Glitsky interrupted. “The guns that got taken from me, they were these three fifty seven revolvers, and I had suppressors to go with them. They also got taken.”
“Well, yes, sir. But—”
“It sounded like you were telling me if I didn’t shoot a semi, you couldn’t help me.”
“No. Not at all. Although we can’t authorize any sales of suppressors out of the show today. We can’t even carry them, as I’m sure you realize. But if you’re interested . . .”
“Maybe you haven’t been listening to me, Jerry. I’m interested in this gun, right here, right now, and I happen to have the thousand dollars to buy it. I don’t like to use a semiautomatic. They jam, you notice that? Now, are you telling me you can’t help me locate a silencer in this brochure of yours here for this exact weapon that I’m interested in putting down some money for? ’Cause if that’s the case, I think maybe I can find another dealer nearby who might be willing to.”
He put the revolver down on the top of the glass counter. “On the other hand, you put me in line with a top-quality suppressor for this gun, I give you my credit card, come back later on after the ridiculous ten-day cooling off period has expired, and you’ve got at least one sale, maybe a few more after I talk to some of my friends. Are you hearing me?” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Someone told me if I had any trouble I should ask for Mort.”
It was, indeed, the magic word. Jerry glanced at his other customers—nobody paying any real attention. “Give me a couple of minutes,” he said.
It was more like twenty, during which Glitsky wandered some more, checking back at the Colt booth at five-minute intervals. The fourth time, Jerry was talking to a heavy, short, bald man and motioned Glitsky over. “This is, uh . . .”
“Abe.” Glitsky extended the hand that held the C-note.
“Mort.” The man’s grip was weak and sweaty, but he palmed the bill like a master, glanced down at it quickly, apparently was satisfied. “Let’s go,” he said.
They walked out back toward the main entrance, Mort a couple of steps ahead of Glitsky, never looking back. Glitsky got stamped for readmission. Outside, they turned right and walked in the bright sun through the parking lot. Hard up against the chain-link fence, a white van with a dash full of dolls in the window squatted in the meager shade of a lone eucalyptus. Mort knocked once, then twice, on the back door, then turned and, without a word or a nod at Glitsky, headed back across the lot.
When the door finally opened in a fog of cigarette smoke, Glitsky stepped forward. If he’d thought that Mort was overweight, the man who sat on the swivel seat in the rear of the van put things into perspective. He must have gone close to three hundred, although the untucked Hawaiian shirt may have added twenty pounds or so. He was still smoking, and every breath wheezed out of him like a bellows. He squinted through the smoke and out into the sun and said, “It’s nine hundred dollars. Cash.”
Glitsky fanned away some of the smoke. There was no ventilation in the van itself. “That’s what I heard. I’m looking at a Colt three five seven revolver.” He took out his wallet and started counting out the bills, laying them out on the filthy shag rug.
The huge man wheezed again, put out his cigarette, then swiveled and grabbed one of the thick black leather briefcases that lined a shelf behind the front seats. Pulling it onto his lap, he opened it, studied a moment, then took out one of the long, heavy metallic objects. “This isn’t just a flash suppressor,” he said, handing it over. “This will eliminate noise in excess of seventy-five dB. I can thread it and mount it here whenever you pick up your weapon, a hundred dollars, or you can take it with you and mount it up yourself. I recommend you let me do it here. I’ve got all the equipment as you can see. You fuck it up, it might kill you.”
The left side of the back of the van was a low metal work counter, with a vise and array of tools neatly mounted against the side wall. He grabbed a metal box off the counter, wiped his brow and, wheezing with the effort, reached down to pick up Glitsky’s bills. After counting them again, he placed them in the metal box. When the box was back on the counter, he pulled a small spiral notebook from his pants pocket. “You got a number? Cell’s best. I change the setup, I like to keep my customers in the loop.”
Glitsky’s hands had gone damp with nerves. So far, everything that his snitch had told him about this operation had turned out as advertised, but if this fat man had a partner sitting in any one of the hundreds of nearby cars, covering him, this is where it would get ugly. He put the suppressor down on the rug and reached behind as though for his wallet or a belt-worn cellphone. Instead, he pulled his Glock from where he’d tucked in at the small of his back.
At first, the fat man’s face registered a mild surprise, as though Glitsky had brought along the weapon for which he wanted the silencer. Then, realizing how and where the gun was pointed, he lowered his hands into his lap, then raised them slightly. “You can take your money back,” he said. “And whatever else is in there. I’m absolutely cool with this. You can take the truck, too. I don’t care.”
“Keep your hands where I can see them and crawl on out here.”
He backed up as the man slowly got himself off the mounted swivel chair and pathetically, on all fours, made his way across the gross shag. His dark hair hung in greasy shanks down around his face.
“All the way out,” Glitsky said. “Then over to the fence, hands on it over your head. Okay, now slowly lift your shirt—I want to see your belt—and turn around. All the way. Pants. Up at the ankles.”
“I’m not armed.”
“That’s what they all say. I’m happier making sure.”
Glitsky had him step back from the fence and, still facing it, lean against his hands, his legs spread wide. After patting him down, Glitsky told him he could straighten up and turn around. “What do you want?” the man asked.
The gun never left the man’s midsection. “Let me see some ID please.”
The man’s driver’s license identified him as James Martin Ewing, of Redwood Shores, about fifteen miles south of where they were. Glitsky stuck the wallet into his back pocket. “What do you want?” he said again.
“I’ve been trying to make up my mind about that,” Glitsky said. “I decided it’s pretty much your lucky day. I’m San Francisco police.”
This brought an outraged rise. “Bullshit! All by yourself?”
Glitsky was calm. “All I want from you right now is that little book of your clients’ phone numbers. That and my money back, of course. You think we can handle that peaceably?”
Ewing’s eyes were slits as he tried to figure out the angle. “What else?”
“How many silencers have you sold here in the past few months, would you guess?”
“I don’t know.”
“James.” Glitsky steadied the gun on the man’s kneecap, his voice calm and thrumming with menace. “Don’t push this. You make most of these suppressors yourself, I take it?”
“Yeah. I got a metal shop at home.”
“There. See? You’re cooperating already. So I ask you again while you’re still in the mood. How many of these have you sold in, say, the last month?”
“Say ten.”
“Ten a month. Is that about your average?”
“Close. Look, man, if you really are a cop, you’re screwing up big time.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Glitsky said. “Now let me see the notebook. Just toss it on the ground near my feet.” Glitsky picked it up, opened it. It was a small book, two by three inches, with about ten lines on a page. It was about a third filled with phone numbers. Ewing had been in business awhile. Glitsky put the book in his shirt pocket. “Okay, James, here’s what I want you to do. Let me have the keys to your van. Okay, now I want you to start walking across this lot here toward that exit way over there, the farthest one down. Go ahead now; the exercise will do you good.”
“You’re going to shoot me in the back.”
“I doubt it, but ei
ther way, you start walking and don’t look back. Go.”
“You’ve still got my wallet.”
“That’s right, I do. I’ll leave it in the car.”
Ewing scanned the lot, possibly looking for some help, but it was a slow and peaceful Friday afternoon, not much going on. Finally he started to walk. When he’d gone maybe a hundred yards, Glitsky closed the back doors, climbed into the driver’s seat, opened the windows and started the motor. Checking the rearview mirrow—Ewing was still walking away—he turned and lifted the metal box from the counter, extracting his money. He picked up the bills that remained, estimated the amount as close to two thousand more, closed the box with the money still inside, and put it back where it had been.
Putting the van in gear, he drove to where two empty Brisbane police cars were pulled up by the entrance. He stopped in front of them, blocking them intentionally, and got out, leaving the motor running and Ewing’s wallet on the front seat. Then he walked out the exit gate and hopped into the backseat of his waiting ride—Paganucci’s timing was perfect—and told him to step on it, lights and sirens if he had to. He had a date with his wife and didn’t want to be late.
“. . . most fun I’ve ever had as a cop.”
Treya put a soft hand to his face. “It’s good to hear you talking about fun again.”
“You think talking about it is good? Try having it. I was beginning to think it had all left the planet.”
“Says the man who just recently stole his best friend’s darts for fun.”
“That was revenge, not fun. My sacred honor was at stake.”
“Ah.”
They had eaten borscht and sandwiches in a booth at a no-name deli on Clement, and now were pushing Rachel along in her stroller, taking advantage of the soft dusk light and the unseasonable warmth. “What I really love is that I’ll have reverse listings on everybody in Mr. Ewing’s book by Monday at the latest. These are real people we can work on, every single one of them in violation of the suppressor law, and I’ll have the troops to go after them.”
“And you really think one of them may have shot Allan?”
“No, it’s not likely. But at least it’s somewhere to look. Maybe one of the names will intersect with another part of the investigation.”
“And meanwhile you’re hip deep in a murder and all’s right with the world.”
Glitsky didn’t answer, but he knew Treya was right. He put an arm around her, drew her in next to him. “I don’t love feeling like I’m dancing on Allan’s grave, but looking for his killer is how I ought to be spending my time. Not going to meetings.” A thought struck him and he stopped. “How about this? I’ve been trying to figure out how to get the ATF to help us out here. They’ve got to have access to mailing lists from the net, people who have ordered silencers or the handbooks to make them. They won’t be inclined to share, but once I get the names from Ewing’s list, I’ve got something to trade, right?”
“This is what you need to be doing, Abe. Working cases. Really. You know that?”
He walked a few more steps, then stopped, turned and kissed her. “You think?” he said.
20
Laura Wright’s parents wouldn’t see Hardy. They didn’t buy his opening gambit that he and they were working toward the same goal—to find Laura’s killer. They did not even want to talk to anybody who had anything to do with defending the murderer of their daughter. Lanny Ropke’s parents were wary, too, but ultimately allowed the interview. June wanted Mark to be home for any discussion Hardy might have with their son, so they scheduled it for 6:30.
Hardy rang the doorbell exactly at the stroke.
Now the four of them sat around a Pottery Barn wrought-iron table in a screened patio off the kitchen door of the Ropkes’ Victorian. Irving Street, out here on Twenty-sixth Avenue, supported the occasional large home on a big lot, and the Ropkes’ was one of them. A tall and well-trimmed laurel hedge hemmed the backyard on all sides, and long shadows fell across the deep lawn in the back. They’d also had room to erect a playground set by the back hedge—swing, slide, sandbox—and half a basketball court. To Hardy’s left, there was another redwood porch off what he assumed was a bedroom, and on it was a large, covered hot tub. Hardy had been introduced to the rest of the family—two cute and well-mannered young adolescent girls named Kim and Susan—but they’d disappeared by the time Mark suggested the patio for the interview. June poured heavily lemoned iced tea from a beaded pitcher.
They were a handsome family, with a strong resemblance along gender lines. June’s button nose and athletic figure were reflected in her two daughters, and Mark and Lanny—both lanky and big-boned, with prominent Adam’s apples, milky blue eyes and ruddy cheeks—might have been brothers. Hardy had a copy of Lanny’s transcipt and he got it out of his briefcase and came right to the point.
“The situation is this. Lanny, when you talked to the police, you told them about Andrew bringing his father’s gun to school, and then talking about maybe using it on Laura and Mr. Mooney. I’m not going to try to get you to say anything that’s not true, but I do want to ask you a few questions that might clarify some things for the defense. I’m assuming you’re okay with helping us out if we’re trying to help Andrew.”
“Sure. He was my best friend. I mean he still is.”
June said, “He wants to go visit him in jail, but after they arrested Andrew, the police said it might not be good to let the two of them talk, since he was going to be a prosecution witness.”
“I wouldn’t change what I said, Mom. I’m not going to lie.”
“No. Of course you’re not, Lanny. No one’s suggesting that,” June said.
“We thought it seemed like a reasonable suggestion,” Mark added. “That’s all.”
Hardy smiled tolerantly at the parents. He was starting to see why they both wanted to be here while he talked to Lanny. “Well, my opinion,” he said, “is it really wouldn’t do any harm to either of them, but that’s of course your decision.” He shifted to the boy. “So, Lanny, what we’re facing immediately, this next Tuesday, is a hearing to see if Andrew gets tried as an adult or not. And I’d like to call you as a witness to talk about the kind of guy Andrew is.”
“I’d do that.”
“Good. Let’s talk about the gun. When you first saw it, what was your reaction?”
Lanny considered for a moment. “I don’t know what you mean, exactly. It freaked me out. I mean, a gun at school is not a good idea.”
June spoke up. “We don’t understand why he didn’t tell . . . well, at least somebody about it right away.”
“I didn’t want to get Andrew in trouble.” His eyes implored Hardy to ignore his mother. “We’ve gone through this a hundred times. I didn’t think he was going to use it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just not who he is. When I talked to the police, they just wanted to hear about how Andrew had the gun and talked about using it. Which he did, I’m not denying that. But that was like way back in December, definitely before Christmas, while they were still broken up. By the time of the killings, it wasn’t an issue at all anymore.”
“But he still had the gun?”
Lanny shot a quick look at both of his parents, came back to Hardy. “I mean, you’ve got to know Andrew. He’s a little . . . dramatic sometimes. He liked to play with, I don’t know . . . ,” he searched for the right word, “ . . . ideas? After he’d gotten away with it for a while, he got to thinking it was cool, I guess, that everybody thought he was this nerdy good student and he carried a gun around. He didn’t have to use it. It just made him feel like he was putting something over on everybody. I think, if you want to know the truth, Mooney might have had something to do with that.”
Mark cleared his throat. “Now, wait a minute, Lanny. I thought we agreed that it wasn’t Mr. Mooney’s fault that somebody shot him.”
June concurred. “He didn’t bring it on himself.”
Lanny let out a breath of frustration, ta
lked to Hardy. “But Andrew’s idea of keeping the gun for when they rehearsed, Mooney thought that was neat. He wanted it out there. I think, otherwise, Andrew would have put it back. He was starting to be afraid he’d get caught.”
Hardy sat back. “So there was no blowup in the last day or two?”
“No. Not that I knew.”
“And Laura and Andrew were solid. Together.”
“More than ever, I think.” He flashed to his parents. “I guess everybody knows she was pregnant by now.”
“Andrew says he didn’t know it while she was alive.”
“That’s true,” Lanny said. “He would have told me.”
Mark came forward, his eyes alight with a possibility. “Hey, what about this? Maybe Laura told him she was pregnant that night and Andrew thought it was Mooney’s . . .”
Lanny turned on him, raised his voice. “He wouldn’t have thought it was Mooney’s, Dad. She wasn’t sleeping around. She was with Andrew and he knew it.”
“Maybe it was Mr. Mooney’s baby, though,” June said. “Maybe they did have a relationship, Mr. Mooney and Laura, back when Andrew was first worried about it . . .”
Hardy put a stop to the argument. “Even if they did,” he said, “the baby was Andrew’s. They took his DNA when they booked him. He was the father.”
“And Mooney didn’t do it with Laura, Mom, for God’s sake. He just didn’t!”
“How do you know that?” June asked. “I don’t see how you can be so sure.”
“If I may,” Hardy interjected. “Mrs. Ropke, do you have some reason to think he did?”
Silence descended. June Ropke’s eyes had gone wide with surprise, and an embarrassed giggle escaped. “Well, no, of course not. I mean . . .” Her eyes went to her husband, then Lanny, finally to Hardy. “Except, well, the rumors, you know. That he’d slept with students before.”
Hardy brought a hand up to his mouth. Andrew’s short story had introduced this basic topic, but this was the first corroboration of it he’d heard in the real world. Earlier in the day, he’d talked to the principal at Sutro, and Mr. Wagner had scoffed at the idea. Mr. Mooney was a charismatic and relatively young teacher, and girls undoubtedly got crushes on him, but he had never to Wagner’s knowledge had a breath of scandal surface. From Hardy’s perspective, though, if rumors about Mooney were even circulating, then regardless of their substance this would add credibility to the prosecution’s theory of Andrew’s motive.
The Dismas Hardy Novels Page 166