The Dismas Hardy Novels

by John Lescroart

  But Visser had a couple of character flaws that were going to negatively impact his aspirations on the force. The first one was a tendency to theorize before all the evidence was in. He’d get a feeling about who among the various suspects in a case was the most likely culprit, and he’d focus his energies trying to prove his point. The first couple of cases he’d handled, this approach had even worked—quite often, the guy who looks like he did it actually did.

  But not always.

  And the law of averages—along with the complexity of motives and situations in real-life homicides—finally caught up with him in a high-profile case.

  This was where his second major failing—a lack of focus regarding loyalty—came into play. Visser thought it only made sense to have friends in the press and the D.A.’s office as well as with the police. It couldn’t hurt to give a reporter a little advance heads up on what might be coming down the pipeline, sometimes before it was supposed to be public. These people—the D.A.’s and reporters—after all, were the end users of his product. They ought to be entitled to an early look.

  And in their zeal for convictions (pre-Pratt), the occasional prosecutor would sometimes use Visser to funnel something to the press that they couldn’t say themselves. If you were nice to reporters, they were nice to you in print. It was you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Visser may even have thought that everybody did it, although in this belief he was mistaken.

  Until one day, stunned, he found himself transferred out of homicide. Soon he found it prudent to resign and get another job as investigator for the district attorney’s office, where he was pretty much like a police inspector, but not really.

  That new position lasted only eighteen months. He could have stayed on, of course—he hadn’t really done anything wrong—but he felt frozen out. He became the prosecutor’s last choice if they needed a real investigator. Finally, deeply embittered by the system that had rejected him, he quit and, encouraged by several defense attorneys with whom he’d become friendly and who promised him steady work, he hung up a shingle as a private investigator.

  Visser had once been handsome, with a full head of sandy-colored hair, chiseled cheekbones, a well-trimmed goatee. In the decade since he’d had his own business, though, he’d gained forty pounds and two inches of forehead. He’d also lost the facial hair that had hid his chins. Now the skin of his face stretched tightly over too much flesh through which smallish eyes perpetually seemed to squint.

  Right now he was on his way to see Dismas Hardy’s client Rich McNeil at Terranew Industries. He didn’t have an appointment; that wasn’t his style. McNeil’s office was on one of the upper floors of the company’s headquarters on California Street halfway up to Nob Hill. The room was of reasonable size, with modern furnishings, built-in bookshelves, windows on two of the walls looking out over downtown. When his secretary buzzed him and said a private investigator with the Manny Galt case was outside, he let himself hope that maybe Hardy had hired a PI, and maybe he had come up with some good news about something and couldn’t wait to tell McNeil directly.

  But as soon as he saw Visser, he realized that this was wishful thinking. This beefy hunk of trailer trash couldn’t be Hardy’s man. Still, McNeil had let him into his office, so he’d be polite. He rose out of his seat, came around his desk, extended his hand. “Mr. Visser. Rich McNeil. What can I do for you?”

  The big man’s grip crushed his hand. Intimidation with a smile. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice. You mind if I sit down a minute?”

  McNeil opened and closed his hand, relieved that it still seemed to be working. “Not at all. I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of time, but . . .”

  “I won’t take much, then.” Visser pulled his pants at his thighs, settled back into one of McNeil’s leather armchairs, looked around the office. “Nice place,” he said. “I got an office in an old warehouse on Pier 42. Great view, right on the water. Treasure Island, the bridge. But no chairs like this.”

  “Well . . .” McNeil didn’t have a chitchat answer prepared. He pulled a chair up, put on an expectant expression. “So . . .” He waited.

  Visser took another moment appreciating his comfort level, the buildings out the windows. He shifted his shoulders, leaned into the leather, came back to McNeil. “Just so you know,” he began, “so we’re clear, I’m working for Dash Logan, Mr. Galt’s attorney. He thought it might be . . . helpful if you and me had a discussion about what we’re looking at here, kind of off the record.”

  But McNeil was shaking his head. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. My lawyer told me . . .”

  “No, c’mon, hey. Lawyers, I know. I work for one. Dash talked to your lawyer yesterday, which is why I’m here today, call it a courtesy. Your guy—Hardy, is it?—he seems to think settling this case out of court isn’t a good idea, says we’ve got no criminal case. But I gotta tell you . . .” The squinting eyes shifted around the office.

  “What?” McNeil prompted.

  With some effort, Visser brought his bulk forward on the chair. “Here’s the thing,” he began, all sincerity. His voice dropped a few decibels. “This stuff happens in these cases, the lawyers, they start pissing at each other, pretty soon everybody loses. Mr. Logan, he hates to see that . . .”

  “Well.” McNeil wanted no more of this. He started to stand up. “Be that as it may, I really can’t—”

  “The thing is, Rich,” Visser interrupted, almost coming out of his own chair, intimidating McNeil again back into his. “I used to be a cop a lot of years. I know the kind of things they’re looking for and they’re going to get it. I mean, everybody’s got a skeleton in their closet—tax stuff, couple of times you maybe took cash for rent without receipts. This is stuff your guy Hardy wouldn’t know about.”

  “I’d be surprised at that,” McNeil said levelly. “He used to be a cop himself.”

  “Hardy did?”

  McNeil pressed his advantage. “That’s right. So I get the feeling he’s pretty much on top of what’s going on, and he’s telling me there’s no case. Which is also what I believe, since I know Manny Galt is a liar, especially about giving me cash for rent. That didn’t happen. None of it happened. So if that’s all”—McNeil started to get up again—“thanks for coming by, but I’m afraid we don’t have anything else to discuss.” He braved a smile. “We’re just going to have to let the lawyers duke it out.”

  But Visser didn’t take the hint. Instead, he leaned back again, rubbed a palm against the smooth leather armrest. “Well, okay. It’s just a case like this goes forward, it can get ugly. And Mr. Logan doesn’t want that.”

  “Neither does Mr. Hardy. We’ll just have to let the facts decide.” He gestured with his palms out, forced another smile. “Well, if that’s all, I do have a pretty busy morning . . .”

  At last, Visser got himself out of the chair. “Okay, but just for an example.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You used to have a secretary named Linda Cook, didn’t you?”

  McNeil felt his stomach go hollow. “What about her? That was a mistake. A long time ago. My wife knows all about it.”

  “Yeah, sure. But the kids, you know, the grandkids. That whole thing comes up, it’d be kind of sad for them, the whole way they think about you.”

  A shaky breath, steel now in the voice. “Get the hell out of here.”

  The fury and fear had no effect on Visser. He spread his own palms in a reflection of McNeil’s earlier dismissal. “All I’m saying is this kind of thing gets around in the public, it doesn’t do you any good. You hear what I’m saying? Nobody needs that kind of aggravation, huh? Aren’t I right?”

  They were in the front window of a tiny little lunch place on Union, and Jody Burgess had given up even picking at her salad. Instead, she glared across the table at her daughter, who had just told her after a meal full of preamble that she and Jeff were not going to contribute to the payment for Cole’s defense. “I don’t see how you can be so unfee
ling,” she said. “This is your own brother.”

  Dorothy hadn’t even touched her sandwich, and it was her favorite—focaccia, goat cheese, sun-dried tomatoes. She had no problem understanding how she could be so unfeeling—she’d had lots of practice, that was how. Every time she’d been tempted to feel something like compassion or sorrow or simple pity for her brother over the past half dozen years, she’d regretted it, and now the temptation wasn’t all that great any longer. In fact, it was no longer a temptation at all.

  But she told herself that this was her mother, and although they’d had similar discussions hundreds of times before, she felt she still owed her somehow. Damn it.

  So she answered with her trademark enforced calm. “My own brother,” she said, “desperately needed a place to stay and because I felt something for him, I let him live in my house with my rather seriously handicapped husband and my own children. And Mom, you may remember this, you know what his thanks was? He stole from us. Repeatedly. From the kids’ own piggy banks even. Can you believe that one? That was my reward for being nice to him, that the kids now will always remember Uncle Cole as a thief, if not a murderer. And isn’t that a special thing for them to carry around for the rest of their lives?”

  Jody nodded, swallowed. She’d heard all of this before. And, because it was her nature, she was ready with a response. “He’s not a murderer.”

  “Well, he damn well is a thief.”

  “He can’t help himself, Dorothy. He’s in the grip of something bigger than he is.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “It’s true. You know it’s true.”

  “It may be, Mom, but I just don’t care anymore. I don’t care. Do you hear me?”

  Jody stared into the face across the table, reached out her hand, touched her daughter’s. “Honey . . .”

  “No!” Dorothy pulled her hand away. “No. Not this time.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “I’m not going to do anything.”

  “You’ll just let him go?”

  Dorothy nodded, her jaw set. “Yep.”

  “They’re asking for the death penalty, Dorothy. You can’t want him to die?”

  A sigh. “This is San Francisco, Mom. No jury is going to give him the death penalty. He’s not going to die.”

  “Well, the district attorney sure doesn’t agree with you.”

  “The district attorney . . .” Dorothy’s gaze was flat. “He’s gone anyway, Mom. He’s not coming back.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “I know, but you should. Because it’s true.”

  Another silence.

  Jody often thought that she was beyond tears. Certainly, only a few years ago if she’d heard Dorothy say that her only son Cole wasn’t ever coming back, wasn’t ever going to be her wonderful boy again, she would have welled up. But now there was nothing like that—only a deep weariness, but one that somehow didn’t threaten her resolve. “Look, how about if we just talk to Mr. Hardy and . . .”

  Dorothy was shaking her head. “Mom, we’ve got three children to send to college if we can. Jeff’s medical expenses are sure not going to go down. We just can’t help here, even if we wanted to, which we don’t. And frankly, Mom—I’ve got to say this—I don’t know why you do.”

  “He’s my only son, Dorothy. That’s why.”

  “That’s not a good answer, Mom. Cole’s ruined your life. Don’t you see that?”

  “He hasn’t.”

  “Oh no, that’s right. He’s enriched it, I suppose?” Dorothy picked up her napkin, wiped her mouth nervously, took a deep breath. “He’s ruined your life.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “Because it keeps being true, that’s why. Come on, Mom, look what he’s done. He’s forced you to move out here—”

  Jody held up her hand, stopping her. “No! There! That’s a good example. He didn’t force me.”

  “You sold the house we both grew up in, where you’d planned to live the rest of your life—you told me this, remember?—because after we threw him out, you wanted a place near Cole in case he couldn’t make it on his own. Tell me that isn’t true!”

  Jody couldn’t say that, since it was.

  “So now you’re living in some dreary little apartment, uprooted from all your friends, everybody you’ve known your whole life, all alone . . .”

  “I get to see my grandchildren.”

  “Which wasn’t an issue until Cole moved out here. That’s not why you’re here, Mom. You know that. It’s Cole. It’s always Cole, all the sacrifices, and you know what? He doesn’t care. They haven’t done any good.”

  Jody cast her eyes around the restaurant, to the street outside, back to her daughter. “He has stayed with me. He needs a place.”

  “So let him get one, Mom. Christ, he’s twenty-seven years old.”

  “I can’t let him die.”

  “You can’t save him. Don’t you see that? He’ll never grow up if you don’t let him. You’re letting him go on the way he does.”

  “I don’t have any option, hon. He just needs—”

  “Stop talking about his needs!” Dorothy, suddenly, had heard enough and her string snapped. Her voice had a hoarse quality, but everyone in the restaurant heard it. “He needs to get a life. He needs to beat this thing, okay, but you can’t help him. Nobody can. He needs to fail and figure it out or else he needs to die.” She brought the napkin back to her lips, shocked at her own outburst.

  But she wasn’t really through, not yet. She leaned forward, her voice more modulated. “And now you’re going to pay Mr. Hardy by yourself, aren’t you? Do you know how much that’s going to be? It’s going to wipe you out, your savings, and then what? Then what’s it all been for?”

  “But he didn’t kill this woman. He needs a good lawyer.”

  “He confessed, Mom.”

  Which meant nothing to Jody. “Not really, and if Mr. Hardy can get him off, then he can get in some program . . .”

  “Oh, Jesus, when will it end? Give me a break.”

  “Can I get you ladies some more water?” It was the waiter, solicitous in his white shirt and black vest. “Some dessert? Coffee?”

  Embarrassed, getting the message, Dorothy shook her head. “Just a check, please, thanks.” After he’d nodded—relieved—and gone off, she leaned across the table and whispered, “You know, Mom, I shouldn’t even have gone to see Dismas. That was my last mistake for Cole. I should have just let him die then in jail if he was going to. Get the whole thing over with.”

  “Don’t say that,” her mom implored. “You don’t mean that.”

  Shaking her head in disgust, Dorothy threw her napkin down on her plate. It was hopeless.

  13

  Clarence Jackman was seated at the head of the mammoth mahogany table that filled the center of the conference room at his firm’s offices. Assuming correctly that the arraignment of Cole Burgess would attract a number of Elaine’s friends and colleagues, Jackman had arranged a catered lunch and had passed the word outside the courtroom that those whose hearts were in the right place were welcome.

  This turned out to be a sizable group, nearly two dozen people, although by now—getting on to one-thirty—many had returned to their jobs or classes. The general buzz had subsided and most of the food was gone. Jackman shook hands good-bye with a young law intern who wanted to send in a résumé, then grabbed a bottled water from the sideboard and pulled up a chair near the knot of people—most of them, Jackman gathered, from law school—who remained at the far end of the room, deep in a conversation that had progressively picked up some heat.

  “There wasn’t any reason, that’s the whole point! You admit a reason, you give Hardy his ammunition to get the scumbag off.” This outburst came from Elaine Wager’s fiancé, Jonas Walsh. In his mid-thirties, big hair, extraordinarily handsome face, expensive clothes, Walsh was a surgeon who looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, and maybe he hadn’t. He was clearly not in the
habit of hearing his opinions questioned, and the wringer he’d been through since Elaine’s death probably made him sound testier than he intended.

  The current object of his wrath was Peter Nesbitt, associate dean of Hastings Law School. He was a reedy-voiced logician in bow tie and corduroy sports coat. “All I’m saying,” Nesbitt persisted, “is that if Burgess in fact didn’t voluntarily confess—”

  “But he did, for Christ’s sake.” For corroboration, Walsh turned to the others gathered around. “Am I wrong here? Is this really in dispute?”

  “Not really, Jonas.” Treya Ghent sat next to him. It was obvious to Jackman that the two knew each other, perhaps well. Treya didn’t really smile, but there was something almost like humor in her attitude and body language as she attempted to pour oil on the waters. She patted Walsh’s hand reassuringly. “They’re only talking about lawyer strategy.”

  “The ever fascinating . . .” One of the female students, to general appreciation.

  Jackman again noticed the sense of quiet strength that the Ghent woman exuded. Today, as always, she wore the simplest of outfits—black slacks, a fashionably baggy gray sweater, a thin gold chain necklace, little or no makeup. He had to force himself to take his eyes off her.

  Billable hours or not, he resolved, I’ve got to think hard before I let this one go.

  “So what are you saying, Jonas?” Jackman asked, eager to be in on it. “What’s the argument?”

  “I’m saying that all this shoptalk about maybe somebody having a reason to kill Elaine, it plays right into his lawyer’s hands. Hell, you’re a lawyer. Don’t you think that’s right?”

  Jackman appeared to ponder, looked over at Peter Nesbitt. “I suppose. But what I hear from Peter is don’t let your rage over the act blind you to the facts. If this man Burgess didn’t do it, you’d want to know who did, right?”

  “Of course. But he did do it.”

  Nesbitt spoke up again, shrugging. “What I’m saying is that this Hardy fellow is just doing his job, trying to create doubt from the outset. It’s a good technique.”