John Lescroart (29 page)

“What?”

“It doesn't all revolve around you.”

“I
think I was a little hard on him.” Hardy clinked his martini glass against David Freeman's.

In theory, he'd given up martinis at lunch about ten years before, but he always made an exception at Sam's. He'd walk through the door, there would be the old, tiny dark-wood bar, the male waiters in tuxedos, the buzz of busy people fortifying themselves with honest food for a productive afternoon. And suddenly the thought of not having one martini would always seem to be an unnecessary denial of one of his life's great pleasures.

Hardy hadn't missed a day of work because of alcohol in half a dozen years, and a martini wasn't going to slow him down this afternoon. So he ordered—Bombay Sapphire gin, up, very dry, one olive, and ice cold in a chilled glass.

Freeman didn't agonize half as much as Hardy. Hell, he didn't agonize at all. He was standing, waiting at the bar, when Hardy entered. Nodding in approval at the order, he said he'd have the same, and raised his glass when Hardy raised his own. “I'm sure he had it coming.”

Hardy broke a cragged grin. “So here's to tough love, huh?”

“Or failing that, just plain tough.”

Both men sipped appreciatively. A waiter informed them that their booth was ready. He would carry their drinks for them.

Sam's was already a popular San Francisco lunch spot by the turn of the twentieth century, and though it had changed some, it still retained a bit of the feel of a private men's club, with a public dining area in the main room. A side room provided more privacy, with booths along
both walls that could be closed off by curtains, and it was to one of these that the men repaired.

McNeil hadn't arrived yet. It was possible that he might not show up at all, although Hardy had kept his invitation vague enough to whet his client's curiosity—had Manny Galt agreed to a settlement already? McNeil had been so anxious for it that he'd called a postdawn meeting yesterday. He would want to know right away, but he might also wonder why Hardy couldn't just leave a message. He would make the meeting if he could.

But in the meantime, there was plenty to talk about, and Hardy tried to keep the excitement out of his voice as he filled Freeman in on the unexpected appearance of Dash Logan again, this time in his murder case.

The old man, pensive, twirled the stem of his glass. “Russian insurance fraud?” He was frowning. “Sounds like the kind of work he'd like.”

“The guy is everywhere. I find it pretty intriguing.”

“Depressing is more like it.”

“Maybe more than that.” Hardy sipped gin, put his glass down. “I can't shake the feeling he's going to show up around Cole Burgess.”

Freeman was shaking his head from side to side. “I doubt it.”

“I'll give you a scenario. Logan wasn't being cooperative—the judge told me this—when Elaine came to do her special master work. Dash wouldn't show her where his files she needed were. If she wanted to pull them, she'd have to find them first.”

“Have I already called him an asshole?” Freeman muttered.

Hardy nodded. “Several times. So Elaine just turned herself loose in his office, going through everything. And she found something she wasn't supposed to see.”

Freeman almost choked on his drink. “You're saying you think Logan killed Elaine because of that?”

“Or one of the Russians. Or another of his clients.”

“You've been watching too many movies.”

“All I'm saying is we can make the argument and drag our friend Dash through the mud pretty good, and I know that would make some people at this table very happy.” He shrugged. “At least it's somebody to point at, David. Something the jury might want to think about.”

Freeman wasn't convinced. “Don't get me wrong, Diz, I love the concept,” he said, “but it's pure speculation. Maybe she saw something and then maybe somebody killed her because of it. I don't think so. No judge would let you introduce it at trial.”

Hardy didn't pursue it further, though—his client had arrived. As McNeil slid in beside him in the booth, it was clear he was both surprised and unhappy to find another guest at the table. Freeman had no real business being there, and when McNeil realized that he wasn't one of Hardy's old friends he'd spontaneously asked to lunch—no, he wanted to talk about McNeil's case!—he was as close to hostile as Hardy had ever seen him.

As always at Sam's, the waiter came by immediately. McNeil saw the other two glasses and ordered a martini, too, vodka. If not for that—the brief defusing hiatus—Hardy thought he might not have stayed. The pressure he'd been under recently threatened to escape in an explosion—the blood was up in his face. When he turned to Hardy, there was nothing but anger. “You're trying to bring somebody else into my case at this stage? What kind of bullshit is this? I thought I told you it was over. We were settling. And whatever, it was all confidential.”

“It is, Rich. David knows nothing about the facts of the case itself.”

“He'd better not.”

Freeman wasn't inclined to stop himself from jumping in, and he did. “I'm here to tell you about one of
my
cases. Not the facts. The way it's being handled.”

“And I'm going to care?”

“Yes, sir, I believe you will.”

McNeil's florid face showed no sign of softening. He shot a glare again at Hardy, then took in Freeman with his
rheumy basset eyes, his rumpled brown suit, the shaving stains on his shirt collar, the tufts of hair growing from the tops of his earlobes. “This pisses me off,” he said. Unexpectedly, he grabbed at the curtain and violently pulled it closed. “All right, I'm listening.”

Hardy let Freeman talk and as always he was impressed by the man's brilliance. Although Hardy had tried to leave out specific facts in his recital of McNeil's problems to David, he was sure he'd let a few slip out in the telling. By contrast, Freeman told his own client's story completely without reference to the details of the case.

It was a masterly performance. Freeman told Rich that he had a client with both civil and criminal cases pending. The leverage of one against the other. The offer to drop the criminal charges in return for a cash settlement. Finally, the name Dash Logan. The similarities in the
logistics, not the facts,
of his—McNeil's—case. And Hardy, by the way, would never have mentioned anything at all about Rich if Freeman hadn't first acquainted him with everything he had just recounted.

By the time the story ended, McNeil had cooled. A long silence followed, during which the waiter returned, drew back the curtain, delivered Rich's drink and took their lunch orders—sweetbreads for Freeman, sand dabs for Hardy and McNeil.

“Wine?” Freeman asked. “ABC? Everybody okay with that?”

“Don't know it,” McNeil said.

“Anything but chardonnay,” Hardy explained.

And finally his client smiled, Hardy thinking Freeman the goddamned genius. “Yeah,” Rich said, “sure, sounds good.”

 

“Is one of you gentlemen a Mr. Hardy?”

He looked up. “Yes.” He hated this—someone tracking him down at lunch. It could only be bad news, an emergency, a disaster. And he wondered where the Beck got it?

The waiter was the soul of professional deference. “Your office called. Do you know someone at St. Mary's Hospital? They're trying to get in touch with you. You left your pager at the office, and evidently your cell phone is turned off.”

“Thanks.” He used his napkin. There was no need to panic. “I'll be right back.”

Hardy followed the waiter through the main dining room—empty tables now for the most part—up to the bar. A large delivery truck had pulled into the alley by the front door, blocking any view, casting the room in shadow. As they handed him the phone, a large pallet of something fell outside with a tremendous crash. Even the bartender jumped.

Glitsky was dead. He knew it.

He called information for the number, let them connect it for him for an extra thirty-five cents. He didn't trust his brain to hold the number for the time it would take him to punch it in. “You have a patient named Abraham Glitsky.”

“One moment, please. He's in the ICU. I'm not sure he'll be able to take your call. Please hold.”

His heart was clogging his throat. He cleared it. It made no difference. They were playing “Feelings” in his ear while he was on hold. It didn't make the wait any shorter.

The operator came back on. “I'm sorry, sir, what was the name again?”

“Dismas Hardy,” he said, tempted to add, “What's yours, Phyllis?”

“No,” she said, “the patient?”

“Abe Glitsky. He wasn't in the ICU last night. He had a room with another man.”

She couldn't have cared less. “The computer has him in the ICU. It doesn't say he's left it.”

“Do you think you could maybe call the nurses' station there and check? Maybe someone would remember where they moved him if he's not still there.”

“Oh, that's a good idea,” she said brightly. “Please hold again. Sorry.”

. . . feelings, oh, oh, oh . . .

Then, finally, a tone, a ring. Someone picking it up. “Glitsky. Hello.”

For a minute, he felt light-headed with the rush of relief. “Did you call me?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were having all kinds of tests and stuff today.”

“That was this morning. It all went like a top, in case you were wondering.”

“I haven't thought about anything else all day,” he said. “Except just now I was sure you were dead.”

“Nope,” he said. “But somebody else is.”

“Who's that?”

“Cullen Leon Alsop, former famous snitch. Diz, you still there?”

“Yeah. How?”

“OD. Uncut heroin. He got OR'd”—released on his own recognizance—“yesterday afternoon and I guess he thought it'd be fun to go out and celebrate.”

“How did you find out?”

“Ridley Banks called me here. He was slightly upset. This kind of majorly complicates Cole Burgess for him and it's been a mess from the beginning. He didn't like it when Cullen came up with the gun story before and he doesn't like this even more.”

“I don't, either.”

“I didn't think you would. Which is why I wanted you to know right away.”

“Would he talk to me? Banks?”

“He's a public servant. I don't see why not.”

“Perhaps because the last cop who talked to me got himself suspended? That would be one reason.”

“Maybe you can wear a disguise?”

“Or fake a heart attack, appear feeble and harmless. Speaking of which, I appreciate the call, but are you sure you should be working already?”

Glitsky didn't say anything for a long while. Then: “Maybe somebody else did kill her, Diz. I'm going to find out.”

“Not if you die first.”

“Then I'll make sure I don't.”

 

The thing about Freeman that Hardy found so continually impressive was not only that his personal arsenal was so huge but that he could pull out any weapon from it at the moment of its peak effectiveness. At the precise instant, he'd managed to become both Rich McNeil's drinking buddy and his father confessor, even going so far as to pull the curtain again to shield them.

After Hardy pulled it back, he saw that Freeman had ordered a second bottle of Pinot Grigio and they'd already put a significant dent in it, the two of them having moved from hostility to something approaching intimacy in about a quarter of an hour. McNeil was leaning back into the wall of the booth, the earlier tomato-red flush of anger having softened to a rosy glow. He'd loosened his tie, undone his top button.

Hardy got settled in next to him and poured himself some ice water.

“Rich was just telling me an interesting story,” Freeman said. “Do you know Gene Visser?”

“Used to be a cop? Sure, though I don't know what he's doing lately.”

“Now he's a private eye. You'll never guess who he works with.”

Hardy could figure it out. His eyebrows went up. He turned to Rich. “How did you meet him?”

McNeil lifted his glass, drank off another half inch. “He came to me one day last week at the office. Said he'd been doing some work for Mr. Logan, didn't want to see us get involved in a lot of ugly accusations.”

Freeman chuckled without mirth. “We can bring this to the bar, and I'm going to. But I'm sorry, Rich, you go on.”

The expression was apologetic. “I should have told you, Diz. I just thought it would be easiest to bail out. I'm just so tired of all this.”

“What?”

McNeil sighed from his shoes. “Fifteen, eighteen years ago, I fucked up, got involved with another woman. My secretary. Stupid, stupid, stupid.” Pure disgust. He sipped wine. “Anyway, I did it. She got pregnant, had the child. Sally found out. It was awful, but we worked it out. It was awful,” he repeated. “And the girl, Linda . . . hell, it wasn't her fault . . . anyway, I wound up having to let her go, essentially paid her off out of our own savings, got her set up with another job . . .”