The Dismas Hardy Novels

by John Lescroart

  At the same time, the woes of Parnassus and of its flagship hospital, Portola, continue to grow. In an interview on Tuesday evening, Dr. Ross admitted that the medical group is mired in a deep cash crisis, although he characterized the nonpayment of some Parnassus doctors as a voluntary loan program. Another source—a doctor within the group—had a slightly different take: “Sure,” he said. “It’s voluntary. You volunteer to loan your salary back to the group, or you’re fired.”

  Nevertheless, Ross remained confident that Parnassus can weather this crisis. “The goal is maximum wellness for the most people,” he said. When asked if he saw any conflict between the group’s business interests and the needs of its patients, Ross replied, “The company needs to sustain itself so it can continue doing its work.”

  Because it conducts business with the city, Parnassus’ finances are a matter of public record. Last year, the average staff physician with Parnassus had a salary of $98,000. The average executive board member, of which there are thirty, sustained himself to the tune of nearly $350,000 including bonuses, per person, for a total expense to the company of approximately $10.5 million. As CEO, the late Mr. Markham had the highest salary in the group—$1.4 million, and Dr. Ross was next, drawing $1.2 million in salary and performance bonuses.

  Imagine how well he’d do if Parnassus was not going bankrupt.

  Glitsky was in the elevator, and when the door opened on the fourth floor, he was looking at Dismas Hardy, who said, “I was just at your office. You weren’t there.”

  “You’re kidding.” Glitsky stepped out into the lobby. “When?”

  “Just now.”

  “I wasn’t in my office?”

  “No sign of you.”

  “One of the things I’ve always admired about you is that keen eye for detail.”

  The two men fell into step together, heading back toward the homicide detail. “What’s another one?” Hardy asked.

  “Another what?”

  “Thing you’ve always admired about me. One implies there are more.”

  Glitsky glanced over at him, walked a few steps, shook his head. “On second thought, that’s the only one. Keen eye for detail.”

  At homicide, inside Glitsky’s office, Hardy took one of the fold-up chairs in front of the desk. He looked around critically. “You could use some art in here,” he said. “It’s a little depressing.”

  “I like it depressing,” Glitsky said. “It keeps meetings short. Speaking of which”—he pointed at his overflowing in-box—“that is today’s workload and I’m behind already. What can I do for you?”

  “My keen eye for detail tells me that you’re not in much of a sociable mood this morning, so I’ll get right to it. I take it Bracco is one of your car police.”

  “That would be accurate.” He reached for his in-box. “Well, drop by anytime. It’s been a real pleasure.”

  “I’ve got one more. What do you know about Tim Markham?”

  Glitsky stopped fiddling with paper, cocked his head to one side, and frowned. “Who are you representing?”

  “Eric Kensing.”

  “Swell. When did that happen?”

  “Recently.”

  Glitsky sat forward in his chair and brushed a hand over his scar. “As I recall, the last time I talked to you about a case at this stage, I lost my job for a couple of weeks.”

  “True. But it was the right thing to do.” A year before, Glitsky had been put on administrative leave after he’d shown Hardy a videotape of his client’s questionable confession before the DA’s office had cleared it for discovery purposes. “And you know what Davy Crockett always said? ‘Be sure you’re right, then go ahead.’”

  “I always thought that was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard. The jails are full of people who think like old Davy. Genghis Khan, I believe, had the same motto.”

  “And a fine leader he was. I’ve just got a couple of quick questions. They won’t get you fired. Promise.”

  “Ask one and let me decide. And quickly, if that’s possible, though history argues that it isn’t.”

  “Is Kensing in trouble?”

  Glitsky nodded in appreciation. “That was pretty good for you.” A shrug. “Well, no matter where we stand on charging Markham’s murder, I’m betting your client is one guy who’s definitely going to need a lawyer on the malpractice side alone. Aside from that…” Glitsky threw a glance over to the door—closed. He came back to Hardy. “I suppose he told you he’s got a motive.” He paused, then gave it up. “He was also the last person with the family.”

  “You mean Markham’s family? The paper implied that it was the distraught wife.”

  “Yeah. I read it.” Glitsky sat back. “I think you’ve had your question.”

  “You think it wasn’t the wife? And if it wasn’t, it was the same person who did the husband?”

  “I don’t think anything yet. I’m keeping an open mind.”

  “But if my client’s a suspect for Markham, then he’s—”

  Glitsky stopped him. “We’re not talking about this, Diz. You’re way over your quota for questions. That’s it.”

  “Okay. This isn’t a question. I talked to Kensing this morning before I even left the house. He wants to talk to you.”

  “Sure he does. And I’m the queen of Bavaria. You’re going to let him?”

  “I told him it was a dumb idea. I was even a little adamant. But maybe you’ve heard, doctor knows best. He figures you’ll hear his story and leave him alone. He’s a witness, not a suspect.”

  “Is he talking immunity at this stage?”

  “No, nothing like that. He didn’t do anything wrong. He’s a witness.”

  “And the best defense is a good offense.”

  Hardy shrugged. It wasn’t his idea. He knew Glitsky might take it that way, but he thought that his job at this point was to mitigate Kensing’s discomfort and arrange the talk on his schedule. “So how about my office, close of business?”

  Glitsky considered, then nodded. “Okay. Doable.”

  “And he’s a witness, not a suspect.”

  “I believe you’ve mentioned that a few times.”

  “Though you haven’t said you’re okay with it.”

  “There’s that eye for detail again,” Glitsky said. Then, sitting back. “He is what he is, Diz. I’m afraid we’ll just have to see how it plays out.”

  After leaving homicide, he went down to Jackman’s office to see if he could come upon any potentially helpful scrap of news regarding his new client. It wasn’t likely, but the DA was relatively inexperienced in criminal matters and might inadvertently drop something if he and Hardy were simply two friends, casually schmoozing.

  At Jackman’s outer office, Hardy stopped in the doorway. Treya, on the telephone saying “Yes, sir” a lot to someone, smiled a greeting and held up a “just a sec” finger. Hardy came in, walked over, and kissed her on the cheek, then sat in the chair next to Jackman’s door. Treya continued with her proper responses in her modulated, professional voice, but she rolled her eyes and made faces in the midst of them.

  Watching her, Hardy broke a grin.

  When Glitsky’s first wife had died, Hardy would never have believed that anyone could have approached Flo as an equally compatible mate for his best friend. But in a little less than a year, Treya had won him and Frannie over. Not only competent and confident, Treya’s sense of humor went a long way toward blunting Abe’s razor edge.

  At last she hung up. “The mayor,” she explained. “Always wanting my opinions on the issues.” Then, a questioning look. “Did you have an appointment? Is Clarence expecting you? I don’t have you down.”

  “No. I’m just dropping by, seeing if he had a minute to chat.”

  “I don’t think chat’s on his agenda today. He just had me tell hizzoner he wasn’t in.” She smiled sweetly. “Maybe you would like to do it the normal way and schedule something?”

  “I would, but I’m not sure when I’ll be back at the hal
l.”

  “Here’s an idea, Diz. You could plan to be. Others have been known to.”

  “But Clarence and I go way back. We’re pals.”

  “He feels the same way.”

  “I just hate to see the spontaneity go out of our relationship.”

  Treya nodded sympathetically. “So does Clarence. He frets about it all the time. I’ll put you down for tomorrow at three. You can talk about it then.” The phone on her desk rang and, waving Hardy good-bye, she picked it up.

  Back at his office, Hardy phoned the aquarium and discovered that Francis the shark was still alive and swimming under its own power. But Pico still wasn’t admitting victory. “He hasn’t eaten a damn thing. Swimming’s one thing, but he’s also got to eat.”

  “How do you know it’s a he?”

  “How do you think I got to be curator here? Could it be the Ph.D. in marine biology? The ability to tell males from female fish? One of those?”

  “I always figured it was affirmative action of some kind. What are you trying to feed it?”

  “Fish food.” Pico was clearly done with Hardy’s input on the subject. “Can we talk about something else? How’d it go with Eric?”

  Hardy’s brow clouded, his tone grew serious. “I’ve got one for you. How well do you know him?”

  “Pretty well. He’s been our family doc for years. We used to be closer—socially, I mean—before he and Ann broke up. Why?”

  “Do you think he could kill anybody?”

  Pico snorted. “No way.” A pause. “You want to hear a story, what he’s like?”

  “More than anything if it makes him look good.”

  “Okay, you remember when Danny first started having his problems?”

  “Sure.” Pico’s eldest was seventeen now, but ten years before, he’d been diagnosed with leukemia. Hardy remembered some of the high drama surrounding the diagnosis and treatment, which had resulted in bone marrow transplants and, ultimately, remission. “Was that Kensing?”

  “Yeah. But what maybe you don’t know is that he made the tentative diagnosis long before some board would have approved the treatment he ordered. They said it was way too expensive. They wanted to wait, have him take more tests, like that. So what did Eric do?”

  “Tell me.”

  “He didn’t think we could wait. If we waited, Danny might die. So he lied.”

  “To who?”

  “The HMO. When’s the last time you heard about a doctor risking his paycheck to save a patient? Well, Eric did. He made Danny’s records appear that the leukemia was more advanced than it was. If he was wrong and it cost his HMO big bucks for nothing, sorry. But if he was right, Danny lives.” Pico checked his voice back a notch. “Anyway, so that’s who Eric is, Diz. Check it out. He does this kind of stuff all the time. Christ, he makes house calls. He walks my sharks. You ask my opinion, the guy’s at the very least a saint, if not a certified hero.”

  But when Hardy hung up, a thought nagged at him. Pico’s story had a downside. Kensing might be a saint and a hero, but a good cross-examiner could make the point that he had also proven himself capable of a sustained and elaborate fraud. He falsified medical records, possibly cheating his own employer out of maybe thousands of dollars. And if he did it once with Danny Morales, the odds were good that he’d done it with many other patients. And that at least some of those times, the odds were good that he’d been wrong.

  David Freeman’s enormous office was panelled in a burnished and ancient dark wood. Burgundy drapes framed the two windows, in the center of which presided the lion’s claw–footed, leather-topped desk, most of its forty-eight square feet of surface cluttered with papers, files, ashtrays, in-and out-boxes, paperweights, celebrity photos, a couple of telephones. The fully stocked wet bar also featured a temperature-controlled wine cellar, Anchor Steam beer on tap, two cigar humidors, and an espresso machine. A couple of seating areas gave clients—and opposing attorneys—a choice between a formal or informal setting. On the floor, Persian rugs. On the various pedestals and tables, knickknacks from half a century of rich and grateful clients. A Bufano sculpture of St. Francis of Assisi blessed the room from one corner. A selection of original John Lennon erotic lithographs added a counternote. In a Byzantine-style glass case, a selection of alleged murder weapons (“alleged” because their respective owners all got acquitted) testified eloquently and mutely to Freeman’s skill in the courtroom. The fact that David could acquire them from prosecutors and police after he’d won the case was further testament to his popularity.

  Hardy crossed a leg over a knee and sipped from the demitasse of espresso, then put it back on the arm of the sofa. His landlord had brewed himself a cup, as well, and brought it over to his desk, where he blew on it once and, engrossed in some paperwork, drank it off in a gulp, replacing it carefully in the exact center of its little porcelain saucer. For another full minute or more, Freeman didn’t look up, but turned the pages in front of him, occasionally making a note, occasionally muttering a phrase or two to himself, arguing or agreeing with what he was reading.

  As he watched him work, Hardy couldn’t help but be struck again with the man’s almost childish energy and enthusiasm. Freeman was seventy-six years old. He’d been practicing law for fifty years and though he’d seen it all, there was still precious little about it that didn’t energize him. He came into his office every day of the week by about seven o’clock and when he didn’t go to court, which he did as often as possible, he stayed at his desk until late dinnertime, then often returned for a nightcap or two while he whipped out a quick twenty pages of memos or correspondence.

  It seemed to Hardy that the old man had shrunk three or four inches in the eight years they’d been associated, and put on fifteen pounds. He could almost braid his thin, long, white hair. If he let them grow, he could probably do the same with his eyebrows. A downright slovenly dresser—“juries don’t trust good clothes”—he favored brown suits, many of them picked up in thrift stores, whether or not they fit perfectly. He never had them pressed. He smoked and/or chewed cigars constantly, and drank at least a bottle of wine, himself, every day at the office, and probably most of another for lunch and then again at dinner. He never exercised. The skin of his hands and face was mottled with liver spots. Today, he had bloodstains around his collar from where he’d cut himself shaving. Looking at him, Hardy thought he was the happiest, and possibly the healthiest, person on the planet.

  And he didn’t miss a trick. “You feeling all right, Diz? Getting enough sleep?”

  Hardy thought he’d been looking right at him, but he hadn’t noticed him look up. There was no point in getting into it, the mistake with his alarm clock, the whole question of children in one’s life. If Hardy started whining, Freeman would only say, “You made that bed. Get over it.” So Hardy left it at, “Postlunch slump is all. Plus, I got up early.”

  “I hope it was billable,” Freeman said. He pointed across to his bar area. “You want another cup, help yourself. Meanwhile, speaking of billable, I’m at your service, but talk fast. I’m due in federal court in forty minutes. The appeal on Latham, God bless his wealthy murdering heart. So what got you up?”

  Hardy gave him an abridged version of his meeting with Dr. Kensing, and the old man clucked disapprovingly. “You talked to a new client for more than an hour, even de facto took his case, a possible murder suspect, and the subject of your fees never came up?”

  In the world of criminal law, you collected your fees up front. Hardy had experimented a time or two with being less than rigorous on that score and had discovered that the conventional wisdom turned out to be true. If you were successful and got your clients off, they didn’t need a lawyer anymore, and why should they pay you? On the other hand, if you failed and they went to jail, why should they pay you for that, either? So you usually wanted to casually mention the word “retainer” within about six sensitive minutes after saying hello.

  Freeman the kind mentor was merely reminding him. “Th
is is why, my son, I’m afraid you’re going to die impoverished and there is really no excuse for a good lawyer to die poor.”

  “Yes, sir. I believe you’ve mentioned something like that before. Anyway, I emphasized to Glitsky that he’s a witness, not a suspect.”

  “Ah.” Freeman nodded genially. “The good lieutenant wants to get to know him a little better, is that it?” The old man pulled himself up straight behind the desk and summoned his courtroom bellow. “Are you out of your mind?” He got his voice back under control. “A witness, not a suspect? He’s a prime suspect! And I’ll tell you something else. Kensing sure as hell thinks he is. Why do you think he wanted to get a lawyer onboard? In fact, the more I think about it, the more I like him.”

  “You’ve never met him.”

  “So what? You’ve only met him once. Are you trying to tell me that you know he’s not guilty of murder?”

  “He injected Markham with potassium?”

  “Or ran him over. Maybe both.”

  “David—”

  “Why not? The dead guy was screwing his wife, which is the oldest motive in the world.”

  “So after waiting two years, he killed him?”

  His worldview intact, Freeman sat back, serene as Buddha. “Happens every day. Seriously, Diz. What about this doesn’t work for you? It looks pretty good to me. Solid enough, anyway, for an indictment, easily for an arrest. You know how that works.”

  Seeing it now through Freeman’s eyes, he was forced to concede that his client in fact did have motive, means, and opportunity to have killed Tim Markham. In his day, Hardy had won many grand jury indictments with any two of them, occasionally with only one.

  And now he’d brokered this stupid little meeting with the head of homicide in a few hours. Kensing might show up here in the office and if more evidence had come to light, Glitsky might serve him with a grand jury subpoena, or even arrest him on the spot.