He had been a different guy back then. Now he felt older, almost protective of these cops. The beat was the beginning.
They came into what Hardy called the walking room. Pico had changed into a turtleneck and sportcoat, though he still wore his swim trunks. He stared emptily straight ahead, sitting on the edge of the pool next to the gurney that held the shark.
“Find anything else?” Hardy asked.
Pico let himself off the pool’s lip, withering Hardy with a look. After the introductions, Varela walked over to the hand, still lying where Pico had thrown it. “That what it looks like?”
“That’s what it is,” Hardy said.
“Where’d you get this shark?” Soper asked. “Hey, Bobby!” Varela was poking at the hand with a pencil. “Leave it, would you?”
Pico told Soper how the shark had come to the Steinhart. Soper wanted to know the fishing boat’s name, captain, time of capture, all that. Hardy walked over to Varela, who was still hunched over, and stood over him.
“Pretty weird, huh?”
Varela looked back over his shoulder, straightening. “Naw, we get these three, four times a week.”
“I wonder if the guy drowned?”
Varela couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the thing. “You’d hope so, wouldn’t you? How’d you like to have been alive instead?”
Soper had passed them, going into Pico’s office to use the telephone. Pico came over. “He’s getting some crime-lab people down here. No way am I putting my hand in that guy again.”
Varela shivered. “I don’t blame you.” He walked back to the shark and gingerly lifted the incision along its stomach with his pencil. “Can’t see much.”
“There’s more in there,” Pico said. “We’d just started.”
Varela stepped back. “Dan’s right. I think we’ll just wait.”
Hardy stared down at the hand. “I wonder who it was,” he said.
“Oh, we’ll find out soon enough,” Varela said.
Pico leaned back against the pool. “How can you be sure?” he said. “It could be anybody.”
“Yeah, but we’ve got one major clue.”
“What’s that?” Pico asked.
Hardy turned. “Let me guess,” he said. “Fingerprints.”
3
Hardy lifted his red-rimmed eyes from the folder he was studying. It was three-thirty in the afternoon, and last night had been a long one, ending around sunrise. He’d driven home from the Steinhart, changed into a new brown suit, looked in at Frannie curled up in their bed, at Rebecca sleeping in the new room he’d built onto the back of his house, and headed downtown where he now worked as an assistant district attorney on the third floor of the Hall of Justice on Seventh and Bryant.
The job wasn’t going very well. The case he was laboring over now, like the others he was currently prosecuting, came from the lower rungs of the criminal ladder. This one involved a prostitute who’d been caught by an undercover cop posing as a tourist wandering around Union Square. The girl—Esme Aiella—was twenty-two, black, two priors. She was out on $500 bail and was, even now as Hardy read, probably out hustling.
Hardy was wondering what purpose this all served. Or the bust of a city employee, Derek Graham, who sold lids of marijuana on the side. Hardy had known guys like Derek in college, and very few of them went on to become ringleaders in, say, the Medellín cartel. Derek had three kids, lived in the Mission and was trying to make ends meet so his wife could stay home with the kids.
Still, this was Hardy’s job now—nailing the petty malefactors, the lowlifes, the unlucky or the foolish. This wasn’t the high drama of the passionate crime, the romance of big deals gone crooked, beautiful people desperately denying their libidos, their greed, their shallowness. No, this was down below the stage lights, where the denizens lived on the slimy border of the law, slipping over the line, not even seeing it, trying to get a little money, a little power, a little edge, maybe even some release, some fun in a life story that wasn’t ever going to make it past the footlights. Mostly, Hardy thought, it was sad.
Hardy had thought, perhaps unrealistically, that coming back to work as an assistant district attorney he wouldn’t have to deal with this level again. He was, after all, nearly forty now, and he’d done his apprenticeship with the D.A. ten years ago. Back when he started, he’d had to work through the issue of whether he could morally prosecute the so-called victimless crimes—hookers, casual dopers. Somewhere in his heart, he believed that these crimes weren’t as real as the ones that hurt people. He tended to believe that if grown-ups wanted to get laid or get high or get dead by jumping off the Golden Gate bridge, society should let them. God knows, it had enough truly bad things to correct. Why waste the time on this pettiness?
But this, he knew, wasn’t a good attitude. His job was to prosecute people who broke the law. Whether they had done anything he considered wrong was moot.
And he was a new hire, only brought on because he’d left with a few friends, like Chief Assistant D.A. Art Drysdale. Also, he suspected, although he didn’t know for certain, that his ex-father-in-law, Superior Court Judge Andy Fowler, had put in a good word for him.
He hadn’t actively practiced law in ten years. He’d been a bartender, was still part owner of the Shamrock, and he really couldn’t expect guys who’d made a linear career of criminal law to step aside while the new guy got the hot cases.
Of course, even if he were doing murders—the fun stuff—the majority of them were NHI cases—“no humans involved.” It was a pretty apt term. Lowlifes killing each other for reasons that would be laughable—they were laughable—if they weren’t so tragic. . . .
This morning, Hardy had run into Arnie Tiano and Elizabeth Pullios in the hallway, laughing so hard their sides hurt:
“. . . so this poor son of a bitch, the victim, Leon, he’s trying to get some hubcaps back on this car in the middle of the day. It’s his car. Red, you know, an old Ford. So the perp, Germaine, sees him, comes out and asks what he thinks he’s doing messing with his, Germaine’s, car, which in truth is parked around the corner. Looks a lot like Leon’s car, I guess. Same model, red and all. But Germaine is so loaded he can’t see that well, and Leon says fuck off, it’s my car, which it is. So Germaine goes inside and comes out with a gun, and Leon says, ‘What you gonna do, shoot me?’ and Germaine says, ‘Yeah,’ and pumps four shots into him.”
Pullios howls. “Get out of here!”
“Swear to God, I mean, there’s ten witnesses hanging around the curb and this guy just blows Leon away, walks back inside and takes a nap, which is what he’s doing when we get there.”
Both Arnie and Elizabeth laughing, laughing, laughing. But it beat bartending.
Not that there was anything wrong with bartending. Working behind the rail was an uncomplicated and stress-free life. He’d taken pride in the way he mixed drinks, getting along with everybody, sleepwalking.
Then suddenly it wasn’t enough. Wasn’t nearly enough. After he’d broken his routine, once trying to help the Cochrans, once trying to save his own life, he realized that he’d changed. Survival wasn’t enough. He’d fallen in love. His new wife now had a baby that he’d treat as his own even if it wasn’t.
There was a future again, not a succession of days in half a Guinness haze. It surprised him how good it felt.
The time behind the bar had begun to weigh heavily. The regulars, the pickups at the bar, the stupid Irish fights over darts or whether Jameson was better than that Protestant piss Bushmills. It was all the same ol’ same ol’, the alcohol discussions laden with a profundity that never stood the scrutiny of the next sunrise.
So it was back to the law, to a real job, to something he cared about to go with the new life he was building.
Frannie was pregnant again, too.
4
The coroner’s office was in the same building Hardy worked in, on the ground floor. To wheel the gurneys in, there was easy access from the parking lot. The public could en
ter without being frisked, without going through the detector at the back door to the Hall of Justice.
Hardy was sitting on one of the yellow plastic chairs in the outer office. It was four-thirty and he was meeting Esme’s attorney at five in his office, so he took a break and decided to go check on the hand.
The receptionist was one of those rare marvels of civil service. Sixto was about twenty-five, wore a tie and slacks, combed his hair, spoke English politely and with some grammatical precision. A miracle.
“I don’t think they’ve found anything yet, Mr. Hardy,” he said. “It hasn’t been a good day. Mondays never are.”
“Bad weekend?”
Sixto nodded. “Two homicides. This drive-by stuff. What gets into people?” There wasn’t any answer to that and Sixto didn’t expect one. “So I doubt if they’ve gotten to anything with the hand, but I’ll keep on it, okay? I’ll let you know.”
Hardy thanked him and got up. Outside the door, in the June fog, he stopped to take in the parking lot, the freeway blocking the horizon to his right, which was starting to sound like rush hour. Walking toward him from the back door were Detective Sergeant Abe Glitsky and Chief A.D.A. Art Drysdale.
“Guys,” Hardy said, nodding.
The guys were not in good humor. Coming abreast of him, Drysdale said, “We don’t want to talk about it.”
“The hand?”
Glitsky, as big, black and mean looking as the lanky, white Drysdale seemed benign, snapped, “What hand?” He reached behind Hardy and pulled at the door.
“We’re not talking,” Drysdale said.
They were walking in the door. “That’s what I like,” Hardy said, “the free and easy flow of information, the genial give and take of ideas . . .”
The door had closed on him. Hardy stood a moment, shrugged, and went up to meet Esme’s attorney.
Aaron Jaans crossed spit-shined shoes over his well-creased pants, showing a bit of the red garter that held black socks halfway up his calf. The thought crossed Hardy’s mind that Jaans might be Esme’s pimp as well as her attorney. Hardy didn’t have any moral problems about prosecuting pimps. He hated pimps.
“I guess the basic problem here is the priors,” Hardy said. “Esme doesn’t seem to be getting the message.”
Jaans leaned onto the back legs of the chair across from Hardy’s desk. He pulled the cuff of his pants down over the distracting garter. The lawyer had a broad, elastic, dark black face, high forehead, aquiline nose, straight hair starting to go a little gray. There was still a trace of a rogue British accent from somewhere.
“She’s a working girl, Mr. Hardy, and you and I both know that you can arrest her every other day and she’s still going to go on the street when she’s out.”
“Not if she’s in jail she won’t.”
Jaans rolled his eyes, but quickly, deciding against too much histrionics. “In jail?”
“We’ve got felony grand theft here. Four hundred and sixteen dollars. That’s jail.”
Jaans leaned forward again, elbows on his knees. “Mr. Hardy, you and I know that no judge wants this kind of rap going to trial. Clogs the docket horrible. It also ties up your vice witness for the better part of a day or two, gets him off the street and what good is he doing? You start taking all these people to trial . . . well, you know this as well as I do.”
Hardy was getting a little tired of the civics lesson. He shuffled the folder in front of him, pretended to be reading. “The offer,” he said, “is felony probation, ninety days in jail or a five-thousand-dollar fine.”
“Are you serious?”
Hardy nodded. “Yep.”
“Is there some new policy going down?”
Hardy shook his head.
“Where’s my client going to get five thousand dollars? Do you think she’s going to go out and get a job typing somewhere? Managing a McDonald’s? She won’t do that. She has no skills, Mr. Hardy. You know what she’ll do, don’t you? She’ll have to be on her back for a month to make that kind of money. Do you want that?”
“I’m sure her pimp could get her that money in two and a half seconds. But she’s not talking about her pimp. She say she doesn’t have a pimp. So, I ask myself, how can we get a handle on this pimp, close up his shop?”
Jaans took a breath. “You know, Mr. Hardy, some of these pimps are not nice men, I grant you, but they do provide protection for their girls, abortions if they need them, that kind of thing.”
“They’re keeping their assets productive, that’s all. Simple business.”
“You know how long a lone girl on the street is going to last?”
“You’re telling me that pimps are solid citizens, is that it?”
Jaans turned his palms up. “They provide a service.”
Hardy leaned forward, fingers laced, elbows on his desk. “What they do, Mr. Jaans, what pimps do,” he paused, “as you and I both know, is take these ignorant, poor, sad, really helpless women and keep them degraded, stoned, and on their backs until their looks go at twenty-five. After which their life span, due to needles and disease and just generally getting the shit beaten out of them, is about six months.” Hardy took a breath, calming himself down. “So maybe this five thousand will make Esme decide to give up her pimp, and then maybe I can have a little fun.”
Jaans nodded. He uncrossed his legs, stood up and reached his hand over the desk. Hardy, surprised, got up himself, hesitated, then decided to take it. “I’ll convey your offer to my client,” Jaans said.
He stopped at the door, turned, raised a finger to make a point, then decided against it and disappeared into the hallway.
Lou the Greek’s was a restaurant and watering hole for cops and D.A.’s across the street from the Hall of Justice. Lou was married to a Chinese woman who did the cooking,so the place served an eclectic menu of egg rolls, chow mien, shaslik, rice pilaf, hot and sour soup, baklava and fortune cookies. Occasionally Lou’s special would be something like Kung Pao pita pockets or pot-sticker kabobs.
There were two bars, standing room only, at the front and back walls. Now, at five-thirty, the din was ferocious. An arm-wrestling contest was going on in the center of the room, twenty or thirty cops screaming, trying to get their bets in.
Drysdale and Glitsky huddled over an ancient Pong machine by the back door. Hardy pushed his way through the crowd. Drysdale was ahead, eight to six. Neither of the men looked up.
“Boo,” Hardy said.
Glitsky looked up for an instant, but it was long enough for the blip to get by him. “Damn.”
“Nine six,” Drysdale said. “Gotta pay attention.”
“Just play,” Glitsky growled.
Hardy watched the blip move back and forth. Both of these guys were good, playing at the master level, and the blip really moved. Hardy went to the bar, elbowed his way in and ordered a pint of cranberry juice, lots of ice.
Back at the Pong game, Glitsky glowered in defeat. Drysdale sat back in his chair, legs crossed, savoring a beer. Hardy squatted, checking out the final score of eleven to six. “You owe me five bucks,” Glitsky told him.
Drysdale sipped his beer. “He never beats me anyway. I wouldn’t pay him.”
“Can we talk about the hand?”
Hardy looked at Drysdale. “What hand, he says.”
Drysdale ran it down for Abe, who had spent the day interviewing family members of a murdered old man. The hand wasn’t the most compelling item of the day for him.
“So who is it?” Glitsky asked when he’d finished.
Drysdale shrugged. “Some guy,” he said. Then, to Hardy, “What’s to talk about?”
“How about if he was killed?”
“How about it?”
“You think he was killed?” Glitsky asked.
“I think he’s dead at least. How he got that way I don’t know. I wondered if you’d heard anything.”
“I heard a good new song the other day,” Glitsky said.
Hardy turned to Drysdale. “I thought th
e coroner might have come up with something.”
Drysdale frowned. “I doubt he’s even looked at it.”
“It sounded like Garth Brooks, but it could have been Merle Haggard. A lot of these country guys sound the same to me.”
Hardy chewed some ice. “Yeah, well, if it does turn out to be a homicide, I wouldn’t mind drawing the case.”
“Homicide’s a pretty long shot,” Drysdale said. “Guy might have drowned, anything.”
“I know. I just wanted to put the word in.”
Drysdale thought about the proposal. “You haven’t had a murder yet, have you, Diz?”
Hardy shook his head. “Not close.”
“It could have been Randy Travis, though,” Glitsky said. “Sometimes when he sings low he sounds a little like the Hag.”
Drysdale appeared to think hard a minute. Glitsky was humming the first few bars of his song. Finally Drysdale looked at the last inch of beer in his glass and finished it off. “Sounds fair,” he said to Hardy. “You found it. If it’s a murder, it’s your case.”
Glitsky stopped humming. “Hardy makes the big time,” he said, reining in his natural enthusiasm.
Hardy fished in his pocket and dropped a couple of quarters into the console in front of him. “Have another game,” he said to Drysdale, “and this time let him win.”
Hardy sat on the Navajo rug on the floor of his living room, way up at the front of the house. His adopted daughter, Rebecca, was in his lap, her tiny hand picking at the buttons of his shirt. In the fireplace, some oak burned. Outside, the cocoon of fog that wrapped the house was darkening by degrees. Up in the kitchen, he heard Frannie humming, doing the dishes from their dinner.
The room, like the rest of the house, had changed with Frannie’s arrival. Previously, Hardy had lived almost exclusively in his back rooms—the kitchen, his bedroom, the office. His house was in the old Victorian “railroad” style, living room up front, a dining room, then a small utility room, all of which opened to the right off a long hallway that ended at the kitchen.
Hard Evidence Page 2