Glitsky 01 - Certain Justice, A (55 page)

'Yes, sir.' Rigby waited.

Yesterday, after a series of referrals from cowardly lesser city bureaucrats had moved the request along to his office, the mayor had had a long and heated discussion with Philip Mohandas about the wisdom of his projected march on City Hall. The mayor pointed out the concessions he had already made – the increased reward on Kevin Shea, the appointment of Alan Reston. The city was genuinely trying to respond. The mayor, through his man Donald, had even gotten wind of the Hunter's Point deal and knew that Mohandas was still in the pipeline for administration of that pork barrel. What did the man want? Wasn't it ever enough? And Mohandas had replied that all he wanted was a permit to allow his people peaceably to assemble, as guaranteed by the United States Constitution.

Deaf to by arguments about the potential for violence, the inflammatory nature of the demand for Kevin Shea's head, as well as the difficulty in meeting that demand even with the best of intentions, Mohandas had informed the mayor he was going ahead with the march. His people deserved it. With or without the permit, the application for which had led to this meeting in the first place.

'Without a permit, the gathering will be illegal,' Aiken had warned. 'I could order and enforce dispersal, even your own arrest. Extend the curfew, declare martial law, and if you think things are bad now...'

'I understand all that,' Mohandas had said.

In the end Conrad Aiken – feeling a little like Pontius Pilate – had decided he could not issue the permit. The rally, gathering, whatever it was, might go ahead, but it would be without his imprimatur. His threats, he knew, were bluffs. He wasn't going to make a bad situation worse by calling up more reinforcements.

But until Rigby's call, Aiken was hoping against hope that Mohandas would – for once – not push things beyond their limits, that he would see the light and act responsibly. Now, clearly, that was not going to happen. The crowd, according to Rigby, was already at about two thousand and the streets surrounding Kezar were packed.

Well, Aiken was thinking, it could be Mohandas had heard at least a little of what he had been saying. The man wasn't budging on pushing his agenda, but there was one sign of conciliation, even in his intractability. At least Mohandas had not gone public with the mayor's decision not to issue the permit – not yet.

'My advice, sir,' the chief was saying, 'is we watch it closely, but I think to try and stop things at this point would be to invite a disaster. Permit or no permit.'

The mayor swore and the chief agreed with him.

And then the horrible, ugly, unbelievable reality struck Aiken like a club. Suddenly he
knew
the strategy Mohandas was contemplating ... he was saving the news that the mayor had refused to grant permission for this march for greater effect as the rally progressed. And that would let loose the furies.

Aiken could not allow that to happen – not only would it ignite the volatile crowd, it would be a political disaster. How had he overlooked this possibility while he was talking to Mohandas yesterday? He'd simply wanted to have the march not happen – he'd had enough of riots and this was certain to become another one. He'd been trying to do what was right and keep the city from another explosion of violence and rage. He'd really thought there had been a chance that Mohandas might call it off. Yesterday, Aiken had needed his no-permit stance as a fallback for those who would accuse him of irresponsibility for condoning the march at this critical time.

But it was going to backfire on him. He saw it clearly now. Mohandas was going to exploit his refusal to issue the permit in the worst possible light, and make the mayor into a racist, the worst epithet there was for a San Francisco politician.

He could not let it happen.

Dan Rigby was still on the line, waiting for instructions. 'Chief,' Aiken said, 'I think you're right about not interfering unless there's trouble, but I'm going to go you one better. I'm going to issue the permit.'

'Look at this!'

Melanie was peeping through the apartment's front window at the mass of movement below. Kevin came up behind her and rested his hand gently on her rear end, leaning over to look.

'It's Mohandas's rally,' he said. They had both heard about it on television. 'Wes better come through here. If I'm not mistaken, this whole thing is about finding us.'

Melanie turned around, pulling the shade down all the way. 'You want to call him now?'

Kevin thought about it. 'He said nine. But yeah, I do.'

'So do it.'

Kevin would be calling precisely at nine o'clock, so Wes thought he'd take care of Bart, get that out of the way early. He made it all the way down the stairs into the apartment's lobby, didn't even hear the phone ring this time.

Special Agent Simms was back in the van with two techs and one marksman. She had decided to keep one of the shooters on hand at all times – there might not be time to round up both.

After the close call at Pizzaiola, she had not been able to sleep until nearly three in the morning. She had given instructions that
any
call to Wes Farrell, no matter how mundane, and from whatever source, was sufficient grounds to awaken her.

There had been none.

The last call had been long before sleep came, the warning that his phone was being tapped, from some leak somewhere. It infuriated her. Too often somebody discovered these things. She thought the penalty for exposing a secret tap to its mark should be death, but Special Agent Simms thought that, under certain conditions, the penalty for jay-walking should be death, too.

The good news was that Farrell had not unplugged his phone. He hadn't even taken it off the hook. It was possible, she supposed, that he didn't believe it was tapped. Some people were that way – you could tell them you were sleeping with their spouse and they'd smile and say they didn't believe their spouse would ever be unfaithful. He/she just wasn't that kind of person.

More realistically, though, and her real hope, was that Farrell had no way to get in touch with Shea except by phone. It was their only link, and he'd have to use it at least once. She was also counting on the public's perception – no longer true – that you had to stay on the line for a reasonably long period of time before they could pinpoint a location for either party. Maybe Farrell was thinking he'd keep it quick if Shea called him, get him off in ten seconds or so. But that would be enough.

And, in that ten seconds, they'd have to make arrangements about how to connect again, wouldn't they? And it would all be on the tape here in the van.

They'd get him. It wouldn't be long now.

With three separate telephone numbers, each with its own answering machine, Loretta Wager could be here and gone at the same time at any moment of the day or night.

Last night, for example, she had been here for Alan Reston, gone for Glitsky. She didn't feel good about what had to happen with Abe, but she would make it up to him when this was all over. In a way, she loved his tenacity – but she couldn't have even Abe compromising her position right now. If he could just be made to leave things alone until this was over they could pick up where they were. And she thought that might even be by tonight. Reston had brought her up to date on the Wes Farrell phone tap, and the assumption was that the FBI would be able to move by sometime this morning at the latest.

After Abe had left her at City Hall, when she had called Reston's
real
number (not the one she had randomly punched in while Glitsky was standing there) and talked to Alan about Glitsky's request that she step in and straighten out the new DA's head – there really wasn't much discussion about whether or not to complain to Chief Rigby and put the lieutenant out of commission, temporarily. It had to happen.

Once that was done, she fully expected to get a call or two from Abe. And she simply wouldn't be available. She had pulled her curtains, turned out the front lights. If he drove by to see her she wouldn't be home. She didn't think that if he came by he would wait all night, but if he did she had a story for that too – exhaustion, earplugs, a Dalmane.

But he had not come over, had simply phoned twice and left messages and that had been that. He was a man's man, she was thinking. He wouldn't come whining to her about his problems. She liked that about him, too.

He'd simply wait until they were together again, she believed. He'd bring up his questions about where she'd been – not in any accusatory way – what reason to accuse her of anything? – and she would come up with something plausible that had unexpectedly prevented her getting back to him. There were any number of excuses that she knew she could make him believe. He was upset and she couldn't blame him, but she just couldn't talk to him until after...

Drinking her morning coffee, now having decided it was safe to open the curtains, she allowed herself a moment of repose. She had decisions to make about who she was going to call back – her daughter and the mayor had both left urgent messages, but five minutes wasn't going to make any difference.

There was, she thought, something truly thrilling about physical infatuation. She was thinking back to when he'd been her young stud at San Jose State, how – remarkably – his body hadn't changed much at all. The chest had filled, broadened somewhat, but the belly was still a flatiron.

There would be such sweet – bittersweet – irony if they could somehow, against all these odds, stay reconnected. She smiled unconsciously. On the desk at City Hall... the man was a piston.

But more than that, she loved how he seemed truly to envision himself as such a pragmatist, a working cop, downplaying the brain of the Talmudic scholar that she knew his father was. And really such an idealist. If he only knew the truth of some of the hard – impossible at the time – choices she had had to make ...

Maybe sometime in the future she could let him know. When it would either matter more or not at all. Later, if their infatuation developed into the real thing. She was so incredibly moved by his sweet trust of her.

Would he ever forgive her?

Well, after this she would make it up to him. She'd try. She owed him that much for the part of him she had carried with her, lived with over the years. And the other part now – the one that she had found again.

'What is it, honey? You sounded so upset.'

Elaine had been righting herself over it, and in the end blood had won out. She had to talk to her mother – she couldn't just take Glitsky's word for something so important – and get a straight denial or a confirmation. Either way, then, she would know, and would better be able to act. Her mother would never lie to her.

Loretta answered her that she didn't know why Abe would have said such things to her. 'I just saw him last night, honey. He told me about this and I passed it along to Alan Reston. Didn't he tell you that?'

'He said you didn't call him back.'

'That's true, but how could I? I didn't get home until nearly one – I was out with a couple of the supervisors' aides, trying to work out the administration of this Hunter's Point thing. I've got a few other things besides Lieutenant Glitsky on my mind just now, hon. I think Abe must be feeling the pressure. I've got to talk to him. Is he there now?'

'No, he's gone over to Farrell's. I just wanted to know what you'd do..."

'It sounds to me you're doing just right, Elaine. I'd do the same thing. If Abe can bring you Kevin Shea and you can guarantee his safety, then of course you've got to do it. That's all I've called for time and time again – the man's arrest.'

'That's all you want?'

'What else could I want, child?'

'Even if he's innocent?'

'Of course.
Especially
if he's innocent, which I don't think he is, mind you. I think Abe might be losing his perspective a little bit. If you hear from him, you have him call me, hear? Get this boy back on the right track.'

'All right, Mom ... I will.'

'And as for you, I'd be a little careful.' Loretta went on about the pitfalls of abandoning procedures, then ended: 'All right, now you take care, I've got to talk to the mayor. You need anything else, just jingle me back, okay?'

Damn damn
damn
you, Abe Glitsky! You don't know what you're messing with.

'So I thought, Senator, that you might be able to put the best perspective on this oversight by personally delivering the permit to Mr Mohandas. I mean, the whole point of the rally is to protest the city's foot-dragging. I thought you could offset that...'

'I think you're right, Conrad. If you want the truth, I don't think I would have approved the permit on this thing yesterday either if I were in your shoes. That's off the record now, but I believe you did the right thing. Now, though, since the rally seems to be going forward ...'

'I could send a limo. Be there in fifteen minutes with the signed permit.'

'If you could make it a half hour I'd look a little better on television.' She laughed conspiratorially.

'Thank you, Senator. I don't know how to thank you, but I'll remember this.'

'Oh, nonsense, Conrad. It just gives me an excuse to say a few words in public, and you know I just live for those moments.' She laughed her deep, throaty, self-deprecating laugh.