The Fall

by John Lescroart

  “That’s because I wasn’t there,” Treadway said. “Not to get picky.”

  Hardy gave him an appraising look. “I admire a man who stands by his story,” he said. Then he brought in the others. “Anybody here have plans for lunch?”

  “We’ve got a room reserved in the back,” Rebecca said. “Lucca sandwiches ought to have been delivered already.”

  “Have I died and gone to heaven?” Hardy asked. “Anybody mind if I tag along?” He broke the ghost of a grin at the client. “Nonbillable.”

  Treadway nodded. “Join the party.”

  •  •  •

  GLITSKY DIDN’T EXACTLY skulk out of the courtroom, but he had no desire to run into Phil Braden or Wes Farrell or anybody else, not even his wife.

  There was no way to put a kind spin on it—this Omar Abdullah thing had become far more dramatic and annoying than it ever had to be. Right from the very beginning, the night of the scream, when the dude had walked away from the first canvassing patrolman who interviewed him, and because of his critical importance to this ridiculous rush to indict somebody for Anlya’s murder, the super-ambitious Braden and even the more laid-back Farrell had given the homeless man options and considerations and a sense of control that was completely unnecessary and unprecedented in Glitsky’s thirty-plus years of law enforcement.

  First had been the simple matter of his identification. The self-styled Malibu, always confident and even capable of charm, had laughed off Glitsky’s veiled early threat that they could arrest him and hold him as a witness until the trial. He was obviously no novice in the ways of criminal procedure. He had a pretty good idea about habeas corpus. He knew that as a witness, he wouldn’t and perhaps couldn’t be held in jail until such time as he could testify. Wasn’t he already a voluntary witness? Wasn’t he the soul of cooperation?

  In reply to Glitsky’s demand that he provide some documentation for his ID, Malibu repeated that he was registered at Glide Cathedral under the name Omar Abdullah. Glitsky had gone to check and found both the name and an actual identification document, issued by Glide, signed but with no photograph, which was, he realized, as good as it would get. He then ran the name and found Omar’s ten-year-old rap sheet (car theft, battery), which Glitsky eventually supplied to Rebecca Hardy, so that she could keep up with him if she needed to.

  But seriously, new clothes? (Even if they were from Goodwill.) A hotel and meal allowance between the grand jury and the trial? Patrolmen driving him around town as though they were a taxi service? And when Glitsky had tried to insist on fingerprints . . .

  Fingerprints? I do not think so.

  And Braden and Farrell had put up with all of it.

  So now, of course, this.

  Glitsky had to give it to Omar, though. Until today, he hadn’t appeared to be a flight risk, always appeared cooperative if arrogant, even happy to see Abe when he appeared. (Glitsky thought it also might have had something to do with the fresh, hot char siu bao that he’d started delivering with every visit.) The exceptions as to how they treated him and gave in to his demands went on, from Glitsky’s perspective, to an unfathomable degree. By the time they’d set up the appointment for him to appear before the grand jury, Omar had come to understand his critical role in convicting the guy he’d identified as the killer. He could trade perks for that. Accordingly, for example, he wanted to be admitted to the grand jury room via the stairway in the back of the building, accompanied only by Glitsky. And Braden had agreed.

  Absurd.

  And today, when it counted the most, he’d bolted.

  Abe had already put out the word to the several shelters and food banks that Omar frequented, and he intended to canvass the usual square mile or two where Omar wandered downtown, hopefully persuading the captain downstairs at Central Station to lend him some officers to help.

  Unmolested on the walk from the courtroom to his office, Abe got to his desk and saw that the blinking light was on for his voicemail. A few seconds later, he was listening to a message that had been left at 8:05 by the AT&T supervisor with whom he’d worked on Sharla Paulson’s cell phone over the weekend.

  “Lieutenant,” the message began, “this is Callie Lucente, and I wanted to let you know that I checked the activity on the warrant number first thing this morning, and she’s made a phone call to an unknown number, but I went back and looked and it’s one she called twice before in December. If you recall, that was long enough ago that we didn’t use it in our sample of familiar calls, but it looks like it might be someone she knows or used to know. Triangulation puts the recipient just outside the Ferry Building at just a few minutes ago, seven-forty-two, to be exact. If you could get back to me quickly and get a pickup on the number, we might be able to nail him right down. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

  Glitsky hung up and stared at the phone as if it were a living thing about to bite him. He checked his watch and saw that it was 12:10, a full four hours since this call had been made. Why hadn’t Callie Lucente called his cell phone? He had given her his business card with every single number he ever used right on it.

  Although what would he have done with the news of this phone call, which may or may not have been placed to Leon Copes? Four hours ago, he’d discovered that his prime witness was a no-show. Just because Sharla Paulson had made a phone call to someone, he wasn’t about to change direction and forget about Omar. Besides, for all Glitsky knew, Sharla could have been calling her sister, or her manicurist, or returning one of the marketing calls, or anything else. In any event, Leon Copes, one of five elopers, was so far down Glitsky’s priority list compared to Omar that he might as well not exist.

  He’d get back to Callie on Sharla’s phone call when he got a minute, if that ever happened.

  Meanwhile, and far more important, he desperately needed to get his hands on Omar Abdullah before the trial reconvened in an hour and twenty minutes.

  39

  IT WAS AS if Max’s mind had turned into a black miasma. Impulses he’d never considered at first left him almost unable to move.

  He needed to hurt somebody.

  He needed to get himself armed.

  He was done taking shit from people, believing in them.

  It was time he got himself laid, while he was at it.

  He needed to steal something.

  Break something, too.

  He needed to get into it with his dead loser of a mother.

  Leon fucking Copes in town and out of jail and nobody even told him!

  Fuck this. Just completely fuck it.

  Juney kept a stash of emergency money in an old coffee container under the kitchen sink, and he took it out and laid the $462 on the kitchen table. Counted the money, stuffed it into the front pocket of his hoodie.

  He grabbed one of Juney’s good knives, the boning knife. It also fit in the hoodie’s pocket, horizontal across his belly.

  He had to get out of this claustrophobic place, down the stairs, and into the street.

  Outside, he had no real plan except to keep moving and do some damage. He went into Bezdekian’s market at the corner and walked back into the narrow aisles. George and Ida had never been anything but nice to him, but he had no doubt anymore that this was all false, too. While he was standing there, Ida called out that she was just going upstairs. Would he watch things down here for a minute?

  Yeah, he’d watch things, all right.

  He watched the pint of Chivas Regal from behind the counter get tucked into his belt under his sweatshirt. He watched himself take a Häagen-Dazs ice cream bar, a Snickers, some beef jerky, and walk out the front door.

  See ya, losers.

  Half an hour later, he’d made it to Sharla’s street. This time, pumped up and with three good slugs of Scotch giving him courage, he didn’t hesitate at the corner but went up to the house, about to pound on the outer metal door. His mother didn’t seem to be able to stop her men from hitting her. He thought he’d see how she liked getting pushed around by her son,
give him some information about what was really going on with her life, with how it impacted his own.

  But before he knocked, he heard a male voice bellow behind the door: “Goddammit, woman! I said I need it now!”

  It stopped Max dead. He knew that voice, unmistakably. It was the same voice, the same tone, much of the same language he’d lived in fear of for so long. Leon Copes.

  What the hell was Leon doing here with his mother?

  He stepped up closer and put his ear to the door. His mother said something back to Leon in the mealy way she had that seemed to make Leon want to smack her. Max could hear that it was starting to happen again.

  “I don’t give a shit about that,” Leon said. “You listening to me?”

  Sharla and Leon might get through this particular moment, but Max knew it wouldn’t be long before it came to blows. He knew that dynamic. He’d heard it play out a hundred times.

  Standing transfixed on the stoop, he remembered the knife in his hoodie. He reached in, and his fingers closed around the handle. He could bang on the door, and when Sharla saw it was him and opened it, he could brush by her. He’d knock her down and out of his way if he had to, because naturally, she’d try to protect Leon, as she always did. Once he got by her, he’d simply attack the son of a bitch. Slash him to ribbons.

  Then he remembered the size of Leon, his physicality. Back in the day, when they were living together, Max had swung at him once, and Leon had simply stepped back and then struck with the speed of a panther, grabbing his arm, bending it effortlessly back out of its socket, then dropping Max to the ground and kicking him into the corner like a load of garbage, after which, the lesson delivered, he’d just stopped.

  Once Leon’s rage kicked in, he was unstoppable.

  But he was here. He was right here.

  •  •  •

  DISGUSTED WITH HIMSELF at the realization, Max nevertheless knew that on his own, he could never hurt Leon. The man was too big, too skilled at fighting, too vicious, too crazy. Max hated to admit it, but if he had any chance of bringing down the son of a bitch without getting himself killed in the process, he would have to depend on someone with experience in these matters. It galled him, but he saw no other option. The plain, obvious, pathetic fact was that Max would never be a badass, but maybe he could use his knowledge and his rage to do some damage where it might make a difference.

  Now, having retreated back across the street between some parked cars where he could keep an eye on Sharla’s house and/or follow if Leon decided to relocate, Max whispered into his cell phone, “Wasn’t that the whole point of me giving you Sharla’s number over the weekend? So you could get your hands on Leon? I thought you needed him for the trial.”

  “We do,” Wyatt Hunt said. “That hasn’t changed.”

  “Well, I’m telling you where he’s at. Right now. You get somebody down here, you can get him, I’m sure.”

  “All right. I’ll see what I can do. Are you in a safe place?”

  “Across the street, laying low.”

  “If he comes out, don’t confront him. Dial nine-one-one.”

  “I thought that was you.”

  “I wish,” Hunt said. “I’m not a cop. But hang tight. Let me make some calls.”

  •  •  •

  GLITSKY SAID, “I believe you, Wyatt. Sharla called somebody before eight this morning. Somebody she knew, or maybe she herself, probably saw the paper and made the connection about Leon, so she called him.”

  “And told him he could hide out with her?”

  “That’s my assumption. Something like that. If he’s with her now.”

  “And you’ve known this since eight o’clock?”

  Glitsky’s voice went harsh. “Don’t bust my chops, Wyatt. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

  “Than Leon?”

  “Absolutely. Trust me.”

  “All right, but I had the strong impression Leon was a high-level target. At least as of yesterday, when I got you Sharla’s phone number from her son and you got a warrant and all that. You and I seemed to be working together to bring Leon in. You remember any of that?”

  “It’s one of my favorite memories,” Glitsky said. “And if you’ve really got Leon run to ground, I still say find a way to get him. He’s important. I’ll have somebody call Villanova. You might try Devin. Or even nine-one-one. But I can’t take this myself right now. I’m way under the gun, chasing Omar Abdullah. Really.”

  •  •  •

  DEVIN JUHLE WAS eating lunch with Ken Yamashiro at Lou the Greek’s when he looked over to see Hunt moving toward their table with a sense of urgency. His face drawn with frustration, Hunt said, “It would be great if you could pick up your cell phone or at least check your messages once in a while. You know that?”

  Juhle shrugged. “I got it turned off for lunch. Otherwise I’d never get an uninterrupted bite. What can I do for you?”

  “We’ve got a probable location on Leon Copes. One of the elopers? Anlya Paulson’s rapist? Ring a bell?”

  “Probable location?”

  “Ninety-nine percent. Anlya’s brother has run him down. He’s getting a little nervous holding the fort.”

  •  •  •

  “A LITTLE NERVOUS” didn’t quite cover Max’s state of mind.

  After Hunt called him back to say that finally he’d gotten the attention of the police, Max was a lot more than nervous in his role as point man for the arrest of the most dangerous guy he’d ever met. He had two more quick good swallows of Scotch and took a bite of the Snickers bar and settled himself across the street from Sharla’s.

  Ten minutes after Hunt had called him, his head was swimming. Everything he looked at seemed to be turning around some fixed point in tight circles. He thought this might be what they meant when they talked about being drunk—he didn’t know it could come up on you so fast. He closed his eyes against the spin, but that didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse. And then, without any warning, his stomach lurched up at him and he found himself leaning over, puking into the gutter between the cars.

  Spitting a few times, shaking his head to clear it, he backed away from the stink, then moved a car’s length closer to the house. He never saw the Domino’s pizza delivery car until it stopped directly in front of Sharla’s.

  What the hell is that about? he wondered.

  Apparently, it was about getting something to eat, as the delivery man got his flat carton out of the back and walked up to the metal door and knocked. Sharla opened the door—at least the spinning had stopped—and stuck her head all the way outside so that she could look up and down the street. For a terrifying moment, Max was sure that she’d seen him sitting on the curb between the cars. But then she evidently paid the man and the pizza was inside and her door was closed and the delivery man got back into his car and drove away.

  Where was Hunt? Where were the police?

  He grabbed at his stomach as it cramped again, but this time he kept things down. He wanted to close his eyes and lean back on something, but he had to keep his watch on the house. At least for the next few minutes, he could assume they’d be eating and wouldn’t be going somewhere else.

  He hoped.

  But that, he realized, wasn’t close to the end of his worries. He was carrying several hundred dollars he’d taken. He had a third of the bottle of Scotch left, tucked into his belt. The beef jerky. Would the Bezdekians have reported all that stolen stuff already? What if the cops asked him where he’d gotten all that? And what about the knife?

  His cell phone chirped, Hunt getting back to him and saying he was around the corner. There wasn’t going to be any police show of force on the street until Max was safely behind their perimeter. Max should get to his feet and, walking naturally, head back to where they could meet up.

  Walking naturally, Max thought, was easier said than done.

  •  •  •

  A FURIOUS DEVIN Juhle stood next to Yamashiro’s city-i
ssue car, around the corner and out of sight from Sharla’s house.

  Hunt had convinced him that Max Paulson’s intelligence was reliable and important. Leon Copes, who, up until today, hadn’t featured prominently on Juhle’s radar, was nevertheless an escaped prisoner. Though he’d been found incompetent to stand trial, he remained a suspect in a homicide. Considered armed and dangerous, he was an undeniable threat to the community at large, as well as any individuals with whom he might come into contact.

  But Hunt’s “reliable” contact turned out to be a drunk teenager. Based on Max’s information, and not having any clue that he was impaired in any way, Juhle had gotten into a little bit of a heated discussion with Steve Rutledge, the SWAT team captain, about calling out his guys for the second time in four days. Especially after the flak they had taken for the result of the Royce Utlee action. Rutledge wanted to be sure: Was the man’s identity established? Was the location solid? Was it possibly a hostage situation?

  Juhle had assured him on all counts and taken full responsibility. He would even go out to the scene with them, make sure it was all according to Hoyle. Leon Copes was a homicide suspect, and Juhle, the Homicide lieutenant, would be there to take him into custody.

  But now Hunt was saying, “He didn’t sound drunk when I talked to him.”

  “Oh, that’s a big help. Thanks. He sure sounds drunk now.”

  “He was nervous, waiting for us.”

  Juhle shook his head and waved that off. “I don’t give a damn about his reasons, Wyatt. The point is, your ninety-nine-percent assurance that this is even Leon Copes in his mother’s house is now down to about fifty-fifty best case, and we’ve got two streets cordoned off and twenty officers in five cars, plus a few more for luck, and this is squarely all on my head. If it’s not Copes, I’m probably looking for work by next week.”

  “It’s Copes,” Hunt said. “I believe Max.”

  “I’m so glad for you.” Juhle saw Rutledge approaching from where he’d deployed his troops. He shook his head in quiet disgust, then pasted on a hopeful look. “Okay, Steve,” he said. “How do you want to do this?”