The Hearing

13

Clarence Jackman was seated at the head of the mammoth mahogany table that filled the center of the conference room at his firm's offices. Assuming correctly that the arraignment of Cole Burgess would attract a number of Elaine's friends and colleagues, Jackman had arranged a catered lunch and had passed the word outside the courtroom that those whose hearts were in the right place were welcome.

This turned out to be a sizeable group, nearly two dozen people, although by now – getting on to one thirty – many had returned to their jobs or classes. The general buzz had subsided and most of the food was gone. Jackman shook hands goodbye with a young law intern who wanted to send in a resume, then grabbed a bottled water from the sideboard and pulled up a chair near the knot of people – most of them, Jackman gathered, from law school – who remained at the far end of the room, deep in a conversation that had progressively picked up some heat.

'There wasn't any reason, that's the whole point! You admit a reason, you give Hardy his ammunition to get the scumbag off.' This outburst came from Elaine Wager's fiance, Jonas Welsh. In his mid-thirties, big hair, extraordinarily handsome face, expensive clothes, Walsh was a surgeon who looked like he hadn't slept in a week, and maybe he hadn't. He was clearly not in the habit of hearing his opinions questioned, and the wringer he'd been through since Elaine's death probably made him sound testier than he intended.

The current object of his wrath was Peter Nesbitt, associate dean of Hastings Law School. He was a reedy-voiced logician in bow tie and corduroy sports coat. 'All I'm saying,' Nesbitt persisted, 'is that if Burgess in fact didn't voluntarily confess-'

'But he did, for Christ's sake.' For corroboration, Walsh turned to the others gathered around. 'Am I wrong here? Is this really in dispute?'

'Not really, Jonas.' Treya Ghent sat next to him. It was obvious to Jackman that the two knew each other, perhaps well. Treya didn't really smile, but there was something almost like humor in her attitude and body language as she attempted to pour oil on the waters. She patted Welsh's hand reassuringly. 'They're only talking about lawyer strategy.'

'The ever fascinating…' One of the female students, to general appreciation.

Jackman again noticed the sense of quiet strength that the Ghent woman exuded. Today, as always, she wore the simplest of outfits – black slacks, a fashionably baggy gray sweater, a thin gold chain necklace, little or no make-up. He had to force himself to take his eyes off her.

Billable hours or not, he resolved, I've got to think hard before I let this one go.

'So what are you saying, Jonas?' Jackman asked, eager to be in on it. 'What's the argument?'

'I'm saying that all this shop talk about maybe somebody having a reason to kill Elaine, it plays right into his lawyer's hands. Hell, you're a lawyer. Don't you think that's right?'

Jackman appeared to ponder, looked over at Peter Nesbitt. 'I suppose. But what I hear from Peter is don't let your rage over the act blind you to the facts. If this man Burgess didn't do it, you'd want to know who did, right?'

'Of course. But he did do it.'

Nesbitt spoke up again, shrugging. 'What I'm saying is that this Hardy fellow is just doing his job, trying to create doubt from the outset. It's a good technique.'

'Well, excuse me all to hell if I can't get behind it. What I know is that Elaine's gone. It doesn't leave me much in the mood for all this hypothetical bullshit.'

Treya touched his hand again. 'Jonas. They don't mean-'

He hung his head. 'OK, I know, I know.' Abruptly he stood up, rubbed a palm down the side of his face. 'Sorry,' he blurted. 'This just isn't some mind game for me.' He looked around the table. 'Down in the courtroom, all of you seemed as disgusted as I was. And now here…'

'We're only saying it raises some interesting points,' Nesbitt said.

'I'm not interested in them. It seems to me they caught the guy, now they're figuring out how they're going to let him go.'

'Well,' the woman who'd made the earlier comment said, 'if she did have enemies, and we all know she did-'

Welsh wasn't having it. 'If she did, it wasn't one of them. It was this kid.'

Jackman felt he ought to intervene. The young doctor was in the grip of his emotions. He wasn't used to the endless debate which was the cornerstone of nearly every gathering of law students and which could, Jackman silently agreed, in fact get wearisome. 'We all agree with you, Jonas.'

'That's funny. It doesn't sound like that.'

'We were all outraged by the events in court today. I think you heard that during the arraignment. We all walked in there having heard about the confession, wanting blood, believing that Mr Burgess was guilty. I think we all believe it still.'

Nods from around the table.

Walsh had remained standing, now nodding in acknowledgment. Suddenly a shadow seemed to cross his face. He bit down on his lip, brought a hand up to his mouth. 'I'm sorry,' he said, his voice cracking. 'I can't…' He shook his head again, got some composure, managed to speak. 'Excuse me.' Then he was out the door.

Treya Ghent excused herself as well, pushed back her chair, got up, followed him.

As her steps receded down the hallway, the room grew silent. Several of the students exchanged glances – an awkward moment. The woman spoke up again. 'The grieving man and his comforter.' But this time there was no appreciative chortle from the group.

'If it were me,' Nesbitt began. His voice told it all. He was in debate mode. He addressed the seated students. 'I think I'd go along with Mr Jackman's comments. It's important to nail the case down against every possible doubt. Eliminate every other possible suspect. Disprove every alternative. Do any among you not feel that way?'

There weren't any takers.

The thin voice pressed the point. 'And yet Dr Walsh, apparently, has no interest in that pursuit. Which could mean… what?'

Jackman wasn't in the mood to listen to any more theorizing. Nesbitt's hypothetical point was the bloodless logic of the academic. Welsh's genuine emotion was much more real – he was simply too upset to deal rationally with the case. In any event, the table would be cleared soon, and the last of his guests dispersed.

Time was money. He had to go back to work.

Treya saw him turn into Elaine's old office, across from her cubicle. He'd closed the door and she knocked, waited, knocked again – no answer. She turned the knob.

'Jonas?' Whispering.

The shades were drawn and the room was dim, but she had no trouble making him out, slumped in Elaine's chair, feet up on her desk, hands over his eyes. Treya quickly checked the hall in both directions, saw no one, and slipped inside. She closed the door again behind her.

'Are you all right?' 'Yeah, sure. Great.' He drew a deep, audible breath. 'I don't want to hear about her enemies.'

'I know.'

She waited, standing by the door. When her eyes had adjusted more to the light, she crossed the small room, removed some of Elaine's files from where they sat on her usual chair, stacked them on the file cabinet next to the desk. Sitting, she waited some more.

He barely lifted his head. 'Pretty mature display, huh?'

'Could have been way worse. I wouldn't lose any sleep over it.'

'I think I'd have to get some to lose it.'

'Well, when you do.'

She'd known Jonas for a little over three years, since he and Elaine had first become an item, and although over time he had ceased to be among her favorite people, early on they had bonded as co-conspirators. This was because in the first few months of dating between her black activist boss and her white doctor boyfriend, the relationship had been extremely clandestine – secret meetings in hotel rooms, daytime trysts where Treya would loan them her apartment, lunch in this room at the firm.

All this was before Elaine had been ready to commit, and Treya hadn't been able to blame her, though at first, before she'd seen his ego and tantrums and selfishness, she did feel for the pressure it put on Jonas.

As the daughter of a prominent African-American US senator, Elaine had been informally claimed by the Bay Area black community as one of its new generation of leaders. The political side of her – she did, after all, have her mother's blood – loved it. In the first couple of years after she left the DA's office, she had been squired around to her fundraising appearances and campaign dinners by a succession of high-visibility black men. Over the years, the Chronicle's society column had linked her romantically with not a few of her clients, with a city supervisor, with a running back for the 49ers, with a co-anchor on one of the nightly news programs.

Elaine had liked each of them for various reasons, though none of these or several other boyfriends had lasted more than a couple of months. This wasn't a matter of much concern to her – she'd been in love once when she was younger and she knew what it felt like, and it wasn't this. She assumed it would only be a matter of time before she met the right man again, and then she would marry him and settle down.

Working at Rand and Jackman, speaking at neighborhood organizations, black business seminars, inner city development projects, she was leading a full, busy life that only rarely intersected with the white community.

Treya knew that Elaine didn't think much about this segregation. It was simply a fact of her life. She had no strong prejudice against white people – the man who'd raised her, Dana Wager, had been white – but except for formal gatherings, there was little opportunity to meet anyone, socially or otherwise, who wasn't black.

Then she came down with a stomach ache that sharpened and deepened – right side, localized – over a two-day period. On the third morning, she was at her desk trying to work when Treya came in with some papers and gently brushed against her. Elaine screamed, nearly blacking out from the pain as her appendix burst. The fever peaked at 104.

Jonas was the emergency room surgeon, and he saved her life.

But in the first months, Elaine didn't trust the feeling. It wasn't at all like the earlier, star-crossed love she'd experienced with Chris Locke, the older, married District Attorney. No, Jonas was young, brilliant, sexy. And the feeling, she'd confided to Treya, was nothing like anything else – it was much better. In fact, she thought, it was too good to last.

And since it would have to end, Elaine was at first afraid to threaten her standing in the community over a few moments of passion. Terrified of losing clients, clout, and credibility, she wanted to keep the affair hidden until it blew over, as it surely would.

But it didn't.

They went public, and despite Elaine's concerns, the whole race thing turned out to be pretty much a non-issue. About the only fallout she'd experienced at all was that she'd lost a jihad-oriented Islamic student she'd been mentoring, and that Elaine had come to view as a blessing. Finally, a year ago, she and Jonas had announced their engagement.

Treya, for her part, certainly understood the original attraction. Jonas had movie-star looks and projected a super-confident maleness that was undeniable. She hadn't been completely immune to it herself on some level. But after she got to know him, she wasn't completely thrilled that this man had been Elaine's life choice.

His world, she discovered, revolved entirely around himself and his work. During the courtship rush, he'd made time for Elaine whenever he could, but when that ended – once he'd won her love and commitment – he reverted to his old schedule and his main passion, which from Treya's perspective was himself.

She told herself that maybe she was being unfair. And to be truthful, Elaine really didn't seem to mind. They both worked long hours under great pressure. Obviously, they had reached some accommodation where stolen late-night hours or a rare weekend when Jonas could get away was enough for both of them. Each was, in their own way, a trophy, a catch – Treya understood that this was no small part of it for either of them. Maybe they were a true match – two narcissists locked in a centrifugal dance around the image each admired. But that really wasn't the Elaine that Treya knew.

Treya couldn't imagine standing for it herself. When Jonas missed a dinner or a movie or a show because he was in surgery, when he never made it home because of some hospital emergency, Elaine seemed to deal with it. But if it was her, if she got hung up at work and had to cancel out on one of his events…

Treya remembered the first time she'd seen it. She had left a message for Jonas that Elaine was in a deposition that was running very late. She and Jonas had been due to go to LA for some medical convention and Elaine was going to have to catch a later flight. She would miss the introductions, the cocktail party. She'd try to make it down by the next morning at the latest. Jonas had shown up in front of Treya's desk in a fury. It was as though he'd never met her before, as if they'd never plotted together to find a quiet place he and Elaine could meet. If the deposition had been taking place in one of the offices at Rand and Jackman, she had no doubt he would have broken into the room, interrupting the proceedings. But she'd told him, untruthfully, she really didn't know where Elaine was working. 'Well, find her,' he'd snapped at her.

After that, Treya had never felt the same about Jonas Walsh.

Afterwards, of course, he'd apologized, told Treya he'd been under a lot of stress, yack yack yack. But she saw it from him, heard about it from Elaine, too many other times. Even today, the lunch they'd just left – Jonas unwilling even to listen. He knew the truth. It was obvious. Everybody should just stop wasting his precious time.

But for some reason, Elaine had put up with it, even apologized for him. 'He's under a ton of pressure every day, Trey. Life and death stuff. You watch, after we start a family, he'll get his priorities straight. He's got a great heart.'

Now Treya looked across at the dejected figure and in spite of their differences, she felt for him, as she felt for herself. The world as they both knew it had ended, and neither felt ready to move on. A gust of wind slapped at the window, and they heard the beginning of rain.

His hand was still resting over his eyes, his face half hidden. The voice came out guttural, low enough – almost – to be distant thunder. 'She was talking about leaving me,' he said.

Though she'd heard him clearly, the truth of it didn't seem to register right away. She would not have believed it possible that Elaine had come close to making that decision and kept it from her. 'I'm sorry, what?'

'You didn't know?' Now he did look over. 'She really didn't tell you?'

'Are you joking?'

'Am I joking?' He shook his head. 'She told me she hadn't told anybody yet. I didn't believe her.'

Treya sat back, stunned by the news. 'She didn't tell me,' she said simply. Then added. 'She never even said she was unhappy.'

Another half-laugh. 'Well, there you go.' He brought his feet down off the desk, swivelled in the chair to face her. 'I wasn't going to let her go. I told her I'd change.'

'From what?' But, of course, she knew.

He made a face. 'All the hours. But hell, it wasn't like she didn't work around the clock, either. Still, I told her I could take on less work. I would.'

'Was that it, then, the hours?'

'That's what she said – if we weren't ever going to see each other anyway, what was the point…?' He left it hanging.

'But?'

Another awkward shrug. He began to say something, stopped, blew out some air. After a minute, he raised his eyes again, met Treya's. 'Hell, you know me, Trey. I'm not the best person in the world. I know I've been shitty to you and there's no excuse for that. I guess Elaine, too, taking her for granted. But my work…' He paused, realizing that this wasn't going to fly. 'No, not my work. It was me. I know it was me.' His eyes implored her to believe him.

'So what happened?'

'Nothing, really. At least no one event. That's what she said. But I think it was.' The rain suddenly picked up, loudly tattooing the window. Both of them turned their heads, then Welsh brought his attention back to her, continued. 'A couple of weeks ago, you might remember, we had a weekend planned, go up to Mendocino, leave the pagers home…'

'But you had some intern problems and it didn't happen.' Treya suppressed a smile. 'She did mention something about that.'

'I bet she did.'

'Well, OK, she wasn't happy, Jonas, but she didn't talk about moving out.' Treya paused. 'She said she just thought you two needed to find some time to talk, get some things worked out again.'

'She told you that?' A show of great relief. He leaned into the chair, stretching out. With both his surgeon's hands, he combed the flowing black hair straight back off his forehead. 'That helps.'

The words – the self-absorption they betrayed – struck Treya like a blow. 'How does that help, Jonas? How can it possibly make any difference now?'

'No. I don't mean…' With an apologetic gesture, he started over. 'Of course it doesn't. What I meant was I thought she'd made up her mind – she told me she'd made up her mind. But she might have listened.' Again, his eyes implored her to believe him. 'I could have changed. I could have convinced her to stay, don't you think?'

Treya shook her head sadly. 'I don't know, Jonas. I really don't know.'

'I wasn't going to let her go,' he repeated, now almost to himself. 'I would have done anything.'

She was pretty sure she knew what Jonas Walsh thought he was trying to say. But what she heard sent a chill up the back of her spine.

There was a message from Jackman on her desk, another summons to his office.

His secretary flashed some attitude this time. It was subtle enough to allow denial if it ever came up, but Treya read the message clearly – uppity girl wasn't making any friends putting the moves on another partner. Same as she had with Elaine. Too good to work with the rest of us. And admitted inside right away, too, yes ma'am. Certainly, Mr Jackman. No waiting for this paralegal, and isn't that a fine how-do-you-do when Mr Jackman had been known to keep the mayor waiting? Girl must think she is something.

But there was nothing Treya could do about the jealousy. It was an office, after all, filled mostly with women working for powerful men. The claws were out, protecting territory, at all times.

So Treya entered the sanctuary, and Jackman told her to take the seat set up in front of his desk. She took it, then thanked him for the lunch. 'It was a nice idea. I think people really appreciated the opportunity to talk.'

The senior partner shrugged. 'I'm afraid it may have upset Dr Walsh, and that wasn't my intention.'

'No.' She paused, wondering how much more to say. 'He was upset to begin with, sir. He and Elaine-' This time, she stopped dead. He and Elaine what?

'Of course, of course. Naturally.' Jackman hadn't gone behind his desk. Instead, he moved an out-basket from the corner of it and threw a leg across, settling into a casual pose. 'When was the wedding going to be?'

'June.' She cleared her throat. 'June.'

He nodded for a moment. 'It's awful,' he said. 'Just awful.'

'Yes, sir.'

He nodded again, got up, walked a few steps back to his own window and looked at the rain. It almost seemed to her that he was steeling himself. To fire her early? She held her breath.

'Well, Treya,' he began, then caught himself. 'Do you mind if I call you Treya? What kind of name is that, by the way?'

A feeling of relief washed over her. It felt like the first time she'd smiled in a week. 'Treya's fine, and I don't know what kind of name it is. I think my dad was just weird, sir. He liked the sound of it. I've got an older brother named Sixto, if that's any help, and he's the first child.'

'Sixto?'

'We call him Six.'

'And who wouldn't?' Smiling, Jackman walked the few steps back from the window, put his haunch on the desk again, leveled his gaze at her. His expression grew serious. 'So, how is it going on the job front?'

She drew a quick breath, put on her brave face. 'Not too bad, sir, though it's only been a couple of days. I've still got a few weeks on Elaine's files.'

'But you do have some other work lined up?'

'Not quite yet. But I've put the word out. I'm sure it'll begin to trickle in before long. These things don't happen overnight.'

'No, I know that.' But Jackman easily read between the lines. There wasn't much, if any, firm work for her on the horizon.

'My first choice is to stay here.' Her expression revealed that she hadn't premeditated the remark, was somewhat embarrassed by it.

'Well, that's good news. It's refreshing to see loyalty in a person nowadays.' He threw a quick glance over her shoulder, but he wasn't looking at anything. His mind was working. 'Well,' he said matter-of-factly, 'I didn't want to step on the toes of any of my colleagues if they'd already claimed you to work, but since it appears they haven't, it happens that I might have a small project of my own if you could find some time. It's mostly grunt work, I'm afraid, an old civil case that's been on continuance for four years and now suddenly Judge Branard has decided he's ready to review data, all of which needs to be updated. It's probably five hundred deadly dull hours, but it would give you some billable hours until you can fill your book.'

Five hundred hours! He was giving her five hundred hours of work. Twelve weeks' reprieve! She struggled to keep her face impassive, and wasn't entirely successful. 'I'd be very interested in that, sir. I could start-'

He nodded genially, interrupting her. 'Next Monday will be fine. The files are still in storage and I've got to get them moved up here. And I wouldn't want you to give it all your time – say twenty hours a week -I know you've got Elaine's work to finish. But I must warn you again, this is a tedious job. You might want to look it over before signing on.'

She heard herself say that that was a good idea, although she knew that she would dance barefoot on hot coals if it meant keeping her salary and benefits.

'Let's say nine o'clock Monday morning, then?'

'Yes, sir. And thank you.'

He smiled at her. 'You might not thank me when you see what it is.' He turned to look at the rain hammering the window. Told her it was good to see the rain. They needed rain.

She didn't get up.

Perhaps she would like some coffee. He always had some in mid-afternoon – he tended to go all logy after lunch. He had his own espresso machine. She could bill the quarter hour or so to administrative.

When he'd made and poured it, he set the cups on the coffee table and gestured her over to the couch, where they sat on opposite ends, four feet apart.

It was excellent coffee.

Jackman took a sip, nodded with satisfaction, placed the cup back on its saucer. He stole a glance at her, waited while she tasted the brew, had put her own cup down. Apparently reaching some decision, he turned slightly toward her. 'I want to ask your opinion about something if you don't mind.' He took another moment, choosing his words with care. 'About Elaine.'

Treya came forward on the couch, put her elbows on her knees, levelled her eyes at him. 'You have concerns about the case.'

'I don't know if I'd go so far as to call them concerns. If it wasn't a politically-charged death penalty, I don't know that I'd have given it another thought. But since it is…' A shrug. 'I don't know. I ask myself what I would have thought if the police hadn't so conveniently found Mr Burgess leaning over the body, if the DA hadn't already crawled so far out on her public limb. What would you have thought, Treya? You knew her better than anybody else here.'

'If what, specifically?'

'If she'd been found shot with no suspects close at hand.'

She let out a long breath, remembered her coffee, and picked up the cup to get herself a little more time, held it in front of her mouth. 'But that wasn't what happened.'

'How do we know what happened?'

She had not asked herself why the hypothetical question had been so difficult for her. Maybe it was just easier having a ready answer to a painful question – she didn't have to keep coming back to it. Now, however, it looked as though it wasn't going to go away. 'When he talked to me, Lieutenant Glitsky wanted to know the same thing – if I knew anybody who might have wanted to kill her. I told him that no one who knew her could have…'

'Is that what you really think?' Jackman leaned toward her, onto something. 'This Lieutenant Glitsky,' he pressed, 'he's not a cop playing lawyer games, is he?'

'No.'

'Yet he had a confession and still wondered about if he had the man who'd actually killed her? That sounds like doubt to me.'

Treya shrugged. 'He said he'd need evidence even if it proved to be Cole Burgess. He told me he'd plead not guilty and they'd have to convict him at trial anyway. They could expect years of appeals. So if they could put Elaine with him at a clinic or a school or something, maybe they'd have a motive, and that would help.'

'But he was really asking about other people?' Jackman suddenly got up, paced a few steps with his hands in his pockets, turned back to her. 'What I'm getting at is what that woman said at lunch in the conference room, that everybody knew Elaine had enemies. And nobody really seemed to dispute it. I knew of a few problems, so I'm guessing you must have as well.'

Treya sat back into the deep cushions. 'I suppose I must be a little like Jonas. It was hard enough getting it settled in my mind, just putting the bare fact of it someplace…' She shook her head as if to clear it. 'I don't know why you brought this up exactly, sir. What do you think I should do?'

Jackman came back to the couch, sat again at the far end of it. 'I'm not completely sure myself. It's just that no one knew Elaine better than you did, so you of all people might want to keep an open mind about who killed her. Or why.'

Suddenly Treya cocked her head. 'So you're really not certain it was Cole Burgess?'

'I'm not saying it wasn't. Just…'

She was facing him on the couch now, her eyes burning into his. 'Just that maybe it wasn't.'

He shrugged. He didn't know.

And now, suddenly, neither did she.

As a result of his meeting in Chief Rigby' s office, for the first time in nearly thirty years, Abe Glitsky wasn't working as a cop. The powers had decided to place him on administrative leave for an undisclosed period of time. So he was relieved of his command of the homicide detail. They had not asked for his badge or his gun, but he had no trouble seeing that moment in his future. They gave him an escorted half-hour to clear the personal items out of his desk and file cabinet. It only took him fourteen minutes. He'd packed all his stuff into a battered black briefcase. None of his inspectors were around to say goodbye. He had the feeling that this was not a completely random event. Someone had passed the word to his troops that it would be better if they were gone while their ex-lieutenant cleared out.

Rigby said he would be getting in touch in the next week or so, after the preliminary investigation. Until then, Abe might want to prepare some defense; and if not that, lie low.

It was nearly six o'clock. Glitsky had it on the highest authority that, contrary to conventional wisdom, the darkest hour was not just before dawn.

It was right now.

Perversely, the halogen lights over the parking lot behind the Hall of Justice had not switched themselves on. Further proof, although Glitsky didn't need it, that even the inanimate world had entered into the conspiracy against him.

Rain pelted the asphalt, the heaviest downpour he'd seen in the past couple of years.

He'd set the briefcase down next to him. Hands in his jacket pockets, he stood under the awning that covered the otherwise open and usually wind-swept corridor that led out the back door of the Hall, past the coroner's office and the entrance to the jail. His leather flight jacket was buttoned to his neck, the fur-lined collar turned up nearly to his ears. A gust of wind threw a spray of mist into his face and he backed up a step.

The effort to take his hands from his pockets and wipe his eyes seemed impossibly great.

Three or four people passed him going to their own rides – moans at the weather, shop talk, a snatch of laughter. At what? he wondered.

Unable to bring himself to move forward, he eventually turned around, picked up the briefcase, and retraced his steps halfway back to the door of the Hall. There he turned left, ran a few steps on wet concrete, and pulled at the glass door that proclaimed the offices of John Strout, Coroner for the City and County of San Francisco.

It was after hours, though, and the door was locked. The night bell was marked out of order. Glitsky almost laughed, might have even thought he was laughing, except that the sound in no way resembled laughter. The rain fell on his uncovered head, trickled down the back of his neck. He knocked hard, the doors shaking beneath his fist. Then, saving his knuckles, he turned his hand to the side and pounded hard. He was certain Strout was inside. This was the middle of the day for him. He pounded again.

Some helpful soul passing in the corridor yelled over that he thought they were closed.

'Thanks,' Glitsky replied. He waited a reasonable period of time, then pounded again at the door.

A uniformed patrolman suddenly appeared behind him, tapping him on the shoulder. 'Let's go, pal,' he said. Glitsky noticed the rain dripping from the bill of his cap. He had one hand on his nightstick and looked like it wouldn't take much in the way of temptation to induce him to use it. 'No loitering here. Building's closed up for the night. Let's move it along.'

Scowling, which didn't make him prettier, the lieutenant turned, brushed the hand away. 'Easy, cowboy,' he said. 'I'm with homicide, upstairs. Glitsky.'

The cop did a double-take and must have recognized him. He all but fell backwards, sheepish. 'Oh, excuse me. Sorry, sir. I thought you were a bum.'

Glitsky nodded. 'Join the club.'