The First Law dh-8

by John Lescroart

  Although the pickin's were very slim, Thieu spent most of the rest of the night at the scene with the Crime Scene Investigation unit. He did notice a few potential anomalies that might possibly shed light on elements of the crime. There were two concentrations of broken glass, where bottles had obviously been broken-one out on Stockton across the street and up a few yards from the mouth of the driveway, and another at its mouth. It wasn't that broken glass rose anywhere to the significance of evidence-it was as common as the dew on many city streets-but Thieu believed in collecting all the data that came his way in the hopes that some of it would acquire relevance. He asked the CSI team to gather any shards that might be large enough to hold a fingerprint.

  He also had a reasonably defined size twelve-and-a-half shoe print from a leather- or smooth-soled shoe. The dumpster had been dripping a stinky, gooey miasma and somebody had stepped in it and then onto relatively drier pavement. Thieu knew that the footprint might not belong to the shooter. The scene by the loading dock at the end of the long driveway was a known rendezvous for some of the city's homeless, so there was a strong likelihood that the footprint belonged to one of the bums.

  On the other hand, Thieu was a stickler for precision and they'd done some preliminary blood spatter analysis, complete with photos-a difficult task in the middle of the night. The footprint location was at least consistent with where the shooter must have been standing, which was at the front, or Stockton Street corner, of the dumpster. This was hardly conclusive evidence, but it was something. He was going to take it. He asked the CSI team to gather some of the liquid and bag it as evidence.

  He was aided in his work by the fact that the victim was in uniform. Even if he was only an assistant patrol special, Creed was in some ways one of them. Every man and woman on the CSI would take all the time Thieu wanted if it would help him apprehend a cop killer.

  Although they found no casing, they also got lucky with one of the two. 38 caliber bullets that had passed through the victim's body, leaving fairly clean small holes in the front and, even with two wounds, something less than a gaping maw of open flesh in the back. This had led Thieu to conclude first that the slugs were probably not hollow points and second that therefore they'd be able to find one or even both of the bullets. Not only was he proved right, but they discovered one of the bullet holes in a makeshift bumper someone had mounted against one of the buildings where the loading trucks would otherwise scrape. So the nearly perfect slug had passed through some rubber tire material that coated the bumper and lodged in the thick wooden beam beneath it.

  Again, a slug by itself meant nothing. The odds of them finding the gun and matching it both to a person and to that particular bullet, and thus having it be any use in actually solving the crime, were all but infinitesimal. But Thieu was glad he had the piece of lead bagged and heading for the evidence locker. You just never knew.

  Impressions, too, played a role, although in even a more nebulous manner than the other potential evidence. But impressions, unlike the other stuff, were ephemeral. Thieu was conscientiously typing his up so he wouldn't forget them, when Gerson came in at 8:30 sharp. Thieu had been technically off for two and a half hours, but he didn't care.

  He wasn't going to put in for overtime. He didn't need the money and he knew that eventually the bean counters who controlled promotion would discover that he solved cases and cost less. Besides, there was nothing he'd rather be doing. Nothing.

  His colleagues had been drifting in for fifteen minutes and the homicide detail was filling with sound and the smell of coffee. Sarah Evans had discovered a female country singer with the same name as her, and she had her radio going low. Thieu tried to work through it all, concentrating mightily.

  But it was not to be, at least not right then. Gerson made his way through the room and surprisingly-the two men tolerated each other at best-stopped in front of Thieu's desk, waiting until he looked up. "Got a minute, Paul? I'd appreciate it. In my office. Thanks." He turned and headed back.

  This was a first, but Thieu took it for what it was, a simple summons, undoubtedly some bureaucratic folderol. Sighing, he pushed back in his chair and stood up. He couldn't help but compare the current lieutenant with his old boss Glitsky, who might have come over to his desk in the same way Gerson just had, but would have seen he was working intently-just possibly on a homicide he was expected to solve. Abe would have either had the sensitivity to let him alone until he was finished, or he would have wanted to know all about what he was working on, what if anything he'd discovered. They'd trade ideas and theories of the case.

  But that wasn't Barry Gerson, who when Thieu got to his office was turned away from the door, studying columns of numbers on his computer screen. He knocked on the wall. "Sir?"

  Gerson blackened the screen and spun round in his seat, motioned to the other chairs. "I don't want to keep you if you were going home," he began.

  "No. I was finishing up, but I've got another half hour. What can I do for you?"

  Gerson wasted no time. He pointed in the general direction of his desk. "I was reading the IR"-incident report- "on your call last night, what you're probably working on out there right now, the patrol special…"

  "Matt Creed," Thieu said.

  "That's him. I think there's a good chance he's part of another case, another homicide." At Thieu's unasked question, he went on. "I don't know if you've followed this Silverman case at all…"

  "Sure." Gerson didn't know it, but Thieu followed every case. "Pawnshop on O'Farrell. Last what? Thursday night? Cuneo and Russell, right?"

  "You know everything else and you don't know about Creed?"

  Thieu ignored the facetious tone. "Not everything, sir. In fact, nothing but the bare facts." But he didn't want to get into one-upmanship with Gerson. He put on a receptive expression. "What was Creed's involvement?"

  "He was the only witness to the robbery in progress at Silverman's. He chased the three suspects for a couple of blocks but lost them. Then he came back to the pawnshop and found the body."

  "All right." For the life of him, Thieu couldn't figure out where this might be going. He'd let Gerson get to it without prompting him, though. Relaxed in his chair, an ankle resting on its opposite knee, he waited.

  Gerson cleared his throat, finally went on. "The thing is, Cuneo and Russell interviewed Creed, and he pretty much identified the suspects."

  This surprised Thieu, but he kept his expression neutral. "Pretty much?" he asked. He didn't know what that meant. "Positively? By name, sir? Or from a photo spread?"

  "By name. The inspectors haven't had time to get photos together. But Creed narrowed it to a trio of losers in the 'Loin. Clint Terry, Randy Wills, John Holiday."

  Thieu automatically filed the names away in the supercomputer he carried between his ears. He was stunned that ninety-six hours after a homicide, no one had shown the main witness a photo spread. Still, he waited, offering nothing but a civil expectancy.

  "My point is that if these two homicides are related, maybe committed by the same hand, it might be more efficient to assign Creed to the same inspectors who are working Silverman since they've got the early jump. But I wanted to run it by you first."

  Thieu was even more stunned. When two homicides seemed to be related, inspectors on both cases worked together. But he was being pulled off. "I've got no problem with that, sir," he said without inflection. "I'd be happy to brief them if you'd like, though there isn't much to talk about. But who works the case-that's your decision."

  "No hard feelings?"

  "Not at all." Then Thieu added, a brush at levity, "It's not like my caseload is about to dry up."

  "No, I don't suppose it is."

  But though Thieu in fact didn't really mind passing off the new case, he did have a question. He would always have a question. "So your assumption is that these suspects must have somehow found out that Creed had identified them and killed him to keep him from testifying?"

  Gerson grimaced. "All I kn
ow is he was a witness in one case and the victim in another, and the other guys have got a head start. We might get two birds with one stone, is all I'm thinking." He spread his palms wide and stood up. "Efficiency. The brass loves it."

  Thieu, standing himself, knew he'd been dismissed, but wanted to be sure that he and Gerson understood one another. "If you'd like," he repeated, "I could stay on awhile this morning to brief them."

  But Gerson waved that off. "Thanks, but you're into OT now as it is. If you finish your write-up, that and the IR here ought to be enough to get them started. They have specific questions, they can always ask you later."

  Cuneo wasn't sure that he liked the operating theory of the case, the very one Thieu had asked about. Cuneo had correctly identified the exact problem that had concerned Thieu. While there was an admittedly strong coincidence factor in Creed being involved in two homicides within Thirty-two in the past week, that very fact didn't compel Cuneo to believe that the cases were in fact related. It seemed to him that the only way the two had to be related was if the suspects had known that Creed had identified them.

  "And how could they have known that?" He and Russell and Gerson were in the lieutenant's office an hour after Thieu had gone home and he was twitching his legs to some inner beat as he talked. "If the two are related, that's what had to happen, didn't it? I mean, they had to know Creed was a threat, right?"

  "Right," Russell said. "So they knew."

  "That's my point. How? I can't see him being so dumb. What did he do? Stop by the Ark and tell the three guys he'd picked 'em out?"

  "Maybe not, but close." Gerson had no problem with it. "Come on, Dan. Look, the kid's involved in his first real homicide. He's the star witness, for Christ's sake. He's going to tell somebody. He's proud as hell of it. Right?" He looked to Russell.

  And Russell agreed. "And that somebody told somebody else till it got back to Terry. Hell, it took four days as it was. That's plenty of time. More than enough."

  Cuneo's legs stopped their jumping. "All right," he said. "If it sings so good for you both, I can run with it. But if that's the theory, we can settle it once and for all pretty quick."

  Russell was right up to speed. "Ballistics," he said.

  Cuneo gave him a nod. "We've got the bullet that did Silverman, too. Two bullets, same gun, and we've got connections. Connections, we get a warrant in a heartbeat and go on a treasure hunt."

  After they'd left Gerson's office, Russell went over to the homicide computer and emailed the crime lab with the request, noted "Homicide-URGENT." The bullets from both scenes would by now have been filed away in the evidence lockup in the Hall's basement. Once the crime lab had physical possession of them-and a regular shuttle service ran between the Hall and the lab-they could do the actual comparison with an electron microscope. It shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes.

  With any kind of luck, they could get it done today.

  While Russell did the computer work, Cuneo checked their messages and found that Roy Panos had called early last night-he had some terrific 49ers tickets for this weekend that he couldn't use. If the guys were interested, why didn't they all meet at John's Grill down in the heart of Thirty-two, have an early lunch, pick up their tickets?

  Of course, the call had been before Creed's death, so Cuneo called Roy back to make sure he felt he could handle a social lunch. Exhausted-he'd barely slept-Roy still wanted to meet with the inspectors. Maybe he could give them some thoughts on Creed while it was still early enough to do some good. If even by inadvertence he knew or had heard anything that might help them in finding out who'd killed Matt, he wanted them to pump him for it.

  Finally, finally, finally, Cuneo and Russell got clear of the Hall. At five minutes to ten, they were parked across the street from the Ark, waiting for their chance to brace John Holiday at last. Find out where he'd been last night as well.

  At a quarter after, Cuneo got out of the car and banged on the bar's door for fifteen or twenty seconds.

  Quarter to eleven, and Russell couldn't endure another moment in the car with his hyperkinetic partner. He checked the door to the Ark again, then walked to the corner and around it to the alley that ran to the back entrance. It, too, was closed. There was no light within, no sign of any life.

  They'd told Roy Panos they'd meet him at John's at 11:30, and ten minutes before that Cuneo turned on the ignition and put the car in gear. "How's the guy make a living, he never opens his shop?"

  "Maybe he's not coming in at all," Russell said. "Maybe he's on the run."

  Cuneo looked across, pointed a finger at him, pulled the imaginary trigger.

  John Holiday's conquest stories to friends such as Dismas Hardy had lately been fabrications. The truth was that he had fallen in love and didn't want to appear to have been a fool if it didn't work out.

  While Cuneo and Russell waited for him to show up at the Ark, he was in Michelle's wonderful apartment-a modest but extremely well-kept one-bedroom unit on the back, non-tourist straight side of the "crookedest street in the world," Lombard. The place was only on the second floor of her building, but the street fell off in a cliff, so out the picture window she had a million dollar unimpeded view of the Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. She'd started living in these three rooms while she was in college, eighteen years ago, and rent control had kept her there-in today's San Francisco, she couldn't have found an unfurnished lean-to for what she was paying. A freelance writer, Michelle occasionally published in national magazines and regularly in some of the local neighborhood papers and advertising supplements. She also had a couple of very nice steady jobs doing restaurant reviews, and these helped bridge the income gap by providing dinners out for her and, often, a guest.

  The first communication between Michelle and Holiday had been faceless, via email. In fact, because Michelle signed her pieces "M. Maier," Holiday hadn't even known he was writing to a woman. In early summer, in an ad rag called the Russian Hill Caller, she reviewed a small new place called Tapa the Bottom-a Spanish tapas restaurant located at the foot of Russian Hill. Michelle's food pieces often had a kind of M.F.K. Fisher quality, where snatches of philosophy, cultural history, or personal experience would thicken the usual thin broth of menu and decor description, and this article had stirred up feelings in Holiday that he'd suppressed for a long time.

  He'd spent his honeymoon with Emma on the Costa Brava in Spain, at a small fishing village called Tossa de Mar, about forty miles north of Barcelona. For Holiday, the very air there at that time had seemed imbued with promise, with a sense that everything in his life now was going to work out, that the emptiness of his early life was over forever. And that short season of hope had been steeped in saffron, garlic, oregano, onions.

  As soon as Holiday finished the article, he'd beelined to Tapa the Bottom, where he felt himself transported by nearly every bite. Escargots in pepper sauce, baby octopus, the Spanish tortilla-really an omelette of onion, egg and potato-the crusty bread smeared with tomato and garlic. When he got back home, flushed with a full bottle of chilled rose, he emailed M. Maier through the Caller to express his gratitude for the recommendation. He ended by adding, without much thought, "Happiness has been a bit elusive for a while, but while I was eating there, I was happy."

  She'd written him back the next day, and they'd started corresponding regularly, breaking ground. Eventually, since they knew they must be neighbors, they agreed to meet. Michelle showed up in what turned out to be her usual outdoor attire, an army-navy coat over loose-fitting paramilitary camo garb, combat boots and a weird hat, one of her misshapen collection of thrift store headwear. In her heavy black-rimmed eyeglasses, with the hat pulled low and her tousled dark hair falling over her face, and wearing no makeup of any kind, she had attracted no undue attention.

  Holiday had enjoyed the lunch, and though Michelle was nice enough, she wasn't the kind of woman he chose to pursue anymore. Clearly not a casual person, she brimmed with passion-thoughts and feelings, ideas, wit. Not his type,
not since Emma. And certainly not the type he'd been taking lately to bed.

  But he kept writing to her. She wrote back. They had another platonic lunch.

  Gradually, as their relationship had slowly progressed, he began to appreciate her really magnificent beauty. Long-legged and deep-bosomed, with a sensuous wide mouth, an exotic cast to her eyes and strikingly perfect skin, she used the baggy clothes and funky headwear and army camouflage as a form of deception that allowed her, mostly, to pass through the world unmolested.

  In their early lunches, she'd always looked barely thrown together. It came out that she'd been hurt a lot by men liking her only for her looks. She told him she'd always fantasized about marrying a blind man so that she could be sure he loved the person she was and not just because of, as she called it, the package.

  The package fostered an odd mix of physical confidence and low self-esteem. As Holiday moved closer and closer to something resembling a commitment to Michelle, she had started to trust him less. If he let her know that he desired her body, too, it scared her. That's what the other men had wanted. So Holiday must in some way be like them.

  The irony of this-that the first person with whom he'd tried to be faithful since Emma doubted him-did not escape him. They'd had their worst-ever fight about it on Thursday night. Holiday in his cups stormed out of the Imperial Palace before they'd gotten their pot stickers. They hadn't made up until Sunday, after a Friday night about which Holiday felt guilty. As well he should have.

  It hadn't all been lies to Hardy.

  This morning, in bed with Michelle, Holiday reclined propped on his elbow. Looking up from the newspaper, he was drawn back to that first meeting with her and had to smile that his initial reaction to this woman had been so neutral. At this moment, he was entirely smitten with the view of her. In stylish reading glasses, she wore orchid-print white silk pajamas. Barely buttoned on top, they gapped open as she leaned over to read.