Glitsky 01 - Certain Justice, A (31 page)

'I don't know what it is, probably age, like everything else. I used to feel it, chatter my teeth, all of that. On the other hand, it could be I'm just anesth ... anesth ...' He broke a weary smile. 'Fucked up. Never could say that word, even sober.' He sipped his coffee. 'Right at this moment, for the record, I'm halfway back to sober, I think. Haven't had a drink in two three hours.'

Glitsky nodded.

'This is not a problem for me, I hope it's not for you.' Glitsky shrugged as his tea arrived in a cracked brown mug to match Farrell's. 'But enough about me,' the lawyer said, 'I want to tell you a story.'

'That's why I'm here.' Glitsky sipped his tea.

Farrell started to talk, quietly, now with no trace of a slur.

'That's what
he
says.' Glitsky, to be saying something, did not want to come across as gullible, but even wearing his most cynical hat, he still believed every word he had just heard.

Farrell, holding the high ground, did not need to push. 'You have any evidence that refutes it, any of it?'

"The picture seems to.'

'You got it here?'

Glitsky did not, but there was a newspaper behind the bar and Farrell leaned over and pulled it from the counter. 'Let's glance at this puppy a minute, what do you say?'

For not even close to the first time, Glitsky was face-to-face with the ultimate truism of observation – you saw what you expected to see. Now, looking at the picture that was convicting Kevin Shea all over the country, but with different eyes, Glitsky only saw what Farrell had described – Shea was grimacing with the weight of holding Wade up. He wasn't pulling him down, he was trying to save his life.

There were tiny clues, visible if you knew what to look for, if you were so inclined. The manner in which Wade's shirt was bunched, for example. If Shea had been pulling down, wouldn't one expect the shirt to be pulled taut to the body? And the rope, did Glitsky see the actual rope? Not much of it was visible in the picture – a few inches – but what there was did not seem to be perpendicular to the ground, which it assuredly would have been if it were holding the weight of two men.

And then, and most convincingly, there were the knife wounds. The information hadn't been released to the press. No one had even admitted to having one – Glitsky hadn't yet heard about Colin Devlin and Carl Griffin. They didn't officially exist – the very possibility of someone having a knife wound was part of Abe's mix, not the public's. They were one of his secrets, one of the little tricks that experienced policemen liked to trot out and go 'boo!' with. And now Farrell had preempted him on them, told him all about them, how they fit the picture.

Kevin Shea had had to cut his way through the crowd. He had slashed at the men closest to Arthur Wade. He was sure he had cut some of them. There had been blood.

And Arthur Wade had died of
asphyxiation
, which Glitsky knew from the coroner. He had not had his neck pulled on.

His tea had long ago gone cold. 'Well, Mr Farrell, I'd say you've got yourself a pretty good story.'

'It's not a story, Lieutenant. It's what happened. Kevin Shea is, if anything, a hero in all of this.'

Glitsky was thinking hard, not committing. If this were a normal case, if every media outlet in the Bay Area, if not the country, hadn't already run stories on the heinous life and career of the arch-bigot Kevin Shea, he would simply bring Farrell across the street and have a talk with the DA or Chief Rigby . . .

Hell, he was the head of homicide. He'd just be tempted to interview Shea and recommend the DA drop the whole thing right there. If it could be verified, and Farrell's knowledge of the knife wounds came close to meeting his criteria for that.

If this were a normal case ...

'What's funny?'

Glitsky glanced sideways. 'Not much.'

'You looked amused.'

'Oh yeah. I'm often amused. Do you have any idea how much energy has been invested in your client being guilty?'

'Some. He's a little more on top of it than I am.'

'Where is he?'

'I don't know.'

Glitsky shot him a look.

'I don't know,' he repeated. 'He calls me. The boy's got a doubting nature, thinks I might turn him in for the rewards and he might not be all wrong on the right day.'

'I'd like to talk to him.'

'I could probably arrange that.'

'He should bring himself in.'

'That might be a little trickier. He's pretty convinced that if he gives himself up before this gets turned around somehow, he's dead.'

'He's being paranoid, you should tell him that. We've got protective custody, solitary—'

'Lieutenant, excuse me. We're doing fine here together, don't start bullshitting me now. You and I know, somebody wants to kill him, and we can assume somebody would for a hundred grand, he's gone. Jail or no jail. And he doesn't want to go to jail period. He didn't do anything wrong. What he wants is to get the word out. He saw you on the tube saying you needed some evidence, he thought you'd be the man.'

Glitsky consciously controlled his face. 'I'd be the man?'

'Get it to the DA, broaden the net, take it off him.'

Thinking of Elaine, Glitsky nodded. 'I can try that, but I'd still like to interview him.'

'He'd still be under arrest, though, wouldn't he?'

'Well, that's the grand jury, the indictment...'

'Can you quash the indictment?'

'Not at this stage. It's not in my province, anyway. The DA's got to withdraw the charges, which, look, you bring him down – backdoor it, I'll get him in to the DA personally. He'll listen, we'll go over the evidence we've got.'

'I don't think so. It's not about evidence. Not any more.'

To which Glitsky had no response. Farrell was right.

Lou came around to see if either wanted a refill and both declined. Behind them, the room was close to its capacity, elbow-to-elbow with the trade.

'And meanwhile,' Glitsky said, 'the city keeps on burning.'

"That's not my client's fault, Lieutenant. If he could stop it, he would. He's a good kid.'

This was an unexpected direction. 'He is? You know him personally?'

'We took some classes together,' Farrell said. 'He's a regular guy, normal as you and me.'

'So what's all this broken family, deep-South bigot, unstable personality?'

'That, sir, is quite possibly a young woman that Mr Shea had the bad fortune to sleep with and then tire of...'

Glitsky raised his eyebrows.

'... either that or the media needing to fill air time or blank paper.'

Glitsky had heard both explanations in different contexts too often before to be surprised, but the way they both fit in here – the hand in glove of it... he shook his head, nearly gagging on the last of his tea. 'How do I reach you?' he asked.

'I don't know when Kevin will get in touch with me, but when he does, I'll call you. Then we'll see where we go from there.'

Glitsky stood up. 'I'll do what I can.'

'You know, Lieutenant, I believe you.'

'Elaine.'

Alan Reston came around the desk – only yesterday it had been Chris Locke's desk – with his arms outstretched to greet her. She rested her leather satchel next to her feet and stood, close to attention, letting him put his arms around her, raising hers to enclose him lightly because it would have been more awkward not to. He did not press her to him, though, merely held her an instant and let go, as an old friend might. Establishing that they were old friends, reminding her. 'This is a terrible business.'

'Yes, it is.'

'And losing Christopher Locke...' He didn't seem to have anywhere to go with that and let it hang in the room between them. Another bond. Chris Locke. His face twitched, out of nerves or fatigue, and he blurted, 'I'm glad you've come down. I was going to try to get by your office earlier, say hello but' – motioning to the papers piled on his desk – 'as you can see...'

'That's all right, Alan. It's okay if I still call you Alan?'

'Elaine .. .come on. Of course I'm Alan.' His grin came on and he started to reach out to touch her on the arm but stopped midway. 'Can I get you something, anything? You want to sit down?'

During her mother's first senate campaign, when she had still been a teenager, Alan Reston had been a jerk. In his mid-twenties at the time, and engaged (he was now married to the same woman), with a rich father and an ingratiating manner, Alan had an unshakable belief in his attractiveness to the opposite sex.

On the night of her mother's election, and emboldened by cognac, he had wagged his ding-a-ling in front of Elaine Wager in what he had thought was some kind of charming, harmless, celebratory way. He really seemed to think – or so he acted – that this was an acceptable mating ritual. After all, there was this obvious mutual attraction and they had been campaigning together and there was no reason ... why, what was the matter? Didn't she know what this was for? What it was?

She had looked down and replied that it looked like a penis, only smaller.

It was the last time they had seen each other, until now.

She went to the couch and placed her satchel full of workpapers next to her. He pulled one of the wingbacks around to face her, but before he sat down she was talking. 'Have you talked to Art Drysdale? I was just by his office, I thought he might have been here. That's why I came by. I didn't want to bother you.'

'And I'm glad you did. It's no bother.'

She waited. Then, prompting: 'Art Drysdale?'

'That's right, Drysdale. He had a meeting, I believe, with the mayor over at City Hall, something about all this .. . this awkwardness between us. I think your mother was part of it. Smooth the waters.'

'Art doesn't want to be DA, Alan. He really doesn't.'

Reston listed his hands, as though all these things were out of his control, they were just happening. 'I think a couple of his decisions – '

' Jerohm Reese.'

'To name one, yes.'

'What are you going to do about Jerohm?'

'Well, I just hope they don't go too hard on Mr Drysdale. From all I've heard, he's invaluable around here.'

'He is, and I'm the one to blame for Jerohm Reese, not Art. I brought him upstairs on my own authority.'

'And now he's our hot potato.'

'Which is not Art's fault.'

Reston, now taking his seat, spread his palms. The Art Drysdale situation was being resolved at higher levels, it was not his problem. If Drysdale came back he'd work with him. If not, administrators grew on trees. 'Well, Elaine, in any event, you're here now. Maybe I can help you. What were you going to see Art Drysdale about?'

It would have to come to this eventually, she knew, and as she had said to Art, she was the one to bring it up. 'Do you know Abe Glitsky, Lieutenant Glitsky?'

Reston was smiling now, feeling on top of the situation. 'If this is about him stepping on your toes I've already spoken to him.'

'When? About what?'

'An hour ago, maybe a little longer. It's all taken care of, these opinions he's releasing to the media. Chief Rigby and I told him to – what?'

She was shaking her head. 'Not an hour ago. Not that. He was just by my office ten minutes ago.'

'The man gets around.'

'Yes he does, Alan. I think he's trying to get it right.' They sat, staring at one another. The criticism – the challenge was hanging there between them. Reston crossed his legs. 'We all are, Elaine. So what's with the good lieutenant?'

She told him – Glitsky had come straight to her after the meeting with Wes Farrell, supplying her with the gist of it – the details regarding the knife wounds, the revised theory on the second photograph to say nothing of the first, even the explanation that the snitch, Cynthia Taylor, might have been one of Shea's jilted exes.

Reston listened to it all in silence. 'Well,' he said, slapping his hands on his thighs, then standing. 'Well...' Stalling, he walked over to the window, stared at it, shifted from foot to foot.

Elaine spoke to his back. 'Lieutenant Glitsky asked me if we – if the DA's office – might want to review the charges – '

Reston turned quickly around. 'We can't do that.' And then less severe: 'On what grounds?'

'What I've just explained to you.'

'Which is what? An alternative explanation by the suspect's own lawyer? This is supposed to be compelling?'

'Alan, Glitsky isn't—'

'I'm not talking about Glitsky, Elaine. We've got a Grand Jury murder indictment on Kevin Shea, pushed through as I understand it by this office not two days ago, a picture of him in the act of committing the crime ...'

'If it's—'

'No ifs, Elaine. The picture is what it is. It's clear to the whole world.'

'The interpretation might be wrong, Alan. That's all Lieutenant Glitsky was trying to say to me. If we take it to trial – '

Now he was pointing a finger, raising his voice. 'But
we
are the ones who take it to court. Not Lieutenant Glitsky. The DA's office. And I'm hearing nothing that remotely challenges my conviction that Kevin Shea is responsible for this ... for all of this.'