The Dismas Hardy Novels

by John Lescroart

  She held up the envelope. “This is very cool.”

  “What is it?”

  She handed it to him and he pulled out the pages.

  Dear Ms. Wu,

  I’ve been meaning to write to thank you and Mr. Hardy for all that you did for me, but I had so much work to make up at school, I never got the time. As I think you might have heard from my mom, Sutro took me back—some combination of Hal’s money and Mr. Wagner making me sign a paper promising that I wouldn’t bring a loaded gun to school again.

  Oh. Okay. Or what? I get expelled?

  Forgetting that we don’t own a gun anymore, and as if that would stop me if I decided to. But don’t worry, I agree that it’s a bad idea.

  The other reason I haven’t had time is that I’ve been doing some more writing—I started almost the day I got out, totally different stuff than “Perfect Killer.” Working with the narrative voice, wondering if maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have it be accessible, even friendly. Anyway, maybe I’m getting somewhere, since just today I heard back from McSweeney’s. They say they want to publish my latest story. I thought you’d be glad to hear about that, and maybe also to hear that I’m so glad I didn’t die when I tried to kill myself. So glad.

  You know the famous line from Anna Karenina? “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Well, my time in my own unhappy family is getting to the end, and maybe when I get to going out and making one of my own, I can form it a little differently. The story McSweeney’s is taking imagines a guy from a happier family, way later on. I hope you like it.

  Just remember one thing, though, would you? I made it all up.

  Brandt and Wu were at a table in the restaurant at the back of the Balboa Cafe. The waiter had brought their drinks, but both of them remained untouched. When Brandt finished reading Andrew’s letter, he handed it gingerly back to Wu. It was a long minute before he said anything. “I don’t like to think that I was trying to send him to prison for the rest of his life.” He paused again. “I’ve never had a defendant be innocent before, you know that? It gives one pause.”

  “You wonder if you’ve sent up somebody who shouldn’t be there?”

  He thought about it for a few seconds. “Not really, no. I don’t think so. I mean, Bartlett was unusual. At least I hope he was. But I don’t know for sure, to tell you the truth. I’m sure Allan Boscacci thought what’s his name, Welding, was guilty. In a funny way,” he said, “it almost makes me feel better about the system. I mean, Andrew Bartlett got off, with me and Johnson both trying to bring him down. Sometimes it works.”

  Hardy and Glitsky hadn’t seen much of each other for six weeks.

  In the aftermath of the Executioner arrest, and in spite of its successful conclusion, the media couldn’t seem to warm to Glitsky’s politically incorrect style. The many published and broadcasted comparisons with his role in the LeShawn Brodie debacle, combined with his alleged insensitivity not only to the legal, but to the basic human, rights of suspects, especially those that came from backgrounds riddled with abuse, prompted several public and private calls for his resignation. Other advocacy groups demanded investigations into the police department’s decision-making procedures, and called for the formation of various committees to oversee (and second-guess) the command structure.

  How had it taken the police so long (nearly twenty hours!) to crib together the clues linking Lucas Welding with his son and his current identity? Why, even working with the luxury of an event number, had no one in the police department been able to discover sooner that the Executioner’s victims had all been on the same jury? Surely, the records on these things should be more accessible. How had it taken so long to locate the address of the last victim, Wendy Takahashi? Better police work, quicker and more informed decision-making, would almost certainly have saved her life. How in the world had Glitsky seen fit to allow an unelected civilian to take part in a command decision involving the city’s highly skilled and specialized TAC unit?

  And on and on and on.

  Fortunately, Batiste, Lanier, Jackman and the mayor himself—in a rare and somewhat surprising display of unanimity—had all closed ranks around Glitsky, shouldering their portions of the blame if, in fact, there had been any. Eventually, inevitably, the immediate outcry had died down.

  Although Glitsky knew, and hoped, that his days as deputy chief were probably numbered. He couldn’t say it broke his heart. He’d even spoken to Lanier and Batiste about the possibility of becoming an inspector at large, where he could float between the investigations of different details without being burdened by an administrative portfolio. He wasn’t a politician and everybody knew it, so why not let him work where he could do some good, instead of where, with the best of intentions, a great work ethic and even a record of success, he caused nothing but headaches for the department?

  For his part, Hardy had spent most of his time bringing his associates and partners up to speed on the workload surrounding what he called his “influence clients.” He’d lost his taste for facilitating. What he liked best and did best was trials. Another of his associates, Graham Russo, had asked him if he’d consider another shot at second chair in a local potential death penalty murder case that would need an incredibly strong psychiatric defense to prevail. Russo was planning to argue some variety of mental illness to save his client’s life. And in truth, Hardy had known golden retrievers with more brains than their client, who reminded him of Lenny in Of Mice and Men—“Tell me about the rabbits, George.” The client had done some terrible things, it was true, but Hardy didn’t believe the state should execute him. But whatever the outcome, it was going to be a complex and interesting case. Huge issues. He just wanted to be part of it.

  He’d spent the better portion of the rest of his time, at his own expense, boning up on immigration law—there was already an enormous market there, and in California it was only going to grow—and using the Salarcos as his guinea pigs. He’d secured the sponsorship of several of Juan’s gardening customers (all of whom lived in comparative splendor), and though it was early in the game, he held out some hope that the Salarcos could avoid some of the bureaucracy and despair of the long-drawn-out citizenship process.

  Today, though, Sunday, the first day of June, Hardy and Glitsky sat seven rows behind home plate at PacBell Park. They both wore their Giants caps against the bright sunshine, had removed their jackets. Bonds had dumped one into McCovey Cove and they figured they’d gotten their money’s worth already, although in truth the seats had been free, courtesy of one of Hardy’s clients with season tickets.

  Hardy popped a peanut, chased it with a slug of beer. “Your gallbladder?”

  “That’s the latest. They want to take it out.” Glitsky sipped his Coke. “I told them no.”

  “Why not?”

  Glitsky shrugged. “I’ve had enough metal in my guts over the past few years to last me a while. I’m not letting them cut me three more times, which is how they do it nowadays. My doc even said, kind of goofing, ‘Yeah, it’s like being stabbed in the gut. In fact, it is being stabbed in the gut.’ Guy’s a laugh riot.”

  “Yeah, but if that’s what’s causing the pain . . .”

  “It’s on the other side.”

  “What is?”

  “The pain. It’s on the other side from my gallbladder. It’s called referred pain. They say it’s fairly common. You get a whack on the toe and feel it in your arm.”

  “Oh yeah,” Hardy said. “That happens to me all the time.”

  Glitsky threw him a look. “Me, neither. It’s why I’m a little skeptical about the diagnosis. Plus, what I’ve got, it’s not really pain, I mean like sharp pain. It’s more a flutter.”

  “Maybe it’s your heart again.”

  Glitsky shook his head. “Nope. I know what that feels like, and it’s not that.”

  “So if you don’t let them take the gallbladder out, what are you going to do?”

  “Live with it. It’s been
a year already and it hasn’t killed me yet. Treya’s convinced it’s all stress, and she’s not dumb. During all that madness after we got Cottrell, it got pretty unbelievable, a knife in here all the time. Since then, it’s seems to be getting better. I’ve got a theory.”

  “I hope it’s not relativity,” Hardy said. “That’s already been taken.”

  “You remember when I got the event number for Boscacci, we were going to do the biggest manhunt in history?”

  “Okay.”

  “So with all that effort and personnel, we pretty much came up with nothing. Not to swell your already large head, but if you hadn’t talked to Mooney’s wife, we’d never have got him.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe, but the point is nobody’s ever going to check, go back to it, find anything.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “I’m talking about us. Nobody’s looking for us. Nobody’s going to be looking for us. Ever. I don’t have to worry every . . . single . . . damn . . . day that somebody’s going to find out and my life’s going to implode.”

  Hardy noted the expletive with surprise. Glitsky never swore. He put a hand on his friend’s arm for a second. “Nobody’s looking, Abe. Really.” He squeezed the arm. “Let it go,” he said. “Life’s too short.”

  “I guess it’s just I know that if I were back running homicide, I’d still be looking.”

  Hardy had to grin. “That’s what makes you such a joy to know. But let me ask you this: are your guts fluttering right now?”

  Glitsky sat back into his seat, concentrated a minute, shook his head. “No.”

  “Let’s call that a win, then, and move on.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, my deepest gratitude and love to Lisa Sawyer, my wife, muse, partner and best friend. Her presence in my life is my greatest blessing.

  My publisher Carole Baron has overseen my career nearly from its outset. Her guidance, insight, and sense of humor have greatly enriched the whole publishing experience, and I’m greatly indebted to her for her continued encouragement and enthusiasm for my work. I’d also like to tip my hat to my editor Mitch Hoffman, whose keen eye and sense of story are second to none. His suggestions, pithy and on the mark, have contributed greatly to this finished work. A group of highly talented folks at Dutton continually push the envelope on what defines state of the art in publishing. Among this incredible team, I’d especially like to thank Lisa Johnson, Kathleen Matthews-Schmidt and Betsy DeJesu, who have sent me, often kicking and screaming, all around the country, but admittedly to great effect; Robert Kempe for riding the web so expertly; and Richard Hasselberger for his wonderful book jackets.

  My pal and true collaborator in this and all the Dismas Hardy/Abe Glitsky books is Al Giannini who, after a distinguished thirty-year career in the San Francisco District Attorney’s office, currently works as a Deputy District Attorney in the San Mateo County DA’s office. When young would-be writers ask me for advice about becoming an author, I always tell them to befriend someone at fourteen who will someday become a kick-ass DA and correct every mistake in the law that you will ever put in your first drafts. Al does that for me—he’s a monster.

  I’d also like to acknowledge several people who offered their insights into elements of law, protocol, kids and/or the juvenile justice system: thanks to Kenneth A. Breslin, Ph.D.; Chris, Janet and Jennifer Nedeau; Mary-Patricia Whelan-Miille, President of the Board of Directors of the Yolo County Court Appointed Special Advocate Program (CASA); Andy Clark; Bill Fazio (whom I sincerely hope is by the time of this book’s publication now San Francisco’s District Attorney); Lieutenant Colleen Turay and Officer Paul Narr of the Davis, CA, police department; and Mark Hicks, Campus Supervisor of Davis High School. I’d particularly like to thank San Francisco Deputy Chief of Inspectors Dave Robinson for giving me so much of his time while sharing his schedule, duties and worldview.

  For their continued support, I would also like to extend thanks to Barbara Peters, Ed Kaufman, Shelly MacArthur, Otto Penzler, Michael Koller, Michael Bufano, Pat Hernandez, Martha Farrington, Eric Lamboley and Debbie Stowell, Susan Honn, Jennifer Held, Ruthie Wittenberg, John Carney, Rachel Ray, Megan Cannon, Bill Lloyd, Pat Boyers, Darby Greek, Cynthia Nye, Antoinette Kuritz, Connie Martinson; and Kat Kinzer.

  Several characters in this book owe their names (although no physical or personality traits, which are all fictional) to individuals whose contributions to various charities have been especially generous. These people and their respective charities include Judge W. Arvid Johnson (CASA), Lou and Pat Belou (Davis Rotary), Lanny Ropke (Woodland Christian School) and Dr. and Mrs. James Longoria (Sutter Health Foundation). Additionally, I’d like to thank Chris Stephani’s brother Allan Boscacci both for the use of his name and for his great AB& I Foundry cast-iron frying pan.

  For important personal reasons, I’d like to thank Scott, Brenda and Mary Lou at the Cincinnatian Hotel for a memorable celebratory meal; Don Matheson, who belongs in every book on general principle but somehow didn’t get in the last one; David Nieves for some key Spanish words; Max Byrd; Peter S. (for Sapphire) Dietrich, MD, MPH; Bill Wood; Richard Herman; Tom Hedtke; Tom Steinstra; my fantastic daughter Justine Rose; Richard Montgomery; Antonio Castillo de la Gala; and Mark and Kathryn Lescroart Detzer.

  My assistant Anita Boone is simply an outstanding human being, and the work she does makes my own workdays more a pleasure than they have any right to be. My agent and friend Barney Karpfinger is an unending source of brains, humor and goodwill—he is the absolute best at what he does, bar none, and I remain extremely grateful for our relationship.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com