The Dismas Hardy Novels

by John Lescroart

  Hardy nodded ruefully. “Those were Jackman’s exact words, I believe.”

  “And planting evidence in two apartments? Does that really happen? Are you sure John wasn’t at Silverman’s?”

  He hesitated, then shook his head. “No.”

  “Or that this Nick Sephia was?”

  No answer.

  Frannie tsked, twisted the towel some more, stood up and walked over to the door. “I mean, I can’t imagine John killing anybody either, but . . .”

  “He sure didn’t kill his bartender and his boyfriend, Frannie. Not that way. I don’t believe that.”

  “Okay. I can’t see that either.” She turned back to face him. “Maybe you could talk to the man who’s got Abe’s old job.”

  “No. That’s not going to happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s got a suspect and I’m the guy’s lawyer. My only function is to deliver John so they can arrest him. As I mentioned to you the other night, as a defense attorney, I have no interest in justice, only in getting my client off.”

  “But Abe used to talk to you about cases.”

  “And it’s one of the things I always loved about him. But it got him in trouble more than once and he’s already told me he won’t talk about this one.”

  “He might, though, when he finds out they shot at you. That might make it different.”

  He shifted in the tub and an involuntary groan escaped. Finally, he got through the pain. “It’s worth a try, I guess,” he said. “I’ve got to do something.”

  She was over by him again. She sat on the edge of the tub, put a hand gently on his shoulder. “You’re not going to want to hear this, but maybe you should consider dropping this lawsuit. See what happens to David, then take it from there.”

  He gave it a minute of real consideration. “It might get to that anyway. I can’t afford to keep it going by myself, although I might be able to talk one of the big firms into taking it on. It would be a big payday.”

  “If you win.”

  “There is always that. But what I’d really like is to try to bluff them into making another settlement offer at least, pay for expenses and the time I’ve already worked. Although I can’t believe this thing this morning was about that. With Freeman out of the way, the thing’s going to pretty much dry up on its own anyway. So I’m thinking it had to be mostly about John.”

  She rubbed her hand over the skin of his shoulder. “You want to hear another hard one?”

  “From you? Anything.”

  Unhappy, she came out with it. “You could always drop him, too, Dismas.”

  He sighed, hung his head. “No,” he said finally. “It’s tempting as hell, and maybe he deserves it, but that I can’t do.”

  “And meanwhile, someone’s trying to kill you.”

  “Maybe. Maybe me or maybe John. Probably not me.”

  “Notice the clever rationalization. Even though they broke your windshield and shot at you, they’re not really after you.”

  He smiled at her. “I’m not saying it’s impossible, just unlikely. Besides, I’ve finally got this Sergeant Blanca looking at Sephia. If he finds anything, and I bet he will, then suddenly it all falls into place. I’m talking Silverman and the rest, the murders.”

  “It all falls into place? How does it do that?”

  “Inevitably?” Hardy going for the light touch, but he couldn’t quite pull it off. “What do you mean? How does it do what?”

  “How does it go from you and David getting attacked to the murders? I mean, what’s the point of contact that connects them? Because from where I sit, I must tell you I only see one.”

  “And what is that?”

  “John Holiday.”

  Blanca had what he considered a legitimately hot lead and wasted no time after Hardy left. He picked up the phone, got information, and found the number of Georgia AAA. He endured the usual runaround for a few minutes until he was finally connected to the Diamond Center’s Chief of Security, who told him that Nick Sephia was off today. He was taking a three-day weekend.

  A good sign, Blanca thought. If he was off, it left him free to drive around in a gray sedan and cause mischief. So, all right. He knew where Sephia wasn’t. The trick now was to find where he was.

  The obvious answer was WGP—Panos’s company—and sometimes obvious worked. The efficient-sounding woman in the Panos office said she had no idea where Nick Sephia was—he no longer worked for the company—but she took his number and said she’d try to reach Wade and have him call back. Three minutes later, his phone rang, and it was the man himself. His tone was relaxed. “Do you mind, Sergeant, if I ask what this is about?”

  “Not at all. I wanted to have a few words with Nick Sephia. I tried where he works, but he’s taking a day off.”

  “And you think I know where he might be?”

  “I understand he’s your nephew.”

  “That’s right.” Panos paused. “And you think I might know where he is? How many nephews do you have, Sergeant? Do you know where any of them are? If he’s not at work, he’s probably at home, and I don’t know his address offhand, somewhere near Gough, I think. Maybe we’ve got it or his phone number in some files back at the office, though. He worked for me for a while, but you probably already knew that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But you know, my little brother Roy hangs out with him sometimes. I could page him and see. He’s on the beat today.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Good. But you still haven’t told me what this is about.”

  “I thought I did. I wanted to have a few words with him.”

  Panos chuckled. “Excuse me, Sergeant, but as one cop to another, you can cut the bullshit, okay. The question is what do you want to have a few words with him about?”

  Blanca thought for a minute. “His possible involvement in a crime. A violent crime.”

  After a rather long hesitation, Panos spoke in a heavy tone of sadness. “I hate to hear that. I was hoping he was doing better. I heard he was, what with the new job and everything. He’s got a temper, sergeant, but he’s a good boy.”

  “This wasn’t temper,” Blanca said, “and whoever did it wasn’t a good boy.”

  Panos sighed. “God. Poor Rosie, his mother. What that woman’s been through.” He sighed again. “Why don’t I page Roy, see if he can help you? Oh, but one thing . . .”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m curious how you knew that Nick used to work for me, or that he was my nephew for that matter.”

  “Somebody I talked to knew him,” Blanca said.

  “Oh yeah? Was the guy’s name Hardy, by any chance?”

  “It was just a witness. I can’t give out the name.”

  “No, of course you can’t. But you might like to know, not saying it was him, that this guy Hardy and I are involved in some big litigation—he’s a lawyer; in fact, he’s a sleazy lawyer if you want to know the truth—and he’s not going according to Hoyle.” Panos spent a minute or so outlining some of the salient points of the lawsuit—the plaintiffs and some of the issues and money involved.

  He concluded earnestly, “Look, the truth is the guy makes things up if he needs to, if things aren’t going his way. I’m not saying he has anything to do with your questions about Nick—Nick’s a hothead all right. But this Hardy is well known for being unethical. Seriously unethical. Do yourself a favor and ask around. Only if it was him you heard about Nick from, of course. Anyway, there’s my warning for what it’s worth. And you can probably expect a call from Roy any minute.”

  It came as advertised, and Roy told Blanca that Nick and a friend of his had gone up to Nevada last night to spend the weekend gambling—he was a serious poker player—before the crowded and crazy snow season began next month. Roy was planning on going up and joining them tonight when he got off work. He expected they’d probably be just hanging around the cabin they rented during the day—they hit the clubs at night. But Roy had the
cabin’s number if the sergeant would like it.

  The area code was 775. Nevada.

  “No, this is Julio Rez, but Nick’s here. Hold on.”

  “This is Nick. Who’s this?”

  Blanca had never spoken to Sephia before and so had no idea if this was truly him on the telephone. But it seemed an impossibly elaborate ruse for someone to cook up in the fifteen minutes or less since he’d first called Panos’s office. It would never be proof in a court of law, but Blanca personally had no doubt that he was talking to Nick Sephia, and that if he’d driven where he was in no traffic, he was four hours east of where Blanca sat now.

  Which meant, conclusively, that he hadn’t shot at Dismas Hardy three hours ago.

  What it meant about Hardy, Blanca couldn’t quite say. He wanted to trust and even like the guy because of David Freeman and what had happened to him, but now suddenly he didn’t have a good feeling even about that.

  Blanca looked at the receiver in his hand. He had everything he needed from Nick Sephia. He hung up.

  Strikeout.

  At the end of the day, at the end of the week, things were getting a little hot in Barry Gerson’s office in the homicide detail. The small and airless place was packed with mostly large men, and all of them were standing. The two squad car officers who had responded to the Coit Tower call, Jakes and Warren, had come directly up at the end of their shift. That had started the whole thing. They knew that whatever had happened that noon at Coit Tower—and they were very skeptical—the fugitive and murder suspect John Holiday had been part of it. If they did nothing else, they felt they had to take their information to homicide. As soon as he determined what the officers’ visit was about, Gerson had naturally called in both Cuneo and Russell, who were finishing up some paperwork, getting ready to go home.

  After he’d hung up on Nick Sephia, Hector Blanca had had a full and interesting afternoon looking up and noting the name Panos on the report on Dismas Hardy’s broken windshield. Deciding to take Panos’s advice and ask around about Hardy, he went directly to the best source he could think of—he called the District Attorney to whom he’d had increased access since Freeman had been mugged. Jackman had stopped far short of a glowing character reference. “He’s a good lawyer.” Then, “Defense lawyer, I should say.” In fact, when Blanca first mentioned the name Dismas Hardy, Jackman’s tone had unmistakably cooled, then changed by degrees until Blanca concluded he was furious about something, about Hardy.

  After that conversation, he was trying to locate Jakes and Warren to get the story on the events at Coit Tower and was suitably stunned when their sergeant at Central Station told him that, even as they spoke, the two officers were possibly reporting to the Homicide Detail on the fourth floor of the Hall of Justice, just upstairs from him. Maybe he could catch them there, get their report in person.

  So Blanca was with them as well, the last one to arrive. For some not exactly rational reason, when he’d first heard the word homicide, he’d imagined that David Freeman must have died—although of course Freeman had nothing to do with Jakes and Warren. But it was the only even remotely related homicide that came to his mind, and so for the first few minutes after Gerson—somewhat grudgingly—admitted him to his office, he stood against the door, trying to pick up the gist of things as they went along. Finally, he had to interrupt.

  “Excuse me, I keep hearing the name Holiday,” he said. “I thought we were here about Hardy and maybe Freeman.”

  “Who’s Freeman?” Gerson asked.

  “Hardy’s partner,” Blanca said. “He’s in the ICU over at St. Francis right now. Somebody beat him up. Bad. But who’s Holiday?”

  “Hardy’s client,” Gerson said. “Arrest warrant out on him for murder. For four murders, to be more precise.”

  “Wait a minute, excuse me,” Blanca said. “This guy Holiday, he was with Hardy today? When?”

  “When they got shot at,” Warren said. “About noon.”

  “Maybe,” said Jakes.

  Russell decided to get into the discussion. “Maybe what? Maybe Holiday was there, you mean?” he asked.

  “No. Maybe they got shot at,” Jakes answered. “Or, alternatively, maybe it was just Hardy.”

  “No, that’s wrong!” Obviously Warren and Jakes had discussed it between themselves and didn’t agree. “Jakes watches too many movies.”

  “Hey!” Jakes said. It wasn’t playful. “You show me anything proves it happened.”

  “I saw the guy, Hardy, is what proves it happened. He was beat to shit.”

  “Doesn’t prove squat. He could have done it to himself.”

  “Yeah, but why?” Warren shook his head. “People just don’t do this shit.”

  “Hold it, hold it, hold it!” Gerson had the rank, and he pulled it. “Officer Jakes, what are you trying to say?”

  The young man gathered himself. “Only, sir, that we examined the area pretty carefully, and several aspects of Mr. Hardy’s story seemed, well, a little questionable.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like first, his story is nobody else was there. We’re talking Coit Tower. Noon . . .”

  “It was foggy, Doug, get it?”

  Gerson snapped at Warren. “Button it! Go on, Jakes.”

  “All right, it was foggy. Like it’s never foggy? Hello? This is San Francisco, people have heard of fog. They still go to Coit Tower. So anyway, the first thing is he and Holiday are all alone up there, except when we arrive twenty minutes later, it’s a car lot, plus buses. Okay, so then he talked about screeching tires. Except no tire marks. Then some chipped concrete where a slug hit it, or maybe not. Oh, and finally six shots fired, just about point blank . . .”

  “Moving car,” Warren blurted, held up a hand to Gerson. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Okay, moving car, but nobody even scratched. We then interviewed down on Lombard, right below. Seven people home. Nobody heard a shot.”

  The only sound was a low musical note—Cuneo. No one seemed to notice.

  “All right,” Gerson said. “And all this means what?”

  “He doesn’t think it happened,” Cuneo said. “He thinks Hardy faked it.”

  “That’s right, sir. I do.”

  Warren raised his hand. Gerson pointed at him and nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “I saw the man, sir. Hardy. He was ripped head to toe. Brand new nice suit. Cuts and scratches all over.”

  This didn’t bother Jakes. “That hill’s a monster. You roll down it in a suit, you’ll ruin it, too. You’ll get scratched up.”

  “Okay, maybe, but why would anybody—anybody, much less a successful lawyer—want to do that?”

  Blanca had gradually found himself growing astounded that Hardy had spent so much time with him earlier in the day, discussing the Coit Tower incident in some detail and never once seeing fit to mention his representation of the murderer John Holiday, or the fact of Holiday’s presence at that scene. Deciding he had to speak up, he cleared his throat, raised his hand, addressed himself to Gerson. “If I may, Lieutenant. I might have something to say to that.”

  “All right.” Gerson looked around. “We’re all listening.”

  Blanca, still by the door, held up some paper. “This is a report about another incident that happened Wednesday night in North Beach, also involving Hardy. While he and his wife were at a dinner at Fior d’Italia that they didn’t eat, supposedly somebody smashed the windshield of his car. He first told the officers he suspected who it might have been, but didn’t think they needed to investigate. The vandals, he said, wouldn’t have left any sign. He admitted that he’d hurt his hand and that his own blood was on the hood of the car—he’d lost his temper when he saw the damage and slammed the windshield, he said.”

  “All right,” Gerson said, “what’s the point?”

  “There are two points, Lieutenant. First, maybe it happened the way it looked, but maybe he hurt his hand trying to break the window himself before he went to a tire iron or whatever got used. Aga
in, just like this incident today, there seems to be no evidence that anything happened the way he said it did.”

  Every man in the room was locked into Blanca’s narrative. He went on, “The second point goes back to Officer Warren’s question of why anyone would do this kind of thing, and the answer is that in both these incidents, Hardy accused a man named Wade Panos as . . .”

  “Wade Panos!” Cuneo exploded out of his trance. “Wade Panos isn’t going around breaking car windows. That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

  Russell was just as outraged. “You mean to say that Hardy actually told you Wade was the person shooting at him?” He was looking for corroboration from Warren and Jakes, and they were both nodding.

  But Blanca answered, “Not exactly. He said it probably wasn’t Panos himself. He has a nephew named Sephia . . .”

  “Sure,” Cuneo said, “Nick.”

  “Except Nick was up at Incline Village today,” Blanca said. “Since last night. Roy Panos gave me his number and I checked. So he didn’t shoot at anybody.”

  “Roy’s a good guy,” Cuneo said.

  “You know him?” Blanca asked. “Either of them?”

  “Both,” Russell said. “They gave us the list of names that led straight to Holiday.”

  The room, this time, went completely silent. Jakes said, “Shit.”

  After a long beat, Blanca picked up the thread again. “So here’s the missing piece of this puzzle. Hardy’s suing Panos right now, damages in the millions for abuses in his Patrol Special beats. And guess who else?” Nobody offered. “The San Francisco Police Department. For negligent supervision.”

  The room grew blue with the obscenity of comrades. When it had run its course, Warren was the first to get back to the issue. “So he faked all this to . . . what?”

  “I’m hearing two reasons,” Gerson said. “First, to ruin Panos and give himself more ammo in court. But even more, and this really sucks, to maybe try to get a jury to think this Nick Sephia’s got something to do with the people Holiday offed. The old Soddit defense.”

  “What’s that?” Jakes asked.

  “Some other dude did it,” Gerson said. “Hey, maybe the other dude was this guy Sephia. All Hardy needs to get to is reasonable doubt. If he can make the jury believe Sephia shot at him and his client . . .”