John Lescroart (53 page)

I
n the aftermath of the Cole Burgess hearing, it became apparent that the upheaval from the Elaine Wager case was going to play a critical role in rearranging the city's political landscape for some time to come. When Judge Timothy Hill ordered both Gabe Torrey and Gene Visser remanded into custody as they sat in Department 20, it signaled the beginning of a new era of judicial activism in San Francisco as well as the end of Sharron Pratt's career.

The district attorney, humiliated in both the public sector and her private life, did herself even more damage proving that, as Malraux declared long ago, character is fate. She spent nearly two weeks formulating reasons that feebly tried to explain away her own unconscionable behavior on the night of Elaine's death. Even in San Francisco, these excuses did not play. In early March, abandoned even by her closest advisers and under assault from every imaginable quarter, Sharron Pratt resigned her office and within another week had moved out of the city, reportedly to Albuquerque, where she had family. On the day she resigned, the grand jury formally indicted Gabe Torrey for the murder of Elaine Wager.

The mayor appointed Clarence Jackman—notorious workaholic hard-ass—to fill the position of district attorney until the election in November, which suddenly loomed wide open. Jackman was of course no one's idea of a liberal, but as usual the mayor had his finger on the pulse of the city, and the appointment was greeted with near universal praise. For his own part, Jackman was persuaded to take the job at least partially because he had a falling out with his partner, Aaron Rand, over the latter's
sexual involvement with Elaine Wager soon after his firm had hired her.

One of Jackman's first acts as D.A. was to initiate an investigation of his own office's prior handling of Gironde's subcontractors regarding their minority hiring practices. Although he found that most were not in strict compliance with the city's guidelines, none were so egregiously noncompliant as to trigger the claims of fraud that his predecessor had so vigorously pursued. He dismissed the pending cases, then signed and sent out a couple of dozen warning notices. Within two months, the long-delayed airport construction project was at last ready to go forward. Jackman had answered his critics in his usual, no-nonsense style: “Gironde may not be a charitable organization, but it was the lowest bidder for the project and it won the job fair and square. Now let's let 'em go to work.”

He hired Treya Ghent as his personal assistant—full-time city position with full benefits. Her new employment package gave her seven years' seniority for the time she'd previously worked at the Hall. Her starting pay was nearly twice what she'd been making as a paralegal with Rand & Jackman.

Dear Mom,

It's four months today, exactly 120 days. I know you wanted to come down over Memorial Day, but I think it's better if you don't visit at all. In person, I'm still not who I want to be. In writing, I'm closer. But having you see me during the process, trying to survive, day to day, it wasn't working. I'm sorry, but I'm more comfortable with this. I hope you are.

Anyway, I'm letting myself believe that it isn't going to be too long. Mr. Hardy tells me that with the chronic overcrowding here, the average yearlong only lasts 184 days. They need the cell space. I shouldn't get my hopes up, except they are. If I've only got sixty-four more days, that will be August 2.

Thanks for the offer, but whenever it is when I get out,
I'll be finding my own place. There are programs here—Mr. Hardy laughs at the word, but they're not all bad—that will help get me work someplace when I get out. A lot of it's physical, but that's all right with me. Maybe a gym, something like that.

The point is, I'm clean now. I'm going to stay that way. Start over. Maybe take a class in something. It's a day at a time, just like they say, but I don't think having you there to lean on is going to be any help.

Jeff and Dorothy sent me a birthday card. The kids signed it, too. Maybe you know that. I owe them big-time. If it comes up, tell them how sorry I am for how I treated them. Still am.

I'm at 174 pounds. Today I broke two hundred push-ups.

They just rang for lockdown. Got to go.

Glitsky had gone through the whole administrative fandango and had finally been reinstated in his old job. He worked one floor above Treya in the same building, but they hadn't seen each other in eleven days.

Their last discussion—about whether they should consider having a baby and starting a new family of their own together—had been a little tense. It ended with her walking out of his place well after midnight with no apparent plans to return.

Now, at just after seven on the first day of summer, he stood in the alcove stoop of her apartment house and rang the outside bell and waited. He pushed the button again, waited some more. No response.

“Perfect,” he said.

He turned and went back out onto the sidewalk, looked up and then back down the street. It was a glorious evening, the sky clear blue overhead, the sun casting long shadows—Glitsky was standing in the shade from the apartment buildings across the street. On the warm breeze, he picked up a scent of something delectable from one of the restaurants a few blocks down on Clement—garlic and ginger, pork.

He turned all the way round once, undecided. He could come back. Call. Make an appointment for later.

But no. He knew he had to stay here and wait. It was too important.

He went back and sat on the edge of the stoop. A half dozen physical-fitness types jogged or biked or power-walked by him in various stages of comfort or pain. A couple of guys in a serious discussion walked by with their dog. Four kids appeared from one of the doorways halfway down the block and—shades of Glitsky's own childhood—started a game of stickball in the middle of the street. It wasn't the season, but he caught a whiff of crab.

Finally, he stood up again and walked to the curb. The evening sky had perceptibly darkened—the high clouds shone in purples and pinks. Treya's building was completely in shadow now, and over the rooftops across from him, Venus appeared.

He knew it was her before he could have truly recognized her. Still nearly two full blocks away, she was walking with someone—her daughter?—an arm around her shoulder. Drawing in a breath, Glitsky checked his resolve one last time.

All right. He was going to do this.

He began to walk toward them.

When she saw him, she stopped. Glitsky did, too. Half a block still yawned between them. She turned to Raney and said something. Her daughter responded briefly, reached out a hand and touched her shoulder, then started to move toward Glitsky.

When she came abreast of him, she slowed, met his gaze with a somber one of her own, nodded. “Please be sure,” she said, and then had passed before he could think of anything appropriate to say.

They both came forward. When they'd closed to a couple of yards, they stopped.

He found himself incredibly taken with her physical presence—her hair pulled back severely from the strong, angular face. She was wearing stonewashed jeans and a
sleeveless T-shirt with a New York Yankees logo over the left breast. The shirt seemed to shimmer with her breathing, perhaps her heartbeat.

“I used to hate the Yankees,” he began, “until Derek Jeter.”

Her mouth was tight, but she nodded. “Me, too. But I like them now. Raney bought this for my last birthday. I don't get to wear it too often.”

“No,” Glitsky said. “I don't imagine so.” San Francisco was a sweater town—sleeveless wouldn't be in unless goose bumps became all the rage. He stood impotently before her for another eternity. Finally, he said, “Orel's moving out in two years. He's the last one. I'm done. I've done this.”

“You've only done it with boys. It might be a girl. You haven't done a girl.”

If things had been different. The reference to Elaine hit him powerfully, brought him up short. “I'm fifty-two years old,” he said at last.

“I know that.”

“I'll be seventy-three, minimum, by the time any child we have is twenty. You realize that?”

“Of course. I'll be fifty-four. So what?”

“So a lot of things . . .”

She stared at him expectantly, angrily. “We've already done this part, Abe.”

“I know, I know . . .”

“So if it's the same answer, we don't need to do it again.”

He nodded. Time had completely ceased to exist. He forced his voice to work. “I didn't come here because I had the same answer.”

She waited.

“I came here to say yes if you still . . .” He stopped, tripped up in the words, in wanting to get them perfectly right. “Yes,” was all he could come out with.

Her eyes began to fill and they moved toward each other. His arms closed around her.

“It might be unbelievably hard,” he whispered. “I might not live that long. We might . . .”

She pulled back far enough to put a finger against the scar on his lips. Her eyes bored into his face and a smile tickled the corners of her mouth. “What's your point?” she asked, and shut him up with a kiss.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

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