The Keeper (12 page)

29

G
LITSKY STOOD AT
the back of the crowd of mourners shivering around the Colma grave site. Coming to the actual interment wasn't his idea of a good time, but he thought there was a slim chance that it might be unpredictably instructive, so the cop in him had said goodbye to Frannie and Hardy at St. Ignatius and tagged along. As had been the case at the church, the sides were strictly segregated, and as he had done earlier, Abe gravitated to Hal's side.

They hadn't quite gotten started. Glitsky was keeping his eye on the interaction between Hal and Patti Orosco—the word was long since out about their affair, and to Glitsky, they seemed skittish as thoroughbreds in their careful dance around each other—so he was surprised when he felt a tap on his arm and turned to face Burt Cushing.

“Abe Glitsky.”

“You got me.” Glitsky nodded amicably. “Sheriff.” He touched his forehead in a casual salute. “Nice turnout of your people.”

“They're a good crew, and Hal's among the best of them. He's a popular guy. You here officially? I thought you'd retired.”

“I did.” Glitsky enjoyed watching Cushing do the math for a minute before he helped him out. “You notice I'm over here on Hal's side, same as at the church. I'm working with his defense attorney.”

“He's smart to have one on board already. They're going to try to string him up. I'm surprised he's still walking around a free man.”

“Me, too. Though I don't think that's going to last too long.”

“Me, neither.” Cushing hesitated, then asked, “So who's the lawyer?”

“Dismas Hardy.”

Cushing whistled. “Top-drawer guy. Last week I would've asked how Hal could afford him, but I guess that's not an issue anymore.”

“Which, in itself,” Glitsky replied, “is an issue.”

“I hear you.” The sheriff cast a quick glance over the assembly. “Little tense back there, wasn't it?”

“Little tense here, too,” Glitsky said. “Katie's side looks like they're ready to string him up right now. I'm halfway expecting it.”

“Not with my guys here. No question who they're with.”

“I see that.” Over the past few days, Glitsky had followed the television updates and read every word of conjecture about the case; that had brought him up to speed on the progress of the Homicide inspectors, including some stuff he hadn't come upon in his own investigation. One of those stories had been Daniel Dunne's theory about Katie's purported threat to expose Hal for his role in the alleged cover-up of abuses by the jail guards. Obviously, Cushing had been made aware of that theory as well, and Glitsky thought it couldn't hurt to probe a little. “Are your guys taking a lot of heat on Katie's brother's idea?”

“Which one is that? I've heard so many these past few days.”

“That Hal had to shut her up before she blew the whistle on him and the other guards.”

Cushing chuckled without mirth. “The only problem with that, and the other stories like it, is there isn't one grain of truth behind them. My jail's a fucking model of restraint and due process, and any report to the contrary is irresponsible and unfounded drivel.”

Glitsky hated profanity but also knew that once in a while someone's lapse into it could be useful. Despite Cushing's dismissive chuckle and all of his protestations notwithstanding, Glitsky knew that he'd hit a nerve.

“Say what you really mean,” Glitsky told him.

“We get that shit all the time,” Cushing said. “If these bleeding hearts knew what it was like being in the cages day in day out with those animals, unarmed and outnumbered. It's a miracle there's as little violence as there is. But hey, you're a cop. You know this. Sorry to go off.”

Glitsky shrugged. “No worries. So if Hal did it, that wasn't why.”

“Couldn't have been, but beyond that . . .”

“What?”

Cushing looked over to where Hal was placing some flowers on the casket. “I know the guy. I knew his dad, Pete, back when I was a probationary deputy. He's good people. Katie was good people.” Sighing, he went on, “There's just no way he killed her. They might have been going through a rough patch, but they had a real connection. I know that, which is why I can't believe any of this.”

“That's good to hear,” Glitsky said. Then, realizing what else Cushing had perhaps inadvertently admitted, he asked, “You knew her, too? Katie?”

The sheriff's visage darkened, and for a startling moment Glitsky thought he caught a glimpse of what might have been a tear in the other man's eyes. “I know most of the spouses,” he said at last. “Something like this happens to one of us, it's a loss to the whole family.”

•  •  •

W
HEN THE MOURNERS
got back to Hal's house, Glitsky found himself struck by the similarities between this gathering and his own return to his duplex after the funeral of his first wife, Flo, who'd died of cancer many years before. Like Hal, Abe had young children at the time. His living room and kitchen had been filled to overflowing, mostly with somber men in uniform. His father, Nat, had been the only tie to the past generation, as Ruth was. The food, in both cases, was a couple of Safeway party trays.

Abe found himself a bare stretch of living room wall and leaned back, hands in his pockets, trying to shake off his own ghosts. Suddenly—he hadn't really noticed her approach—Ruth was standing in front of him with a glass in her hand, the contents of which looked like Coke and smelled like rum. “How did this tradition of throwing a party after a ­funeral ever get started?” she asked him. “You see anybody here who looks like they want to party, Mr. Glitsky?”

“Not so much,” Abe replied. “Maybe it puts off the finality of it all for another day. Then you go back to real life, or try. Meanwhile, it's a last opportunity to drink enough to forget.”

“That's exactly it,” she said, “and spoken like one who's been through it.” She cast her eyes around the room. “Sometimes I think someone put a curse on this family. On me, really. I never would have believed I'd be doing this again so soon.”

“So soon?”

“After Pete. Hal's father. He overdosed, you know. By mistake. They eventually admitted it was an accident, which turned out to be good for us, since we could collect the insurance. But it was awful, no matter what.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't know about that. When did that happen?”

“Warren was five. He's twenty-two now. And I guess Hal must have been fifteen. So seventeen years.” She took a pull of her drink. “But it's like it was yesterday, especially here, now . . . all these uniforms. It brings it all back. Nothing ever changes.”

Glitsky didn't want to air out his own memories, so similar to hers. Instead, he said, “Sometimes it seems that way, but things do get better. It may be hard to keep believing that, but it happens. It happened to me.”

“Well, you're not cursed.”

“Ruth, you've got two healthy sons and two grandchildren. You can look ahead. There can be a future. You're not cursed.”

This made her laugh, a bitter and shrill note that already seemed more than a bit fueled by alcohol. Lifting her glass, she drank again. “No? How many people do you know who have lost two family members? And now they're going to arrest Hal. It's obvious that's where they're going with all that. They already think he's guilty. Everybody does.”

Glitsky heard himself say, “I don't,” and realized that this was what he intuitively believed, even if he couldn't marshal the facts to support it.

She took his words at face value. “Thank you for that. But you're in the minority. Everybody else thinks he walked behind her up that path and turned right through the bushes and shot her while she walked, maybe while she was talking, pleading over her shoulder. And that's just not something Hal could do. I know my boy, and he never could have done that.”

“If it comes to it, and it may not, I think a jury will agree with you. He's got a great lawyer, and this city doesn't like to convict, even with lots of evidence.” Except, he thought, in cases of domestic violence, where the accusation alone was often enough to convict a male suspect. This wasn't something he wanted to share with her now, though. “And here, there's basically no evidence,” he repeated. “So I'd keep a little hope.”

“I am. The hard thing is I never thought they'd arrest him. I really thought, because he didn't do it, they'd never get to that.”

“And they haven't yet. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.”

“All right. You're right. I'm just . . . my brain . . .” She stopped in apparent confusion and tipped up her glass, finishing it. “At least I'll be here for the babies,” she said. “There's one silver lining. They'll be in my life again. I suppose I should think of things like that.”

“That's a good idea. At the very least, you'll get to share them.”

She hesitated and cocked her head. “What do you mean, share?”

“With the other grandparents. Katie's family.”

She shook her head with a firm show of defiance. “That is not happening. I'm not sharing with those people. Hal's their natural father, and he's the only parent left, and he gets to make that decision, even if he's in jail. He won't let those children go and live with those awful Dunnes, not even for a day. I know he won't.”

Glitsky knew that this could, in fact, become a pitched custody battle over the next several months, but now wasn't the time to try and convince a grieving, drunk woman about something she obviously didn't want to consider. “I hadn't thought of that,” he said. “And speaking of Hal . . .” Glitsky pointed to the other room, then excused himself and made his way through the press of deputies to where Hal stood, holding a sleeping Ellen in his arms, at the kitchen counter. “How are you holding up?”

Hal gave him a perfunctory smile. “Minute to minute. It ought to be over soon, although I'm not sure I want it to be.”

Glitsky knew what Hal was talking about; it reflected his own former anguish at the prospect of dealing with the world without Flo. Eventually, for Abe, life had returned to what felt something like normal, but it had taken a very long time, and while he was waiting, he never felt anything like a guarantee that it would arrive at all.

“I'm going to head out,” Glitsky said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yeah,” Hal said. “Find out who did it.”

“I'm looking,” Glitsky replied, then added, “I really am.”

And found—again with some surprise—that he meant it.

30

F
RANNIE
H
ARDY
SWUNG
her legs out on her side of the bed and said, “Well, that's how that's done.”

Among the many advantages of not having children living with you anymore, Dismas Hardy counted high on the list the fact that you didn't have to schedule lovemaking for when they were either away from home or in a far corner of the house. With his workload allowing him the ­occasional morning off, he and Frannie had fallen into, if not a routine, at least an openness to the possibility that they did not always have to wake up and immediately rise from bed.

Hardy lay with his hands behind his head and a grin on his face. “I tend to agree. Could it be we're actually getting better?”

“We should, after all the practice lately. Do you want coffee in bed? Or will Your Majesty be down for breakfast?

“I'll do what you're doing.”

Naked, her finger to her chin, Frannie struck a pose at the door to the bathroom. “Coffee. Downstairs. Five minutes.”

Hardy took a satisfied breath and nodded. “Done.”

Next to the bed, the telephone rang.

“First amended response,” he said to Frannie. “Maybe ten minutes.” He picked up. “It's not yet nine o'clock, so this better be important.”

“Why aren't you at work?”

“Because I'm at home, Wes. As should be obvious, since you called here.”

“That's really not a very civilized way to answer the phone.”

“Yes, well, no civilized person makes phone calls between nine at night and nine in the morning. So we're even.”

“Who made that up? The nine-to-nine rule.”

“Alexander Graham Bell. It was the first thing he invented after the phone itself, and a damn good invention it is. What's so important?”

“What's important is that this is a courtesy call that I probably shouldn't be making to you, as Hal Chase's attorney, but I've got a soft spot in my heart for my former partners. My sources are correct—he has retained you? Right?”

“Indeed.”

“That's what I heard. So although I couldn't tell anyone about a grand jury proceeding because it's secret, I thought you might want to make an appointment to be with your client by noon or so. That way, if you got a phone call saying that—oh, I don't know—he happened to be indicted, you could surrender him to us as soon as you get the word.”

Hardy sat up against his headboard. “This is a mistake, Wes. You get some new evidence I don't know about?”

“We'll get all evidence to you at the appropriate time, Diz, but in the meanwhile, Mr. Chase will need to be in custody.”

“What's changed since yesterday?”

“I can't comment on that, but no doubt you've noticed the clamor—citywide, I might add—that we do something.”

“Clamor isn't evidence, Wes. And you don't want to do just something, you want to do the right thing.”

“That's going to be up to the grand jury. If there's not enough to indict him, they won't do it.”

Hardy barked out a one-note laugh, and although Farrell couldn't see him to appreciate the gesture, he also rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, spare me.” Both men knew that the grand jury was a prosecutor's blunt instrument whose primary function was to issue indictments against suspects, and since those suspects were not allowed to have an attorney with them in the room, the result of a proceeding was nearly absolute in its inevitability. “Seriously, Wes, if you've got nothing new, you might want to hold off until you get something that a jury in this city is going to believe. As you know, that's a pretty high bar. And I'm telling you, as your friend, I seriously don't think Hal did this. At the very least, there are too many unexplored questions that you ought to get some answers for.”

“I think, hypothetically, of course, that a grand jury could decide we have enough answers to warrant a trial, Diz. And if they did, I would agree with it.”

“You're making a mistake. Really.”

“I hope that's not true—I don't think it is. And if it is, it won't be my first one. Come on, Diz, you saw this coming as soon as they found her body. I'm doing you a favor with this heads-up, and you know it. How about a little gratitude among old friends?”

“All right, I'm grateful, but—”

“Quit while you're ahead, Diz. And have yourself a nice day.”

•  •  •

“I
KNOW THE
grand jury has a low standard for indictments,” Glitsky was saying, “but isn't this below even that threshold?”

The three of them were at the Hardys' dining room table. Glitsky had come straight from dropping the kids off at school. Frannie had gotten dressed, while Hardy remained in gray sweats.

“In theory, you're right. But what the grand jury really likes is a narrative, and even without much in the realm of physical evidence . . .”

“Much? How about none?”

“It's not none. They got the slug.”

“They can't connect it to Hal's gun, though, can they?”

Hardy shrugged. “It's a hell of a narrative. Hal's got no alibi, and he and Katie are having problems enough that she's seeing a counselor, and a very pretty one at that.” Hardy nodded over at his wife, who gave him a patient smile. “Katie's body's found less than a quarter mile from their house. He's been having an affair, cheating with a wealthy and beautiful woman, the wife's ex–best friend, who admits she'd marry him in a heartbeat. Oh, and did I mention that with Katie's death, he's no longer a poverty-stricken deputy sheriff but a millionaire? You must admit, it has a certain je ne sais quoi, which, as we know, is French for ‘holy shit.' Have I left anything out?”

“Well.” Frannie cleared her throat and whispered after a small silence, “This is not good.”

Hardy nodded. “To say the least, and now—”

Frannie held up her hand, stopping him. “No. Not what you're saying. I should have said something before now. Ever since they found her body, I . . .” She looked back and forth between the two men, let out a breath. “When I was still assuming—hoping—she was alive, it was all privileged, so I didn't . . .”

“It still is,” Hardy said. “Privileged. That never goes away.”

“I know. But she's dead now. So maybe betraying the privilege is technically unethical, but I don't believe it would be wrong. I mean, it can't matter to her anymore, can it? And that's my main concern, especially if it helps you discover who killed her. But I warn you. You might not want to hear it because it doesn't necessarily help Hal, either. It might even hurt him.” She reached over and put her hand over her husband's. “I didn't think his arrest would be so imminent. Now it looks like it could be any minute, doesn't it?”

Hardy nodded.

“What did she tell you?” Glitsky asked. “We're not in court, Frannie. Nobody's going to bust you on the privilege issue. I promise. If you know something that might be important, we need to hear it.”

Frannie sighed, looked from one man to the other.

“What?” Hardy was brusque. “Tell us.”

Another moment of silence. Frannie swallowed and came out with it. “She had an affair, too. Katie.”

Glitsky and Hardy exchanged glances. “I don't believe that's made it into the record yet,” Hardy said. “With whom?”

“I don't know. She never said.”

“When was this?” Glitsky asked.

“A few months after her first baby was born.”

Glitsky kept at it. “How long did it last?”

“I think a few months.”

“Who broke it off?”

“I don't know.”

Hardy stepped in. “Did Hal know about it?”

“No. Not as of last week, anyway.” Fran took a small sip of her coffee and carefully placed the cup back in its saucer. “That's the other thing: I feel like I might have talked her into telling him. I made a big pitch for it in our last session, told her she should come clean, start over with trust and no secrets between them. Since they found her, I've been thinking what if she did? What if I talked her into it and she told him and that became the last straw?”

“I don't think so,” Glitsky said.

“That's so good to hear,” Frannie said, “but why do you think not?”

“Because he'd just been doing the same thing. Even if Katie told him, unless she rubbed it in his face somehow . . . would she likely have done that?”

“I can't see it. That's not how she was.”

“Then I really don't see him reacting with outrage. He wouldn't have a leg to stand on. Not to say it doesn't happen, but . . .” Glitsky let the sentence hang.

Hardy's tone softened. “Strategically, it's not going to make much of a difference, whether Hal knew about it or not. From any kind of jury perspective, he doesn't need any more in the way of motive than the insurance and Patti Orosco. Besides, I agree with Abe. He wasn't going to decide to kill Katie because he found out she had an affair.

“But that doesn't mean it's not significant,” he went on, “if only because it puts another player on the board. Somebody who was at one time close to Katie and who still might be. Or might have wanted her back, or might still want her back. And maybe because he couldn't, he had to kill her.” He looked at his wife. “You're sure it was over as of a couple of years ago?”

“That's what she said.”

“Well,” Hardy said, “it's good to know about, in any event. And ­Frannie, I wouldn't beat myself up over what you told her. I assume you gave her similar advice in the past. Did she tend to take it most of the time?”

This brought a weary smile. “Not so much. One of her common themes was wondering out loud why she kept coming to me when she wasn't doing about nine-tenths of what I suggested.”

“Why did she keep coming?” Glitsky asked.

“I think we just got along as people. She liked to have a chance to talk to another adult woman about her life once a week. That's the thing about what I do that's so frustrating sometimes. It's not so much therapy—I mean real psychiatric therapy, where your expectation is that you'll become more together and self-actualized and maybe healed in some way—as it is problem solving.”

“And what was her problem?” Glitsky asked.

“She wanted to be happier. She wanted to be a perfect mother and a full-time successful businessperson and a sexy and fun wife and a devoted daughter. It's the old cliché, guys. She wanted it all.”

Hardy pushed himself back from the table. “And on that cheery note, I've got to get moving if I'm going to be surrendering the client sometime today.”