The First Law (41 page)

“You said it, not me.”

“It’s just what I warned Gerson about.”

“When was that?”

“When this whole thing started, back with Silverman. Right after Wade gave the inspectors his list of suspects.”

A short silence settled; then Hardy said, “Somebody’s got to tell him. Gerson.”

“He doesn’t want to know. At least not from me.”

“How about Clarence?”

“How about him?”

“He’s not going to want to try this thing if the evidence is bogus. You’d be doing him a favor. Plus, he’d listen to you, as opposed to someone else in this room.”

“Why wouldn’t he listen to you?”

Hardy didn’t think he needed to give the complete explanation. “It’s my client, Abe,” he said. “Think about it. You’re an objective third party.”

Glitsky knocked, got Jackman’s “Yes” and opened the door. The DA, reading something at his desk and perhaps thinking it was Treya, looked up in mild, pleasant expectancy. But as soon as he saw Glitsky, his expression hardened by a degree. His eyes went down, then came back up. Flat, controlled. He smiled in a perfunctory way.

Feeling something in the gaze, Glitsky stopped halfway to the desk. “Sorry to bother you, Clarence, but Treya said you might be free, and this is important.”

The smile stayed in place. Jackman gestured at the papers spread around his desk. “Freedom’s relative, Abe, and everything is important. The job is important. What can I do for you?”

“How do you get along with Barry Gerson?”

Jackman took a beat. “You mean professionally? About the same as I did with you when you had his job. Why?”

“Because he’s being used. He’s going to be badly embarrassed. Somebody’s got to get the message to him, and it can’t be me.”

“Why not?”

“He thinks I want his job.”

Jackman pushed himself back a bit, folded his hands on the desk. “You haven’t made that much of a secret, Abe. You’ve told me the same thing ten times in the past year and a half.”

Glitsky took one of the chairs in front of Jackman’s desk. “True. But for some reason he’s thinking I’m interfering with one of his investigations, trying to make him look bad, get him fired or transferred so I can get back in.”

“Why do you think that would be?”

“That’s a long story, but essentially because I’ve asked him for some information on the Silverman homicide, which has turned out to be connected to a few other cases.”

“You’re right.” Jackman delivered it as a surprise. “Gerson is thinking that.”

Glitsky crossed a leg, scratched at his scar. “You’ve talked to him?”

A nod. “Yesterday.” All trace of warmth had left Jackman’s face. “On Sunday. At home. Actually, it was both Lieutenant Gerson and Dan Rigby, conferenced in.”

Glitsky sucked in a breath. Dan Rigby was the chief of police.

Jackman continued. “The chief said that since you and Treya were in my inner circle, as he called it, as is Dismas, maybe I should have a word with some or all of you and see if between us we can bring some reason to bear here. So your dropping in today is fortuitous after all. And, as you say, important.”

His formal smile appeared briefly, then vanished. “The chief mentioned the possibility of filing charges against both you and Diz for conspiracy to obstruct justice in this rash of homicides for which his client—Holiday is it?—has been accused. But the chief thought that in view of your record, your past heroism and so forth, I might be able to exert some influence and get you to stop what he called this misguided campaign to smear Wade Panos.”

Glitsky shook his head in anger and disbelief. “This is not misguided, Clarence. This is real. They shot at Diz. You know what they’ve done to Freeman—you’ve seen him.”

“And that was Panos?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

“And your certainty is based upon what? Incriminating physical evidence?”

At this, Glitsky sat back, planted his elbows on the arms of his chair. A muscle worked at the side of his jaw. “I’ve got a witness,” he said, “who gave them something that strongly indicates that
their
evidence is bogus. I’m assuming that’s what they called about. Sadie Silverman.”

“That’s accurate.” Jackman inclined his head an inch. “Let me ask you this, Abe. Why did you get this witness? What’s your role here? Why are you even involved at all?”

“She came to me, Clarence. Through my father. I didn’t seek her out.”

“All right, grant that. Did you then speak with her about her testimony?”

“I didn’t coach her, if that’s what you’re implying. I heard what she had to say, then told her to call homicide.”

“You didn’t indicate to her that perhaps one of Mr. Panos’s men planted some bogus evidence?”

Glitsky squirmed in the chair, chewed at the inside of his lip.

“I’ll take your silence for a yes.” The DA sighed. “You know, Abe, I hate to say this, but some people seem to think you’re involved in this for your own personal gain.”

“I won’t dignify that with—”

Jackman held up a hand. “If you’re any part of Diz’s team in this lawsuit and he wins, some people think you’d stand to make a bundle. And at the expense of the city and the police department.”

“But I’m not on his team.”

“You haven’t supplied him with information about this lawsuit against Mr. Panos?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Then you’ll admit there’s an appearance.”

“Nobody’s paying me anything, Clarence. Even if they win.”

“I don’t know if I’d brag about that if I were you,” Jackman said. “It doesn’t make you look very astute.” He paused. “But I’m not getting into the truth or falsehood, or even the wisdom, of any of this. I’m simply telling you as a friend that the money motive is plausible to the point of certainty to several men of good will
within the police department.
You are on very, very thin ice here, Abe.”

“Clarence—”

The hand again. “Let me just add a personal note, if I may.” The voice was modulated, controlled, no sign of anger, but Glitsky wasn’t much fooled. This was the sound of Jackman’s purest fury—he’d heard him press for the death penalty with the same inflections. “It’s absolutely true that you and Treya, even Dismas and Gina Roake—and certainly David Freeman—are all in my ‘inner circle.’ We’re professional colleagues, but more than that, I think, we’ve developed a real bond in the years since we’ve been meeting at Lou’s. We’re friends.”

“Yes, sir. I feel the same way.”

“Good. So you’ll understand.” He came forward. “Can you possibly imagine that I wouldn’t do all I can to use the power of this office to help any one of you if there were facts, evidence, proof,
anything at all,
that could justify an investigation of Mr. Panos and his activities? Or anybody else. Of course I would. It hurts me that you could doubt that.”

“I don’t doubt it, Clarence. It’s why I’ve come to you today.”

“But you don’t have anything I can use, Abe. And by contrast, Lieutenant Gerson has two experienced inspectors, eyewitness testimony and lots of physical evidence. I cannot in good conscience ignore all of that. Frankly, I’m not even inclined to. And closer to home, I will not let it appear that I’m willing to manipulate the system to help my friends. My problem is not Mr. Panos. It’s you and Diz, putting me in an untenable position. Surely you can see that?”

“That’s not our intention.”

“No. I’m sure it’s not. But it is the result.” Jackman straightened up, drew a deep breath. “Now I told Diz the same thing that I’m going to tell you now. Unless and until new evidence comes to light through the proper channels, and that means the homicide department, I don’t want to have to discuss this with you again. I
won’t
discuss it with you again. Is that clear, Abe?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, then.”

22

M
ichelle was out shopping for food, picking up something they could eat at home since dining in a restaurant together was not in the cards. Holiday stared out through the blinds at the overcast day, then brought his eyes back to the sheet of paper in front of him on Michelle’s kitchen table. It was a little past noon and, out of habit, he’d poured himself the last couple of ounces, neat, from the bottle of bourbon he’d bought maybe a week ago and nipped at nearly every day since.

But today the taste for it wasn’t there. He hadn’t touched the glass. Looking at it now, his hand started to reach for it, then stopped.

He came back to the paper, on which he’d written four names—Tom, Evan, Bryan (or Ryan?), Leslie. He knew there had been at least four others, maybe five, at the bar with him the night that Clint and Randy had been killed, but he couldn’t dredge them up from the sludge of his unconscious. Hardy, when he finally got over berating him for not calling sooner, said it could be extremely important, the verification of his alibi. His friend Glitsky, the cop, had evidently suggested he try to come up with his customers’ names. Holiday had been his usual confident self, telling his lawyer no problem, he’d have some kind of a list for him within an hour at the most. And then Hardy could run around checking up on them.

Well, he had made up some weak kind of list, true, but it wasn’t likely to do him or anybody else much good. These were the first names of his customers, who were not even acquaintances of his, and no sooner had he begun in earnest than he realized he had no more notion of their last names than he did of their occupations, addresses, the kinds of cars they drove. They were, in essence, complete strangers. Cash customers.

He found it ironic that any one of them, if they could be found, might be able to save him from a murder conviction. But what was the likelihood of that? They were talking about last Wednesday night, already five days into the past. It was the last night Holiday had worked the bar, and now even he, highly motivated, could only remember four possible names.

And in another day or two, he knew it wouldn’t be worth the effort at all. The typical customer at the Ark probably drank in some dive every night, so his possible saviors were in all probability unsure about which night exactly they had been at the Ark. Wednesday? Or was that Lefty O’Doul’s, or John’s Grill? Or was that Tuesday? John had been on, bartending both nights. He put the pen down and closed his eyes, trying to remember anything distinctive that would set Wednesday apart, to him or to any of his customers.

Nothing came to mind.

He opened his eyes and there was his neat bourbon. He picked up the glass and took of sniff of it—great stuff, Knob Creek—but suddenly there seemed something distasteful about it. Not the bourbon itself, but the hold it had over him. The blurred memory that was right now hampering his efforts to save his own future had come a shot at a time from a bottle much like this one.

The blurred memory . . .

He stood up and walked over to the window, separating the blinds slightly. The city wasn’t pretty today. The Bay churned gray-green, dotted with whitecaps. He closed his eyes again and tried to reimagine the bar as it had been that all-important Wednesday night, the people who’d been sitting there right in front of him. No doubt he’d had conversations with some of them, told jokes, listened to their stories. He hadn’t gotten anywhere near to blacking out that night, and still, now, five days later, none of it was there.

Nor, he was sure, would it be there for any of the others.

It was as though he hadn’t lived those hours. They were simply gone. As today would be, he knew, if he picked up that glass and drank it off.

And after all, what difference did it make?

All he knew was that suddenly, for some reason, it did. He shouldn’t be so willing to fight for his life, to try to clear his name, if the days were just going to continue on, a succession of empty and forgettable moments. He did not want empty anymore. If it took someone trying to take his life away to enable him to see it, then at least he’d seen it in time.

The feeling came as unheralded as it was undeniable. He wanted Michelle to come back through that door. He wanted to be alive for it. For her.

For him.

He picked up the glass and poured it’s contents into the sink. He rinsed every trace of alcohol out of the glass, went to the refrigerator, filled it with orange juice and drank.

She did come back. They had tomato and mozzarella slices on sourdough bread with olive oil, vinegar, sea salt. The grocery store sold fresh basil in little handfuls, and they ate it leaf by leaf with the sandwiches, with Pellegrino water. They were just finishing when Michelle’s cell phone went off. She answered and gave it to him. His lawyer.

“Any luck with your list?”

“Three and half first names. I don’t know if one guy was Bryan or Ryan.”

“Any last names?” Hardy wasn’t in a good mood today, hadn’t been for a while. “First names don’t do us any good.”

“I know. I’ll keep trying. Meanwhile, what?”

“Meanwhile, not much. If you’re okay where you are, stay put.”

“That’s my plan, Diz. But is anybody having any luck finding who shot at us?”

“Not much. In fact, there’s a healthy skepticism about whether it happened at all.”

“If course it happened.”

“Except there’s no sign of it. Apparently, I’m capable of faking these scratches and bruises to make Panos look bad.”

“You tell ’em it was Sephia?”

“He was in Nevada.”

“When?”

“When we got shot at. Well, a couple of hours later.”

“So?”

“So it’s four hours away.”

“Not by helicopter. The Diamond Center’s got a helicopter, remember. Sephia works for them.” The line hummed with silence. “Diz?”

“I’m here. I’ve got another question for you.”

“Battle of Hastings. Ten sixty-six.”

“No. Good answer, though. The question is what made Sephia go to Silverman’s? I mean in the first place.”

“That’s too easy.”

“Humor me.”

“Okay. How about fifteen thousand dollars or so?”

“That might do it. But what was that?”

“That’s what he lost the night before.”

Hardy spoke hesitantly, as though afraid he’d unhear what he’d just heard. “I thought
you
were the one who lost so big.”