at least four kids.

In the kitchen, a huge black Lab lay sprawled by the back door. “That's Arlene,” Batiste said, crossing over to her, petting her head. “She won't bite. In fact, she probably won't move. She might be dead, I'm not sure.” He grabbed a handful of pelt and pulled it back and forth. “Arlene, you dead yet?”

The giant old dog opened one eye and Batiste lit right up. “Whoa! Arlene. Putting on a show for our guest, now, aren't you?” He turned to Abe. “She must like you.” Then, an afterthought. “Not dead.”

After he'd left Hardy's office the previous night, Abe had paid a call on his old, wise father, Nat. They'd shot things around awhile, and when they'd finished, Abe had called the captain. He and Batiste had served together in the homicide detail. They had a long professional history and understood each other, especially in their shared belief that politics sucked.

In the past couple of years, Glitsky had realized with certainty that in spite of his exalted rank, Frank was at odds with the movers in the department. The chief, Dan Rigby, inhabited a different landscape, seldom venturing from the rarefied air of policy—money, budgets, numbers, arrest rates, diversity issues. Rigby “interfaced” with the other city departments—the mayor's office, the D.A., all the crap for which Glitsky had no use.

And in this, he was sure that Batiste was still a cop's cop, and hence his ally.

Which was why he'd finally called him and laid out his role in this situation, clearly and without any excuses. He admitted that things had gone wrong in the Burgess case from the very beginning, and it had largely been because of him, his influence, his attitude.

Abe didn't feel he could do much in the way of correcting things until he'd first cleared the slate with his coworkers, with Batiste, Medrano and Petrie, with Ridley Banks. That matter of honor was his priority. After that, he could take his fight anywhere else he needed, but not without telling his men first. He also wanted the coroner, John Strout, to hear what he had to say. So Batiste had suggested the early morning meet.

It was a modern kitchen and Batiste moved about it easily. He produced a genuine whistling teakettle, then a separate teapot. He spooned leaves from a porcelain canister into a silver ball and closed it up, dropping it into the pot. “Be a minute,” he said, then added, without missing a beat, “So. This thing's going to heat up?” He wasn't talking about the teakettle.

***

Arms crossed and face set, Batiste stood leaning against his kitchen counter. The rest of them had taken seats around a battered wooden plank kitchen table that had seen a zillion meals—the remnants of some recent ones still remained.

Glitsky finished his spiel and scratched at a petrified lump of ketchup, waiting for the reactions. Judging from the body language and the palpable air of tension in the room, they were not going to be positive.

Arlene, still not dead, groaned in the agonies of some dog dream.

Inspector Ridley Banks scraped his chair forward, straightening up at the table. His face was a dark mask, the voice strained. “The man confessed, Abe. On tape, he admits he shot her.”

“That's right. And that's why we're here, Rid.” Glitsky didn't blame Ridley for his fury. He had given his lieutenant what he had wanted. Now, because of it, he was screwed. “The message here today is that the buck stops with me on this one. I'm taking the heat.”

“If we dump the confession,” Ridley said.

This, of course, wasn't the job of the police, but Glitsky knew what he meant. “If we go to the D.A., yeah . . .”

“And you want to run by me again why we want to do that?” Ridley's insubordinate tone would ordinarily have drawn a rebuke, but not today.

“Because of what I just told you,” Glitsky replied. “There are problems matching what Burgess said with what apparently happened.”

“So what? There's always problems. The guy confessed. He had the GSR . . .”

As Batiste had noted, things were heating up. “It's not about guilt, Rid. Nobody's talking about guilt. But there's going to be a hearing on the confession, and I'm going to tell the truth.”

Ridley glared. “You're saying I'm not?”

“No. I'm not saying that.”

“You weren't in the room, Abe. I was.”

“I saw the tape, Rid. I know what I told you to do.”

“And I did it. By the book. It's my ass on—”

“Guys, guys. Easy.” This was Batiste, stepping in. “I think the point is we're trying to get clear here on the confession. Isn't that right, Abe?”

Glitsky nodded.

“Excuse me, sir.” Ridley hadn't cooled off much. He was talking to Batiste, not Abe. “I must be missing something. I got a confession from this dirtball. Anybody see on the tape where I'm telling him he gets some smack if he talks? No? No, I don't think so. What? I'm an idiot?”

“Nobody's saying that, Rid.” Glitsky again.

“No? That's funny. 'Cause it sounds like you're saying I made him lie, then tried to hide it off tape.”

“No. Only that he should have been cleared by the paramedics and I ordered otherwise.”

“Uh-uh, no.” Banks wasn't having it. “You didn't sweat him. I did. It's me on the tape. And it's a righteous confession.”

“I don't think so,” Glitsky said. “A good chunk of what he said is just wrong. He said he
crossed over to her
. After she was shot.
He remembered
she was this lump on the ground.”

The lanky coroner figured it was time he got on the boards. Meeting the eyes of the men around the table, he stretched out his arms and cracked his knuckles, inserting his laconic drawl into the silence. “She was shot with the gun right up against her hair. There wasn't no abrasions on her knees, legs, anywheres. She was laid down gentle as you please.”

Glitsky, the voice of reason. “Burgess was drunk as a lord, Ridley. If he'd tried to hold her up and let her down easy, he'd have fallen with her.”

“Maybe he did,” the inspector replied. “He fell under her, broke her fall.” He turned to Strout. “No abrasions then, am I right, John?”

Strout cast a glance at Glitsky. “It could have happened.”

Banks continued. “I really don't see the problem, Abe. I didn't put a gun to this kid's head and make him talk.”

“He wasn't in withdrawal? He wasn't just agreeing to what you said?”

“Maybe. I don't remember exactly, it was a long day. But either way, nobody's gonna prove it. And even if he was, what of it? He could tell the truth and get the interrogation over with. So for once in his life the scumbag made a good decision.”

“The details are all wrong.”

“So his brain's fried. He gets things wrong. Big surprise. Let a jury work it out. We got plenty, more than enough to charge him. Isn't that what we do?”

Glitsky was unwilling to give it up. “We can't get him this way. That's all I'm saying.”

Banks shook his head. “Burgess was there, Abe. He took her stuff, he had the gun, he
fired
the gun,
he fucking said he did it,
all right? Jesus. So he changes his story when he starts feeling better? Who wouldn't?”

Batiste cleared his throat. “Abe?”

The lieutenant raised his eyes.

“It's admirable that you wanted to protect your men when you thought you'd pushed them to excesses, but I don't see evidence that anything went too far here. I'm coming down with Ridley. Going back to Pratt at this point would be pointless. We're going to stand behind the confession.
We're
going to stand together on it . . .” He let that hang, the message clear.

Glitsky, defeated, scanned the faces around the table. “Well,” he said, “I want to thank you all for coming.”