From Treya’s expression, Glitsky realized that finally he’d asked the right question. Jackman raised himself off his desk. “Just this, Abe. If Markham was murdered, it goes to the grand jury. I can legitimately use an investigation into his death as a way to get into the books and business practices at Parnassus. We’ve got every reason to look in his files, take the place apart, see if we can find out why. And who’s gonna complain? Somebody killed their top guy. Why wouldn’t they
want
to cooperate in every way?”
Jackman let his words hang in the air, then continued. “If we begin any kind of inquiry on the billings and their lawyers get into it, we’re talking months, maybe years, delay on subpoenas, delay delivering records that they may have shredded by then anyway, or forged new ones. Plus all the public bickering, loss of faith in the city’s institutions, blah blah blah. This way, we’re in. It’s a murder, Abe, and even in this town a solid majority of the voters oppose murder. Nobody will see it as more complicated than that, at least for now. The grand jury’s looking into the murder of Tim Markham. There is every justification in the world to probe his relationships and even business practices. And since he was killed in Portola Hospital, there’s a demonstrable link there.”
But Glitsky was shifting in his seat again. It was a bad idea to get the DA’s office involved in his investigations, particularly if Markham’s murder was just the cover for a financial probe of Parnassus. “What if we find Markham’s killer before you get finished?” he asked.
Marlene answered. “We’ll leave the grand jury impaneled. We just keep going on the financial stuff.”
Abe frowned at this, but he knew that technically, Marlene could do just that. The grand jury was not crime specific—Jackman and Ash could simply use it to go fishing.
“But I’ll still have your support for the murder investigation as the priority?” he asked. “I don’t want to get a suspect close to the net and not be able to bring him in.”
“That won’t happen, Abe,” Marlene said.
“Couldn’t happen,” Jackman repeated. “We’re on the same team.”
Glitsky smiled all around, fooling no one. “Well, with that assurance,” he said as he stood up, “I’d better get to work.”
H
ardy hit the button shutting off the alarm. Throwing off the covers, he forced himself to sit up lest he give in to the urge to lie back down, just for a minute. Frannie murmured something from behind him, and he felt her hand brush against the small of his back. Reaching around, he squeezed it quickly, then let go and stood up.
The house
felt
dark. He stood a minute, summoning the will to move. Outside, a fresh gust rattled the windows. The storm, still blowing.
After he’d showered and shaved, he pulled on his pants and a shirt in the bathroom so he’d be as unobtrusive as possible. He didn’t remember distinctly, but he must have had a rough night’s sleep. He still hadn’t quite gotten to fully awake. Frannie hadn’t yet stirred, either—he thought he’d go downstairs and bring a cup of coffee up for her. That way they would get a few minutes of peace together before the daily marathon of getting the kids off to school.
In the kitchen, he turned on the light and fed his tropical fish. The long hallway to the front door seemed especially dark as well, but he’d already concluded that it was the weather, so he didn’t give it any more thought. When he opened the door, he noted with satisfaction that the
Chron
icle
had made it up onto the porch—by no means a daily occurrence. Maybe it was a sign. He was in for a lucky day.
But God, he thought, it was dark.
He’d often expressed his belief that one of the greatest of modern inventions was the automatic coffee machine that began making your critical morning brew about the time that your alarm went off, so that when you got to it, it was ready for you. But when he got back to it, he stopped, frowning. The carafe was empty. Worse, the little green “program” light was still on—when it went into “run” mode, the light turned red. What was going on? He distinctly remembered preparing the coffee last night before he’d gone up to bed, and now he leaned down, squinting, and checked the clock.
4:45.
Turning around, he looked up at the large clock on the kitchen wall. Same time. Finally, he thought to consult his watch, and got the third corroboration. It was quarter to five on Thursday morning and he was wide awake, dressed up and nowhere to go. And for no particular reason other than that somebody had obviously reset his alarm. When he found out which kid it had been, there would be hell to pay. He had half a mind to wake both kids up now, identify the culprit, break out the thumb screws.
But so much for his run of good luck. And he still had to wait for his damn coffee to brew. With nothing to do now except kill time, he angrily opened the paper and threw it down on the dining room table. Sitting down, he noticed that yep, it was still dark.
At least now he knew why.
Then he noticed the headline: “HMO Chief’s Death Called Murder.” With the subhead about potassium, he had all he needed to know, although he read the whole article. His new client appeared only once, as the attending staff physician at the ICU, but once was enough. Hardy started to worry.
The accompanying article on Markham’s family ratcheted his concern up even further. The paper characterized the event in ambiguous terms, hinting that the evidence seemed to implicate the wife in murder/suicide—another senseless American tragedy, the reason for which might never be known. But in his guts, Hardy felt that Markham’s death being ruled a murder made any conclusion about the how and why of the family’s slaughter decidedly premature.
When he finished the second article, he sat in contemplation for several minutes. Then he got up and poured a cup of coffee, came back to the table, and read Jeff Elliot’s column.
CityTalk
by Jeffrey Elliot
A
S MEDICAL DIRECTOR OF
P
ARNASSUS
H
EALTH
, the beleaguered HMO that is under contract to insure the city’s employees, Dr. Malachi Ross has been under a lot of pressure over the past months. From his original and eventually overturned refusal to allow prescriptions of Viagra as a covered expense to the much more serious Baby Emily incident at Portola Hospital, his business decisions have come under almost continuous fire from any number of consumer, public interest and watch-keeping organizations, including this newspaper. Now, in the wake of the death on Tuesday of Parnassus CEO Tim Markham, and Ross’ election to that position by the Parnassus board, it looks as though his real troubles may have only just begun. (As this column goes to press, the
Chronicle
has learned that Mr. Markham’s death has been called a murder by police investigators.)Early last week, as one of his last official acts, Mr. Markham presented the city with a bill in excess of $13 million for previously undiscovered outpatient care at various neighborhood clinics. A source at the DA’s office describes the paperwork on these billings as “at the least, irregular,” and quite possibly “fraudulent.” At the same time, Parnassus has applied for a rate increase of $23 per month for every covered city employee, which if approved represents an extra hit of nearly $700,000 a month to the city’s budget.
At the same time, the woes of Parnassus and of its flagship hospital, Portola, continue to grow. In an interview on Tuesday evening, Dr. Ross admitted that the medical group is mired in a deep cash crisis, although he characterized the nonpayment of some Parnassus doctors as a voluntary loan program. Another source—a doctor within the group—had a slightly different take: “Sure,” he said. “It’s voluntary. You volunteer to loan your salary back to the group, or you’re fired.”
Nevertheless, Ross remained confident that Parnassus can weather this crisis. “The goal is maximum wellness for the most people,” he said. When asked if he saw any conflict between the group’s business interests and the needs of its patients, Ross replied, “The company needs to sustain itself so it can continue doing its work.”
Because it conducts business with the city, Parnassus’ finances are a matter of public record. Last year, the average staff physician with Parnassus had a salary of $98,000. The average executive board member, of which there are thirty, sustained himself to the tune of nearly $350,000 including bonuses, per person, for a total expense to the company of approximately $10.5 million. As CEO, the late Mr. Markham had the highest salary in the group—$1.4 million, and Dr. Ross was next, drawing $1.2 million in salary and performance bonuses.
Imagine how well he’d do if Parnassus was not going bankrupt.
Glitsky was in the elevator, and when the door opened on the fourth floor, he was looking at Dismas Hardy, who said, “I was just at your office. You weren’t there.”
“You’re kidding.” Glitsky stepped out into the lobby. “When?”
“Just now.”
“I wasn’t in my office?”
“No sign of you.”
“One of the things I’ve always admired about you is that keen eye for detail.”
The two men fell into step together, heading back toward the homicide detail. “What’s another one?” Hardy asked.
“Another what?”
“Thing you’ve always admired about me. One implies there are more.”
Glitsky glanced over at him, walked a few steps, shook his head. “On second thought, that’s the only one. Keen eye for detail.”
At homicide, inside Glitsky’s office, Hardy took one of the fold-up chairs in front of the desk. He looked around critically. “You could use some art in here,” he said. “It’s a little depressing.”
“I like it depressing,” Glitsky said. “It keeps meetings short. Speaking of which”—he pointed at his overflowing in-box—“that is today’s workload and I’m behind already. What can I do for you?”
“My keen eye for detail tells me that you’re not in much of a sociable mood this morning, so I’ll get right to it. I take it Bracco is one of your car police.”
“That would be accurate.” He reached for his in-box. “Well, drop by anytime. It’s been a real pleasure.”
“I’ve got one more. What do you know about Tim Markham?”
Glitsky stopped fiddling with paper, cocked his head to one side, and frowned. “Who are you representing?”
“Eric Kensing.”
“Swell. When did that happen?”
“Recently.”
Glitsky sat forward in his chair and brushed a hand over his scar. “As I recall, the last time I talked to you about a case at this stage, I lost my job for a couple of weeks.”
“True. But it was the right thing to do.” A year before, Glitsky had been put on administrative leave after he’d shown Hardy a videotape of his client’s questionable confession before the DA’s office had cleared it for discovery purposes. “And you know what Davy Crockett always said? ‘Be sure you’re right, then go ahead.’”
“I always thought that was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard. The jails are full of people who think like old Davy. Genghis Khan, I believe, had the same motto.”
“And a fine leader he was. I’ve just got a couple of quick questions. They won’t get you fired. Promise.”
“Ask one and let me decide. And quickly, if that’s possible, though history argues that it isn’t.”
“Is Kensing in trouble?”
Glitsky nodded in appreciation. “That was pretty good for you.” A shrug. “Well, no matter where we stand on charging Markham’s murder, I’m betting your client is one guy who’s definitely going to need a lawyer on the malpractice side alone. Aside from that…” Glitsky threw a glance over to the door—closed. He came back to Hardy. “I suppose he told you he’s got a motive.” He paused, then gave it up. “He was also the last person with the family.”
“You mean Markham’s family? The paper implied that it was the distraught wife.”
“Yeah. I read it.” Glitsky sat back. “I think you’ve had your question.”
“You think it wasn’t the wife? And if it wasn’t, it was the same person who did the husband?”
“I don’t think anything yet. I’m keeping an open mind.”
“But if my client’s a suspect for Markham, then he’s—”
Glitsky stopped him. “We’re not talking about this, Diz. You’re way over your quota for questions. That’s it.”
“Okay. This isn’t a question. I talked to Kensing this morning before I even left the house. He wants to talk to you.”
“Sure he does. And I’m the queen of Bavaria. You’re going to let him?”
“I told him it was a dumb idea. I was even a little adamant. But maybe you’ve heard, doctor knows best. He figures you’ll hear his story and leave him alone. He’s a witness, not a suspect.”
“Is he talking immunity at this stage?”
“No, nothing like that. He didn’t do anything wrong. He’s a witness.”
“And the best defense is a good offense.”
Hardy shrugged. It wasn’t his idea. He knew Glitsky might take it that way, but he thought that his job at this point was to mitigate Kensing’s discomfort and arrange the talk on his schedule. “So how about my office, close of business?”
Glitsky considered, then nodded. “Okay. Doable.”
“And he’s a witness, not a suspect.”
“I believe you’ve mentioned that a few times.”
“Though you haven’t said you’re okay with it.”
“There’s that eye for detail again,” Glitsky said. Then, sitting back. “He is what he is, Diz. I’m afraid we’ll just have to see how it plays out.”
After leaving homicide, he went down to Jackman’s office to see if he could come upon any potentially helpful scrap of news regarding his new client. It wasn’t likely, but the DA was relatively inexperienced in criminal matters and might inadvertently drop something if he and Hardy were simply two friends, casually schmoozing.
At Jackman’s outer office, Hardy stopped in the doorway. Treya, on the telephone saying “Yes, sir” a lot to someone, smiled a greeting and held up a “just a sec” finger. Hardy came in, walked over, and kissed her on the cheek, then sat in the chair next to Jackman’s door. Treya continued with her proper responses in her modulated, professional voice, but she rolled her eyes and made faces in the midst of them.
Watching her, Hardy broke a grin.
When Glitsky’s first wife had died, Hardy would never have believed that anyone could have approached Flo as an equally compatible mate for his best friend. But in a little less than a year, Treya had won him and Frannie over. Not only competent and confident, Treya’s sense of humor went a long way toward blunting Abe’s razor edge.
At last she hung up. “The mayor,” she explained. “Always wanting my opinions on the issues.” Then, a questioning look. “Did you have an appointment? Is Clarence expecting you? I don’t have you down.”
“No. I’m just dropping by, seeing if he had a minute to chat.”
“I don’t think chat’s on his agenda today. He just had me tell hizzoner he wasn’t in.” She smiled sweetly. “Maybe you would like to do it the normal way and schedule something?”
“I would, but I’m not sure when I’ll be back at the hall.”
“Here’s an idea, Diz. You could
plan
to be. Others have been known to.”
“But Clarence and I go way back. We’re pals.”
“He feels the same way.”
“I just hate to see the spontaneity go out of our relationship.”
Treya nodded sympathetically. “So does Clarence. He frets about it all the time. I’ll put you down for tomorrow at three. You can talk about it then.” The phone on her desk rang and, waving Hardy good-bye, she picked it up.
Back at his office, Hardy phoned the aquarium and discovered that Francis the shark was still alive and swimming under its own power. But Pico still wasn’t admitting victory. “He hasn’t eaten a damn thing. Swimming’s one thing, but he’s also got to eat.”
“How do you know it’s a he?”
“How do you think I got to be curator here? Could it be the Ph.D. in marine biology? The ability to tell males from female fish? One of those?”
“I always figured it was affirmative action of some kind. What are you trying to feed it?”