Clarence Jackman did not normally hold open of-fie hours for defense attorneys, nor for anyone else. After a long and successful career in the private sector, Jackman, a darkly hued African-American sixty-five-year-old, physically imposing and impeccably dressed, had been appointed to his position of District Attorney of San Francisco by the mayor about three years ago. Since then, he'd come to appreciate the power and influence that came with the job, to the extent that he was committed to running for election to his second term. He was now, even more so than when he'd been in the lofty reaches of the private sector, a true august personage.
But Abe as well as Trey a Glitsky, who was his personal secretary, considered him something of a friend. So did Dismas Hardy and, for that matter, so did David Freeman. All of these people, along with Gina Roake and a few others, had been regularly meeting at Lou the Greek's for a couple of years with the DA and serving as his informal kitchen cabinet.
So when Hardy had called requesting a meeting with the DA, saying he needed a word with Jackman right away, Treya cleared it with her boss and set to work rescheduling the afternoon. When he actually arrived battered, worn and dirty, and gimped his way into the outer office, sans coat, his hands and face scratched and bloody, she ushered him directly in, closing the door behind them.
After expressing his genuine concern and making sure Hardy was comfortable in one of the office's easy chairs, Jackman listened with his trademark intensity. He sat slumped at the near end of the couch, leaning heavily on an elbow, the thumb of his right hand under his chin, the ringers regularly caressing the side of his mouth.
When Hardy finished, Jackman sat still for a very long while. Hardy knew better than to interrupt his thoughts, or try to prompt him. At length, the DA straightened up slightly and looked Hardy in the face. "Panos?"
A nod. "Yes, sir." Hardy knew that Jackman couldn't take this as anything like good news. It was no secret that Panos contributed to every major political campaign in the city so that, no matter who won, he never lost influence.
"You seriously believe he's behind these attacks?"
"Not personally, probably not. But some of his people, yes."
"You'll pardon me for saying so-you're obviously upset right now, Diz, and I can't say I blame you-but that seems like just one hell of a reach. Wade's not a gangster."
"With respect, Clarence, maybe you'd like to take a look at some of my deposition testimony. He's not exactly Mr. Clean."
Jackman shook his head. "Maybe not. He's in a tough field, where admittedly some of his tactics, especially with, let us say, not the cream of society, might have come close to crossing the line. But here you're talking attempted murder of regular citizens. There's a huge difference and frankly, I can't see Wade going there. Why would he even risk it?"
"Maybe because David and I, we're threatening to put him out of business."
"And how would you do that? Do you think he doesn't have insurance?"
"No, he has insurance."
"Well, then." A pause. "You know and I know how it works, Diz. Panos sees this as just another nuisance lawsuit. In all probability, he won't personally pay a dime, even if it goes to trial, which it probably won't. All parties will settle. It's not personal."
Hardy sat back. "Take a look at me, Clarence. I'd say it's gotten personal. I'm going to try like hell to shut him down. I want the son of a bitch in jail."
Jackman sighed. "Well… but all right. So then, assuming you're successful, he'd be out of business. He's close to retirement age anyway. He might even welcome the break." He came forward to the edge of the couch and spoke with a quiet intensity. "Look, Diz, there's no denying that something bad is going on. David and then you today. I'm willing to concede that they're related. Hell, they'd all but have to be. But related doesn't mean it has to be Wade."
"Except that it is."
Jackman frowned. "If it is, there are two very good and experienced inspectors investigating David's mugging and they should come up with something."
"Two?"
"Two." Jackman played it as a trump. "It may not be clear to you, Diz, but I myself am really, really pissed off about David. I don't think you or anybody else has any idea how angry I am. So I asked Dan Rigby"-the chief of police-"to assign another inspector to assist Hector Blanca. They had the CSI team out all morning combing the site, and you know how often that happens for a simple mugging? Never. But it happened now, and it happened because I wanted it to. And they get anything else they need, too. I've even given the investigation an event number." This was a huge commitment from Jackman. The assignment of an event number meant that all expenses related to the event were paid out of the city's general fund, and not out of any department's budget. It essentially meant unlimited resources.
Jackman continued. "So if they find anything that points to Wade Panos-hell, I don't care if it points to the Pope- I'll charge him or whoever it is so fast it'll make your head spin." In his agitation, Jackman had stood up. He leaned back against his desk, arms crossed. "So if you've got even a small show of proof that Wade's any part of this, of you or David, I'd like to hear about it right now."
Hardy sat silent, wrestling with how far he should push this thing. "It's not just me and David," he said. "And it's not attempted murder. It's murder. And in fact it's more than one."
His patience clearly frayed, Jackman nevertheless nodded cautiously. "I'm listening."
Hardy launched into his conspiracy theory that led through Silverman and Creed, Terry and Wills, and on up to the arrest warrant that had been issued for his client.
Jackman's scowl had grown darker as the recitation progressed. By the time Hardy finished with the suggestion that the DA convene a grand jury to investigate Panos's company-he was sure they'd find something tying at least his employees to these murders-Jackman finally lost his temper, albeit in his quiet fashion.
"In other words, your client didn't kill these people. Panos did. Now he's a murderer."
"Yes, sir."
"And what about the police, about the evidence they've collected, the witnesses they've talked to?" The DA kept talking. "If I'm not mistaken, Diz, when you defend people, it's often not because they didn't do something, but because no one can prove what they did do, isn't that right?"
"Yes, but…"
"… but without proof of any kind, you're telling me you know your client is innocent and that in his place Wade Panos is guilty. Am I stating your position accurately?"
Hardy spread his hands. "I'm saying it's worth looking into, that's all."
"No, that's not all, as a matter of fact. You want me to use the power of this office to investigate a private citizen who happens to be your opponent in a lawsuit…"
"Clarence, that's neither here-"
But Jackman raised a finger. "Please, let me finish. And at the same time you accuse this same private citizen of the very crimes your own client stands accused of. And all in the name of what? Of David's mugging, is what it comes down to, and the rage I feel about that. If I didn't believe I knew you so well, I might be tempted to think you were a cynical lawyer trying to manipulate the DA to harm his adversaries."
"That's not any-"
But again, Jackman stopped him. "Let me tell you something, Diz. If one of your clients suggested you try something like this to me, you'd laugh at him. If you were Wade's lawyer and I called you in to talk about any of these charges, you'd laugh at me. Where's the proof? Where's any sign of proof?"
"I'm betting it's out there."
"Well, if it is, apparently neither you nor the police have found it. And what they have found seems to implicate your client. Rather strongly, from what I hear." He crossed back and took the chair next to Hardy, where he leaned forward with some intimacy. The vitriol seemed to have passed. "Diz, look what's happened to you today. It's got you shook up. What you're telling me is that sometimes the process doesn't work-you and I both know that."
"No one's looking in the right direction, Clarence."
"I'm sure the police are looking where the evidence leads. That's what they do."
"And they're never wrong, are they?"
And this, finally, was the wrong note.
Jackman's shoulders fell and, sighing heavily, he stood up and went over behind his desk. "I encourage you to make sure the report on what happened to you and your client today is complete. I will talk to Chief Rigby and try to make sure that Inspector Blanca gets a team out to Coit Tower before every trace of what happened to you is gone."
"Thank you." He was standing up. The meeting was over.
But Jackman stopped him a last time before he got to the door. "Diz."
Hardy turned back. Jackman was pointing a finger for emphasis. "I want to be crystal clear here. If we ever do get to the point where we can charge Panos with something, and there's any suggestion that the criminal charges were brought because you're my friend rather than because there's evidence sufficient to convict, this case won't just go down the tubes, it'll embarrass us both. Capisce?"
"Capisce."
"So we won't ever have to talk about this again, right?"
More than anything else, Hardy wanted to go home. He knew he looked a mess; his ribs ached; his whole left hand throbbed anew. But it was already early Friday afternoon, and though he might get lucky with Blanca deciding to pull weekend work, his luck wasn't something he wanted to count on. Not today.
Again, the inspector for General Work was in. When Hardy gave his name and they called Blanca, he said to bring Hardy back to his area. But when Hardy got there, Blanca looked right through him until Hardy spoke. "Sergeant Blanca."
Blanca's eyes settled on him. Recognition dawned. "Mr. Hardy? Sorry. I thought I was waiting for a man in a business suit. What the hell happened to you?"
"That's why I'm here."
"Well." Blanca got halfway out of his chair. "Come on back where we can talk."
He got Hardy settled, brought him some water, picking up some of the details as he did so. The smashed windshield. The report he'd be getting from the responding officers on the Coit Tower shooting today. Blanca wrote the names down, made a note to look them up. Finally the sergeant got seated in his chair. "So you're thinking it was the same person who shot at you…"
"Two people, at least," Hardy said.
"Okay, two, maybe three. And you say these might be the same people who beat up Mr. Freeman?"
Hardy nodded. "I've got no proof, none at all, as Mr. Jackman just reminded me. But yes, I'm let's say morally certain it's the same guys."
"Last time you didn't want to give me a name."
"But I did tell you about a lawsuit we were preparing…"
"Sure." Suddenly, his eyes alight with possibility, Blanca pulled the yellow legal pad he'd written the officers' names on up in front of him. "You also said that in twenty years or so of practice, you hadn't ever seen anybody take it out on the lawyers."
"True. But I'm seeing it now."
Blanca quickly took in his disheveled appearance again. "So you got a name now?"
"Wade Panos."
Blanca reacted almost as if he'd been struck. "The Patrol Special? Actually, the king of the Patrol Specials?" He put his pencil down.
"His people. Especially a thug-I think he's Wade's nephew-named Nick Sephia."
Blanca didn't need to consult any notes. "I've heard of him."
"I'm not surprised. When he worked for his uncle, his specialty was planting dope on working girls, but he's been known to hit people, too. Now he's muscle for the Diamond Center. A real sweetheart." Finding a receptive official audience a nice change of pace, Hardy leaned back in his chair. "Jackman tells me you got a partner to help with the Freeman investigation."
"Yeah," Blanca said, "but what investigation? We don't got witness one to interview and Freeman still isn't telling us anything." He looked up with some real sadness. "Anyway, even with CSI going over the place a second time, we got nothing, and I mean nothing. So unless somebody walks in off the street and confesses, the investigation as you call it is closed."
"I was thinking maybe what just happened to me might reopen it. If there were two of you, maybe you could shake a tree or two. At least see if Sephia's got an alibi."
Blanca shook his head skeptically. "That's an awful cold trail, and if he had partners, they'd cover each other anyway."
"Okay, but I'm not a cold trail. Somebody shot at me in the last two hours. Sephia's someplace to start. Maybe you can find out what he was doing."
"No maybe about it. But you didn't see him?"
Hardy shook his head. "I saw the car. Gray sedan, late model. Then the gun, which I'm afraid took all of my attention."
Blanca chuckled. "Yeah, they tend to do that."
"I guess I just wanted to put what's happened to me on your radar as part of Freeman. Which, of course, I can't prove. But if you could find anything, either up at Coit Tower or talking to Sephia…"
"Hey, I'm hearing you. I'm on it."
It wasn't the kind of story he was dying to tell his wife. In a fair, just, and kind world, she wouldn't have been home in the middle of this Friday afternoon, and he could run upstairs, shower, change into a new suit or even some hangout clothes-"Oh, with David out of the office, there wasn't much to do, so I thought I'd spend some extra time with you and the darlings." He could bury his ruined clothes under something in the garbage can, explain away his scrapes with a humorous anecdote about one of his client's vicious cats.
Except that Frannie was sitting on some cushions in the bay window in the living room, studying, and saw him when he got up on the porch. She made it to the door and opened it before he did. "What happened?"
"It's not as bad as it looks," he said.
Twenty minutes later, he was soaking in a hot bath upstairs. Aside from the scratches on his hands and his face, the upper right quarter of his back was badly scraped and already swollen. Frannie sat on the edge of the tub, twisting a towel anxiously as they talked. "I must be missing something, then," she said. "So who shot Silverman?"
"That I don't know. Not specifically. Maybe Sephia."
"Which gets you to Panos?"
"Right, maybe, if he even knew about it." He let out a breath. "But there were three of them. And another problem. I've got the same people killing Silverman and Creed, right?"
"Okay."
"So why did Creed have to get killed?"
"So he wouldn't get to tell the homicide cops he wasn't sure about identifying John and his friends."
"Right. And who does that benefit?"
"The real killers, whoever they might be."
"Exactly. So then they decide-actually, they probably decided at the same time as Creed-if they do away with Terry and Wills, it's going to look like John. It's got to. The cops still were working with the three names and there's nobody else left. So they plant the Silverman/Creed gun and some of the Silverman loot in both places and bingo."
"But they really don't want John arrested."
"No. They want him dead. Then all the questions stop because there's nobody around to ask them. It's just low-lifes purging each other from the gene pool. It's a tightly wrapped, self-contained case, and everybody involved is dead."
"Not exactly. There's still you."
He looked up at her, shaking his head. "They had us both there for a minute…"
"But how could they have known about that? That you'd be together?"
"I don't know for sure, but I'd bet they figured John would eventually come to my office, or I'd go to him, so they just decided they'd tail me for a while. And everything worked like a dream. Except I saw them in time."
"So if it isn't about David's case after all, why did they attack him?"
"Or us, for that matter, with the windshield. Maybe it's both."
"That seems like such a reach, Dismas. I'm sorry, but it really does."
Hardy nodded ruefully. "Those were Jackman's exact words, I believe."
"And planting evidence in two apartments? Does that really happen? Are you sure John wasn't at Silverman's?"
He hesitated, then shook his head. "No."
"Or that this Nick Sephia was?"
No answer.
Frannie tsked, twisted the towel some more, stood up and walked over to the door. "I mean, I can't imagine John killing anybody either, but…"
"He sure didn't kill his bartender and his boyfriend, Frannie. Not that way. I don't believe that."
"Okay. I can't see that either." She turned back to face him. "Maybe you could talk to the man who's got Abe's old job."
"No. That's not going to happen."
"Why not?"
"Because he's got a suspect and I'm the guy's lawyer. My only function is to deliver John so they can arrest him. As I mentioned to you the other night, as a defense attorney, I have no interest in justice, only in getting my client off."
"But Abe used to talk to you about cases."
"And it's one of the things I always loved about him. But it got him in trouble more than once and he's already told me he won't talk about this one."
"He might, though, when he finds out they shot at you. That might make it different."
He shifted in the tub and an involuntary groan escaped. Finally, he got through the pain. "It's worth a try, I guess," he said. "I've got to do something."
She was over by him again. She sat on the edge of the tub, put a hand gently on his shoulder. "You're not going to want to hear this, but maybe you should consider dropping this lawsuit. See what happens to David, then take it from there."
He gave it a minute of real consideration. "It might get to that anyway. I can't afford to keep it going by myself, although I might be able to talk one of the big firms into taking it on. It would be a big payday."
"If you win."
"There is always that. But what I'd really like is to try to bluff them into making another settlement offer at least, pay for expenses and the time I've already worked. Although I can't believe this thing this morning was about that. With Freeman out of the way, the thing's going to pretty much dry up on its own anyway. So I'm thinking it had to be mostly about John."
She rubbed her hand over the skin of his shoulder. "You want to hear another hard one?"
"From you? Anything."
Unhappy, she came out with it. "You could always drop him, too, Dismas."
He sighed, hung his head. "No," he said finally. "It's tempting as hell, and maybe he deserves it, but that I can't do."
"And meanwhile, someone's trying to kill you."
"Maybe. Maybe me or maybe John. Probably not me."
"Notice the clever rationalization. Even though they broke your windshield and shot at you, they're not really after you."
He smiled at her. "I'm not saying it's impossible, just unlikely. Besides, I've finally got this Sergeant Blanca looking at Sephia. If he finds anything, and I bet he will, then suddenly it all falls into place. I'm talking Silverman and the rest, the murders."
"It all falls into place? How does it do that?"
"Inevitably?" Hardy going for the light touch, but he couldn't quite pull it off. "What do you mean? How does it do what?"
"How does it go from you and David getting attacked to the murders? I mean, what's the point of contact that connects them? Because from where I sit, I must tell you I only see one."
"And what is that?"
"John Holiday."
Blanca had what he considered a legitimately hot lead and wasted no time after Hardy left. He picked up the phone, got information, and found the number of Georgia AAA. He endured the usual runaround for a few minutes until he was finally connected to the Diamond Center's Chief of Security, who told him that Nick Sephia was off today. He was taking a three-day weekend.
A good sign, Blanca thought. If he was off, it left him free to drive around in a gray sedan and cause mischief. So, all right. He knew where Sephia wasn't. The trick now was to find where he was.
The obvious answer was WGP-Panos's company-and sometimes obvious worked. The efficient-sounding woman in the Panos office said she had no idea where Nick Sephia was-he no longer worked for the company-but she took his number and said she'd try to reach Wade and have him call back. Three minutes later, his phone rang, and it was the man himself. His tone was relaxed. "Do you mind, Sergeant, if I ask what this is about?"
"Not at all. I wanted to have a few words with Nick Sephia. I tried where he works, but he's taking a day off."
"And you think I know where he might be?"
"I understand he's your nephew."
"That's right." Panos paused. "And you think I might know where he is? How many nephews do you have, Sergeant? Do you know where any of them are? If he's not at work, he's probably at home, and I don't know his address offhand, somewhere near Gough, I think. Maybe we've got it or his phone number in some files back at the office, though. He worked for me for a while, but you probably already knew that."
"Yes, sir."
"But you know, my little brother Roy hangs out with him sometimes. I could page him and see. He's on the beat today."
"I'd appreciate that."
"Good. But you still haven't told me what this is about."
"I thought I did. I wanted to have a few words with him."
Panos chuckled. "Excuse me, Sergeant, but as one cop to another, you can cut the bullshit, okay. The question is what do you want to have a few words with him about?"
Blanca thought for a minute. "His possible involvement in a crime. A violent crime."
After a rather long hesitation, Panos spoke in a heavy tone of sadness. "I hate to hear that. I was hoping he was doing better. I heard he was, what with the new job and everything. He's got a temper, sergeant, but he's a good boy."
"This wasn't temper," Blanca said, "and whoever did it wasn't a good boy."
Panos sighed. "God. Poor Rosie, his mother. What that woman's been through." He sighed again. "Why don't I page Roy, see if he can help you? Oh, but one thing…"
"Yes, sir."
"I'm curious how you knew that Nick used to work for me, or that he was my nephew for that matter."
"Somebody I talked to knew him," Blanca said.
"Oh yeah? Was the guy's name Hardy, by any chance?"
"It was just a witness. I can't give out the name."
"No, of course you can't. But you might like to know, not saying it was him, that this guy Hardy and I are involved in some big litigation-he's a lawyer; in fact, he's a sleazy lawyer if you want to know the truth-and he's not going according to Hoyle." Panos spent a minute or so outlining some of the salient points of the lawsuit-the plaintiffs and some of the issues and money involved.
He concluded earnestly, "Look, the truth is the guy makes things up if he needs to, if things aren't going his way. I'm not saying he has anything to do with your questions about Nick-Nick's a hothead all right. But this Hardy is well known for being unethical. Seriously unethical. Do yourself a favor and ask around. Only if it was him you heard about Nick from, of course. Anyway, there's my warning for what it's worth. And you can probably expect a call from Roy any minute."
It came as advertised, and Roy told Blanca that Nick and a friend of his had gone up to Nevada last night to spend the weekend gambling-he was a serious poker player- before the crowded and crazy snow season began next month. Roy was planning on going up and joining them tonight when he got off work. He expected they'd probably be just hanging around the cabin they rented during the day-they hit the clubs at night. But Roy had the cabin's number if the sergeant would like it.
The area code was 775. Nevada.
"No, this is Julio Rez, but Nick's here. Hold on."
"This is Nick. Who's this?"
Blanca had never spoken to Sephia before and so had no idea if this was truly him on the telephone. But it seemed an impossibly elaborate ruse for someone to cook up in the fifteen minutes or less since he'd first called Panos's office. It would never be proof in a court of law, but Blanca personally had no doubt that he was talking to Nick Sephia, and that if he'd driven where he was in no traffic, he was four hours east of where Blanca sat now.
Which meant, conclusively, that he hadn't shot at Dismas Hardy three hours ago.
What it meant about Hardy, Blanca couldn't quite say. He wanted to trust and even like the guy because of David Freeman and what had happened to him, but now suddenly he didn't have a good feeling even about that.
Blanca looked at the receiver in his hand. He had everything he needed from Nick Sephia. He hung up.
Strikeout.
At the end of the day, at the end of the week, things were getting a little hot in Barry Gerson's office in the homicide detail. The small and airless place was packed with mostly large men, and all of them were standing. The two squad car officers who had responded to the Coit Tower call, Jakes and Warren, had come directly up at the end of their shift. That had started the whole thing. They knew that whatever had happened that noon at Coit Tower-and they were very skeptical-the fugitive and murder suspect John Holiday had been part of it. If they did nothing else, they felt they had to take their information to homicide. As soon as he determined what the officers' visit was about, Gerson had naturally called in both Cuneo and Russell, who were finishing up some paperwork, getting ready to go home.
After he'd hung up on Nick Sephia, Hector Blanca had had a full and interesting afternoon looking up and noting the name Panos on the report on Dismas Hardy's broken windshield. Deciding to take Panos's advice and ask around about Hardy, he went directly to the best source he could think of-he called the District Attorney to whom he'd had increased access since Freeman had been mugged. Jackman had stopped far short of a glowing character reference. "He's a good lawyer." Then, "Defense lawyer, I should say." In fact, when Blanca first mentioned the name Dismas Hardy, Jackman's tone had unmistakably cooled, then changed by degrees until Blanca concluded he was furious about something, about Hardy.
After that conversation, he was trying to locate Jakes and Warren to get the story on the events at Coit Tower and was suitably stunned when their sergeant at Central Station told him that, even as they spoke, the two officers were possibly reporting to the Homicide Detail on the fourth floor of the Hall of Justice, just upstairs from him. Maybe he could catch them there, get their report in person.
So Blanca was with them as well, the last one to arrive. For some not exactly rational reason, when he'd first heard the word homicide, he'd imagined that David Freeman must have died-although of course Freeman had nothing to do with Jakes and Warren. But it was the only even remotely related homicide that came to his mind, and so for the first few minutes after Gerson-somewhat grudgingly- admitted him to his office, he stood against the door, trying to pick up the gist of things as they went along. Finally, he had to interrupt.
"Excuse me, I keep hearing the name Holiday," he said. "I thought we were here about Hardy and maybe Freeman."
"Who's Freeman?" Gerson asked.
"Hardy's partner," Blanca said. "He's in the ICU over at St. Francis right now. Somebody beat him up. Bad. But who's Holiday?"
"Hardy's client," Gerson said. "Arrest warrant out on him for murder. For four murders, to be more precise."
"Wait a minute, excuse me," Blanca said. "This guy Holiday, he was with Hardy today? When?"
"When they got shot at," Warren said. "About noon."
"Maybe," said Jakes.
Russell decided to get into the discussion. "Maybe what? Maybe Holiday was there, you mean?" he asked.
"No. Maybe they got shot at," Jakes answered. "Or, alternatively, maybe it was just Hardy."
"No, that's wrong!" Obviously Warren and Jakes had discussed it between themselves and didn't agree. "Jakes watches too many movies."
"Hey!" Jakes said. It wasn't playful. "You show me anything proves it happened."
"I saw the guy, Hardy, is what proves it happened. He was beat to shit."
"Doesn't prove squat. He could have done it to himself."
"Yeah, but why?" Warren shook his head. "People just don't do this shit."
"Hold it, hold it, hold it!" Gerson had the rank, and he pulled it. "Officer Jakes, what are you trying to say?"
The young man gathered himself. "Only, sir, that we examined the area pretty carefully, and several aspects of Mr. Hardy's story seemed, well, a little questionable."
"Like what?"
"Like first, his story is nobody else was there. We're talking Coit Tower. Noon…"
"It was foggy, Doug, get it?"
Gerson snapped at Warren. "Button it! Go on, Jakes."
"All right, it was foggy. Like it's never foggy? Hello? This is San Francisco, people have heard of fog. They still go to Coit Tower. So anyway, the first thing is he and Holiday are all alone up there, except when we arrive twenty minutes later, it's a car lot, plus buses. Okay, so then he talked about screeching tires. Except no tire marks. Then some chipped concrete where a slug hit it, or maybe not. Oh, and finally six shots fired, just about point blank…"
"Moving car," Warren blurted, held up a hand to Gerson. "Sorry, sir."
"Okay, moving car, but nobody even scratched. We then interviewed down on Lombard, right below. Seven people home. Nobody heard a shot."
The only sound was a low musical note-Cuneo. No one seemed to notice.
"All right," Gerson said. "And all this means what?"
"He doesn't think it happened," Cuneo said. "He thinks Hardy faked it."
"That's right, sir. I do."
Warren raised his hand. Gerson pointed at him and nodded. "Go ahead."
"I saw the man, sir. Hardy. He was ripped head to toe. Brand new nice suit. Cuts and scratches all over."
This didn't bother Jakes. "That hill's a monster. You roll down it in a suit, you'll ruin it, too. You'll get scratched up."
"Okay, maybe, but why would anybody-anybody, much less a successful lawyer-want to do that?"
Blanca had gradually found himself growing astounded that Hardy had spent so much time with him earlier in the day, discussing the Coit Tower incident in some detail and never once seeing fit to mention his representation of the murderer John Holiday, or the fact of Holiday's presence at that scene. Deciding he had to speak up, he cleared his throat, raised his hand, addressed himself to Gerson. "If I may, Lieutenant. I might have something to say to that."
"All right." Gerson looked around. "We're all listening."
Blanca, still by the door, held up some paper. "This is a report about another incident that happened Wednesday night in North Beach, also involving Hardy. While he and his wife were at a dinner at Fior d'Italia that they didn't eat, supposedly somebody smashed the windshield of his car. He first told the officers he suspected who it might have been, but didn't think they needed to investigate. The vandals, he said, wouldn't have left any sign. He admitted that he'd hurt his hand and that his own blood was on the hood of the car-he'd lost his temper when he saw the damage and slammed the windshield, he said."
"All right," Gerson said, "what's the point?"
"There are two points, Lieutenant. First, maybe it happened the way it looked, but maybe he hurt his hand trying to break the window himself before he went to a tire iron or whatever got used. Again, just like this incident today, there seems to be no evidence that anything happened the way he said it did."
Every man in the room was locked into Blanca's narrative. He went on, "The second point goes back to Officer Warren's question of why anyone would do this kind of thing, and the answer is that in both these incidents, Hardy accused a man named Wade Panos as…"
"Wade Panos!" Cuneo exploded out of his trance. "Wade Panos isn't going around breaking car windows. That's the stupidest thing I ever heard."
Russell was just as outraged. "You mean to say that Hardy actually told you Wade was the person shooting at him?" He was looking for corroboration from Warren and Jakes, and they were both nodding.
But Blanca answered, "Not exactly. He said it probably wasn't Panos himself. He has a nephew named Sephia…"
"Sure," Cuneo said, "Nick."
"Except Nick was up at Incline Village today," Blanca said. "Since last night. Roy Panos gave me his number and I checked. So he didn't shoot at anybody."
"Roy's a good guy," Cuneo said.
"You know him?" Blanca asked. "Either of them?"
"Both," Russell said. "They gave us the list of names that led straight to Holiday."
The room, this time, went completely silent. Jakes said, "Shit."
After a long beat, Blanca picked up the thread again. "So here's the missing piece of this puzzle. Hardy's suing Panos right now, damages in the millions for abuses in his Patrol Special beats. And guess who else?" Nobody offered. "The San Francisco Police Department. For negligent supervision."
The room grew blue with the obscenity of comrades. When it had run its course, Warren was the first to get back to the issue. "So he faked all this to… what?"
"I'm hearing two reasons," Gerson said. "First, to ruin Panos and give himself more ammo in court. But even more, and this really sucks, to maybe try to get a jury to think this Nick Sephia's got something to do with the people Holiday offed. The old Soddit defense."
"What's that?" Jakes asked.
"Some other dude did it," Gerson said. "Hey, maybe the other dude was this guy Sephia. All Hardy needs to get to is reasonable doubt. If he can make the jury believe Sephia shot at him and his client…"
"Scumbag," Cuneo said. He was one man, but he spoke for the whole group.
Unanimously.
John Lescroart
Hardy 08 – First Law, The
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 Glitsky'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.