The Keeper (10 page)

23

H
AL DIDN'T WANT
to call his stepmother and beg her to return, not after last night, when he'd essentially kicked her out, saying he could handle the kids on his own. In truth, it had not been only Katie who'd had problems with Ruth, not only Katie who'd wanted to limit the time their children spent in the company of their daddy's stepmother. Ruth was nothing like the maternal, quintessentially grandmotherish Carli Dunne, Katie's mother. Ruth was younger and prettier but far more demanding, and at times she seemed unstable. But then Ruth Chase had had a much harder life than Carli Dunne could have imagined.

Hal's birth mother, Eileen, had died of a cerebral hemorrhage when he was nine years old. Within a year, his father, Pete—like Hal, a San ­Francisco deputy sheriff—had fallen under Ruth's spell. She was twenty-five years old then and beautiful. She, too, had lost her first spouse. Widow Ruth and widower Pete had bonded over their shared grief, among other things. Warren had come along a couple years later. But Hal remembered only a few happy family years before tragedy struck again. On a cold and foggy Saturday afternoon, Pete had accidentally killed himself with a ­lethal cocktail of prescription insomnia medication and alcohol.

Between Pete's pension and the private life insurance they'd taken out—their previous marriages had taught them both the value of such a policy—the Chases had enough to get by, but for Hal, life with his stepmother after his father's death was never the same as it had been before. Hal was, after all, the stepson, not the real son, the way Warren was, and he felt the difference keenly. Ruth favored Warren in almost every way, even as the younger son gradually developed into a rather unremarkable slacker of a teenager and a socially awkward young adult.

For a time after he'd left home, Hal had largely dropped out of Ruth's and Warren's lives. He'd visit on some holidays and call to check in from time to time, but he lived independently. It never occurred to him that anything he did even mattered to Ruth.

But when he got involved with Katie, things took a turn. Katie came from such a tightly knit family that she couldn't accept Hal's estrangement from Ruth and Warren. Family was family, she told him. It was the most important thing. And so they'd reached out, and by the time they got married, Ruth was in a low-key but very real way back in his everyday life.

The sad truth was that this wasn't always pleasant. Ruth drank too much, and apart from the deaths of two husbands, she had other demons that plagued her. One of her uncles had abused her when she was a child; there had been some unpleasantness with one of her high school teachers. Also, because her two men had died, she had been denied the love and security of a normal home life, which she said was all she'd ever wanted. Although she tried to show her nicest side to Hal and Katie, a fundamentally bitter nature seemed always ready to assert itself.

This was a serious but not insurmountable problem until Ellen was born, when Ruth decided that she needed to play an active role in the rearing of her grandchild. Ruth took to stopping by while Katie was at work, often finding fault with the nanny, and passing along her suggestions for improving Ellen's life in a steady stream of well-meaning but intrusive suggestions that neither Katie nor Hal particularly agreed with. After Will was born and Katie started staying home, the gatekeeper in her could no longer coexist with her mother-in-law. Katie had very strong ideas about how to raise her children. It was now her full-time job, and she was going to do it her way, which was the right way. Ruth was welcome to come over, as long as she didn't try to interfere with Katie's absolute authority on all things related to her kids.

Inevitably, the visits became fewer.

Last week, the Thanksgiving invitations to Ruth and Warren had ­represented an effort to reach out and reconcile with Hal's side of the family after he and Katie realized that Ruth hadn't come by—by invitation or otherwise—in over three months. Katie and Hal didn't feel a lot of affection for Ruth or Warren, but they were still family, and mending a fence by asking them over for Thanksgiving had been the right and good thing to do.

But in the here and now, Hal was going a little nuts with his kids. He had forgotten how much planning and patience and simple energy they took. Will had gotten up for good at six-thirty this morning after the random three
A.M.
wake-up, when he'd needed to be calmed down and rocked back to sleep.

Hal was somewhat ashamed to realize that he didn't know where Will's diapers were kept anymore, and when he found them, he was shocked to find that Katie had graduated him out of cloth and into Pampers. He finally got them both dressed and at the kitchen table for breakfast; he needed Ellen's help because he didn't know what food they both liked and could eat. He pushed a stroller and held Ellen's hand as they walked down to the nearby playground, but he hadn't dressed either of them warmly enough, so they came home almost immediately, after which he put a video on the tube and got them settled in front of it. Checking the time, he could not believe that it wasn't yet nine o'clock. What were they all supposed to do for the rest of the day? And the day after that?

Leaving them in front of the TV, he walked back into the kitchen and saw the accumulated dishes from last night and this morning. A wave of fatigue washed over him, nearly knocking him over.

He gripped the edges on either side of the sink. His heavy head felt as though it hung by the thinnest of threads. He heard Barney the dinosaur singing, and he brought his hands up, covering his face. A minute ticked away and he did not move an inch.

Now, somehow, it was two o'clock. He'd gotten both of them fed lunch and then down for naps, although who knew how long they would sleep? He honestly felt that he might not survive if he didn't get a nap himself.

He lay on his bed, his mind racing. Maybe he should call Carli. Either she or one of Katie's sisters could come by and help out for a while. He knew they were suspicious of him, but maybe if he spent a little more time with them, that would pass. But in all, it seemed like too much work at a time when he felt he had almost no energy. Patti occurred to him, though he rejected that idea almost as soon as it appeared. Seeing her even once yesterday—never mind the attraction, which was, if anything, stronger than ever—had been risky enough. If they were seen together in public, it could only be bad. It was already bad enough.

Realizing that sleep wasn't going to happen anytime soon, he swore at himself, then sat up and swung his legs over the side of his bed. What was he being so stubborn about? He should just call Ruth, and she would be here in no time. They could talk about logistics, maybe try to find a new nanny, some solutions for the long term. He picked up the phone by his bed and punched in her number.

“Of course,” she told him with no hint of recrimination. “I'll be right over.”

“You're great. Thank you.”

“I'm not great. I'm your mother. This is what mothers do.”

24

W
ES
F
ARRELL BELIEVED
that the hierarchy imposed by the desk and the prearranged seating in front of it was the enemy of communication. So after his election, he'd furnished his office with some library tables against the walls, to which he'd added a couple of distressed tan leather sofas and six or eight folding chairs that found their resting places in ­various permutations, depending on who and how many guests were ­visiting. Adding to the relaxed tone was a dartboard by the door, a Nerf basketball net hanging off the bookshelves, a chessboard—with a game in progress—on one of the coffee tables, four baseball bats piled in a corner, and an ancient poster of Che Guevara tacked to the wall.

Fancy it was not.

This afternoon Wes had a couple of guests; he started off, trying to put them at ease, by ceremoniously unveiling today's T-shirt, which read “Indifferent to the whole apathy thing.”
N
ow, sitting on one of the library tables, he was buttoning up his dress shirt.

It wasn't a good sign that neither of his two guests broke a smile. Frank Dobbins, his chief investigator, sat back comfortably enough on one of the couches, but he was clearly marking time until Wes got down to the purpose of the meeting.

The second visitor, a DA investigator named Tom Scerbo, perched on the very front edge of one of the folding chairs. Scerbo, in his early thirties, wore a wary expression. He had never been summoned to ­Farrell's office, and clearly, in spite of the initial banter and the T-shirt moment they'd all shared, there was tension in the room, and now a small silence. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I don't mean to rush anybody, but are we all here because I'm in trouble?”

“Why? Do you think you should be?” Farrell asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“Good. You're not, then,” Farrell said. “But I did want to let you know in person that we're going to be taking another look at Alanos Tussaint.”

His wariness increasing, Scerbo cocked his head. “What about him? There wasn't any case.”

“Really? My understanding is that there was and then it disappeared.”

“Right. Leaving us with nothing.”

“Maybe. But I believe we may have something there to pursue, if we go about it a little differently.” Farrell continued, matter-of-fact. “Bottom line is that we've got big problems at the jail with guards and excessive force, among a host of other issues, and I believe that Burt Cushing's in the middle of all of them. If that's so, this office should be building a case against him and these guys, not giving them a free pass over there. What do you think?”

“It's a noble idea, Wes,” Scerbo said, “but we've had some ­difficulties executing it in the past, as you well know. Alanos Tussaint being a prime example. If you remember, we had a righteous witness to that beating . . .”

Wes nodded. “Luther Jones.”

“Right. It was pretty straightforward. Luther saw the whole thing and told Homicide all about it. Homicide came to me about what kind of a deal they could give him and how they could hide him after he testified and got out of jail.”

“That's what I understand, Tom, and it's why I invited you to be part of this. This is no reflection on your handling of that last case, but we may not be so far beyond it that we can't try to resurrect it.”

Scerbo leveled his eyes at Wes. “You got another witness?”

“No. We're putting somebody else inside who's going to try to get back to Luther.”

Scerbo was shaking his head in disagreement. “Even if you do, he's recanted once already. His testimony will be all but worthless.”

Dobbins said, “Not if we can make the guard's threat to him part of the case. He's still the most likely place to start.”

Scerbo wasn't buying it. “We can do anything we want with Luther Jones,” he said, “but getting him to talk again is going to be some kind of magical trick. And I don't blame him. Those guards play for keeps. Luther had just seen a guard kill Alanos. He didn't have much doubt they'd do the same to him if he got . . . troublesome.”

“Troublesome,” Farrell said. “There's a good word.”

“It is a good word,” Scerbo replied. “Trouble is what these guys in the slammer want to avoid. And okay, Luther forgot that for a minute. He thought that he was a human being with rights, when in fact he was just another animal in the zoo. Cushing's the zookeeper, and he's got a long reach.”

Farrell made a face. “I've got a long reach, too,” he said. He looked from one investigator to the other. “Look, guys, as we all know, Luther's in for carjacking, firearm enhancement, second strike. He's looking at prison after his trial, so we've got leverage on him.”

Scerbo said, “Prison is better than dead. We've got nothing while he's in jail.”

“Trust me, Tom, we do have something. Frank and I have brought somebody on, and we're confident she can get to Luther. Under Cushing's nose.”

“Okay,” Scerbo said. “But even then, what?”

“Then we get Luther on board with us again. We keep him around in another jail—Alameda, Santa Clara, anywhere—and protected as a witness until he testifies about Alanos. Then get him in a program that lets him disappear.”

Scerbo asked him, “You really think this will work?”

Farrell nodded. “I think it's as good a chance as we're likely to see. In any event, it's my call, and I'm making it.”

Frank Dobbins dragged a British accent up from somewhere and said to Farrell, “Heavy is the head that wears the crown, sir.”

“Bite me, Frank. Just bite me,” replied Wes with a tired smile.

25

O
NE FLOOR ABOVE
Farrell, Devin Juhle didn't have any problem with the hierarchy of the desk. He sat behind his and looked over the empty expanse at his two inspectors, who were pitching him on the idea of arresting Hal Chase for the murder of his wife, even in the absence of a body.

Juhle said, “But without a body, guys, and I know you know this, but it's hard to establish there's even been a homicide.”

“And yet,” Abby said, “here we are, Homicide inspectors, building a case that looks a hell of a lot like Katie is actually dead.”

“Well, still,” Juhle argued, “
corpus delicti
and all that. No body, no homicide. That's the way we do it.”

“Aha!” JaMorris held up his index finger.

“Aha what?” Juhle asked.

“The body in
corpus delicti
isn't about the physical body of the dead person. It's about the body of evidence that proves the crime's been committed.”

“Are you shitting me? Where'd you get that?” Juhle asked. “You going to law school at night or something?”

“I think it's true, Devin,” Abby said.

“Even if it is, and I'm not so sure that Jambo's right on that, what's changed that we're now ready to go ahead?”

“The new thing is we've got the girlfriend,” JaMorris said. “Plus, we know Hal's got nothing like an alibi. He could have left the house with Katie and the kids at four, five, six o'clock, driven to someplace secluded, done the deed, and driven back home.”

“Everybody's been talking about the missing three hours, seven-thirty to ten-thirty,” Abby added, “but it could have been as much as six hours. Then you plug in Patti Orosco and the affair and her several million ­dollars . . .”

JaMorris could barely contain his enthusiasm. “No jury's going to see her and not also see a motive.”

“She really is something to see, Dev,” Abby added. “I'm not a guy by a long shot, and she is one heck of a package.”

“And then,” JaMorris continued, “the jury learns about her fortune, and not one person on it, even in this town, will believe that he wouldn't have killed for her.”

Juhle kept shaking his head. “We got nada. Equally plausible explanation: Katie finds out that she's losing her husband to a beautiful woman. She can't stand it and she runs away, maybe kills herself. If the jury has two explanations, they have to accept the one that leads to a ‘not guilty' verdict. Your theory is compelling as hell, and I completely believe it, but I don't think Farrell will charge it—why would he, with no evidence?—so what's the point in pressing for a warrant? For that matter, what judge would sign off on it? We need more.”

“How about if Farrell goes to the grand jury?” JaMorris suggested. “On what we've got, it'll indict Hal in a heartbeat.”

“Same problem, guys,” Juhle said. “Farrell has to think he can get a conviction at trial. Without that, he's not going forward, I promise you.”

“But if Hal's indicted and locked up,” Abby said, “then we can get some warrants and do some searches.”

“First you need something beyond motive to open the door.” Juhle pushed his chair back and settled into it. “While we're on this, what's with Glitsky's appearance? What the hell is that about?”

“It means our boy is lawyered up,” JaMorris said.

“Glitsky doesn't have a private license that I know of, and I think I would have heard. Did he get in your way?”

“No,” Abby said, “although he was surprised to see us.”

“Did he identify himself to Patti as a police officer?”

“Not in front of us,” JaMorris said.

“Although,” Abby said, “if I remember, she called him Inspector Glitsky.”

“That might be enough. If he's impersonating a police officer, he and I are going to have to have a discussion. He's talking to Hal, too?”

Abby nodded. “Apparently.”

“It would be interesting to find out what he knows,” Juhle said. “If he's on another track, what's he going on? And if he's pretending to still be a cop . . .” He let the comment hang.

“Whatever it is,” JaMorris said, “it led him to Patti Orosco.”

Juhle processed for a second. “She and Hal were definitely having an affair?”

“Until about a month ago,” Abby said. “Total admission, in spite of what she knew it could mean to us. But she put the best possible spin on it.”

Juhle asked her, “Who broke up with whom?”

“Hal ended it,” Abby said.

“And how did Patti feel about that? Bitter? Pissed off? Hurt?”

The two inspectors shared a glance. Abby said, “None of the above, wouldn't you say, Jambo?”

Her partner nodded in agreement.

Abby went on, “She seemed completely okay with it. Hal wanted to go back and make things right with Katie, and for that to happen, she and Hal had to break up, and in some ways it was too bad, but she wished both of them the best.”

“Really?” Juhle asked.

“That's her story.”

“No scorned-women rhetoric?”

“Not remotely.”

“That seems unlikely,” Juhle said.

“We tend to agree,” JaMorris said. “We talked about it after we left and agreed it was more like she was waiting a reasonable amount of time after Katie's disappearance before she and Hal could come out as a couple. If her heart was even a little broken, she was hiding it pretty well.”

“So—”

Juhle was interrupted by the telephone on his desk. He listened for the better part of two minutes, pulling over a yellow legal pad and taking a few notes. When he hung up, he came back to his two inspectors. “Somebody just found a woman's body, blood all over her head, on the Interior Park Belt out by Parnassus. You know where that is?”

JaMorris was already up and out of his chair. “Hal's neighborhood,” he said.

Juhle nodded solemnly. “Close enough.”