The Dismas Hardy Novels

by John Lescroart

  “Scumbag,” Cuneo said. He was one man, but he spoke for the whole group.

  Unanimously.

  PART THREE

  Holiday had borrowed Michelle’s car and was riding south through the city on surface streets. Hardy had ordered him that no way was he even to consider going outside until this thing had gotten settled. The arrest warrant on him was still in force. Glitsky evidently was going down to make the arrests on the others that would somehow clear Holiday; then he’d present the DA and even the homicide detail with a fait accompli. Glitsky said he had the evidence he needed. It was going to happen. Holiday just had to wait.

  Except that this was Holiday’s fight, far more than it was even Giltsky’s or Hardy’s. Fuck if he’d let someone else fight it for him. They’d already killed two of his friends, tried to kill him, set the police on his ass. Hardy could say what he wanted, but after everything that had happened so far, nobody doubted that if Holiday got into custody, they would find a way to get to him. Panos was connected inside the system. Enormous sums of money were at stake—they had killed to protect it and they would kill again. As often as they needed to, wherever it needed to be done. Even in jail.

  Holiday looked down at the gun on the seat next to him, what was left of the box of old cartridges. Reaching over, he picked it up, felt the heft of it, put it back down. He wiped his hand across his forehead. He was sweating. He rolled the window down an inch. Outside, it was cold, overcast and windy. He lowered the window further. Kept sweating.

  He knew he could just keep driving south. Michelle wouldn’t be home until late so nobody would even be looking for the car. He could zip over to the freeway and be out of the Bay Area within a couple of hours, out of the state easily by nightfall. Maybe even out of the country. It wasn’t yet 1:30. If he pushed it, he could cross into Tijuana well before midnight. And, after Glitsky and Hardy had fixed things up for him, after the authorities had come to believe that it was Sephia and his friends after all, he could simply come back, reopen the Ark, continue as before. It was his fight, sure, but did that mean he had to be in it? Wasn’t that the sucker play?

  And what about Michelle?

  Holiday for years had been playing himself as the tragic figure who didn’t commit. He was too bruised by life, too battered by love and loss. The women had always understood, as Michelle would come to understand. He felt his pain too deeply, he was too sensitive. The idea that his broken heart would ever heal just wasn’t really on the table.

  Was he really ready to abandon that charade for good?

  He was. All the running around, the scoring, the drinking, the moving on from woman to woman hadn’t given him one minute of true happiness. But Michelle had. By the same token, Dismas Hardy had taken him into his life, endured his jokes and visits and hangovers, made him part of the family—God knew why. So Diz and Michelle, were they just to be more sacrifices that he’d burn on the altar of his pathetic self-pity?

  He’d come to his last turn if he wasn’t going to get on the freeway. He didn’t take it. Suddenly putrid with fear, he realized that he wasn’t going to Mexico or anywhere else except Pier 70, where Glitsky was going to need all the help he could get. Hardy had never said anything definite about going himself—in fact, he’d outright denied he would be there. It was police business, he’d said. Civilians didn’t belong, would be out of place.

  But Holiday knew Hardy. He would be there.

  When they got this cleared up, Holiday would start taking care of the Ark, of Michelle, of the rest of his business. His life.

  19

  On Saturday afternoon, Vincent Hardy opened the front door of his house and stood in the entrance to his living room where his father and Abe Glitsky were speaking in measured tones, having a serious discussion. He wore a long-sleeved Jerry Rice 49er T-shirt, tennis shoes and calf-length baggy shorts; mostly, though, what he wore was mud. Hardy looked at him with a wary expectancy, but mostly with a poorly concealed lack of patience.

  “Dad,” he said without preamble, “I need a chainsaw.”

  Glitsky, not really in the mood for it, nevertheless broke a rare smile. “As who does not, Vin? As who does not?”

  “A chainsaw?” Hardy’s back was still sore and he was reclining, feet up, in his reading chair. “A chainsaw?”

  “Everybody needs one sometime,” Glitsky said.

  Vincent didn’t get the joke. “Maybe, but I need one now. We really do, Dad.”

  “What for?” his father asked.

  “To cut stuff.”

  “There,” Glitsky said, the question settled for all time. “What did you think he wanted it for, Diz? To cut stuff. You can’t do much else with a chainsaw, can you?”

  “I saw some guys juggle one down at Venice Beach one time,” Hardy said. “A chainsaw, a bowling ball and an egg. It was awesome.” He whipped on his son. “What do you want to cut, Vin?”

  “Some trees, over in the park.” He pointed vaguely outside. “They’re hanging over the sidelines at the football field.”

  “What football field?”

  “Just at the end of the block. Where we practiced for Little League.”

  Hardy grimaced as he came forward slightly. “There’s no football field down there.”

  “Yeah, there is. We’re making one.”

  “That’s why they need the chainsaw,” Glitsky said. “Obviously.”

  Hardy knew the Little League practice area well. It was a small plot just to the left of the entrance to the elegant and majestic Palace of the Legion of Honor, one of San Francisco’s premier tourist destinations. Hardy had been one of a contingent of local dads who a few years before had gone down to the Parks Commission and requested that they be allowed to bring in a backstop for baseball so that the kids could have a flat, grassy place to practice. The commission finally agreed, but only under the condition that it would be a revocable permit, good for a few months in the spring, and that the lot should otherwise remain pristine. And now, judging from his son’s appearance, the place was at best a mudhole, and they needed a chainsaw to clear more land.

  After Hardy had finally, with much gnashing of teeth, made the sad truth clear to Vincent, and he’d gone down to break the news to his friends and teammates, he lay back in his chair, covered his face with his hands briefly, let out a deep breath. “So where were we?”

  “Do you realize that none of my three sons ever said those words to me?”

  “What words?”

  “Dad, I need a chainsaw. It kind of choked me up.”

  “It is a beautiful phrase.”

  “Every dad should hear it at least once. Well.” Glitsky let out a theatrical sigh. “At least I got to hear your kid say it. That’s some consolation. When the guys in Venice juggled it, was the chainsaw going?”

  “Yeah.”

  “With a bowling ball and an egg? Was the egg hard-boiled?”

  “I don’t know. I’d assume so.”

  “But if it wasn’t, imagine? I would have loved—”

  “Abe.” Hardy held up a hand. “Please.”

  Glitsky’s mouth turned down. “Okay, but I think I’ve got a chainsaw in my garage, if you change your mind and want to borrow one.”

  “I won’t. Can we drop the chainsaw?” Then, reading Glitsky’s mind, Hardy said, “Don’t.”

  Glitsky’s frown grew more pronounced.

  Hardy took his opening. “But on this other thing . . . I’m still trying to imagine who might have shot at us if it wasn’t Sephia.”

  “And you’re sure it wasn’t him?”

  “Blanca was sure enough when I talked to him last. Said he checked around and called Nick up in Nevada, where he’d been since last night. So it wasn’t him. But who does that leave?”

  “Maybe Wade’s got some other shooters on the payroll?”

  Hardy had thought of almost nothing else in the twenty-six hours that had elapsed since he’d arrived at Coit Tower. It showed in his drawn and worried face. “But there’s no reason to
come after me. I’m no threat anyway if Freeman . . .” His voice wound down.

  “Maybe they don’t know that.”

  Hardy’s voice grew hard. “Meaning maybe you think I should tell them I’m out of it? Just roll over?”

  Glitsky spread his hands. “Meaning nothing. My favorite theory is they weren’t after you anyway. Whoever it was, they wanted Holiday.”

  “How’d they know he was there?”

  “How’d they know you were? Somebody followed somebody, that’s all. Happens all the time. The tail figures out your destination is Coit Tower, calls for the cavalry in the gray sedan, you’re there when they arrive twenty minutes later. Then it’s sorry, no hard feelings, but it’s bad luck to leave witnesses breathing.”

  “Maybe,” Hardy said. “But what’s the deal with Blanca? I mean, early afternoon yesterday he’s the perfect cop. Wanted to know everything I had. Impressions, suspicions, you name it. We talked about David, getting a lead on these cretins . . . anyway, three hours later he’s a different guy.”

  “Maybe he ate lunch at Lou’s in the meanwhile, got a stomachache.”

  Hardy kept talking. “He knows it wasn’t Sephia. Plus he wasn’t going after Panos until he got some physical evidence. Then he asks me how come I hadn’t told him I was with Holiday up at Coit? Didn’t I think that mattered? It’s like, suddenly, I’m the bad guy. What, I’m making this stuff up to ruin his day? I wanted to go, ‘Hey, remember me? I’m the guy who got shot at. I am the victim here.’ Anyway, he tells me he’ll call if something comes up, but I’m not holding my breath.”

  “Probably smart.” Glitsky stood up, walked over to the fireplace, moved some of the glass elephants on the mantel. “So what’s your next move?”

  “That’s why I called you. Though it pains me to admit it, I think I need some advice.”

  “Strategic?”

  “Emotional, philosophical, strategic, I don’t care.” He came forward with some difficulty, rolling his shoulder against the pain. “They whack my car Wednesday, they shoot at me on Friday. Tell you the truth, I’m a little concerned.”

  Glitsky stared out through the blinds of Hardy’s front window. A muscle worked by his temple. When he spoke, it was with an exaggerated calm. “For what it’s worth, it’s probably not you. It’s Holiday.”

  “It was my car, Abe, on Wednesday. Holiday wasn’t anywhere near it.”

  “That, in fact, might really have been random. Vandals.”

  “Right. Just like David was.” Hardy took a beat. “Come on, Abe. Two attacks in three days. You know it wasn’t random. I’d like a little hint about what to do here. I don’t like people coming after me. To say nothing about my family. It makes me a little uptight. We had two crying kids last night. Frannie’s talking about taking them out of school, all of us going away for a week or two.”

  Glitsky just nodded.

  “What?” Hardy asked.

  “You already said it. If you’re absolutely sure it’s Panos . . .”

  “Of course it’s Panos! Whether the target is me or Holiday, either way it’s Panos.”

  “Okay, so what you do is you call Dick Kroll and tell him you’re out. At least until Freeman’s up and around again. Explain the situation without threatening him or accusing him or his client, if that’s in your arsenal of legal moves. That takes you out of it, am I right?”

  “So far. Maybe.”

  “All right. Meanwhile, make friends with Blanca again. Find out what happened. It’s probably just some misunderstanding—you know how cops can be if they feel you haven’t been completely straight with them. Apologize. Then, of course, turn over Holiday.”

  “No way.”

  Glitsky’s mouth went tight. “There’s that flexibility you’re so famous for.”

  “He’s not going to jail again, Abe. He’s been there once and didn’t like it. He thinks Panos will have him killed.”

  “In jail?” Glitsky barked a laugh. “That’s just stupid and you know it, Diz. Wade may be the big bad wolf on the streets, but essentially he’s a rent-a-cop, okay? He doesn’t have secret operatives working in the jail to enforce his wishes. Trust me on this. The truth is that if somebody is out to get your client, he’s safer in jail than he is out of it.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then what, what?”

  “I mean, after I drop my lawsuit and John’s in jail, then what? They just win?”

  “What’s the hurry? You let things cool off awhile, see how things stand with Freeman, get some new partners to work on the lawsuit later. Then, with Holiday, you press for a speedy trial and get him off on the evidence. You said he’s got alibis for all the murders. If that’s true, he’s out after the prelim.”

  “And back on the street, where they can try again.”

  Glitsky broke his second smile of the day, a personal record. “You can’t have it both ways, Diz. He’s either safer on the street, or safer in jail.”

  “How about neither? Whoever really did these killings wants to pin them on him. If he dies, with the evidence they found at his place, the case is closed.”

  Glitsky walked back to his chair, stood looking down at his friend. “Because you’ve been through recent psychological trauma and I don’t want to embarrass you, I’ve kind of been avoiding that pesky little evidence problem.”

  Hardy’s eyes narrowed. “Abe, I swear to God, somebody shot at us yesterday. Really. I’m not kidding you.”

  Glitsky registered surprise. “I don’t doubt it. But what’s that got to do . . . ?”

  “Somebody planted that evidence. Get used to it. That’s the truth. And that happens to be Nick Sephia’s specialty.”

  “Which makes it especially unfortunate he wasn’t here in the city.”

  “I’m working on that.”

  “Well.” Glitsky stood again. He checked his watch. “You get something, let me know. Meanwhile, call Kroll at his home, talk to your client. Be convincing. It could all be settled by tonight.”

  Glitsky met his wife and daughter where he’d dropped them at a bookstore on California Street. They presented a Saturday Children’s Hour that Rachel enjoyed—it also got everybody outside of the duplex, which was to the good. In the car, Treya drove while Abe turned himself around and sang some nonsense songs to his daughter, then tickled and laughed with her, enjoying himself. Treya put a hand on his thigh. “What are you so happy about? Not that I’m complaining.”

  “I’ve successfully resisted temptation, so I’m taking a few minutes to bask in my virtue.”

  She threw him a look across the car seat. “That’s nice. Was the temptation female?”

  He put his hand down on hers. “Never in the world. He was subtle enough about it, but Diz wanted me to check up on the efficiency of the current homicide team. I politely declined.”

  “What is it,” Treya asked, “some kind of virus? First your dad, now Diz.”

  “I know. But I can’t be mad at him. He’s legitimately worried.”

  “I’d be worried, too. But what did he expect you to do about it?”

  “He thinks John Holiday’s getting framed. He wanted me to pass it on.”

  “To Lieutenant Gerson?”

  “Who else?” He grunted. “My close friend Barry, who is hanging on my every word. I told Diz that wasn’t the way to go. You would have been proud of me.”

  “Always,” she said, “but somebody’s trying to find who shot at him, aren’t they?”

  “Absolutely. He reported it, so that’s what they’ve got to do.” He glanced across at her. “What’s the problem?”

  “People shooting at our friends. That’s a pretty serious problem, don’t you think?”

  He shook his head. “They weren’t after Diz.”

  “No? What would have happened if, say, they’d killed Holiday after all?”

  “What do you mean, what would have happened? He’d be dead and . . .”

  “And that would be the end of it? What about these other killings
he supposedly did? Those cases would be closed, too, wouldn’t they?”

  Glitsky didn’t answer right away.

  “You see what I’m asking? Doesn’t it make sense?”

  He nodded. “It’s more or less what Diz was getting at. But it doesn’t have to be Panos, or anybody connected to Panos.”

  “But whoever it was had to be at Silverman’s, right? I mean, the money, the jewels. And didn’t the young man you talked to . . .”

  “Matt Creed.”

  “Right. He told you it wasn’t Holiday and his friends, didn’t he?”

  “No. He only said he couldn’t say for sure that it was.”

  “But did he ever get to tell that to the inspectors in homicide? Did he have time before he got shot?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Now that might be worth finding out.”

  They were going shopping next and pulled into a space at the Safeway. Treya turned off the engine, but Abe didn’t move to get out of the seat. Instead, he sat there, rubbing his scar with his index finger. “I thought you didn’t want me getting involved in any of this. It’s not my job. Remember?”

  “I know. I do remember.” After a long moment, she said, “You’re right. I just hope somebody really is looking for whoever shot at Diz.”

  “I might be able to ask around about that. It’s not homicide.”

  “That might not be bad.”

  They got out of the car and Rachel, who’d fallen asleep in the baby seat, was making some discontented noises as Glitsky leaned in, pulled her out, and brought her in close to him, bouncing her gently. While Treya walked a few steps ahead, he kept up a singsong patter all across the lot. By the time they got her fastened into the seat in the shopping cart, she was gurgling happily again, mimicking her father’s words. “Ay-so, ay-so.”

  “What do you have her saying?” Treya asked, smiling.

  Glitsky, his smile quotient for the day all used up, fixed his wife with a serious look. “Key childhood words,” he said. “One in particular.”