Hard Evidence (19 page)

25

There were things about the job Glitsky would never love. One of them was the reality of subpoenas and arrests.

The way you got people where you wanted them was to go out to their houses early in the A.M. and knock on their doors. Astoundingly, nobody expected to get arrested in the morning. So it was the best time to make an arrest.

But he’d been out last night on this drive-by again. They had received a tip — probably from a rival gang, but you took your leads where you could — that the shooter’s car, with a cache of weapons in the trunk, was in a warehouse out in the Fillmore.

So Glitsky and a couple of stake-out officers had gone down there, letting the warm evening dissipate into a bitter, foggy cold as they sat drinking tea and eating pretzels in his unmarked car, and waited for someone to come and open the warehouse. Which had happened.

And they found the guns. Tonight’s suspect, coked out of his mind and scared to death, had admitted that he’d driven the car, but they’d forced him, man, and he hadn’t done any shooting. That was Tremaine Wilson. He was the shooter. Wilson. This witness, unlike Devon Latrice Wortherington, could actually put Wilson in the car with a gun in his hand, and if he didn’t go sideways, which he probably would when he straightened out, Glitsky might be able to make a case against Wilson.

So now, four hours of sleep later, the dark not yet completely gone and the fog just as cold as when he’d left it, Glitsky found himself once again in the projects. The path to the door was a cracked cement strip that bisected a littered and well-packed rectangle of earth that might as well have been concrete except for the stalk of a tree that had made it to about one foot before someone whacked it off. Now the bare twig struggling out of the ground, maybe an inch thick, struck Glitsky as an example of what happened to anything that dared to try to grow up here.

As always, they were going to try to do it neat and quick. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not. Just in case, though, three uniformed officers had gone to cover the back door of the duplex. Glitsky had two other guys, guns out, behind him on the walkway and another team in the street, out of their car and using it for cover on the not impossible chance that the frameless picture window would suddenly explode in gunfire.

It seemed a miracle that one of the streetlights still worked. The half-life of a streetlight in any of the projects could be measured in minutes after nightfall before some sharpshooter put it out. In the light from this one it was easy to make out the closed drapes in the front window. The screen door hung open, framed by a riot of graffiti.

Glitsky looked at his watch. The back entrance should be covered by now. He turned around and gestured at the guys huddled behind the car out in the street. They gave him the thumbs up — the place was, in theory, secured.

Now there was no fog and no cold and no darkness. There was only his pounding heart and dry mouth — it happened every time — and the door to be knocked on. Three light taps. He had his gun out and heard shuffling inside. The rattle of chains and he was looking at a four-year-old boy, shirt off, feet in his pyjama bottoms, rubbing his eyes with sleep.

‘Who’s ’at?‘

A woman’s voice behind him, and the boy backed away, leaving the door open. Glitsky didn’t like the boy between him and his perp. He’d seen guys — strung out on drugs or not — take their own children hostage, their wives, mothers, anybody who happened to be around.

Glitsky didn’t wait. He had a warrant and Tremaine Wilson was wanted for special-circumstances murder. Tremaine wasn’t going to be getting himself any slick lawyer to bust him out on the technicality of illegal entry. The boy had opened the door — that was going to have to do.

He pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped between the boy and his mother. ‘Police,’ he said so she’d be clear it wasn’t just another gang hit. ‘Where’s Tremaine?’

One of the guys behind him hit the lights and a bare overhead came on. The woman was probably twenty. She had a swollen lower lip, short cowlicked hair, giant frightened eyes. She’d been sleeping in a man’s plaid shirt that didn’t quite make it down to her hips. She made no effort to cover herself below, but stood blinking in the light, separated from her boy by this tall black man with a gun. She made up her mind quickly, pointing down a hallway and moving to clutch her son as soon as Glitsky stepped aside.

The door to the room was open. The light from the hallway didn’t make it back this far. One of Glitsky’s men had stayed behind with the woman and her child, so Glitsky and his remaining backup moved quickly down the hallway. The sergeant went through the open door, his partner crouched in the dark hall, gun pointed in.

There might have been a bed, but he couldn’t see it. He flicked on the light — another bare overhead. There it was — the bed — against the other wall, the only furniture besides a Salvation Army dresser. The man stirred in the bed, pulled the thin blanket over him. ‘C’mon, shit,’ he said, ‘get that light.’

Glitsky was at the bedside, pulling the sheet all the way down and off the bed, at the same time putting the barrel of his gun against the man’s temple. Wilson, naked except for a pair of red bikini underpants, blinked in the harsh light.

‘Don’t blink any harder, Tremaine,’ Glitsky said, ‘this thing might go off. You’re under arrest.’

Glitsky’s partner had his cuffs out, was flipping Wilson over, snapping them in place. Glitsky went to the doorway and turned the light on and off, the signal that everything was all right. He heard the cops from outside come to the door. He went out to the front room, where the woman sat on the floor in the corner, holding her son. He lowered himself onto the green vinyl couch, letting his adrenaline subside.

The domicile looked the same as all the others — no rug, no pictures on the walls, stains here and there, a lingering odor of grease, musk, marijuana. Holes in the drywall.

Tremaine Wilson, untied shoes and no socks, pants and shirt thrown on, was led out. At least it had been an easy arrest. Small favors.

*     *     *     *     *

Now, nine o’clock, Tremaine booked, Glitsky was at the Marina and he was cold. July 1, and cold again. The past few days of warmth were already a dim memory. He thought maybe he ought to start keeping a log of certain dates, maybe the first of every month. He could see it, year after year, a microcosm of San Francisco’s cute little boutique microclimate: January 1 — cold. February 1 —cold. March, April, May — cold and windy. June and July — foggy and guess what. August 1 — chilly, possibility of fog. September and October — nice, not warm, but not cold. November, December — see January, etc.

José was out doing something with one of the lunatics who was taking a yacht out this morning onto the choppy Bay. Glitsky stood over a portable electric heater behind the counter, wondering what he was supposed to be doing here.

When he’d gotten back to his desk from booking, there had been a message to call Pullios. He found out she was taking the Nash murder to the grand jury, top secret, and he should clear his calendar because he — Glitsky — was going to appear tomorrow as a witness before the grand jury and explain that he arrested May Shinn because he was sure she was trying to flee the jurisdiction to avoid her inevitable trial for murder. And by the way, did he think he could take another shot at a few witnesses before tomorrow and see if he could dig up any more evidence?

Sure, he’d told her, no problem. Always here to help. Except, what witnesses? The case was pretty characterized by lack of witnesses. The only true interrogation he’d written up was the night guard at the Marina, Tom Waddell, and that, he thought, hadn’t provided squat in the way of convictable testimony.

But you kept at this long enough, you got a feeling about these things. Some cases were light on eyewitness testimony. Didn’t mean they weren’t any good. Prosecutors were always wanting a little more, a look under one more rock for that fabled smoking gun. Pullios had asked him how he really felt about the case against Shinn, and he told her he thought it was tight as a frog’s ass —watertight, but not airtight.

‘Airtight would be better,’ she said.

So here he was. And here was José, the morning guard, back from the pontoons, going straight to the coffee machine. Normally tea was Glitsky’s drink, but on less than four hours’ sleep he thought a little Java wouldn’t hurt him.

This was going to be another formal interview, another report, and he got José comfortable, sitting at his desk while he loaded a fresh tape into his recorder.

‘Three, two, one,’ he said. He stopped, smiled, sipped at his coffee, and listened to it play back. ‘Okay…’

This is Inspector Abraham Glitsky, star number 1144. I am currently at the office of the Golden Gate Marina, 3567 Fort Point Drive. With me is a gentleman identifying himself as José Ochorio, Hispanic male, 2/24/67. This interview is pursuant to an investigation of case number 921065882. Today’s date is July 1, 1992, Wednesday, at 9:20 A.M.

Q: You have said that when you arrived at work a week ago Saturday, June 20, the
Eloise
had already gone out.

A:
Si
.

Q: Had it been out the day before?

A: No. When I leave the day before, it’s at its place at the end of Two out there. Where it is now.

Q: And what time did you leave the day before?

A: I don’t know. Sometime normal. Two, three o’clock, but the boat was there.

Q: And it was back on Sunday morning when you came in?

A:
Si
.

Q: Do you get any days off here?

A: Sure. It’s a good place. I get Monday and Tuesday, but we can switch around. Long as it’s covered.

Q: But no one switched on the morning in question?

A: No.

Q: All right, José.

[Pause.]

During which Glitsky drank some coffee and tried to find another line of questioning.

Q: Let’s talk about Owen Nash and May Shinn. I have here a snap-shot of Ms Shinn. Do you recognize this woman?

A: Oh sure, man. She come here a lot.

Q: A lot? What’s a lot, José?

A: Last three, four months, maybe twice a month, three times.

Q: So you’ve seen her here at the Marina, a total of, say, ten times, twelve times?

A: About that, maybe more, maybe less.

Q: Did you ever see her at the helm of the
Eloise
?

A: Well, sure. She always with Mr Nash.

Q: I mean alone, guiding the boat in herself, like that.

[Pause.]

A: I don’t know. I try to remember.

Q: Take your time.

[Pause.]

A: Yeah, she take it out under motor one time, at least to the jetty. But that’s only like, you see, maybe two hundred feet.

Q: But Mr Nash wasn’t at the wheel?

A: No. I remember. He’s standing out on the bowsprit, laughing real loud. That’s when I look up. I remember.

Q: And she’s alone. May is alone, under power?

A:
Si
.

Q: And have you seen her since?

A: Steering the boat?

Q: No. Anytime.

A:
Si
.

Q: When was that?

A: I don’t know. Last week sometime. I remember, ‘cause, you know, you guys…

Q: Sure, but do you remember when? What was she doing?

A: I don’t know. She was out there, on the street. Walking back to her car, maybe, I don’t know. I see her going away.

Q: And you’re sure it was May?

A:
Si
. It was her.

Q: Are you certain what day it was? It could be very important.

[Pause.]

A: I think it was Thursday. Oh sure. It must have been. I remember, I got the note from Tom he’d locked the boat, which was Wednesday, right? So I go check it. It’s still locked. Thursday, I’m sure,
si
, Thursday.

26

‘I need to see you.’

Hardy felt his palms get hot. He leaned back in his chair at his desk. Without thought, he reached for his paperweight, cradled the phone in his neck, started passing the jade from hand to hand. There was no mistaking Celine’s husky voice. ‘Ken says you don’t think May did it.’

‘I’m sorry I gave him that impression. I do think May did it. I just don’t think it’s going to be easy to prove.’

‘What do you need?’

‘What do you mean, what do I need?’

‘I mean, what could make it more obvious?’

‘It’s obvious enough to me, Celine, but our job is to sell that to a jury —’

‘
Your
job,’ she said flatly. ‘It’s not our job. It’s your job.’

‘Yes, right.’

She was breathing heavily, even over the phone. She might as well have been in the room with him. It could be she was still worked up, just off the phone from Farris. There was no avoiding it, the principals — the victim’s circle — tended to talk among themselves.

‘What more do you need?’ she repeated.

Hardy temporized. ‘We’ve got more since I talked to Ken. We’ve got ballistics now. May’s gun did kill your father.’

‘Well, of course it did. We’ve known that all along.’

He didn’t know how to tell her they hadn’t
known
it, they’d just assumed it. That the assumption turned out right was fine for them but it hadn’t made the theory any more or less true before the ballistics report came in. ‘And her prints are on it. And no one else’s.’ Silence. ‘Celine?’

‘I need to see you. I need your help. I’m worried. I’m afraid. She’s out on bail. What if she comes after me?’

‘Why would she do that, Celine?’

‘Why did she kill my father? To keep me from testifying? I don’t know, but she might.’

‘So far as I know, Celine, we’re not having you testify, at least not about that.’

‘But I know she was on the boat.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘My father told me he was going out with her.’

‘That’s not evidence.’

He heard her breathing again, almost labored. ‘It is evidence, he
told
me.’

‘Your father might have intended to go out on Saturday with May, but that doesn’t mean he was actually out with her.’

‘But he
was
.’

How do you argue with this? he thought. The woman is struggling with her grief, frightened, frustrated by the system’s slow routine — he couldn’t really expect a Descartes here.

‘Celine, listen.’ He filled a couple of minutes with Glitsky’s saga of Tremaine Wilson, how the first witness had known he was in the car, holding a gun, using the gun. But he hadn’t actually seen his face. He knew it was Tremaine, he’d recognized him, ski-mask and all, but there was no way to even bring that evidence to a jury because it wasn’t evidence. It was assumption. It wasn’t until the next witness showed up and could connect the car, the murder weapon and — undoubtedly — Tremaine, that they’d been able to make an arrest. ‘It’s a little the same thing here, Celine.’

She was unimpressed with the analogy. She didn’t want an analogy. ‘I need to see you,’ she said for the third time.

She was fixating on him. He didn’t need this. He didn’t need any of it, common though it might be. His reaction to her was too unprofessional. Maybe on some level she knew that, was reacting to it, using it in her own desperation. ‘I’m here all day. My door’s always open —’

‘Not in your office.’

‘My office is where I work, Celine.’

‘That bar, the last time, that wasn’t your office.’

Hardy was starting to know how people got to be tightasses. It really was true that you gave people an inch and they took a mile — they expected a mile. You didn’t give ‘em the full mile and they felt betrayed.

Her voice softened, suddenly without the hint of a demand. ‘Dismas, please. Would you please see me?’

He sighed. He might know how people evolved into tightasses, but that didn’t mean he wanted to become one himself. ‘Where’s a good place? Where are you now?’

It was three-thirty now and she was just going to change and then work out. She would be at Hardbodies! near Broadway and Van Ness until around six. If he pushed it a little, he could tell himself it was right on his way home.

*     *     *     *     *

Jeff didn’t have a private room, but he had the window, and the other bed was empty, so it was just as good. He was at the Kaiser Hospital near Masonic, and his window looked north, the red spires of the Golden Gate poking through the cloud barrier beyond the green swath of the Presidio. Closer in, the fog had lifted and the sun was bathing the little boxes along the avenues.

Jeff Elliot wouldn’t have cared if there had been a monsoon blowing out there over a slag heap — at least he could see it.

His vision, coaxed by the Prednisone, had begun to slide back, furtive as a thief, sometime early in the morning, a dim, lighter shadow amid all the darkness.

He was afraid to believe it. This disease didn’t give back. It took away, and kept what it took. First his legs. Now his sight? And besides, there really wasn’t anything to see. Some shapes, but dark.

He could press his hands into his eyes and hold the pressure for a minute, and there would be little explosions of light — purple, green, white — that seemed to take place inside his brain. He didn’t know if real blind people experienced that. The stimulus, though, didn’t come from outside light. He was sure of that. Could it be his optic nerve was still working?

By morning there was no doubt. At least he wouldn’t, thank God, be stone-blind. And all during the day, between naps, it had gotten better, until now he could see. Not perfectly, still fuzzy, but enough.

Dorothy Burgess — from Maury’s office — had been in before she’d gone to work that morning just to see if he was all right, bringing flowers. Now she was coming through the door again — visitors’ hours — smiling, concerned, the most lovely sight he had ever seen.

She sat down. ‘How are you feeling?’

He pushed himself up, half sitting now. ‘Much better. I can see you.’

He hadn’t called his parents back in Wisconsin. He didn’t want to worry them. He thought he’d call them when the attack was over, when they could assess the latest damage. After he’d been admitted last night, he’d made a call to the
Chronicle
, but nobody from there had been in to visit.

He didn’t know what to say to Dorothy. Before the MS, he hadn’t done much dating to speak of, and since losing the use of his legs, his confidence in that area had dipped to zero. He’d concentrated on his career. But he was doing all right — he wasn’t asking for anything more.

If you were crippled, you couldn’t expect women to be crawling all over you, except the pity-groupies, and he didn’t want any part of them. He knew he was probably the last mid-twenties virgin in San Francisco, if not the known world, and it was okay. He could live with it. At least he was alive. You had to keep your priorities straight.

Dorothy moved her chair against the bed and rested her arm down by his legs. Her hair was the color of wheat just before it was harvested. The white blouse had a scoop neck, a scalloped row of blue cornflowers that perfectly matched her eyes. Freckles on a tan bosom. He found he couldn’t stop taking her in, like the air he breathed. ‘I’m staring.’

She laughed, more sunlight. ‘I’d stare too if I’d been blind yesterday.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He always felt apologetic about this damn disease. ‘I didn’t mean to get anybody involved in all this. Don’t feel like you have to come visit. I’m okay.’

‘It
is
a terrible inconvenience.’ Was she teasing him? ‘I was just saying to Maury today, ’I guess I’ve got to go visit that awful Jeff Elliot again. He is really making my life difficult, going blind in our office like that.‘

‘I was just saying —’

‘I know what you were saying. And it’s silly.’ She patted his leg. ‘Are they feeding you all right here?’

He tried to remember. ‘I guess so. I must have had something. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be out tomorrow anyway. They just wanted to observe me for the day.’

‘Kaiser,’ she said. ‘Keep those beds empty. You never know when someone might need one.’

‘It’s okay,’ he repeated. ‘All I need is steroids. I don’t need to be in the hospital.’

‘You need food.’

‘I guess so. I never really thought about it.’

‘You never think about food? I think about food all the time.’

His eyes traveled down over her slim body. ‘Where do you put it?’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I put it. Now who’s picking you up when you leave here? How are you getting home?’

He hadn’t thought about that, either. He supposed he’d take a cab. He hoped his car was still parked in one of the handicapped stalls behind the Hall of Justice.

‘Okay, it’s settled then. I’m coming by tomorrow, taking you home, and cooking you a meal. After that, you’ve just got to stop bothering me.’ She stood up, leaned over and kissed him. ‘Don’t get fresh,’ she said, then was gone.

*     *     *     *     *

Hardy reflected, not for the first time, that he was too much in touch with himself. Wouldn’t it be nice to sometimes be able to truly fool yourself? Not know every motive you had down to about six levels.

He wanted to see Celine, and not in his office. That was the problem.

He had simply decided — last week, as soon as it had come up — that he was not going to do anything about it. It was too risky — for him, for Frannie, for the new life that was making him more content than he’d ever thought possible. It seemed to him that sometimes you met people who were immediately recognizable as having an almost chemical power to insinuate themselves into your life. Those people — men or women — could power your engines if you weren’t yet settled down. But if you had a career and a family and a rhythm to your life, a blast like that could only destroy things. If you wanted to keep your orbit you avoided that extra juice. Simple as that.

Hardy could control himself — that wasn’t it — but Celine was fire. And the best way to avoid getting burned, even if you were careful, was to avoid the fire.

‘Dumb,’ he said, pausing a moment before pushing open the semi-opaque glass doors of Hardbodies! He was greeted by twenty reflections of himself. Mirrors, mirrors, on the wall.

‘Can I help you?’

The name tag said ‘Chris,’ and Chris, Hardy thought, was the Bionic Man. Muscles on his muscles, green Hardbodies! headband, yellow Hardbodies! t-shirt, black Spandex shorts. Wristbands on both wrists. Perfect shiny black Beatle-length hair. Behind the long counter he could see three girls and four guys, all from the same mold as Chris.

‘I’m meeting somebody,’ he said.

‘Sure, no problem,’ Chris said. ‘We got a pager at the desk here.’

He heard her name called while he waited on a padded stool. There weren’t any chairs, only stools. And little mushroom tables with magazines on them: City Sports, Triathloner, Maximum Steel, The Competitive Edge. There was music playing, heavy-beat stuff. He heard what sounded like a lot of basketballs getting dribbled on a wooden floor.

The place already seemed packed, and people were filing by him as though they were giving away money in the back room.

Suddenly, though he jogged four or five days a week, he felt old and flabby. Everybody in here was under thirty, except for the ones who were fifty and looked better than Hardy figured he had at twenty.

And Celine, who wasn’t anywhere near fifty and looked better than any of the twenties, even with a good sweat up. Especially, perhaps, with a good sweat up. A blue sweatband held her hair back, a towel was draped around her neck. She wore a fluorescent blue Spandex halter top soaked dark between her breasts. The bare skin of her stomach gleamed wet and hard. The leotard bottoms rose over her hips at the sides and dipped well below her navel in the front. A Spandex bikini bottom matched her top. White Reeboks.

He was standing almost before he was aware of it. They were shaking hands, hers wet and powdery. She brushed his cheek with her lips, then wiped the slight moisture from the side of his mouth. ‘Sorry. Thank you for coming down.’

Hardy stood, wanting to rub the spot on his cheek. Fire burns.

‘I feel a little funny here,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid this isn’t my natural environment, especially dressed like this.’

She took him in. ‘You look fine.’

‘Is there someplace to talk?’

Celine told him there was a juice bar on the second floor. Would that be all right? Hardy followed her up a wide banistered granite staircase to the upstairs lobby, the entire space bordered by hi-tech metallic instruments of torture — exercycles, Climb-Masters, rowing machines, treadmills. Each was in use. You couldn’t avoid the panting, the noise of thirty sets of whirring gears, occasionally a moan or a grunt. Beyond the machines, the glass wall to the outside showed off another of the city’s famous views — Alcatraz, Angel Island, Marin County. You could see where the fog abruptly ended a mile or so inside the Golden Gate.

The juice bar was about as intimate as a railroad station, but at least the noise level was lower. The aerobic music wasn’t pumped in here, although it did leak from the lobby. Celine ordered some type of a shake that the perfect specimen behind the bar poured a bunch of powders into. Hardy thought he’d stick with some bottled water; he paid $4.75 for the two drinks.

They sat at a low table in the corner of the room where the glass wall met brick. ‘Do you come here a lot?’ Hardy asked.

‘Sometimes it’s like I live here. Then since Daddy…’ She sipped her shake. ‘It works it off. I don’t know what else to do to fill up the time.’

‘What did you do before?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Before your father died. Sometimes the best thing you can do is go back to your routines, what you were used to.’

A tanker that appeared through the fog bank on the Bay seemed to take her attention for a minute. ‘But I didn’t really do anything routinely,’ she said. ‘I mean, I don’t work or anything. I just lived. Now…’ She let it trail off, went back to staring.