Gerson, by contrast, had installed a modular unit that hugged the back wall and turned the corner, where he had his computer, printer, fax machine and telephone. This arrangement left an open area in the middle of the room, made the office seem larger. The lieutenant was a bass fisherman and had brought in and hung on the walls a few of his mounted trophy fish and several framed promotional photos of boats and fishing equipment. On his last birthday, the unit had pitched in and bought him a mounted plastic bass that, when activated, sang “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” and he’d hung it over his computer.
Now Cuneo, Russell and Gerson sat facing one another on their identical ergonomic rolling chairs. No one looked happy; all seemed angry, or at least worried. Gerson was telling them about Glitsky’s input. “He thinks Wade Panos is screwing with your investigation.”
Cuneo, paying attention, was whistling a tuneless melody. Russell, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, asked, “Did he say why?”
“No, not really, nothing substantive. Just that Panos doesn’t have a great rep.”
Cuneo stopped whistling. “The guy’s a major philanthropist. What’s he talking about?”
“I think he’s talking about some of his guys, the beat patrolmen.”
“What about them?” Russell asked.
A shrug. “Some of them, sometimes, get a little enthusiastic, it seems. Play a little rough with the residentially challenged, roust ’em out of their neighborhoods.”
“Good for them,” Russell said. “Somebody needs to.”
“It’s probably because they don’t get the sensitivity training we real cops get.”
“You’re joking, Dan,” Gerson said, “but you’re not all wrong. Evidently it’s a legitimate problem, at least enough so Panos is getting sued. He could probably run a tighter ship. But you ask me, the real problem is that Glitsky’s old school and Panos isn’t a righteous cop, simple as that. He doesn’t like the patrols.”
“So Glitsky’s take is that Wade Panos himself is personally screwing with our investigation?” Cuneo asked. “Why would he do that?”
“No idea,” Gerson said. “But Glitsky’s all over it. He went to Silverman’s, you know. And yesterday morning he talked to Lanier.”
“Lanier?” Cuneo straightened up. “What about? What’s Lanier got to do with anything? You mean with Silverman?”
“I don’t know.” Gerson shrugged. “This Panos thing.”
“What Panos thing?” Russell shot a look at his partner, came back to Gerson. “Are we missing something here, Barry?”
“I guess Glitsky’s wondering why Panos got into it at all.”
“Why?” Russell raised his voice. “I’ll tell you why! He came down to Silverman’s because one of his employees discovered the body, that’s why. Then it turned out he happened to know about this poker game, which was the source of Silverman’s stolen money. Next day he gives us names of the players in the game and one of them looks like he’s with the guys who did it. What’s the problem with that? Tell me that isn’t good police work.”
“I can’t. It is. I don’t have a problem, not with you. Not with the investigation either.”
“I got another one for you, Barry,” Cuneo said. “What’s any of this to Glitsky anyway? Why would he give any kind of a shit?”
Gerson pressed his lips together, reluctant to diss a fellow lieutenant. Finally, though, he decided his inspectors needed to know. “My gut feeling is I believe he wants to get back into homicide, though God knows why. His dad knew Silverman. I guess he thought it gave him a wedge.”
“And this helps him how?” Cuneo asked.
“I don’t know, to tell you the truth. The kindest thing I can think is he’s really trying to make himself useful somehow. I mean to us, to you. I’ve been trying to figure it out, but it baffles me.” He shook his head. “Or maybe . . . no.”
“What?” Cuneo asked.
“Nothing.”
“You were going to say something,” Russell said.
Gerson looked at each of them in turn, considered another moment. “Well, I don’t really think this is too likely, but if Glitsky starts to make you guys doubt your sources, maybe you get tentative, don’t make the arrests you need to. You look bad, which makes me look bad, and pretty soon they want a new lieutenant up here.”
“And they pick Glitsky out of a hat?” Cuneo asked. “I don’t think so.”
“Are you really worried, sir?” Russell asked.
Gerson was matter of fact. “I can’t say I’m losing sleep. But if you guys could bring in a quick collar here, it wouldn’t break my heart. I . . .” He went silent again.
The inspectors waited. Finally Cuneo said, “What?”
He sighed with resignation. “When I mentioned this to Batiste, he said there might be something else in play. With Glitsky.”
“What’s that?” Russell asked.
Gerson paused again, lowered his voice. “I’d really like to keep this in this room, between us. All right?” Both inspectors nodded. “Well, it seems Lieutenant Glitsky has a couple of lawyer friends, we’re talking good friends, defense lawyers, and they’re the guys who are suing WGP. They can’t very well have Panos get a lot of press for helping us solve a murder case right now—it’d make him look too good in front of the jury.”
Russell came forward. “And you’re saying Glitsky’s working for these guys?”
Gerson backpedaled slightly. “I’m not saying anything. I’m telling you what Batiste mentioned to me as a rumor, nothing more. To the extent it intersects with your investigation here, it’s probably worth your knowing, although I don’t know how much credence I’d give it. There’s also talk that your suspect—Holiday, right?—he’s been out working the streets, rounding up witnesses against Panos, too.”
“Why? What would be in it for them?” Cuneo asked.
“They’re asking thirty mil or so, which is ten to the lawyers if they win. Any small percentage of that is a nice payday for whoever was on the team helping them. How’s that sound? Plus if we somehow screw up in homicide, maybe Glitsky gets the gig back here.”
“We’re not going to screw up, Barry,” Russell said. “This one’s falling in by the numbers. We brace Holiday in the morning, get him and his partners nervous about each other talking. Then somebody gives somebody up and we bring them all in.”
“You’re sure they’re it?”
“The kid, Creed, he basically ID’d them.” Russell spread his arms. “Show me anything else, Barry. No, this all fits.”
It was full dark by the time Russell and Cuneo checked out. They planned to arrive at the Ark tomorrow at 10:00. Holiday worked the early shift and they’d catch him there and have a long conversation.
Cuneo considered trying to talk Russell into going by and leaning on Clint Terry or Randy Wills more that night, but he knew that Lincoln would want to be home, a priority with him. Besides, Cuneo had his own date with Liz from Panos’s office, and it made the second date difficult if you blew off the first one at the last minute. Finally, they’d already worked eleven hours today and there’d been nothing but stink about overtime lately. Cuneo knew that everything probably could wait until tomorrow and it wouldn’t really make any difference. Certainly, nothing had happened since Friday. Cuneo was always frustrated by the pace of investigations; this case was proceeding as it should.
The two inspectors had not done any substantive investigative work on the Silverman murder since 8:30 the previous Friday night, when they’d gotten Creed’s tentative identification of Terry, Wills and Holiday. It was now 6:30 on Tuesday, ninety-four hours later.
It was a small but welcome surprise. The attorneys had all finished with Aretha LaBonte’s deposition by early evening. Hardy would be home by dinnertime. Up in his office, he called Frannie with the news, then checked his messages—nothing crucial—and packed some file folders into his briefcase. Downstairs, he stopped in the doorway to the old man’s office. Dick Kroll, who’d stayed for a little chat, had
gone, and Freeman was alone at his desk, lighting the stub of a cigar he’d started early in the afternoon.
“Do you have any idea how great it is to be able to walk in here without Phyllis stopping me to ask what I want?” Hardy asked.
Freeman had the cigar in his mouth and spun it over a wooden match. When he had it going, he drew on it contentedly, then placed it in an ashtray. The firm’s longtime receptionist, Phyllis, was a tyrant in the lobby, whose chief role was to block access to Freeman. Hardy’s suggestions regarding her termination were a recurring theme that Freeman mostly ignored. “I believe Mr. Kroll is getting concerned,” he said with satisfaction, “and not a minute too soon.” He gestured ambiguously. “He just offered to settle.”
“How much?”
“Four million. I must be losing my touch. I had him pegged at three and a half.”
“I remember.” Hardy stepped inside the office, sat on one of the chairs. “Still, it seems a long way from thirty.”
Freeman blew smoke. “Yes, it does. Although, as Mr. Kroll points out, it’s a mil and change for us right now. He seems to believe that our compensation—yours and mine, the firm’s—is the critical factor. He doesn’t even consider that it might be about our clients. Or his, really.”
Hardy crossed a leg. “So the four mil, what’s that break down to?”
“Call it almost three hundred grand per plaintiff, which after taxes is a hundred and fifty.”
“Still,” Hardy said. “That’s real money.”
Freeman waved that off. “Pah! It’s gone in a year, maybe two. Besides, it’s his first offer. I told him flat no, not even close. But I did learn something.”
“What’s that?”
“Panos has four mil of his own that he’s willing to give us, forget the insurance. Where’d he get that kind of money?” He chewed his cigar for a moment. “Anyway, I told him flat out that my intention was to put his client out of business. The man’s a common gangster and he knows it.”
Hardy grinned. “You should have just been honest and told him what you really thought. So what’d he say to that?”
“He got a little put out. Said making this a personal vendetta wasn’t doing either of us any good. I was being irresponsible to my clients.” Freeman clucked. “He also said he was going to approach you directly.”
“Me? What for?”
“Evidently he thinks you might be more amenable to reason. I told him to help himself. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I’ll just refer him back to you.”
Freeman nodded, amused. “I told him that’s probably what you’d do.”
“And he said?”
“He said if it kept coming back to me, I was looking for trouble.”
Hardy came forward. “He threatened you? Directly?”
But Freeman waved that off. “It wasn’t even that. Cheap theatrics, that’s all. That’s what they do. They’re cowards, basically. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Basically. But that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t try something.”
“No chance. They’re scared so they want to scare me. It’s all just posturing, besides which, as you well know, I’m bullet proof.”
Hardy grimaced. “I hate when you say that.”
The old man grinned. “I know you do; that’s half the fun. But you watch, this time next week, they come back with six, maybe eight mil. We get there, I might even start listening. But I might not.” He smiled contentedly. “Have I mentioned that I love my job?”
“Couple of times,” Hardy said. “And I my family, to whose bosom I now fly. Can I drop you home?”
“Naw.” He indicated the clutter on his desk. “I’ve got some work here. Gina won’t be home for an hour or two anyway.”
“Is she picking you up here?”
“Are you kidding me? It’s what, six blocks? I need the exercise. See you tomorrow. Drive carefully.”
At the dinner table, Rebecca was making a face of disgust. “That is just so gross,” she said.
“I think it’s cool,” Vincent retorted.
“It’s not gross, Beck. They love each other.”
“But he’s so . . . I mean, you know what I mean.”
“Old?” Frannie offered. “Ancient?”
“Not just that. I mean, yeah, he’s old, but also, I mean, like . . .”
Hardy held up a warning finger. “Uh-uh, nice or nothing at all. This is David Freeman we’re discussing. He is a great man and has every right to happiness and wedded bliss, just like I have with your mother.” He gave Frannie a wink.
“And I with your father,” she said.
“But, God.” The Beck ignored them both, couldn’t let the topic go. “I mean, think about Gina. She kisses him?” She shivered at the thought.
“More than that, I bet.”
“Thank you, Vincent,” Frannie said. “That’s enough.”
“And since it is,” Hardy said. “I’ve got a fun new game. The Beck can go first.” He turned to his daughter. “Here it is. You try to say a whole sentence without using the words ‘like’ or ‘mean.” ’
The Beck was a very intelligent child. She hesitated not at all before smiling cruelly at him. “Then I wouldn’t be able to say that I like my daddy even though he’s really mean.”
This tickled Vincent, who held up both hands as though she just scored a touchdown. “Good one, Beck. Six points for the Beck.”
Hardy grinned all around. “Six points, true, but unfortunately, grounded for life. It hardly seems worth it to me.”
After dinner, the adults adjourned to the living room with the last of their wine while the kids cleared the table and started washing the dishes, a relatively new development in the Hardys’ ongoing campaign to increase the quality of their life at home. Frannie sat on the couch with a leg curled under her, Hardy in his wing chair with his feet on the ottoman. Without benefit of the kids’ comments, they had returned to the subject of Freeman’s upcoming nuptuals. “Do you think he’s all right?” Frannie asked. “I mean physically.”
“David? He’s a horse. Why do you ask?”
“Just that it seems so sudden. I wonder if he found out he’s dying or something and maybe wanted to have his estate automatically go to Gina.”
“He could just as easily put her in his will.” He shook his head, smiling. “I think they love each other, strange as it may be.”
“Why do you say that?”
Hardy sipped some wine, lowered his voice. “Well, the Beck wasn’t all wrong at dinner. David’s not exactly Brad Pitt, you know. He’s not even Wallace Shawn.”
“And this matters because . . . ?”
“It doesn’t, I know. We should be above all that superficial stuff. Still . . .”
Frannie put on her schoolteacher look. “And we wonder why the Beck worries so much about how she looks.”
Hardy was grinning broadly. “At her very worst, light-years better than David.”
“I’d hope so, but just for your information, I would take a David Freeman any day over, say, a John Holiday.”
“That’s very noble of you, but I believe you’d be in the minority.”
“And fortunately,” she said, “I don’t have to choose. I’ve already got a perfectly acceptable husband.”
“Perfectly acceptable,” Hardy said. “And people say the passion goes.” He finished his wine, looked at the glass as though wondering where it had all gone. “But you just reminded me . . .” He was getting up.
“What?”
“I’ve been so swamped at work with these depos; I wanted to check in with John. The thing he called about Friday.”
“Is he in more trouble?”
“Probably not. I hope I would have heard. I—” The telephone rang and got picked up in the kitchen on the first ring. He turned back to Frannie and made a face. “Well, if that’s Darren, there goes an hour.”
But his daughter yelled back. “Dad! For you.”
Matt Creed tried the front door, then sh
one a light around the spacious lobby of the Luxury Box Travel Agency. Everything was as it should be, and this was not a surprise. This was the upscale portion of his route, close up to Union Square. In spite of the city’s recent campaigns to discourage vagrancy in the high-tourist area, the vast majority of security problems this far north in Thirty-two still had to do with the homeless or mentally disabled population.
Unlike many of his colleagues, Creed didn’t try to roust these unfortunates completely out of the beat. He didn’t want them sleeping, parking their shopping carts, urinating or taking care of other personal needs in the doorways or elsewhere on the property of the client buildings, but beyond that, he was happy to leave them alone.
But tonight, late now, in the last hour of his shift, he had turned right onto Stockton and taken maybe ten steps when he saw an exaggerated movement, a shadow in the mouth of the alley across the street. Creed knew the spot pretty well. Since it ended at the delivery bay for a building on the next block over, it was more a driveway than a true alley. After the workday, in the lee of the prevailing winds and equipped with a dumpster that often doubled as a drop for leftover cooked food from some nearby restaurants, it had become a popular sleeping site for the area’s homeless. Normally, Creed walked right by it on the last leg of his route.
But when some kind of bottle came skittering up the street toward him, slamming the curb and shattering at his feet, he stopped. He would never have done so normally, but perhaps because of leftover jitters from his recent shootout, tonight he pulled his weapon and crossed over. At the mouth of the alley, Creed could still hear the footfalls of the man running away. He stopped there, then stepped to the side against the adjacent building to catch his breath. After the excitement at Silverman’s last week, he considered just guarding the opening and calling for some backup. Roy Panos was undoubtedly somewhere in the beat and could be here in ten, max.
But then he thought about the grief Roy would give him. A homeless guy throws a bottle in Creed’s direction and he can’t handle the situation himself. He needs backup. It might even cost him points with Wade, who made no secret of his disdain for cowardice, or timidity of any type for that matter. If you worked for Panos, you were macho or you were soon unemployed.
The Dismas Hardy Novels Page 110