Hardy 05 - Mercy Rule, The

by John Lescroart

  * * * * *

  His voice mail had seven calls.

  The third one was from a Jeanne Walsh, who said she was calling about the Joan Singleterry advertisement. She left her number, which Hardy tried immediately, although no one replied.

  One of Graham’s first concerns after the verdict — and it endeared him to Hardy — was the distribution of the money to Joan Singleterry’s children if they could find her with one last advertising blitz.

  George and Debra had been as skeptical as Hardy would have predicted about the existence of a Joan Singleterry, and Sal’s directive to give her his money.

  But realizing that it was probably their best chance to get their hands on Sal’s money without a legal battle, the siblings had told Graham they would let him give Joan Singleterry one last good try if he would split up the funds should it fail. Graham knew that any litigation to preserve the money after that would only eat up most of it, so he finally agreed.

  But their last run at Singleterry was to be a good one. Instead of going nationwide with a tiny classified ad in the personals column of thirty or forty publications — Hardy’s earlier strategy —they decided to take out a three-inch box in the sports sections of five of California’s largest newspapers and, for good measure, a two-inch box in The Wall Street Journal. The advertisement, paid for by most of the money Graham had stashed with Craig Ising, would run for one full week. That week had passed on Sunday, two days before.

  For Hardy, getting a call on the Singleterry question did not automatically give rise to soaring hopes. He’d received half a dozen similar replies that had proven worthless before the trial. Nevertheless, it did get his blood going. The trial was over, but the failure to achieve any sense of closure had kept him up several nights since the verdict had come in.

  Someone had killed Sal Russo and gotten away with it. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this connected somehow to Joan Singleterry. And, of course, it didn’t escape him that if Singleterry were connected to a murderer, she herself might already be dead, murdered. The advertisement itself might, in fact, subject her to mortal danger. For this reason they had kept the ad as simple as possible. The name Joan Singleterry, Hardy’s phone number, reward. No mention of Graham, Hardy, Sal. It would either work or it wouldn’t.

  * * * * *

  Since it was on the way to the Hall of Justice and its evidence lockup, Hardy and Graham stopped off at the facility where the city had put up the rest of Sal’s goods — what there was of them.

  Now, within the past few years, with the Moscone Center and plans for the new Giants Stadium in China Basin, the South of Market area had developed pockets of hope, change, life. But a great deal of the real estate between Market Street and the Hall of Justice, and this included the Lions Arms, remained as it had been for decades: seedy, scabrous, and sad.

  Graham punched his combination into the box by the cyclone fence and they pulled into the forlorn and soulless monthly storage rental facility. Peeling yellow stucco walls, rust-red corrugated iron doors. They drove slowly down one long row, around a corner, back up another one.

  ‘Nice place for a party,’ Hardy said. ‘Couple of balloons, maybe a tuba band. A little imagination and you could really have a good time here.’

  Hardy had picked up the key to the unit from the city custodian over a week ago. He was to return it when they’d finished cleaning it out. Sal’s leftover goods from his apartment were in it, and Graham hesitated one last minute in the car — perhaps steeling himself against the weather, perhaps against a more powerful psychic storm — before opening his door. The wind was up in the midafternoon, sending grimy clouds of dust, soot, flotsam, swirling around the car. ‘Gotta do it,’ he said, almost to himself.

  Hardy waited in the car while Graham worked the heavy padlock and threw the door all the way up.

  The unit was tiny — six feet deep and maybe four feet wide, and even so it wasn’t nearly filled. With a minimum of talk they started a chain gang, lifting things and putting them into the open trunk of the BMW. Five or six boxes of books and bric-a-brac, kitchen and bathroom utensils, photo albums, a small closet’s worth of Salvation Army clothes. None of this had been tagged as evidence or figured as part of discovery, and Hardy realized with a stab that he’d never before seen any of it.

  Not that he’d needed it, he consoled himself. He’d won. But still, it rankled. Graham reached down and passed him a rectangular piece of plywood.

  ‘Why’d they throw this in?’ Hardy asked. ‘I think I saw a Dumpster by the gate.’

  Graham’s expression went from hurt to anger, then dissolved when he realized that Hardy was looking at the back, obviously thinking that one of the movers had thrown a random board onto Sal’s pile of junk. ‘Other side.’

  Hardy turned it over.

  The light was right and the painting leapt out at him through the grain of the plywood: the boat by the wharf with the small boy fishing with a broken pole from the flying bridge. ‘What is this?’ he asked.

  Graham shrugged. He was holding another box, waiting for Hardy to put the painting into the trunk and resume loading. ‘One of Sal’s.’

  ‘Your dad painted this?’

  Graham put his box down and came over, looking at the painting. ‘He was pretty good, wasn’t he?’

  Hardy thought so. But more, he was interested in the background. ‘Where was this?’

  ‘His berth at the Wharf. When he still had the Signing Bonus — that’s his boat, there. You can still make out the name. See?’

  ‘What’s this, then?’ Hardy was pointing at the burned-out building in the background.

  ‘The old Grotto. Right after it burned down.’

  ‘Is that when he lost his boat? Did it get caught in the fire or something?’

  ‘No. I think he sold it for parts a long time later. It just wore out.’

  ‘But it looks worn out here, in this picture. Which would have been at the same time.’

  A gust of wind came up, nearly pulling the board out of Hardy’s hands. Graham was shaking his head, placing something. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I know he painted it after the fire. We were in the Manor. He did it out in the garage.’ He stared at it for another beat. ‘He always loved that painting.’

  ‘And obviously it was hanging in his apartment?’

  A nod. ‘Over the couch.’ Hardy was still mesmerized. ‘What?’ Graham asked.

  ‘It’s just a powerful image.’

  Graham agreed. ‘Sal was pretty good. Maybe I’ll hang it in my place. You want to grab that last box?’

  * * * * *

  The evidence lockup was in the bowels of the Hall, a huge room that smelled like an old library where people would occasionally change their oil. With its gray-green paint and interior cyclone fence, its bare-bulb lighting and cacophonous resonance, it had all of the building’s usual institutional charm and then some.

  Sarah was waiting by the sign-out counter. Out of force of habit Hardy had brought along his lawyer’s briefcase and leaned over to place it at his feet. When he looked up, he was initially shocked by the casual kiss of greeting that she and Graham gave each other. Then he realized that the duty officer down here probably wouldn’t recognize Graham anyway, and even if he did, why would he care? Graham was a free citizen again — he could kiss a cop if he wanted to.

  It only took a couple of minutes. There was some paperwork that Sarah, as arresting inspector of record, had to sign.

  ‘So where’s Marcel?’ Hardy asked.

  Sarah gave him the bad eye. ‘I took the afternoon off,’ she said, which answered his question. The ostracism over her involvement with a murder suspect was, he suspected, just beginning. In the week after the trial the story about her and Graham had hit the press with a fury.

  Hardy didn’t think anyone here today wanted to pursue it, so he turned back to the counter. There were three cardboard boxes: two filled with the miscellaneous papers from Sal’s apartment, and the third, the smallest one, with the c
ontents of the safe, carefully labeled S. Russo. #97-0101254, Safe. Evans/Lainer, Homicide in indelible black marker.

  Graham opened this last one first and peered inside, then looked up and nodded, a shaky smile in place.

  ‘Still there?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Most of it, at least.’

  Sarah spoke to Hardy. ‘I told him it wouldn’t get stolen out of evidence. He didn’t believe me.’

  ‘She has a trusting heart,’ Graham said.

  ‘Lucky for you.’ Hardy pulled back the flaps and started laying the money out on the counter — stacks of hundred-dollar bills. ‘But it couldn’t hurt to check before we leave.’

  Under the bulging eyes of the duty officer, who asked if they had arranged for a guard out of the building, Hardy took out the tightly wrapped bundles, ten of them.

  Next he reached back in and pulled out a shoe box, blew the dust off, opened it. The baseball cards didn’t even fill it; newspaper was stuffed in at the end and on the sides to keep them from shaking around. Hardy reached in again and picked up the second shoe box and Graham put his hand in and rummaged around.

  ‘How about if we put the money back in?’ Sarah asked.

  Hardy nodded. ‘How about if we put everything back in? It’s all here. Take it somewhere safe.’

  ‘That’s our plan,’ Graham said. He lifted out the old belt and dropped one end to let it hang, then put it around his waist. ‘You think I could find somebody to put a new buckle on this thing?’

  Obviously, Graham was thinking of a memento of his father, although perhaps this belt wasn’t his most stylish option; it was of unfinished black leather, heavy and thick. Graham held it around his waist. ‘Little big for me, though.’ He sucked in his washboard stomach. He smiled, turned to Hardy. ‘It might fit you. You want to try it?’

  Hardy iced him a smile. ‘I’d respond appropriately except that there’s a woman present.’

  In the back lot they loaded the boxes into the backseat of Graham’s BMW, the trunk having been filled at the storage place. With Sarah as armed escort Graham planned to get himself a new safety deposit box ASAP, then they’d take the rest of the stuff to his place up on Edgewood and decide what they’d do from there.

  Graham had asked if he wanted a lift back uptown, but Hardy wanted to call his Joan Singleterry connection again. He had not told Graham about the call; no sense in getting his hopes up if it was a dead end.

  The Beemer was idling and Graham and Sarah were ready to go. Hardy couldn’t stop himself from asking, ‘What have you found out about the cards?’

  ‘I’m checking out the trade shows. It looks like they’re going to bring in forty or fifty.’

  ‘And you’re splitting that with George and Debra too?’

  Graham gave him a shrug. ‘Without Singleterry, I’m afraid, it’s their money. What can I do?’

  Sarah leaned over from the passenger side. ‘He’s even thinking of declaring his softball earnings.’

  Hardy deadpanned. ‘Whoa! Don’t get all carried away on me now.’

  ‘I’ve reformed.’ Graham was dead serious. ‘I’m reporting every cent of income I make for the rest of my life. I’m going back and filing amended returns. I am never ever under any circumstances spending one more night in jail.’

  Hardy nodded. ‘Here’s a perfect example of the beauty of our criminal system. You go to jail for a few months, you come out a better person.’

  * * * * *

  Back at his office he punched in the number again, and this time it picked up on the second ring.

  ‘Hello, Jeanne Walsh?’

  ‘Yes.’ A young woman’s voice. The crying of a baby in the background.

  ‘You called me in response to an advertisement in the newspaper?’

  ‘That’s right, I did. What’s this about? Do I get the reward? I could seriously use a reward.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ he temporized. ‘Actually, though, we were trying to find Joan Singleterry herself. Do you know her?’

  ‘Of course. That’s why I called. Joan Singleterry was my mother.’ The past tense sprang up at Hardy, immediately amplified. ‘She died about four years ago.’

  ‘Would you mind answering some questions about her?’

  ‘No. I don’t mind at all. Can I ask who I’m talking to, though?’

  Hardy apologized. ‘My name is Dismas Hardy. I’m a lawyer in San Francisco.’

  ‘San Francisco? That’s a long way away.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Eureka.’

  Hardy had been doodling on his legal pad. Now he decided to take a couple of notes. Eureka was an old lumber port, the county seat of Humboldt County, California, three hundred miles up the coast.

  ‘And did your mother live there, too, in Eureka?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she always live there?’

  ‘Just a second.’ She was gone from the phone and he heard her scolding. ‘No, no, no. Don’t put that in there, Brittany. Mommy will be off in a minute, okay?’

  Hardy could relate. Jeanne came back to the phone. ‘I’m sorry, where were we?’

  ‘Did your mother always live in Eureka?’

  ‘Mostly. She was born here, then lived in San Francisco for a while, and then moved back. But her name wasn’t Singleterry when she was down there. It was Palmieri, Joan Palmieri. Then back up here she married Ron Singleterry.’

  Hardy’s heart sank. ‘But when she lived in San Francisco, your mother’s name was Joan what?’

  ‘Palmieri.’ Jeanne spelled it. Hardy wrote it on his pad.

  ‘Do you know a man named Sal Russo?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Do you remember if your mother ever mentioned him?’

  ‘Sal Russo?’ She was silent a minute. ‘No, it doesn’t even ring a tiny bell. Was she supposed to know him? Does this mean I don’t get the reward? Brittany, don’t!’

  Reward or not, the child was commanding more than half of Jeanne Walsh’s attention. Hardy should let her go and get on his own horse. This, finally, was a definite link to Joan Singleterry and a new name with which to conjure. Palmieri.

  He thanked her and told her he’d get back to her, this time unable to entirely suppress the rush of excitement. His hunch was becoming a certainty. He didn’t know the exact mechanism, but Joan Singleterry was going to lead him to Sal Russo’s killer.

  36

  The whole family pitched in making chili, quesadillas, and tacos. Pico and Angela Morales came by with their three children. Young and old ate together at the same table.

  The law went undiscussed.

  The kids went down to sleep before eight-thirty, five of them on the floor in Rebecca’s room. When Pico and Angela woke up their clan to go home three hours later, Hardy and Frannie still had some energy and didn’t let it go to waste.

  This morning he made his four-mile jog and walk with something approaching ease. The city had turned cold by California standards — the high today would be 55 degrees — so he brought wood up from the cord of oak underneath the house. While Frannie baked bread, he cleaned his fish tank.

  With all the domesticity he didn’t arrive at the office until nearly noon. Among his messages was a call from another of the doctors who’d signed the published admission that he’d helped one or more of his patients die.

  Hardy could see a groundswell developing here. Yesterday, he’d forgotten to return the padlock key for the storage unit to the city custodian, and he decided to use that as an excuse to go to the Hall.

  The door to Glitsky’s office was open. He sat at his desk and appeared to be buried in paperwork. Hardy walked in with his briefcase in one hand and some hot tea in the other, and the lieutenant sat back and graciously accepted the offering. The two men hadn’t talked since the day of the verdict, and Sarah and Graham had not hit the gossip mills yet by then. Now, of course, they had.

  Abe carefully sipped at the scalding liquid. ‘Why don’t you get the door?’ he asked co
nversationally. ‘God, I love the sound of that.’ When they were good and alone, he took another sip. ‘I guess you didn’t know about Evans and your client.’

  Hardy kept a straight face. ‘What about them?’

  Glitsky moved some paper around. ‘I suppose you thought that if I’d known they were an item, I might have been a little skeptical about her professional opinion regarding his guilt or not. Might not have sent her out to investigate other innocent civilians with my blessing.’

  ‘George wasn’t all that innocent. Besides, Graham wasn’t guilty. The jury said so.’

  The lieutenant went to his tea, decided to say a few more words. ‘She was a good cop. She had to be to get here. But you don’t sleep with your suspects.’

  ‘I never have, but I’d agree it’s good advice.’

  Glitsky nodded again. This was pointless. What happened between Evans and Graham Russo hadn’t been Hardy’s doing. It was galling that Hardy had possibly — hell, probably; hell, definitely — known all about it for months and hadn’t mentioned a thing to Glitsky.

  But then Glitsky realized that a part of it, perhaps the biggest part, was his own fault. It wasn’t Hardy who’d cut off the communication they’d always had — it was himself. He sipped more tea, settled back into his chair. ‘And this visit today is about?’

  ‘I honestly thought you’d never ask.’

  ‘Surprise,’ Glitsky said. ‘It’s a cop tool.’

  ‘Hey, that reminds me. Knock, knock.’

  Glitsky shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘No, really, come on. Humor me. One time. Knock, knock.’

  Glitsky hesitated another second. There was no getting around Hardy. He’d just sit there with his shit-eating grin and keep repeating ‘Knock, knock’ until he got an answer. He growled it out. ‘All right, Jesus, who’s there?’

  ‘Interrupting cow.’

  ‘Interrupting co—’

  ‘Mooo!’

  In a major victory for the defense Hardy got Glitsky to crack a tenth of a smile. ‘All right,’ the lieutenant said, ‘that wasn’t bad. I see you’re playing with your kids again. How are they? I ought to bring Orel by.’