"We'd appreciate that." Cuneo was making some notes on his pocket pad. "So they came in masked ..."
"They weren't masked," Creed said. "Not when they came out."
"They were when they came in," Cuneo said. "Because Silverman knew them. They knew him and the setup here."
He pointed to the hidden video up above. "They knew about that, for example."
Panos stopped him. "How do you know about the masks?"
Cuneo reached into his pocket and pulled out a gallon Ziploc bag into which he'd placed the one ski mask that had fallen to the floor.
"Sons of bitches," Panos said.
"Who?"Cuneo asked.
Panos's jaw was tight, his heavy brow drawn in. "It'd be a better guess once we know who was at the game."
"All right," Cuneo said, "but this is a homicide investigation. What you'll do is give us a list of players at the game and we'll work from that."
Panos nodded. "All right, but I'd appreciate it if you'd keep me in the loop. Whoever killed Sam, any way I can help you, count me in."
3
For several years after the death of his first wife Flo, Glitsky had a live-in housekeeper—a woman born in Jalisco, Mexico, with the German name of Rita Schultz. She had slept in the living room of his duplex behind a shoji screen and had come, in her own way, to be almost one of the family. After the marriage, when Treya and her then sixteen-year-old daughter Raney had come to live with Glitsky and his sixteen-year-old son Orel, Rita wasn't needed anymore and Glitsky, regretfully, had had to let her go.
Now and for the past eight months since Treya had gone back to work at the DA's office, Rita, no longer living in, was again at the Glitskys' five days a week, taking care of the baby. Two months ago, the big kids had both gone off to college—Orel to his dad's alma mater of San Jose State, and Raney all the way across the country to Johns Hopkins, where she'd gotten a full academic scholarship and planned to major in pre-med. The baby Rachel moved out of Abe and Treya's bedroom and into Raney's old room behind the kitchen.
Over the summer, he and Treya had actually fixed up the place a bit. They tore out the old, battle-worn gray berber wall-to-wall carpet in the living room and discovered the original blond hardwood underneath. Over one weekend, they stripped the seventies wallpaper and repainted the walls a soft Tuscan yellow. Then with the fresh new look, they got motivated to go out and buy a modern brown leather couch and matching love seat, some colorful throw rugs, Mission-style coffee and end tables. They put plantation shutters over the front windows.
It wasn't a large place by any means, and Glitsky had lived in it for more than twenty years, but with all the recent changes, he would sometimes come out into the new living room holding Rachel in the dimly lit predawn and wonder where he was. He knew it wasn't just the room. In reality, everything seemed different. The whole world since the terrorist attacks, the new reality perhaps more psychic than physical, but all the more real for that. All his boys now moved out, his old job gone, a new marriage with a young woman, and for the past fourteen months, their baby girl.
At such times—now was one of them—he would stand by the front windows with Rachel in his arms and together they would look out at the familiar street. He'd done the same thing dozens of times with Isaac, Jacob and Orel when they were babies, but now he did it to try and convince himself that he was the same person with Rachel that he'd been to his sons, and that his home was not foreign soil.
He opened the shutters and looked down the street toward its intersection with Lake. The rain had kept up throughout the night, but the wind had finally abated with the first sign of light. Now outside it was all heavy mist under high clouds that would hang on all day if not longer.
Glitsky stared out through it, holding his daughter up against him, patting her back gently.
A pedestrian appeared at the intersection and turned into his street. Though he wore a heavy raincoat that hid the shape of his body and had pulled a brimmed hat down over his face, Glitsky knew who it was as soon as he saw him.
"What's grandpa doing here?" he asked his daughter.
His own brow clouding—this could only be bad news—he watched his father plod slowly up the street, hands in his pockets, head down. When he was out front, Glitsky moved to the front door and opened it. Nat was already coming up the stairs, the dripping hat in one hand, lifting his feet, one heavy step after the other.
"What?" Glitsky asked.
His father stopped before he got to the landing. He raised his eyes, but something went out of his shoulders.
"Abraham." The way he said his son's name made it sound as if just getting to him had been his destination. He let out a breath. "Sam Silverman," he said, shaking his head.
"Somebody shot him."
Nat walked the last few steps up and Abe stood aside to let him pass. While Nat hung his coat on the rack by the door, his son went in to wake Treya and give her the baby.
When he came back out, his father was sitting forward on the edge of the new love seat, his hands clasped between his knees. He looked feeble, a very old man.
In fact, he was eighty years old, but on a normal day, no one would guess it. Abe went down on a knee in front of him.
"Did you get any sleep, Dad?"
Nat shook his head no. "Sadie called me about midnight.
I went over there."
"How's she holding up?"
His father lifted his shoulders and let them drop. A complete answer. Treya was holding the baby and came up beside them. "How are you holding up, Nat? You want some tea?"
He looked up at her, managed a small smile. "Tea would be good," he said.
Treya moved around her husband and sat down next to Nat. Rachel reached out a tiny hand to touch his face, said "Gapa," and got a small smile out of him. Treya put an arm across his shoulders and rested her head against him for a beat, then kissed the side of his head and stood up again. "We'll be right back."
The men watched them leave. Nat turned to Abe. "Why would somebody do this? To Sam of all people. Sam who wouldn't hurt a fly."
Glitsky had heard the refrain hundreds of times when he'd been in homicide, and the answer was always the same. There was no answer, no why. So Abe didn't try to supply one. Instead, as though knowledge could undo any of it, he asked, "Do you know how it happened?"
"I don't know what you want me to do. I'm not in homicide anymore."
"What, nobody remembers you over there?"
The two men were at the kitchen table. Rita had arrived and could be heard reading a children's book in Spanish to Rachel in the living room. Treya was getting dressed for work. Abe had no intention of snapping at his father, but it took some effort. Even after four months on the new job, the topic of his employment with the police department still tended to rile him up. He forced an even tone. "People remember me fine, Dad, but I don't work there. It'll look like I'm meddling."
"So meddle."
"In what way exactly?"
"Just let people know this one is important. People care who shot Sam."
Abe turned his mug. "They're all important, Dad. Most people who get shot have somebody who cares about it."
With his index finger, Nat tapped the table smartly three times. "Don't give me with everybody cares, Abraham. I've heard your stories. Most are what do you call, no humans involved. I know how it is down there. I'm saying go make a difference. What could it hurt?"
"What could it hurt."
"That's what I said."
"I heard you." Abe sighed. "You want me to what exactly?"
"Just keep up on it. Keep them on it." Nat put a hand on his son's arm. "Abraham, listen to me. If they see it's family ..."
Abe knew that wouldn't help, not in any meaningful way.
The inspectors on the case—and he didn't know who they were yet—were either good at their jobs or they weren't, and that more than anything else would determine whether they succeeded in identifying and arresting Sam Silverman's killer. "Then what?" he asked
. "They look harder?" He shook his head. "They'll look as hard as they look, Dad.
They'll either find him or not. That's what will happen, period. Me butting in won't make any difference. It might, in fact, actually hurt."
Nat's eyes flared suddenly, with impatience and anger.
"So what, then? You can't even try? You let the animals who shot Sam walk away?"
Abe couldn't completely check his own rush of frustration. He bit off the words sharply. "It's not up to me. It's not my job anymore."
"I'm not talking job. I don't care from job! I'm talking what's right." He drew a deep breath, again rested his hand on Abe's arm. "Just so they know. That's all. This one matters."
Abe glanced down at his father's hand. Since he'd started with payroll, he hadn't even shown his face once in homicide, even for a social visit. He realized now that his reluctance with his dad was probably more about his own demons than whether he could actually have any effect in turning the heat up on any given investigation. It might not hurt after all. He put his own hand down over his dad's.
"All right," he said. "But no promises."
"No, of course not. Heaven forefend."
The Payroll Detail had four entire rooms, each twelve feet square. Glitsky was the sole occupant of his. He had a standard, city-issue green desk, four wooden chairs, a computer and his own printer (which also served the rest of the detail), and natural light through the windows that made up the back wall. These overlooked the ever-scenic Bryant Street and the rest of the industrial neighborhood to the south. All the free space around the other three walls was taken up with mismatched black, gray, or green filing cabinets, except for one metal floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled to overflowing with bound computer payroll reports going back four years.
An hour after he got to work, he was talking to Jerry Stiles in his office. Stiles was the lieutenant in charge of narcotics. Before that, he had been in many people's opinion the absolute best narc in the city. Certainly his arrest record backed that up, his seizures of illegal substances.
Three years ago, before his promotion, he'd been named "Police Officer of the Year." Stiles was thirty-eight years old.
In spite of his administrative role, he often found an excuse to get back on the street, and today he wore a ratty beard and looked as though he hadn't combed his greasy brown locks since the World Series. In fact, currently he could have been mistaken pretty much exactly for a typical street drunk, but that came with the territory.
Making Glitsky's small, airless office a less than optimal spot to talk to him.
That office was one floor up from homicide, on the fifth floor of the Hall of Justice. Glitsky's normal staff in his new role in payroll included five civil service secretaries, two half-time sergeants of police, and one rotating patrolman-grade gopher. This morning, he'd been planning to check in at his desk, then zip on down to homicide while the motivation held, but instead he found a note from Frank Batiste on his chair telling him to expect Stiles within the hour. Glitsky and Batiste had already discussed Stiles's situation with some heat.
Luckily for Glitsky's peace of mind, since he had no other duties at the present moment, within the hour turned out to be about ten minutes.
He and Stiles made small talk, catching up for a while.
They'd worked together on cases before and gotten along.
Beyond that, they'd both caught lead in the line of duty, and that put them in the same club. Stiles made a few profane remarks that made it clear he thought Glitsky's latest career move was unjust. Abe didn't comment, though the sentiment did his heart good.
Finally, though, the air got a little ripe and Glitsky decided to get to the point. He went around his desk, tried the windows—both hermetically sealed, no chance—and sat down. "So," he began, "sorry to pull you in after your shift."
"Hey." A shrug. "It's overtime. I'm here anyway. I'm not complaining. What's it about?"
"Well, funny you should mention."
"OT? Is somebody bitchin' about OT again?" Stiles straightened up in his chair, his eyes getting some life in them. "They can kiss my ass."
"Yeah, well ..." He let it hang. Of everything Glitsky hated about this new job, this kind of bureaucratic nonsense was first. "I'm just delivering the message, Jerry, and only because I've been requested to. Informally. I'm not keeping any record of this meeting."
"Fuck that. As if I care. Who requested, if you don't mind my asking? Just curious."
"It doesn't matter."
"Right. What do you think's got into Frank lately?"
"I don't know. He must be getting mature." But Glitsky didn't want to discuss Batiste. He pulled a printout from a file in front of him, glanced at it, then turned it around and slid it across the desk.
Stiles, all belligerence now, came forward and snatched it. He raised his voice in the small room. "So what's the message? Tell my guys to go out and risk their lives every night, live with these scum, smell like a sewer, and do it all for free?"
Glitsky had his elbows on the desk. He templed his fingers at his mouth for a moment, then pointed at the paper.
"Your unit's OT is about twenty percent over department guidelines." He raised his eyes, met those of his colleague.
"I've been asked to bring the matter to your attention."
Glitsky tried to avoid profanity, but this was so much bullshit and nothing else that the temptation was almost too great. Instead, he said, "Now I've done that."
"All right. So what?" Stiles stared at the paper for another couple of seconds. "Narcotics works nights, Abe. We catch bad guys and the DA takes them to court during the day. Quite often on a day after a night shift. You know why? We get subpoenaed to show up, that's why. We're the fucking key witnesses. Without us there's no case. Get it? So what do they want us to do?" But Stiles didn't want an answer. He wanted to vent. "The reason we work nights is because that's when these lowlifes crawl out from under their rocks. It's when they buy their shit and make their deals and have their fights. It's when it works!" Stiles turned on his chair, stood up, sat back down, glared across the desk.
Glitsky did his Buddha imitation.
Stiles started again, even louder. "They don't want to pay the guys extra, maybe they can have night court.
'Course then nobody's out on the street doing the job. Or maybe we could just ask these scumbags if maybe they could do all their business between eight and five? Business hours." He half turned again on his chair, ran a hand over his forehead, finally settled a little, shook his head back and forth. "I don't believe this shit."
Glitsky came forward an inch. "You might want to take it up with the chief, Jerry. Either that, or tell your guys they can only work days."
"We'd never bag a soul."
"But your detail would be under budget, and that's the important thing, right? Who cares about crime?" Glitsky gave no sign he was joking.
Stiles sat still a moment. "Abe, we're the police department. What are these clowns thinking?"
When Stiles left, Glitsky didn't give himself any more time to think about it. He stood up, came around his desk, and looked in at the room next door. There, two of his secretaries—Mercedes and Jacqueline—were engrossed at their respective desks in front of their computers. Jacqueline didn't look up when he cleared his throat at the door—she must have been at a really juicy part of her romance novel—but Mercedes, in the middle of her daily crossword puzzle, brightened at the sight of Glitsky's face. "Lieutenant. Nine letters, 'Jackson A.K.A.' Ends in 'L.' "
It took him less than ten seconds. "Stonewall."
"That's it! Stonewall. I was thinking something about Michael, if there was another way to spell it, but normally that's only seven letters. But Stonewall. Andrew, right?
You're great, Lieutenant." She looked over to Jacqueline.
"Stonewall," she said.
The other woman nodded. "Umm."
Glitsky pointed down the hallway. "I've got an errand.
You women okay holding the for
t?"
But Mercedes was leaning over her newspaper, carefully filling in her boxes, and didn't respond, or notice as he left.
Down a flight on the internal stairs and in a few more steps he was back where he'd lived for all those years. It brought him up short how physically close the homicide detail was to his current office, where nothing important had or ever would happen. It was probably no more than sixty feet, although the spiritual distance was incalculable.
Standing in the middle of the familiar room, he was surprised by how little it had changed in the near year-and-a-half since he'd been here. As usual on a weekday morning, the place was deserted—some inspectors were out working cases, others might be in court or, increasingly, had not come in at all because of vacation, alleged sickness, special training, or any of a dozen other reasons. Somebody had moved the full-size working stoplight off of Bracco's desk and it now hung from the ceiling. A floor-to-ceiling picture of the World Trade Center at the moment of the second impact was attached to the pillar behind Marcel Lanier's desk, and the old bulletin board on it—formerly reserved only for the grossest, most explicit crime scene photographs—had been done over with an Osama bin Laden motif, mostly email printouts of the terrorist being sexually abused by a variety of weapons and animals.
Otherwise, the decor was the same. So was the smell, but at least Glitsky knew what that was. As usual, the last one out had left the coffee cooking and it had turned to carbon at the bottom of the pot. He automatically walked over, leaned down to make sure, and turned it off.
"Can I help you?"
He straightened up and turned at the voice. The lieutenant had silently come out of his office. Or maybe Glitsky's senses were taken up with his impressions. In any event, for a heartbeat he felt somewhat bushwhacked, although there was no indication that that had been the man's intention.
It was Barry Gerson. Glitsky recognized the face immediately from the newspaper pics, which he'd had occasion to notice when they'd announced the appointment. Ten years Glitsky's junior, but no kid himself, Gerson had gone a bit to paunch and jowl, though he didn't come across as soft or flabby in any way.
The First Law Page 5