The Ophelia Cut

by John Lescroart

  The door closed, and the chief looked from one inspector to the other. “Brady,” she said, pointing at Paul then moving her finger, “and . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Sher, ma’am. Lee Sher.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lapeer repeated. “I won’t forget again. Dermot said it was important, though the fact that you’ve sought me out down here would have clued me in. What can I do for you?”

  “An issue’s come up,” Brady began, “around Moses McGuire, the suspect in the Jessup case.”

  “I’m assuming that you’ve brought this up with Lieutenant Glitsky? And he’s sent you down to brief me?”

  “Not so much that, Chief,” Sher replied. “The problem, more or less, is Glitsky.”

  “In what way?”

  Sher’s explanation didn’t take long. As she was finishing up, Lapeer’s expression clouded, and she squinted at the corner of the ceiling. Her hands gripped the back of the chair she stood behind. In the gathering silence, she drew in a breath, then let it out. “Your assumption is that the lieutenant notified McGuire’s lawyer, who then advised his client not to talk to you. Meaning that Glitsky is not only friends with McGuire but the connection is McGuire’s lawyer, who is also a friend of the lieutenant?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Brady said. “His name is Dismas Hardy.”

  After a beat, Lapeer’s countenance darkened. “You’re joking,” she said.

  “No, ma’am. Do you know him?”

  “I know somebody who used to be his law partner. Currently, he’s employed as the district attorney.”

  “Farrell?” Sher asked. “You’re saying Hardy and Wes Farrell . . . ?”

  “Partners,” she said. “Not long ago, the firm was Freeman Farrell Hardy and Roake. And if I’m not mistaken, doesn’t the lieutenant’s wife—isn’t she Farrell’s secretary?” The weight of these connections seemed to settle on the chief’s shoulders. She pulled out the chair she’d been leaning on and lowered herself into it with another deep sigh. “No wonder,” she said, “the wheels of justice aren’t turning so smoothly in this case. They’re all gummed up with conflicts. Lord, Lord, Lord.” She ran her hands back through her hair. “So where are you now? With the investigation? How solid a suspect is McGuire?”

  “We like him,” Brady said. “We thought about bringing him downtown this morning after we got a decent ID.”

  “You got an ID?”

  “Six-pack,” Brady said. “A hundred percent.”

  “Plus a motive?” Lapeer said. “Sounds like you’ve got plenty to me.”

  “We’ll need search warrants while we’re at it,” Sher added, “although we might be a little light on evidence. Especially if we know that Farrell’s not inclined to charge—”

  Lapeer put a palm up. “Hold on. We’re talking about the murder of a respected city employee, chief of staff to one of our most popular and visible supervisors. How am I supposed to go back to Mr. Goodman, knowing what I know, and explain why we haven’t arrested Mr. McGuire yet? Either of you want to tell me that?”

  “We could—” Brady began.

  Again Lapeer cut him off. “No. No, no, no. Here’s what’s going to happen, starting right now. Both of you, as of this minute, are reporting to me and me alone on this case. You are not to go to the DA, and you’re particularly not to go to Lieutenant Glitsky. Does either of you know who’s the duty judge this week?”

  The duty judge, who signed off on search and arrest warrants, was a rotating position among the superior court judges, although any judge was empowered to sign any warrant.

  “Thomasino, I think,” Sher said.

  Lapeer shook her head, dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “No good. Defense bias. How about Braun? Is she at trial now? You could catch her at a recess. She’s kind of famous for her animosity toward Mr. Hardy. Remember that guy who got killed in her courtroom? She blames Hardy for that. She’s going to be our warrants judge on this case. I want McGuire in jail by close of business today.”

  “Excuse me, Chief,” Sher said, “but if we do that, we’re going around everybody. Our boss, the DA. If we get a Ramey warrant and Farrell winds up not charging the case, cites lack of evidence, then what?”

  Lapeer shook her head. “We’re not going to worry about that. I am telling you, do not go to the district attorney first with this case.”

  “But—” Brady began.

  Lapeer stopped him. “If Farrell refuses to file on what we’ve got now, we can’t turn around and go to a judge for a warrant. No judge in the world would authorize an arrest knowing there wasn’t going to be a prosecution.”

  Sher said, “So we’re making it Farrell’s problem.”

  “Right. Better we go with a Ramey.” Typically, inspectors filed a report and sent it to the DA, who decided whether he could convict the suspect on what they’d given him. If he thought so, he filed a complaint and asked for an arrest warrant. In some cases, police could go directly to a judge and get a warrant themselves, which made for a legal arrest, but it deferred the DA’s decision on whether to file charges. “We put probable cause in our affidavit,” she continued. “The judge agrees and signs it. We make our arrest. And we get our search warrants at the same time. Maybe we get lucky, and the case gets better.”

  “If it doesn’t?” Brady asked.

  “If it doesn’t, after that, if Farrell publicly wants to disagree with us and the judge and say there’s not enough to go forward, then he can let McGuire off right in front of God and everybody. As far as I’m concerned, we’ve got enough. What happens next is not our issue. Which is why DAs hate Ramey so much. But it gets us—you guys—what you need in cases like this one. I believe I’ve mentioned that I want to see McGuire in handcuffs by tonight. Let’s see if we can make that happen, why don’t we?”

  SERGEANT MORIARTY WAS driving the chief out to a meeting with the Outer Sunset Graffiti Abatement program, which was a long way from the Francisca Club, geographically and psychologically, so there was plenty of time to talk, although Moriarty wasn’t sure how to subtly slide into the topic. The chief was reading something in the backseat, and in the rearview mirror, he saw her lower the pages, close her eyes, and sigh.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Fine.” She hesitated. “I’m wondering if this is serious enough to take to Internal Affairs, or have our guys make the Ramey arrest and let it go.” Moriarty wasn’t going to correct his boss about the name of the unit that investigated police misconduct. Internal Affairs nearly everywhere else, in San Francisco—ever politically correct—it was called the Administrative Investigation Division. She went on, “I don’t know if I see any real collusion here, much less a conspiracy. It’s a small town, after all. People are going to know each other, right? You think Glitsky got McGuire lawyered up?”

  “Like one of ’em said, it’s hard to avoid that conclusion, isn’t it? You want to hear a rumor?”

  She met his eyes in the rearview. “Always.”

  “Maybe you’ve already got wind of it. The Dockside Massacre? Down at Pier Seventy? Five or six years ago?”

  Lord, she thought, had she heard of it. After the Courier column a few months before, when Sheila Marrenas had aired the department’s dirty laundry from the past twenty years, it had been another issue that made her vulnerable to attack from the mayor. Even though she’d had nothing to do with any of the notorious unsolved murders—indeed, she hadn’t been on the job for any of them—she supposedly could have started investigations on any of the so-called skull cases. Somehow her failure to embark on any of those quixotic journeys, using staff and resources she did not have, meant that she wasn’t as serious as she could be about solving crimes. If the Dockside Massacre even tangentially intersected with Moses McGuire, she wanted to know all about it right now and move on anyone involved with all due haste.

  Even if that person was one of her department heads.

  Lapeer cocked her head to one side. Her eyes flitted away from Moriarty’s to the southeast corner
of the city falling off behind them as they climbed Market Street up to Twin Peaks. If Dermot Moriarty had any information at all, even if was the rankest rumor, she wanted to hear it. “Remind me about this so-called massacre,” she said.

  “I’m probably off on the timing,” Moriarty said. “Barry Gerson was running Homicide.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “No. You wouldn’t. Before your time. He got himself killed trying to arrest a murder suspect named John Holiday, who got killed the same day, along with I think either three or four other private security guys. Patrol Specials, actually. Essentially cops, as you know. Although what they were doing there, God only knows.”

  “Maybe Gerson needed their help with the arrest.”

  “Patrol Specials, not regular cops? Not in this lifetime. But it doesn’t look like anybody will ever know.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re saying—what?—five or six cops were shot dead in one day at one place? This was at Pier Seventy?”

  “Right. Don’t forget, one suspect shot, too. They didn’t call it a massacre for nothing. Smack in the middle of the afternoon. Also, they found about a hundred shell casings lying around, twenty or thirty bullet holes in the structures out there, not to mention the carnage to the victims. It was a balls-out firefight.”

  “Not an execution?”

  “No, ma’am. Bodies all over the place where they fell.”

  “Who were the killers?”

  “That’s the thing. Eventually, the whole episode got laid off on the Russian mafia, something to do with stolen diamonds, blood diamonds, I don’t know. It got too complicated to follow; finally it all went away.”

  “Six homicides just went away? How’d that happen?”

  Moriarty shrugged, checked the rearview, slowed for a light. “The shooters went back to Russia, maybe by diplomatic flight.” He paused. “You see why there were rumors. It was all a little squirrelly.”

  “I get it.”

  “Here’s the kicker. You want to guess who was the lawyer for the murder suspect, John Holiday?”

  “Farrell.”

  “Close but no cigar, which leaves . . . ?”

  “Dismas Hardy.”

  “See? This is why you’re the chief.” They started moving again.

  “Yeah, well, it took me two guesses,” Lapeer said. “What does it mean, though, that Hardy was his attorney?”

  “Nothing, maybe, by itself. But with a few other facts, things get more interesting. Like—you’ll get this on the first try—who got promoted into Gerson’s job?”

  In the rearview, Lapeer took her chin in her hand, squeezed her lower lip.

  “Glitsky,” Moriarty went on, “had been in Homicide before he got shot, and took a year or so to recover. When he came back to work, they brought him in to supervise Payroll, which—he made no secret—he didn’t find very challenging.”

  The chief made a dismissive noise. “Dermot, please. Glitsky didn’t kill Gerson to get his old job back. That I flatly don’t believe.”

  “I’m just telling you what people were saying.”

  “Okay, but that’s ridiculous. What people?”

  “Mostly other cops. Most of whom are gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Retired, reassigned, quit. Gone. But Glitsky taking over Homicide? Maybe that’s why the investigation into all these murders kind of ran out of steam.”

  After a beat to consider the possibly relevant point, she asked, “And where does Farrell fit into the scenario?”

  “Nowhere. But you know Hardy’s other partners? Farrell’s partners, for that matter? David Freeman and Gina Roake?”

  “What about them?”

  “Freeman got mugged a couple of days before Pier Seventy. He died in the hospital on the same day as the shoot-out.” Moriarty paused for effect. “Roake and he were engaged.”

  At this, Lapeer allowed herself a small chuckle. “Okay, Dermot, this is really getting into the realm of fantasy.”

  “Maybe, but you might as well hear all of it. There’s one other player. Fought alongside Hardy in Vietnam, both of them experts with weapons. And P.S., Hardy saved his life over there and then came back home, bought in to his bar, and married his sister.”

  “McGuire.”

  Moriarty nodded into the mirror. “McGuire. Oh, and one last thing.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Of course there was an investigation at the time. You could look it up. There’d be files on it, all the details. Glitsky was ruled out because he had an airtight alibi. You want to guess what it was?”

  “I don’t believe my imagination is up to it.”

  “He was with Gina Roake at David Freeman’s apartment all afternoon, picking out a suit for Freeman’s funeral. You’ll notice how nicely this dovetails into Roake’s alibi. How ’bout them apples?”

  AFTER SHER AND Brady left, Moses pondered his situation while he set up the back bar, loaded up the condiment bins, peeled the lemons, whipped the cream for the Irish coffee, rolled in a new keg of Bass. Somewhere around one o’clock, he made the decision that a little hair of the dog wouldn’t kill him.

  He’d monitor the alcohol intake more carefully this time, that’s all.

  By four o’clock, when Sher and Brady showed up again, he’d had three carefully measured shots—well, double shots—of vodka. Scotch was really his drink, but if he drank Scotch, Susan would smell it on him.

  Vodka, maybe not so much.

  So it was only Moses and Dave and two couples on the couches under the Tiffany lamps in the back when the front door opened and the two inspectors trooped in with a sense of urgency they hadn’t displayed before.

  He greeted them with weary tolerance. “You guys, you guys. Don’t you ever take a break?”

  Neither of them was in the mood for casual repartee. Brady got up to the bar in a couple of steps, Sher staying back by the door. Her arms were crossed over her chest, but one hand was tucked inside her jacket, no doubt on her service weapon. Looking over at her, next to the front windows, Moses saw a couple of black-and-white patrol cars on the street outside.

  “Mr. McGuire,” Brady said, “I’d like to ask you to come around the bar, please.”

  Moses, still trying to brazen things out, flashed some teeth and said, “It would be easier to pour you a drink from back here. What are you having?”

  “I’m asking you again, and for the last time, to come around the bar.”

  Brady’s tone alerted Dave, seated where he always was at the front of the bar by the window, who raised his head and tried to focus on Brady. “How’s he going to get you a drink from out in front of the bar?” he asked.

  Sher, wound tightly, took a quick couple of steps over to Dave’s side and flipped her badge in front of him. “Drink up, pal. San Francisco police. This bar’s closing right now.”

  Dave gave her an uncertain glance. “Bullshit,” he said. “It’s the middle of the day.”

  Brady patted his hand firmly on the bar. “McGuire. Now.”

  Unloading a heavy breath, Moses wiped his hands on his bar towel. “All right, all right, I’m coming.”

  Dave didn’t like this much and took the opportunity to pop his beer bottle down on the bar. “Mose, what is this bullshit? Give ’em what for. Whack ’em one with the shillelagh.”

  Moses had already pulled up the hinged part of the bar on his way out from behind it. He stopped, turning abruptly. “Shut up, Dave. Just shut up.”

  “What shillelagh?” Sher asked.

  “He’s got a big ol’ shillelagh hanging down under the bar. Been there forever. That’s what.”

  One of the mid-twenties men in the back was on his feet. “Is there a problem up here?”

  Brady held up the wallet with his badge, slapped the bar again, raised his voice, moving back toward where the young man and Moses stood in close proximity. “Everybody, listen up. We are San Francisco police on official business. Please, everybody stay where you are.” He advanced o
n the younger man. “Except you! Back up! More! Now sit down!” Brady didn’t want the well-meaning but stupid interloper anywhere near McGuire, where, in a heartbeat, he might find himself held hostage by his friendly local bartender.

  Brady never got all the way past McGuire; he didn’t want to show the man any part of his back. Suddenly, the plan had gotten unscripted, out of hand. Brady knew they had backup units parked all along the street, hand-picked teams planning to search the premises—along with McGuire’s car and his apartment—and he almost yelled at Sher to open the door and call in the troops.

  Then McGuire took a small step toward him, holding up both hands. “Easy, easy, easy,” he said. He looked over and down at his customers. “Nothing to worry about. No problem.” Back to Brady. “Here I am, as ordered. What can I do for you?”

  “Moses McGuire,” Brady said, holding up a piece of paper, letting out a sigh of relief. “I have here a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Richard Jessup. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you do say can and will . . .”

  McGUIRE WOULDN’T SHUT up, and using their secret sign language, Brady and Sher decided they wouldn’t try to make him.

  “I don’t see why you need these handcuffs,” he was saying. “They’re too goddamn small. They feel like shit. Come on, you guys, I wasn’t going anywhere. I came around from inside the bar on my own. Here I am, all cooperation, and the back of this car is locked up anyway. I couldn’t go anywhere if I wanted to. And you could pull over right here and take off the cuffs. Come on. Brady? Inspector Sher? Come on! Shit.”

  After they had him locked in the backseat of their car on Lincoln Way with one of the patrolmen keeping an eye on him, they told the customers in the back of the Shamrock that they had to leave. They would be closing down the bar while officers executed a search warrant.

  Sher went over to Dave, whom she’d told to shut up and finish his beer and wait for her. She got his full name, address, and phone number, since he would be a witness about the shillelagh, which by the way was nowhere to be found. Dave wasn’t too happy about this development, but Sher thought it was more that he would have to find another local bar to drink away the day.