The Ophelia Cut

by John Lescroart

  He cleared his throat. “Now that we’ve gotten to this point with Brittany’s identity and McGuire’s possible motive, I ought to tell you that I was hoping we wouldn’t.” He hesitated, let out a breath, met their eyes in turn, and continued. “The fact is, I know McGuire. I can’t say we’re close, but it’s going to come out, and I don’t want it blowing up among us. If he’s our suspect, then that’s what he is, and that’s how we treat him.”

  Sher sat back in her chair, threw a look up at her partner, came back to Glitsky. “You know him? How do you know him?”

  “You know Dismas Hardy the lawyer? He’s an old pal. McGuire is his wife’s brother. We’ve been to some of the same parties.”

  “So you’re saying you want to treat him—” Brady began.

  Glitsky cut him off. “Like a murder suspect. If he’s our guy, bring him in.”

  HARDY DIDN’T GET home from the McGuires’ until nearly eleven, didn’t get to sleep until midnight. When he opened his eyes and saw 9:38 on the digital by his bedside, incredulous, he double-checked with his watch. Frannie, God bless her, had let him sleep in. A glance out the window verified what he’d surmised driving home—the weather was going to be nasty for a while. On the spur of the moment, without much conscious thought, he realized that he wouldn’t be making it down to the Dolphin Club for a little early-morning dip today.

  The thought occurred that the whole Dolphin Club thing hadn’t been his brightest idea ever. It wasn’t any easier or more pleasant than it had been at the start. His wet suit was a constant if minor hassle. And face it, he thought, no sane person would call those temperatures swimmable.

  Eyes closed, he turned on his side for another second or two of shuteye. Then he became aware of what dimly sounded like a conversation between two women floating up through the house. How could that be? Frannie would be at work by now, and otherwise, there was only him.

  Throwing off his covers, he sat up, grabbed the rarely used bathrobe from his closet, and all but tiptoed downstairs, the sounds becoming more recognizable as he descended.

  Rebecca was sitting at the dining room table with his wife, wearing a Hastings law school hoodie. When she saw her father appear in the doorway, her tear-streaked face broke into a heartbreaking smile that faded as soon as it had begun to appear. “Hi, Daddy.”

  Hardy crossed around behind Frannie, his hand possessively crossing his wife’s shoulders, then went to a knee next to his daughter, putting his arm around her. She leaned in to him, and her shoulders shook once, twice, a third time. He held her until she grew more settled, then pulled far enough away to kiss her on the cheek, rub away her tears.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to be a baby.”

  “It’s okay,” Hardy said. “It doesn’t matter. What’s happened?”

  “Nothing. It’s really nothing.”

  JERRY PAIZ DIDN’T call himself a barber. Since he’d moved downtown about a block from Hardy’s office and founded Jerry’s Style Lounge, he’d called himself a stylist, and judging from the plethora of women who kept most of the twelve chairs full, he was a good one. To Hardy, who’d known Jerry for fifteen years, ever since he was an unashamed and half as expensive barber at a no-apologies barbershop (Jerry’s!) on Clement Street, he remained and probably always would remain a barber.

  Now Hardy, the only male customer, sat at styling station number one, feeling a little foolish, as he always did here, while Jerry hovered and ministered to his never-changing haircut as they continued their conversation.

  “You’ve got to stop moving your head while you’re talking, Diz,” Jerry chided him. “I’m doing precision work here.”

  “I can’t help it. I keep thinking about what I could have done differently.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like not introduced the guy to anybody I know.”

  “That’s not you. You’re a friendly person. Especially for a lawyer. If I didn’t know you were one, I’d never believe it.”

  “Thanks, I think. But now it turns out that this guy is breaking my daughter’s heart and, not only that, hitting on my niece.”

  “Ouch. Cousins?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Guy’s a player.”

  “Yeah, but I’d like to see him playing someplace else. Except now it’s too late. He’s already in the mix.”

  Jerry put a hand on the top of Hardy’s skull. “Hold still.”

  “I know.” Hardy’s neck suddenly tensed.

  “You think of something else?”

  “I’d nod, but you’d get mad at me.”

  “So. What?”

  Hardy considered. One of the great things about Jerry—maybe about barbers in general—was that he had no reference to anything else in Hardy’s life. They’d known each other for a long time, had told each other countless jokes, anecdotes, stories, had shared pictures of kids, but essentially, they were strangers. When Hardy bounced something off Jerry, he always got back an absolutely honest response, uncluttered by pretense, bullshit, expectations, repercussions. He got Jerry and his human reaction, which was what Hardy thought he could use a dose of, possibly why he’d decided to get a haircut today.

  “Evidently, he’s one of these guys who bares his soul to women early on. Tells them a deep dark secret only they can know, a sacred trust, and since it’s a secret, they can’t tell anybody else. Creates a bond, don’t you know. Plus, makes him mysterious and special.”

  “But your daughter told you.”

  “Only after he moved along to her cousin. Because Rebecca was worried about her.”

  “Not to worry. He’s probably told her, too.”

  “You think so?”

  Jerry shrugged. “If that’s his shtick. So. You gonna tell me what it is? I love a good secret.”

  “You’ll love this one.” Hardy checked his face in the mirror. It remained neutral, showing none of the roiling concern that he felt. Good. He’d lay it out to Jerry as an entertaining factoid, a little anecdote to fill the time. He wasn’t completely sure how he felt about it yet, and thinking out loud here was as good a way to break it down as he could imagine. “So the Beck asked him why he wasn’t hooked up with anybody else. She couldn’t believe somebody so cool wasn’t swarmed with women.”

  “Somebody shot his nuts off, like in that Hemingway book.”

  “Nope. That’s not it. My guess is his nuts are in fine working order. He tells her he’s only been here in the city a few months. He’s been finding work, keeping busy. He hasn’t had time for romantic entanglements.”

  “Until her.”

  “Apparently. So the Beck asks the obvious next question: where’s he from? Why’d he come here? He hems and haws and then, you know, he can’t lie to her, but he really shouldn’t tell her. It could be dangerous. Thinking about it, he realizes the real truth—that being with him at all could be dangerous. He really shouldn’t get involved with anybody. But they get along so well . . .”

  “Setting the hook.”

  “Right. So now she’s got to know. It couldn’t be that dangerous. Whatever it is, she can help him. They can fight it together.”

  “I give up.”

  “I don’t blame you. It turns out he’s a federally protected witness. His name’s not his real name. He’s one of the government’s main witnesses in this huge human trafficking case out of New York. Cops on the payroll, as many as forty defendants, millions and millions of dollars at stake. And the Beck’s guy, he’s the whistle-blower. Anybody finds out who he is, and where he is, and he’s a dead man.”

  “Jesus Christ. You’re saying he’s a crook?”

  “He says not. He says he was a Vice cop in Manhattan. Never mind that like ninety percent of protected witnesses are ex-Mob guys who cut deals with the feds so they’ll get their own cases dropped—their own murders, their own extortions—that doesn’t paint our boy in too heroic a light, does it?”

  “You think this is true?”

  “At least part of it. I think
I believe he’s an ex-cop. The rest of it, I could believe it. Actually, I think I do believe it.”

  Jerry had stopped trimming Hardy’s hair and now went back to it. “That’s some serious shit, Diz. If I were you, I’d be glad the Beck’s out of it.”

  “I know. I am. Except for the heartache part.”

  “What about the cousin?”

  “Yeah, I hear you,” Hardy said. “There are some issues there, too.”

  ANANTHA DOUGLAS TOLD Brady and Sher that, judging from the photograph in the six-pack, she was “a hundred percent” certain that Moses McGuire had been the man with the club whom she’d run into on the sidewalk in front of her apartment. With that information, along with the previous assault, Brady thought they had enough information to run back downtown, get a warrant, and make an arrest.

  Sher wasn’t in perfect agreement. “Look,” she said as they were waiting for their sandwiches at Lucca’s deli on Chestnut, “all I’m saying is we get one of our other witnesses to make an ID, we’re in a lot stronger position, evidence-wise. If we go down and throw the cuffs on him now, we’ve got to Mirandize him, and once we do that, we’re done talking. You know I’m right. And this is a guy, you’ll remember, who likes to talk.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “I say we go visit him again. We’re halfway out there anyhow. We tell him we know about the rape. Things are different. We know how he must feel about his daughter. We get him talking. Do a little good cop/bad cop—I’d be the good one, naturally—and see if he doesn’t give the whole thing up. It might be our last chance before he gets himself lawyered up. If that doesn’t work out, then we follow up, get a warrant, yada-yada. Meanwhile, we have an opportunity. Why pass it up?”

  A half hour later, three parking spots west of the Little Shamrock’s front door, Brady and Sher sat in their car and waited until Moses McGuire had unlocked the door to the bar and let himself in. With a perfectly timed mutual nod, they exited their own vehicle. As they came abreast of McGuire’s robin’s-egg-blue Honda Civic, they slowed and exchanged a meaningful glance. In another ten seconds, they were inside the bar.

  From somewhere in the gloom, out of sight, a voice called out, “Sorry. We’re not open yet. Come back in a half hour.”

  Brady gave their names with their ranks and waited. Nearly a full minute later, he was about to call out again when Sher put a hand on his arm, stopping him, and McGuire appeared in the short hallway that led to the dart room.

  To Sher, he seemed somewhat diminished from the last time they’d spoken to him. He wore a simple maroon cotton long-sleeve shirt that was at least a size too large for him. His hair was uncombed. He carried a single bar towel in both hands, wringing it in an unconscious way. His face looked hollowed out.

  This comported perfectly with Sher’s expectations. McGuire would, of course, be devastated by the rape of his daughter. It would have started, or continued, to take a toll. He shouldn’t have been and obviously wasn’t expecting another visit from Homicide inspectors, as he’d been last time, and so he hadn’t thought to steel himself.

  “Mr. McGuire,” she began, “how are you holding up this morning?”

  “Running on fumes,” he said. “It’s been a long couple of days.”

  “I can imagine,” Sher said in her most sympathetic tone. Then continued, “We know what happened to Brittany on Saturday night. We know she met with Rick Jessup at Perry’s on Union. This was the day before he was killed.”

  “The day before you said you were fishing,” Brady said with an edge of belligerence. “How many did you say you caught?”

  “Paul.” Sher put a restraining hand on her partner’s arm, came back to her suspect. “The point is, sir, that your daughter’s . . . situation would have given you a very good reason to go look up Mr. Jessup the next day, the same way you’d done a few months ago. Did you get an opportunity to do that?”

  McGuire said nothing.

  Sher pressed. “We know what happened. We just don’t know why. Did he insult Brittany, maybe threaten her? Maybe he attacked you and it was self-defense. Right now it looks like cold-blooded murder, but I don’t think that’s what it was. I don’t think you’re that kind of guy. If you’re not, you’ll have to be the one to tell us.”

  “You’re saying that now I’m a suspect in Jessup’s killing.”

  “Wouldn’t that make some sense,” Sher asked gently, “given what we know?”

  “What do you think you know?”

  “We do know, sir. About the rape. We found out by accident, to tell you the truth. But we know it is the truth. And you knew it, too, didn’t you? You knew it by Sunday morning.”

  “I’d like to cooperate with you,” McGuire said, “but I’m afraid I’m under my lawyer’s instructions not to say anything else.”

  “You’ve got a lawyer already?” Brady asked.

  “Yes, sir. Dismas Hardy, my brother-in-law.”

  “Why’d you get a lawyer?”

  “No comment. Should I call him now?”

  “That’s not necessary,” Sher said, “although you have the absolute right to do that if you want. But you’re not under arrest. You don’t have to talk to us at all. You can kick us out right now. Unless you’d like to say something.”

  “I don’t have anything to say.”

  “You don’t want to deny killing Jessup?” Brady asked. Even getting a simple denial would be useful if it kept McGuire talking.

  “No comment.”

  “Come on,” Brady went on. “Just say you didn’t kill him. You can’t say that?”

  “I’m not saying anything.”

  “Mr. McGuire,” Sher said in dulcet tones, “it’s not like we don’t understand how you feel, how you must have felt. I think most people would sympathize with their daughter having just been raped. Whoever killed him, it sounds to me like Mr. Jessup got what he deserved. Wouldn’t you say that’s true?”

  “No comment. Am I under arrest?”

  “No.”

  “But I am a suspect, is that right?”

  Brady jumped in again. “More than a suspect, McGuire. You’re our prime suspect. And you know why? Because we’ve got eyewitnesses who saw you by Jessup’s place. Because you’ve got all the motive in the world. Because from another witness, we’ve got a sketch that looks just like you.”

  “Look,” Sher said, “once we come back with handcuffs, it’s going to be too late. I really would like to get your side of the story now. So I can describe you as cooperative and forthcoming and not as bad a guy as the evidence makes you look.”

  “If you got so much, why don’t you arrest me?”

  “We want to give you a chance to say something in your defense,” Sher said. “And look, you’ve already told us you were out fishing that evening. If you want to elaborate on that, we’d love to hear it. But if, as we both know, you were in Jessup’s apartment, then what we really want to know is what happened.”

  “I’m sorry,” McGuire repeated. “I have no comment. And a bar to open in the next few minutes. So if you’re done, I am, too.”

  “I DON’T WANT to say this,” Brady began after a lengthy silence, Sher driving on Oak toward downtown alongside the Panhandle of Golden Gate Park, “but did you get the impression that he’d been tipped?”

  Sher was chewing her bottom lip, her face drawn down. “I didn’t expect he’d be lawyered up so soon, that’s true.”

  “Dismas Hardy,” Brady said. “Glitsky’s pal.”

  “I knew the name rang a bell.”

  They drove a few more blocks without a word.

  Sher sighed. “Okay, Paul. What do you want to do?”

  “Maybe we should pull over and talk about it.”

  “I’ve done some experiments,” she said. “I can think while I’m driving.”

  “All right.” After another moment, “What do you think we should do?”

  “That’s not necessarily the same as what we want to do.”

  “Right. I hea
r you.” Brady scratched his face. “You think Glitsky called Hardy?”

  “Not to mention how long it took Abe to admit he knew McGuire. And what did he tell McGuire while we’re dicking around with sketch artists and six-packs? Or what did he tell Hardy, for that matter?”

  “Yeah.” Brady sighed. “This is fucked up.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I just did.” Brady blew out in frustration. “I hate going outside the chain of command. It never works out right.”

  “Lapeer came to us, remember. We didn’t start it.”

  “It was Glitsky’s office. He was there. He was part of it.”

  “Did he say anything about knowing McGuire then? While she was there?”

  “You know he didn’t.”

  “Why didn’t he?”

  “Hoping we wouldn’t get enough to charge him. He almost said as much after Lapeer left.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Sher said. “As if the job isn’t hard enough. How long do you think he was going to let it go on? Dicking around with us?”

  “Maybe he really was being careful. Keeping us on the right track.”

  “Like we need that?” Sher asked, her anger palpable. “Like he’s ever done that before? This purely sucks. The one who’s out of line here isn’t us. You know what I mean?”

  “I’m just sayin’, maybe his reasons—”

  “Screw his reasons. He’s warning our witnesses that we’re coming, for Christ’s sake. I know what you’re saying. But am I right or not? Abe’s playing for the other team. Are we going to split hairs?”

  Brady looked across at his partner, wagged his head back and forth in disgust. “I guess not.”

  21

  AT THE FRANCISCA, the city’s oldest women’s social club, the chief of police had finished her lunchtime speech on bullying and youth violence and her outreach program to combat same in the city’s public elementary schools. She was about to sit down for dessert with the other women when her driver and administrative aide, Sergeant Dermot Moriarty, came up and whispered in her ear. A minute later, she opened the door to a small but well-appointed conference room down the hall, where Homicide inspectors Brady and Sher were standing behind a mahogany table, slightly backlit from the windows that looked out over Sutter Street.