Betrayal (2 page)
Authors: John Lescroart
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Legal stories, #United States, #Iraq, #San Francisco (Calif.), #Iraq War; 2003, #Glitsky; Abe (Fictitious Character), #Hardy; Dismas (Fictitious Character), #Contractors, #2003, #Abe (Fictitious Character), #Hardy, #Glitsky, #Dismas (Fictitious Character), #Iraq War
Opening the refrigerator, he rummaged and found mushrooms, an onion, a red pepper, some leftover fettucine with a white sauce he remembered as having been pretty good. He threw away one heavily mildewed tomato, but that still left two that were probably salvageable if he cut them carefully. Unawares, by now he was humming the tune to “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”—driving home, he’d been listening to Steve Tyrell’s standards on his CD player. The freezer held a four-pack of chicken-and-basil sausages that he loved.
In five minutes, he’d chopped all the ingredients, put them in the pan, added some random herbs and spices and several shakes of Tabasco sauce and a half a cup or so of the Zinfandel he’d opened. He’d just turned the heat down and covered it when the phone rang. Certain that it was Frannie, he picked up on the second ring. “Bob’s Beanery.”
A male voice replied. “I must have the wrong number.”
“No, wait! I’m sorry. I thought it was my wife.”
“Mr. Hardy?”
“Speaking.”
“Mr. Hardy, this is Oscar Thomasino.”
“Your Honor, how are you?”
“Fine, thanks. Am I bothering you at an inopportune time?”
“No, but whatever, it’s no bother. What can I do for you?”
“Well, admittedly this is a little unusual, but you and I have known each other for a long time, and I wondered if I could presume slightly upon our professional relationship.”
This was unusual, if not to say unprecedented, but Hardy nevertheless kept his tone neutral. “Certainly, Your Honor. Anything I can do, if it’s within my power.” A superior court judge asking an attorney for a favor was a rare enough opportunity, and Hardy wasn’t going to let it pass him by.
“Well, I’m sure it is,” Thomasino said. “Did you know Charles Bowen? Charlie.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’d remember him. Flashy dresser, bright red hair, big beard.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. He a lawyer?”
“Yes, he was, anyway. He disappeared six months ago.”
“Where’d he go?”
“If I knew that, he wouldn’t be disappeared, would he? He’d be someplace.”
“Everybody’s someplace, Your Honor. It’s one of the two main rules. Everybody loves somebody sometime, and you’ve got to be someplace.”
During the short pause that ensued, Hardy came to realize that he’d overstepped. His tendency to crack wise was going to be the end of him yet. But Thomasino eventually recovered to some extent, even reverting to his own stab at not-quite-cozy informality. “Thanks, Diz,” he said. “I’ll try to keep those in mind. Meanwhile, Charlie Bowen.”
“Okay.”
“Yes, well…the point is that he was a sole practitioner. No firm, no partners, but a reasonably robust caseload.”
“Good for him.”
“True, but his disappearance hasn’t been good for the court. Or for his wife and daughter, either, to tell you the truth. His wife’s hired her own lawyer to file a presumption-of-death claim, which, between you and me, has very little chance of getting recognized, in spite of the fact that it would be convenient for the court.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because when sole practitioners die and go to heaven, the bar inherits the caseload and has to dispose of it.”
“What if they don’t go to heaven?”
“Most lawyers argue themselves in, don’t you think? I know you would.”
“Thanks, I think. Your Honor.”
“Anyway, I know it’s just housecleaning, but Bowen had a ton of work outstanding, and that work needs to get done. And while we’re not going to issue any presumption of death until he’s been gone a lot longer, last month Marian Braun”—another of the city’s superior court judges—“ruled that his disappearance rendered him legally incompetent, and just yesterday the state bar suspended his ticket at the court’s request.”
“So now they’ve got to farm out his cases. If he hadn’t returned my calls for six months and I was his client, I would have fired him by now.”
“I’m sure some of his clients may have done just that, but not all by a long shot.” Thomasino sighed. “Charlie was a friend of mine. His wife’s going to need whatever he still has coming from his cases. I’d like to be sure that the bar puts those cases in the hands of somebody who I know will do the right thing by her. Anyway, bottom line is that I ran into Wes Farrell today at lunch.” This was one of Hardy’s partners. “He said things at your place were a little slow. The good news is that you can probably count on some percentage of Mr. Bowen’s clients hooking up with your firm. Not that any of ’em will make you rich.”
Reading between the lines, Hardy knew what the judge was saying—that this was grunt administrative work. The court probably had appointed the majority of Charlie’s clients, indigents up for petty crimes and misdemeanors. Nevertheless, the court would pay for every hour Hardy’s associates spent on the criminal cases anyway, and if the civil cases made any money, the firm could expect reasonable compensation. And it was, again, an opportunity to do a small good deed for a judge, and that was never a bad idea.
“You could probably get them all assigned out or closed in the next couple of months.”
“I’m sold, Your Honor. I’d be happy to help you out.”
“Thanks, Diz. I appreciate it. I know it’s not very sexy. I’ll have it all delivered to your office within the week.”
“How much stuff is it?”
Thomasino paused. “About sixty boxes.” In other words, a lot. “But here’s the silver lining. It’s only half as much as it appears, since half the boxes are one client.”
“Tell me it’s Microsoft.”
A soft chuckle. “No such luck. It’s Evan Scholler.”
“Why is that name familiar?”
“Because you’ve read all about it. The two guys who’d been over in Iraq together?”
“Ah, it comes flooding back,” Hardy said. “They had the same girlfriend or something, too, didn’t they?”
“I believe so. There’s a bunch of juicy stuff, but you’ll find that out soon enough, I guess. But in any event, Diz, I really appreciate you doing this.”
“I live to serve the court, Your Honor.”
“You’re already up on points, Counselor. Don’t lay it on too thick. Have a nice night.”
Hardy hung up and stood for a moment, musing. The judge’s line played back in his mind: “There’s a bunch of juicy stuff” in the Scholler case. Hardy thought he could use some juicy stuff in his life about now. If his memory served, and it always did, Scholler’s situation was even more compelling than the bare bones of the murder case, because of its genesis in chaos and violence.
In Iraq.
[2003]
A
BURNT-ORANGE SUN KISSED
the horizon to the west as twenty-six-year-old Second Lieutenant Evan Scholler led his three-pack of converted gun-truck support Humvees through the gates of the Allstrong Compound in the middle of an area surrounded by palm trees, canals, and green farmland. The landscape here was nothing like the sandy, flat, brown terrain that Evan had grown used to since he’d arrived in Kuwait. The enclosure was about the size of three football fields, protected, like every other “safe” area, by Bremer walls—twelve-foot-tall concrete barriers topped with concertina wiring. Ahead of him squatted three double-wide motor home trailers that Allstrong Security, an American contracting company, had provided for its local employees.
Pulling up to the central temporary building, over which flew an American flag, Evan stepped out of his car onto the gravel that extended as far as he could see in all directions. A fit-looking American military type stood in the open doorway and now came down the three steps, his hand extended. Evan snapped a salute and the man laughed.
“You don’t need to salute me, Lieutenant,” he said. “Jack Allstrong. Welcome to BIAP.” Calling Baghdad International Airport by its nickname. “You must be Scholler.”
“Yes, sir. If you’re expecting me, that’s a nice change of pace.”
“Gotten the runaround, have you?”
“A little bit. I’ve got eight men here with me and Colonel…I’m sorry, the commander here?”
“Calliston.”
“That’s it. He wasn’t expecting us. Calliston said you had some beds we could use.”
“Yeah, he called. But all we’ve got are cots really.”
“We’ve got our own on board,” Evan said. “We’re okay with cots.”
Allstrong’s face showed something like sympathy. “You all been on the road awhile?”
“Three days driving up from Kuwait with a Halliburton convoy, four days wandering around between here and Baghdad, watching out for looters and getting passed off around the brass. Now here we are. If you don’t mind, sir, none of my men have seen a bed or a regular meal or a shower since we landed. You mind if we get ’em settled in first?”
Allstrong squinted through the wind at Evan, then looked over to the small line of Humvees, with their M60 Vietnam-era machine guns mounted on their roofs, exhausted-looking and dirty men standing behind them. Coming back to Evan, he nodded and pointed to the trailer on his right. “Bring ’em on up and park over there. It’s dorm style. Find an empty spot and claim it. Showers are all yours. Dinner’s at eighteen hundred hours, forty minutes from now. Think your men can make it?”
Evan tamped down a smile. “Nobody better stand in their way, sir.”
“Nobody’s gonna.” Allstrong cocked his head. “Well, get ’em started, then.”
I
T HAD COME TO DARKNESS
outside through the windows, but even inside, the noise never seemed to end. Planes took off and landed at all times. Beyond that constant barrage of white noise, Evan was aware of the hum of generators and the barking of dogs.
He’d gotten his men fed and settled and now he sat in a canvas-backed director’s chair in the spacious double-wide room at the end of a trailer that served as one of Allstrong’s personal offices. His gaze went to the walls, one of which was filled with a large map. On the other, commendation and service plaques, along with half a dozen photographs with recognizable politicians, attested to what must have been Allstrong’s illustrious military career—his host had been Delta Force, finally mustering out as a full-bird colonel in the Army. He’d received two Purple Hearts and the Distinguished Service Cross. No sign of marriage or family.
Evan, taking Allstrong’s measure as he pulled a bottle of Glenfiddich from what appeared to be a full case of the stuff behind his desk, put his age as late thirties. He had an open face and smiled easily, although the mouth and eyes didn’t seem in perfect sync with one another. The eyes tended to dart, as though Allstrong was assessing his surroundings at all times. Which, now that Evan thought of it, probably made sense after a lifetime in theaters of war. Allstrong wore what he’d been wearing when they’d met outside—combat boots, camo pants, a black turtleneck. He free-poured a stiff shot into a clear plastic cup, handed it over to Evan, and splashed a couple of inches into a cup of his own. Pulling another director’s chair over, he sat down. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” he said.
“It’s not bullshit,” Evan said. “They weren’t expecting us.”
“Two hundred and ninety-seven men and they didn’t know you were coming?”
“That’s correct.”
“So what did you do? What did they do?”
“They had us camp just about on the tarmac at a holding station in Kuwait. We had all our gear with us. They put us on the ground until they figured out what we were here for.”
Allstrong shook his head, either in admiration or disbelief. “I love this glorious Army,” he said. “Who’s the commander down there? Still Bingham?”
“That was the name.”
“So you’re telling me they had you weekend warriors running your asses off stateside—hustling you out of your day jobs, rushing you through training—then packed you up in a 737, flew nonstop for twenty-two hours, Travis to Kuwait—and it’s all hurry up! move it! we need you over here!—and you get here and nobody knows you’re coming?”
“That’s right.”
“So what’d they do?”
“You know Camp Victory?” This was a sand-swept safe zone five miles north of Kuwait City where the Army had erected five enormous tents to hold overflow troops.
“Camp Victory!” Allstrong barked a laugh. “That kills me!” He drank off some scotch, coughed, shook his head. “And I thought I’d heard it all. How long before they found out who you were?”
“We camped there for a week.”
“Christ. A week. So how’d you wind up here? What happened to the rest of your unit?”
Evan took a good hit of his own drink. For a few months after he’d graduated from college, he’d put away a lot of beer, but since joining the police force a few years ago, he’d been at most a light social drinker. Here and now, though, his first sip of real alcohol, though technically forbidden while he was on duty (always), seemed appropriate and even earned. “I don’t know,” he said. “Most of ’em are probably still back in Kuwait, working on the HETs they eventually found.” These were the heavy-equipment transporters that hauled 2
1
/2-to 5-ton cargo trucks and other massive ordnance and equipment from the Iraqi or Kuwaiti air bases where they’d been delivered to where they were supposed to get used in the field. Evan’s National Guard unit, the 2632d Transportation Company out of San Bruno, California, was actually a medium transportation unit that had been trained to move troops and equipment.
“So what happened to you guys? The nine of you.”
The drink was kicking in quickly. Evan felt his body relaxing and leaned back into his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Well, that was just dumb or bad luck, one of the two. Once Bingham found the fleet of HETs, it turned out most of ’em didn’t work. Heat, sand, four months without maintenance, you name it. So about half the guys got assigned to repair-and-rebuild work, and Bingham farmed out the rest of us wherever he needed somebody. I was a cop back home, and prior service enlisted with the infantry, plus I was the only guy with any crew-served-weapons experience, so Bingham had a convoy going to Baghdad and me and my men got assigned gun-truck support.”
“So your other guys, they’re cops too?”
“No. I’m the only cop, and the only one trained on the M60, if you don’t count the forty-five minutes of instruction we all got before they sent us out.”
“Now you are shitting me.”
Evan held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“Jesus,” Allstrong said. “So where do you guys stand now?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what’s your mission? What are you doing tomorrow, for example?”
Evan sipped his scotch, shrugged his shoulders. “No clue. I check in with Colonel Calliston tomorrow morning at oh eight hundred and find out, I suppose. I don’t see him sending us back to our unit, although that’s what I’m going to request. The men aren’t too hot on this convoy duty, maybe wind up getting shot at. That wasn’t in the original plan.”
A small knowing chuckle came from Allstrong’s throat. “Well, Lieutenant, welcome to the war. Plans are what you work with before you get there. They give you the illusion you’ve got some control, and you don’t.”
“I’m getting a sense of that,” Evan replied. “So the short answer is I don’t know what’s happening tomorrow, or next week, or anything. We seem to be the lost company.”
Allstrong stood up with his drink and walked over to the map. Staring at it for a few seconds, he spoke back over his shoulder. “Maybe I can talk to Bill. Calliston. Get you and your men assigned to us. How’d you like that?”
“Staying on here?”
“Yeah.”
“Doing what?”
Allstrong turned. “Well, that’s the bad news. We’d want you to support our own convoy trucks, but there’s a lot fewer of them and we’re not afraid to drive faster if we need to.”
“Where to?”
“Mostly Baghdad and back, but we’re hoping to open offices at other bases near Fallujah and Mosul too. Wherever we can get work and beat damn Custer Battles to the punch.”
“Custer Battles?”
“New guys. Contractors like us and kicking ass at it. They got the other half of this airport gig and they’re going for everything else we are. I’m thinking of having their people killed.” Evan nearly choked on his drink as Allstrong came forward with a laugh. “That’s a joke, Lieutenant, or mostly a joke. Anyway, as you might have noticed, we’re staffing up here. In a couple of months, this place will be hopping. Calliston’s going to want to assign us some protection in any event. I figured you guys are already here. It’s a good fit. Besides, over time, it’s only going to get safer here, I mean the road between Baghdad and BIAP.”
“You mean, the one known as RPG Alley?”
Allstrong smiled. “You heard that one already, huh?”
“Rocket-propelled-grenade alley just doesn’t sound all that safe.”
“It’s going to get better.”
Evan wasn’t about to argue with his host. “You guys don’t do your own security?” he asked. “I thought guys like you were guarding Bremer.” This was L. Paul “Jerry” Bremer, head of the Coalition Provisional Authority, or CPA, who had set up headquarters to administrate infrastructure and the economy and all nonmilitary aspects of the occupation in Hussein’s Republican Palace in Baghdad a couple of weeks before.
Allstrong chortled again. “Yeah. True. Another absurd moment. Guys like us protect civilians and admin staff, but we’re not supposed to carry heavy arms, so the military needs to guard our convoys.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“Isn’t it? Anyway, if you’re interested, I could put in a call to Bill. At least get you guys attached here. Call it a short-term home.”
“That might be a start to belonging somewhere,” Evan said. “Sure. Call him.”
