“Sí.”
“And who was there?”
“The girl, Señor Mike, and the boy.”
“Andrew? The boy you identified in the lineup?”
“Sí.”
Hardy took a breath. This wasn’t good. If Salarco had seen Andrew at the house, close up, there was much less chance that he’d been mistaken at the lineup, or would recant at the trial. He sipped some beer to get his concern under control, and the question came out almost casually. “And what then? Did they tell you they’d stop fighting?”
A questioning look crossed Salarco’s face.
“What is it?” Hardy asked.
But it passsed. “Nothing,” Salarco said. “I don’t know. But yes, they said they’d stop.”
“And then it was quiet?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“No se. When the baby is crying, time just goes, you know. But again, we just got her to sleep again and Anna and I, we come out here, to this room, and turn on the TV, real quiet, but then there is this . . . this scream, the girl, and then a . . . a bump. You could feel it up here, like something dropped. The house shook. Then right after, a crash, the sound of a crash, glass breaking. And a few seconds later, suddenly boom again, the house shakes another time, somebody slamming the front door under us.”
Salarco on his feet now, acting it out. “Anna goes to this window, here, and I am behind her, and there is the boy running away. He stops under the light there, and turns, and Anna starts to put the window up to . . . to yell at him I think, but then Carla starts again with crying. Madre de dios!” Salarco, living it again, turned to Hardy and put both hands to his head. “Is it never going to end?”
“And then?”
“Then I . . . remember, I am . . . I have no sleep and my baby has been crying for ten hours straight. I run downstairs. I go to yell at them all, but when I hit the front door, I hit it with a fist and it . . . it opens.” His hands hung at his side. “And I see them.”
“Mooney and the girl?”
“Sí. On the floor, with so much blood. I walk in. The girl is shot, I think, in the chest, and is by the back wall. There is a big stand-up lamp knocked on the floor, broken, all smashed, next to her, but there is still light above and from in the cocina. And Señor Mike is on his back with a hole in his face. I will never forget.”
“No,” Hardy said. “I’m sorry.”
Salarco crossed back to the couch, sat now on the edge of it. He seemed to remember his beer and picked it up, drained it, looked across to Hardy. “Otros?”
Hardy hadn’t put much of a dent in his first beer, and didn’t want another, but he wanted to keep Salarco talking. “Gracias. Sí.”
When he came back with the two cold ones, he put them on the coffee table and began without any prompting. “So the phone is there, and I go to it and push nine one one, and tell what I see, where I am. And while I am talking, I notice the gun on the little table in front of the couch.” He leaned forward, knocked wood. “Just the same as this one.”
“And then what did you do?”
“Then I see how bad this looks, me in this room with the gun. I think the boy, maybe he’s going to come back. If he sees I am there, he can say it was me.”
“What was you?”
“Who killed these people.”
“Why would you have done that?”
Salarco turned his palms up. “The noise. I already come down one time to stop it. Maybe next time, I bring the gun and make sure. Then the woman on the phone, she tries more to get my name, and the other thing comes to me, la migra. I know I have to go. I cannot be there when the authorities come. So I come back up here and watch out the window until the boy comes back, and the authorities.”
“You mean Andrew again?”
“Sí.”
“You saw him under the streetlight there out the window?”
“Sí.”
“The same boy? You’re sure.”
Salarco put down his beer bottle, turned and faced Hardy directly. “I’m sorry, señor, but it was him. The same hair, the same clothes . . .”
“And what were they, the clothes?”
“Like all of them wear. I don’t know how you say . . . loose?”
“Baggy?”
Salarco nodded. “Sí. The pants, baggy. And then the . . .” He made a gesture of pulling something over his head. “Like Eminem in the movie.”
“You mean he had a hood? A sweatshirt with a hood?”
“Sí. That was it.”
“And even with the hood, you saw his face? And it was the same face?”
After the shortest pause, Salarco nodded. “Sí. Of course. It was the same boy, I say.”
Hardy believed him. In fact, it had to be Andrew returning from his walk, or from wherever he had gone. Perhaps having run away and then realizing he’d left the gun, which could be traced back to him. Looking up, Hardy caught a glimpse of Salarco’s wife hovering in the doorway back to the kitchen. He might have to talk to her one day as well, but for tonight, he took a last pull from his beer, then stood up. “I want to thank you for your time. You’ve been very helpful.”
“I am sorry about the boy, señor. Truly I am.”
“Thank you,” Hardy said. “I am, too.”
16
It was well past nine o’clock by the time Glitsky sat down to dinner at the small table in his kitchen.
Treya had gotten good at meals that took fifteen minutes to prepare, and she waited until she heard his tread on the steps up to their duplex before she threw the halibut on to broil in the oven. When she turned it the one time, she would smear it with jalapeño jelly, which would melt, forming a fantastic glaze. The asparagus sat in a shallow covered pan with a quarter inch of boiling water. She’d finish that with olive oil, balsamic vinegar and a pinch of sea salt. A small, still warm, dense loaf of homemade bread-machine bread—roasted-garlic with Asiago cheese—would round out the meal, after which they’d split a plate of frozen grapes for dessert.
Glitsky had fed Rachel in her high chair and for the past few minutes had been doing magic tricks, making a quarter disappear. Now Treya put the adult plates down. “Arranged yet,” he said. She’d garnished with a few sprigs of fresh rosemary. A crystal vase sat between the place mats on the small wooden table, and in it bloomed one perfect daffodil.
Glitsky put a finger on his daughter’s nose, turned to his food and picked up his fork. “Do I thank you enough for doing all this?”
Treya kissed the top of his head. “Every day.” She touched her baby’s cheek. “You gave me her, didn’t you?” She came around the table and took her seat. “Now shush and eat your fish. It’s brain food.”
“I’d better, then. I’m going to need it.” He chewed, swallowed. “This Boscacci thing.”
“At least it’s not LeShawn Brodie. I checked, and you’d dropped right off the news tonight, just like it never happened.”
“Fresh kill,” Glitsky said. “Anyhow, you’ll be glad to hear Amy Wu’s almost certainly out of it.”
“She was never really in, though, was she?”
“No, not really, although she could have timed her last meeting with Allan a little better. The real story, though, is that because of her, I got to give Diz a little grief.”
Treya smiled. “Always a plus.”
“And even more so because I swung by his office to give him his earful of righteous cop, and while I was there, I found a way to repay him for his little caper with my peanut drawer.”
“I thought you weren’t sure who that was.”
“I wasn’t, then I realized it had to be Diz. No one else is that immature.”
“I can think of one other person,” she said.
The corners of Glitsky’s mouth rose a fraction of an inch. “Thank you,” he said. “Plus, anybody at the Hall, it’s too risky if I catch them. They’re flayed, then fired. Diz, I get him red-handed and he says, ‘Ha ha, you got me, so what?’ It was him.”
“First, you have to promise not to tell under penalty of death.”
“That goes without saying.”
“Diz or Frannie. You’ll be tempted.”
“I’ll resist, I promise. What?”
A spark of mischief flashed in his eyes. “I stole his darts. You want to hear the best part?”
“That wasn’t it? What could be better?”
“Next time I’m there, I’m going to put them back. Then steal them again. My hope is that eventually he’ll go insane.”
“And that would be so that you two could play together as equals?” Treya put her fork down and looked across the table, her own eyes alight. She turned to Rachel. “Do you know how lucky you are that you can’t understand any of this?” she asked.
An hour later, the baby was in bed and the two of them sat in their living room with their after dinner tea. “But that poor man . . .” Treya was talking about Boscacci. “Do you have anything at all?”
“Well, if you count that we’re fairly certain it wasn’t Amy, we’ve got that.”
“Well, yes. But we knew that this morning before you even talked to her.”
“True. But now we know with more certainty,” he said. “And not because she works with Diz. Because she couldn’t have done it.”
“So who could have?”
Glitsky pulled at the scar at his lower lip. “My best guess now is someone he fired in the last three years. Maybe one of them took it personally.”
“So how many people did he let go? Allan?”
“Seventeen.”
Treya whistled softly. “That’s a lot.”
Glitsky sat back into the couch. He reached down near his belt and probed, perhaps unconsciously, at his side. “Well, fortunately,” he went on, “I’ve got a lot of resources for a change. I’ve got two inspectors from General Work for the canvassing and alibi checking, then Belou and Russell from homicide, and they’ll basically be full time to find and interview the folks Allan fired. Then Marcel asked to be part of it, too, back on the street if he had to. And, of course, my own magnificent self.”
“What are you going to be doing?”
Glitsky drew a sharp breath. “Well, mostly, given the lack of any forensic evidence, I’m going to be developing theories. But I’m not complaining. At least it’s a homicide. Something I know how to do.”
Treya put her cup down, reached over, put her hand on Glitsky’s shoulder. “Is your side hurting you again? Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“No.”
“No to what?”
“Both.”
“You won’t see a doctor?”
Glitsky grunted. “I’ve seen enough doctors. You start in with doctors, it never ends. They looked when this started and couldn’t find anything. I’m not about to let them cut on me again just to look.”
“But it’s still hurting you, whatever it is.”
“I know what it is.” He softened his tone. “I’m uptight. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, and till it does or I decide it’s not going to, I’ve got to tough it out.”
“So what’s going to make you decide that? Do you have any idea?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe doing something I’m good at.”
“What does that mean? You’re doing a great job as deputy chief. Everybody says so.”
“Nobody was saying so yesterday with LeShawn.”
Treya waved that off. “Those were just the media vultures, Abe. You know that. You can’t take them seriously. I’m talking about people like Clarence, and Frank Batiste. The mayor. Kathy West. I hear nothing but good things and where I work, that’s saying something.”
A shrug. “I make my numbers. I show up on time. My brass shines. But inside I’m not like these people.”
“What people?”
“Frank, Clarence, the mayor—all the people who have these meetings.” He pushed at his side again. “They’re politicians. Plus I’ve got this little secret and can’t help thinking that someday somebody’s going to find me out.”
Treya spoke with some care. “Maybe you want to talk to somebody?”
“What do you mean, a shrink?” He barked out a black laugh. “So then word goes out that the man is cracking up? And everybody starts to check out my office furniture? Half the folks would think I really am crazy and the other half would figure it’s a scam to get disability. I’d kiss my credibility good-bye forever.”
“It wouldn’t have to be a psychiatrist. Maybe a psychologist. Or a career counselor.”
“And what’s this person going to do, talk me out of the pain?” He took her hand. “Besides, I talk to you.”
Treya wasn’t going to be conned. “And I can’t help. I haven’t helped. I’m just saying maybe someone else could get somewhere.”
“Not if I couldn’t tell them about it. And I can’t. You know I can’t.”
“That’s what you keep saying. But there is such a thing as doctor/ patient privilege, you know. That’s a real thing. They couldn’t tell.”
“Right, in theory. But in real life, they tell all the time. A rumor gets started, and you know cops, they ask questions. And then where are we?”
“At least you’re not in pain.”
“Wonderful. Except that now I’m ruined, even in jail. How does that sound? There’s no statute on murder.”
“It wasn’t murder. It was self-defense. You keep saying it was murder, and it wasn’t.”
“All right, but it killed a cop. And I was a party to covering it up. Whatever happens, if that comes out, even if I never go to jail, it’s the end of my career.” He exhaled with some force. “I’ve got to live with it, that’s all. It’s not that bad.”
But as he said it, he tightened his lips, the scar through them going white with the pressure. Treya, her own face tight with concern, laid a palm on his thigh and he covered it with his own hand, squeezing hard. When the spasm had passed, he released his grip. “Not that bad,” he repeated.
He came into the bedroom and Treya put down her book. “Who was that?”
“Marcel.”
She checked the bedside clock. 10:42. “This time of night?”
“I told him he could call anytime.”
She smiled at him. “Of course you did.” She patted the bed next to her. “Here, sit down. What did Marcel find?”
“Well, again, it’s more what they didn’t find. Nobody heard anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Marcel sent out our team to knock on every door within two blocks of the All-Day Lot. Have another go at them, catch the people who weren’t home earlier. They got forty-four hits, which is the jackpot. Nobody heard a shot, not even the shoe repair folks still at work just around the corner, like fifty feet away.”
“Maybe they just didn’t want to say.”
“Maybe. Some percentage wouldn’t give away their trash to save humanity. But you’ve got to hope that with forty-four people, maybe a couple are good citizens. But these folks were there, admitted they were there, talked to our people. Nobody heard anything.”
Treya sat up. “Is that so unusual?”
Glitsky shrugged. “You know what a nine-millimeter sounds like? Close up, a cherry bomb. A block away, you hear it and you stop a second and go, ‘What was that?’ ”
“And nobody heard anything? Maybe he was inside a car and rolled the window down?”
“Maybe that,” Glitsky said. “Or maybe he had a suppressor.”
“A what?”
“A silencer. Suppressor.”
“And what does that mean? Other than the shot doesn’t make much noise?”
“It means he’s probably a pro. In which case he’s probably in another state by now. But if he was a pro, that also means somebody hired him. It’s another place to look, that’s all.”
Hardy owned a one-quarter interest in one of San Francisco’s oldest bars, the Little Shamrock, at the corner o
f Ninth and Lincoln, just across the street from Golden Gate Park. The majority partner was Frannie’s brother, Moses McGuire, another emotional casualty of the shoot-out. By jogging just slightly from the direct route to his home from Juan Salarco’s, Hardy could pass right by the place, check up on his brother-in-law, maybe have a short nightcap.
It had gotten late. After saying good night to Salarco, Hardy had gone out to his car and, with the interview still fresh in his mind, listened to the tape of it twice through again. With the sometimes lengthy time-outs he took for making notes, both as the witness talked and as ideas occurred after each listening, he worked for most of an hour that felt to him like five minutes.
The Shamrock’s bar ran along one wall halfway back to where the room widened out slightly. At the front door, it was wall-to-wall people, five or six deep. His first glance told Hardy he had no chance to claim a stool anywhere near the bar itself, and even if he was successful at that, the crowd would keep Moses too busy to talk. Nights like this, Hardy would sometimes take off his jacket, grab a bar towel and help out behind the rail. He’d been a bartender once, and a good one.
But tonight he wasn’t in the mood. It was too crowded, too loud, too hot. The jukebox was cranked up with some old Marshall Tucker music. Maybe he ought to go home.
He was just turning to leave when Wes Farrell and his live-in girlfriend, Sam Duncan, pushed their way in. Sam was a petite, feisty, pretty dark-haired woman, forty-ish, who ran one of the city’s rape crisis counseling centers not far away on Haight Street.
“You’re not leaving?” Farrell said. “Not when we’re just getting here.”
“It had crossed my mind. It’s going to take an hour to get a drink.”
“We’ve got that knocked,” Sam said. “We know the owner. Come on.”
Sam took Hardy’s hand and led the way, jostling them through the crowd. Once they’d cleared the bottleneck up front, there was adequate room to stand and even move as long as nobody wanted to polka. Hardy noticed that Farrell was his out-of-the-office casual self, wearing one of his trademark T-shirts, which read “Be More or Less Specific.” At Hardy’s shoulder, Sam was saying that since he was buying, she’d have a Chivas rocks and Wes would have a pint of Bass Ale. Hardy could have whatever he wanted.
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