The Hearing

29

Glitsky eventually persuaded his sons that he could probably take a shower, get dressed in his jeans and a light sweater, and make it to his favorite chair in the living room without stressing out too much about it. They didn't have to watch him continually – he gave his word he wouldn't go outside or do the long version of his tap-dancing routine around the duplex.

But both of them wanted to stay near him, and Abe couldn't say it bothered him. More, their obvious concern for him touched him deeply. It was good to have his family back together. Who could say when it might happen again? They gave Rita the afternoon off, then called Nat and asked him what he was doing. He came over with Chinese food -chicken chow mein and Happy Garden – and after lunch the three generations played hearts at the kitchen table for three hours. For the first time in years, the small kitchen echoed with actual laughter. Everybody caught up with each other, their lives in the last couple of years, swearing genially at bad play or bad luck, reconnecting.

When Orel got home from school, Nat left for the synagogue and the boys decided they'd get outside and shoot some hoops at the park down the street until it got dark. Glitsky had taken out his book and sat in his Barca-Lounger in the living room. In five minutes he had transported himself to the Mediterranean, where he prowled the shipping lanes off the Costa Brava looking for prize ships and booty.

The duplex had a west-facing front and on clear days, there was a short window of time just before dusk when the sun sprayed the room with light before it sank into the buildings across the street. The sudden glare made Abe look up from his book. He closed it.

Motes of dust hung in the room's air.

Elaine was walking with someone she knew. It was very late, nearly one o'clock in the morning. She'd left Treya that Sunday at Rand and Jackman in the late afternoon, and if Jonas was to be believed, hadn't come home to Tiburon. So she had stayed in the city – the two of them had probably met for dinner downtown.

Six hours? A very long dinner. Much to discuss, or one topic that consumed them? Perhaps cocktails afterwards.

She was leaving Jonas. It may not have been a dinner after all, but a romantic tryst at a hotel, or even the new man's place. That would at least account for the hours.

But at some point, they left together. Why? They could have stayed the night either at a hotel or the man's place. He assumed that some other nights she would stay in the city after a late meeting – Jonas would not need to suspect anything.

But she was going home this night, which again seemed to make a restaurant more likely. Her car was parked under the building in the Rand and Jackman lot, so she had walked to wherever it was, meeting him there. She must have thought they had settled whatever it was. He was accompanying her as she walked back to get her car…

Had any policeman looked in her car?

Probably not. There would have been no reason to. From the first minutes, they'd had a suspect. No one was looking for a killer.

Glitsky had a city map out on the coffee table and was hunched over it. The sun was down behind the buildings now. He had switched on a couple of floor lamps and drawn a circle with Rand and Jackman in its center. There was a finite number of restaurants – and perhaps bars afterwards – in the circle from which to choose.

The fact that it had been a Sunday night would eliminate those few that closed on that day. More importantly, the others would have been far less crowded than on the other weekend nights. Ten days had passed since the shooting, it was true, but a waiter, a maltre d', someone would remember.

This was police work. It was way past time for him to get proactive here. If Cole hadn't killed Elaine, then someone else had, and there would be some positive trace of it. He would supply Hardy's three musketeers with a photograph of Elaine and between them, they should have no trouble covering every restaurant within the circle over the weekend. It would be a start.

Folding up his map, he walked into the kitchen to call Ridley Banks. When the young inspector had called Abe in the hospital on Wednesday, he'd sounded as though he'd begun to suspect that he'd made some kind of mistake with Cole Burgess. He still hadn't admitted any wrongdoing in his interrogation, but the door was open. Clearly, Banks understood that Cullen was tied to Cole in some way. Evidence at the scene of Cullen's death might bear upon Elaine's and if that were the case, Banks would be a critical source.

It was no surprise that he wasn't in, but Abe was sure he'd check his messages and get back to him in a matter of hours.

They stopped where the dark alley met the dark street. Did Elaine think she was about to be kissed? Certainly the killer was close beside her, one hand at the nape of her neck. He checked the street in either direction, the alley off to his left. The shot rang into Union Square on the cold night. Someone – a bellman at one of the hotels? – would have heard it.

Then he'd caught her. Brutally, cold-bloodedly taken her life, knowing he was going to do it at least since they'd left dinner, but walking along with her, perhaps chatting easily, ostensibly satisfied with whatever conclusion they'd reached. And then gently broken her fall.

Suddenly, another terrible conjecture, but so compelling it immediately felt like fact. He 'd apologized as he let her down! Glitsky could hear it, could hear the son of a bitch. 'I'm sorry, Elaine, but you made me do this.'

Outside, it was now dark. Glitsky was standing, leaning over, resting his weight on his hands on either side of the kitchen sink. His face, reflected in the window in front of him, had broken a light sheen of sweat. His jaw trembled, and the scar between his lips stood out fresh as a new wound.

'Dad? Dad?'

He hadn't heard them come up the steps or open the door. Turning on the water quickly, he filled his hands and threw it into his face. When they got to the kitchen, he was drying himself with a dish towel. 'Hey, guys,' he said easily. 'How'd it go?'

'All right, all right,' he said. 'I'll see if I can get the number.'

Hardy and Rita both showed up independently in the half hour after the boys arrived, and now the two men sat at the kitchen table while Rita put together a tuna fish casserole on the counter behind them. The boys were down in their 'wing', taking showers and watching television. And Abe finally conceded that he ought to try Ridley Banks at his home.

Sergeant Paul Thieu was manning the homicide detail and gave Glitsky the number he needed off the top of his head.

'Scary,' Glitsky said to Hardy. 'The guy knows everything.' He was punching at the phone, listening, leaving another message. 'Rid, it's Abe again. Still trying to reach you. Sorry to nag, but whenever you get any of these…' He left his own number, hung up, looked at Hardy. 'He's a bachelor. It's Friday night.'

'Swell,' Hardy said. 'I'm married. It's Friday night. Speaking of which, did you ever talk to Treya?'

'How's that connected to you being married and it being Friday night? But yeah, she called this morning, wanted to make sure I was avoiding the near occasion of stress.'

'Which, I notice, you're not.'

'Close enough.' End of subject. 'So what did you have her doing?'

'Directing the kids, mostly, but I also wanted to see if she had run into any files Elaine might have kept on Dash Logan.' To Glitsky, this was clearly an unexpected direction.

'Dash Logan? What about him?'

Hardy ran it down for him, including suitable disclaimers about how far-fetched it all was, how coincidental. 'But,' he ended hopefully, 'as Saul Westbrook told me just this morning, coincidences do happen.'

'It's not whether they happen,' Glitsky said, 'it's whether they mean anything. Who's Saul Westbrook?'

'Cullen Alsop's public defender, who knew nothing about Cullen's deal.'

Glitsky was still trying to find some thread. 'And he's somehow with Logan too?'

'No,' Hardy admitted.

'Then I'm officially confused.' Abe touched his head. 'Must be the drugs.'

Hardy tried to explain it again. When he finished, Glitsky was nodding as though it made sense. 'And you spent your whole day billing some client for this?'

'Most of it, yeah.'

Abe's voice was filled with admiration. 'I'm in the wrong field,' he said. Rita interrupted things, shooing them away so she could set the table for dinner, but as the two men went to the living room, Glitsky kept talking. 'So you're working on one case against Logan who is, after all, a lawyer like yourself. And another lawyer, your friend David Freeman, completely apart from you, has got another one. Right so far?' They sat on either end of the couch. Glitsky threw his map and notepad onto the coffee table, and continued. 'And Elaine, another lawyer, went to Logan's office on a completely different group of cases? And finally, the clincher – Cullen Alsop had a matchbox from Jupiter, a bar where Logan hangs out.'

'Right,' Hardy agreed. 'What does it clinch, though?'

Glitsky fixed him with an amused look. 'Remember last night when I said I was a horse's ass? I was wrong. That wasn't me. It was you.'

Hardy took the criticism in his stride. He lifted his shoulders. 'Still, I felt like I had to follow it up. Shake his tree a little. But nothing fell out. Not today anyway.'

No surprise there, Glitsky was thinking. But he'd gone galloping off after wisps of nothing himself. There was no point in tormenting his friend over it any further. 'Well, listen, tomorrow maybe we go a different direction. We might get luckier.' He picked up the map and his notes and went over some of his reasoning about Elaine's last evening. He was in the middle of it when Isaac came in and sat down.

Glitsky stopped and looked up at him. 'This is not strenuous,' he said. 'I'm allowed to think and talk.'

'Stressful.' Isaac wasn't budging. 'The doctor said stressful, not strenuous.'

'He's right,' Hardy said, standing up. 'Sorry, Ike. We just get to talking.'

Glitsky looked from one to the other. 'Two more minutes.'

'I'm timing it,' Isaac said, checking his watch.

Glitsky shook his head. 'Then I'd better hurry. So, Diz, we get our three helpers out canvassing the area, checking out the restaurants and bars. Then if Ridley ever calls back, we have him check the lab reports again for whatever they found on Maiden Lane that we didn't look for last time. Also, Rid can follow up on Cullen's scene – he said he had something on this, didn't he? You were assuming he meant Elaine and Cole, right?'

'That's the impression I got.'

'One minute,' Isaac said.

'All right, then somebody ought to look at her car. And her house.'

'We already did that today. Curtis went up there.'

Abe nodded in satisfaction. 'Already? Good. And Walsh let him in?'

'Treya called him first, greased the wheels. She's good.'

'Did he find anything interesting?'

Hardy shook his head. 'Not at first sight. He brought a box back, but I only got a glance at it. I'll give it a closer look over the weekend. And while we're on it, Amy found that guy at Hastings, too. Not an Elaine fan anymore, though once upon a time he was a big one. According to her, definitely a possible.'

'Did she ask him where he was that night?'

'I don't know.'

'All right, then maybe Rid can go talk to him-'

'Time!' Isaac called out, standing up. 'That's it, gentlemen. Time is called.'

'Dinner!' Rita yelled from the kitchen.

'OK.' Hardy was on his feet. He had the map and notebook in his hands. 'Never let it be said I can't take a subtle hint.' He started moving to the doorway.

Glitsky sidled along with him. 'One more time,' he said, 'for the record. As far as you've been able to find out, Logan isn't any part of this.'

'Hey!' Isaac said. 'Time's been called.'

'We're just saying goodbye, Ike,' Glitsky yelled back.

Hardy had gotten to the door. 'In code,' he added.

'So no Logan?'

'I guess not. Unless something turns up on him in Elaine's files. Which won't happen because she didn't have any.'

Hardy spoke with finality and disappointment. He'd put in a lot of hours on some Logan connection, and it was starting to look as though they'd all been wasted. He was at the door, on his way out, closing it behind him.

Glitsky stood a moment, frowning. Suddenly, he pulled at the door and stepped out onto his landing. Hardy was almost to the sidewalk and he called down after him, 'What do you mean, Elaine didn't have any? You mean files on Logan?'

Hardy turned on the bottom step. 'Yeah.'

'But she must have.'

'I don't think so. Nothing labeled that way, anyhow.'

'Then what did she give Treya when she came back to the office on Sunday? She'd just been to Logan's office and gave her some files.'

Hardy considered for a long beat, then broke a grin. 'He just won't go away, will he?'

The weight of the world settled on him as soon as he opened the door to his home. Had it only been last night, he thought, that it had all worked so well here? Tonight, like an animal in the moments before an earthquake, he felt the tension before he could have been consciously aware of it. He walked back through the dark and silent house, turning on lights as he went. 'Anybody home?'

A distracted voice answered – Vincent's. Before the re-model, their old bedroom had been directly behind the kitchen. They had turned it into a family room with their entertainment center, a couch, some reading chairs. Vincent sat in one of them, the room dark around him, playing with a hand-held Gameboy. 'Hey.' Hardy flicked on that light too. 'How's my guy?'

Vincent barely looked up. 'Hey.'

'What's the matter?'

'Nothing.'

He stood looking at his son, debating whether he should try to break through, but he decided not. Vincent was all right, into his game, which Hardy thought probably wouldn't harm him for life. He knew from long experience the probable reason why Vincent was here, doing what he was doing. It was a refuge.

'Where are the girls?' he asked, although he was sure he knew. The door to Rebecca's room was closed and a light showed under it.

Frannie was sitting on the Beck's bed, a stricken, exhausted look on her face. His daughter was lying across the comforter, her head on her mother's lap. Frannie was stroking her hair. They both looked up and he saw exactly what he expected – that the Beck had been crying again.

He felt his own shoulders sag. Another crisis. My God, he thought, would it never end? Without a word, he crossed over and sat with them on the bed. His eyes met his wife's, he put a hand on the Beck's shoulder. 'How's my sweetie?' he asked.

She shook her head. 'Not too good.'

'I guessed that.' He rubbed her shoulder, looked a question at Frannie.

'They had a suicide workshop today.'

He would have laughed if it hadn't made him so furious. He couldn't keep the comment in. 'Well, there's something every seventh-grader sure needs to know all about. What did they do, give tips on the top ten favorite ways?'

Frannie gave him a signal to hold his temper, but he couldn't do it. This was at least the fifth such workshop in the past couple of months, and each one had traumatized his already fragile daughter. Since Thanksgiving, in the name of God knew what, the Beck's school had subjected her and apparently the rest of its students to perhaps forty hours of 'awareness training', and it was playing havoc with her life.

She was, Hardy hoped, still a good five or six years away from sexual activity, but her school had given a five-day course on every possible malady and consequence that could ever be associated with sex. A few weeks later, all the girls had been enlightened on the growing incidence of anorexia and bulimia in the age group. Rebecca tended to 'pick' at certain foods, and the fact sheet that the school had sent home with her listed this as a possible indicator of trouble. Although the Beck weighed ninety-odd pounds and ate with a healthy appetite, the eating disorder bug had even infected Frannie over the holidays, and that had been a lot of fun. Then, in January, came the drills in case a group of terrorists, or some of their fellow students, broke into the school and started shooting or throwing bombs – how they should pile their desks a certain way, strategies for exiting the campus.

Hardy rubbed his daughter's back. And now suicide prevention. For the life of him he couldn't imagine how any amount of pre-counseling was going to have any appreciable impact on the rate of teen suicides. The Beck sniffed and sat up. 'Why would somebody my age want to kill themself? I didn't even know they did that.'

'Not very often, Beck. Really.'

'But why?'

Maybe, Hardy thought, because all these awareness courses made kids so fearful that they no longer had the guts to live, or even wanted to in such a treacherous and unstable world. But of course, he couldn't say that. 'It's really not very common, Beck. It's not like it's something that happens to you. You've got to decide that's what you want to do, and very, very few people feel that way, especially kids.'

No doubt Frannie had been mouthing the same truths for the past hour and gradually, getting them from her dad as well, they were beginning to sink in. She was perking up slightly. 'I don't think I'm going to want to commit suicide. Do you?'

'No. Of course not.'

'But they made it seem like if you have a boyfriend and he breaks up with you, then that's one of the things to do.'

She brought a little fist down on her thigh. 'But that would be so stupid. I mean, I never would have thought of that, even if I ever did have a boyfriend to begin with.'

'You're right,' Frannie said. 'That would be stupid.'

'But how great that they teach this and give everybody the idea.' Hardy couldn't keep the disgust out of his voice. He pulled his daughter closer. She wrapped her arms around him. 'Bad things happen sometimes, Beck, but not as often as you think. Not even close. You don't have to worry about all of them, or even any of them.'

'I know,' she said. 'Worrying doesn't do any good, ever. You always say that.'

'I do, you're right.'

'Your father's right, Beck. It really doesn't do much good.' Maybe, they hoped, if she heard it enough from people she trusted, she'd start to believe it.

Suddenly Hardy remembered the talk he'd had with Jeff Elliot yesterday. 'Do you know anybody who's ever been hit by lightning?'

The Beck didn't know where this was coming from, but she was curious. 'No. That almost never happens.'

'How about you, Fran? No? Me, neither. Now, you know all these things you're learning about in school? Well, guess what?'

Vincent was standing at the door, bored beyond words with all of this. 'Are you guys done? Are we having dinner tonight? I'm so starving.'

Hardy wanted to check his messages before he turned in for the night. He hadn't been at his desk since before he went down to Jupiter to see Dash Logan, and there was enough hanging fire that he knew he wouldn't get to sleep if he didn't.

His answering machine gave him the time and date of his messages. The first two calls came in within five minutes after he'd left his office for the day, and he clenched his teeth at the perversity of fate. He might even still have been downstairs, sharing a few end-of-the-week bon mots with the lovely Phyllis.

The first call was from Jon Ingalls, wanting Hardy to know that he'd remained unlucky with witnesses. Jon left his number, telling Hardy to call anytime. What was on tap for tomorrow? He'd be waiting by the phone.

The next message was from Jeff Elliot: 'I wanted you to be among the first to know that I just resigned. If they want me back, and they will, they'll have to beg and then pay me more for all the trouble they put me through. Also, anent our other recent discussion, something did finally occur to me. That connection you were talking about between Torrey and Dash Logan – I might have one. There's a private investigator named Gene Visser. You might know him. He used to be a cop.'

Hardy felt a small surge of electricity. At Sam's the other day, Visser's name had come up as the heavy who'd tried to blackmail Rich McNeil.

Jeff was going on. 'When Torrey started at the DA's, Visser worked for him almost as his own personal investigator. They were pretty tight. I don't know if they still are, but I have seen Visser and Logan together a lot. So if Torrey and Visser still talk… anyway, for whatever it's worth.'

Hardy thought it might be worth a lot, but he didn't get any time to celebrate. The last call, from Torrey himself, was made at four forty-one – about ten minutes after Hardy had left Logan at Jupiter.

Torrey's message was that since he and Hardy were getting to prelim on Cole Burgess next week, they were both going to be swamped. So he was just looking through some other prosecutions that were coming up through the office in the next few weeks and happened to notice Hardy's name on one of them as the attorney of record. It seemed to Torrey that this case, People v. McNeil, was one where a judge was likely to try to get the parties to settle so it wouldn't clog up the docket, and certainly neither Torrey nor Hardy needed the extra hours when their plates were so full. If Hardy wanted to settle the case, he could probably save his client both time and aggravation, and Torrey would be happy to consider alternatives. At least the two of them should discuss it, see what they could work out.

The small surge of electricity had turned to an insistent hum.

Frannie came into the room as he was hanging up. She came up behind him, put her hands on his shoulders, and dug her thumbs into the muscles along his backbone. His head fell forward as though he'd been clubbed. 'Don't ever stop,' he said.

She kissed the top of his head, massaging around his neck. 'You know why the camper got a migraine?' she asked.

'No, and I don't care.' His eyes were closed. He was in heaven.

'Too tense.' Then, relief and fatigue in equal parts. 'They're both down and out.'

Hardy straightened up. 'Did you double-check for molesters lurking outside the Beck's window? Maybe we should do nightly drills, the best ways out of the house just in case-'

She brought a palm up against his head. 'Stop.'

'She strikes him,' he intoned. 'A clear case of domestic violence, spousal abuse…' He turned back to her, took the hand that rested on his shoulder. 'Sorry. I know, enough. I'll be down in a sec. Two phone calls. Short. Promise.'

'I'm pouring wine and will start without you. You've been warned.'

'Fair enough.'

He called Jon Ingalls back. He appeared, in fact, to have been waiting by the phone. Hardy told him about Glitsky's idea to canvass the restaurants and bars in the area around Maiden Lane. Ingalls was in, whatever it was. He'd be there. What time should they start?

He didn't expect anything when he called Ridley again, but you never knew. Cops worked strange hours. Friday night bachelor or not, he might be in catching up on paperwork. But no such luck. The machine answered again.

Ridley's machine was the kind that beeped before the tone. Every beep was a call, and since he'd started trying to reach him, Hardy had been subliminally aware of the increase in the number of calls. Now he sat at his desk and waited, counting through ten, fifteen, twenty.

When the tone finally came, Hardy left his message and hung up. He scratched at his stubble, his face a brown study. In the two days since Hardy had last talked to him, twenty-eight people had left messages for Ridley Banks, and apparently he hadn't even checked them to clear his machine.

It was almost eleven o'clock, and bitterly cold.

Treya climbed the steps up to Glitsky's door, then stood for an eternity on his doorstep. In the dark. Unable to knock.

Earlier, Treya had been to Raney's basketball game. After that, she and her daughter went out for a pizza. Then they went back home, where Raney got ready for bed. And Treya told her she had to go out. She'd be back in a little while.

No light showed from within. It was still as death.

Finally, finally, she tapped on the glass three times with her fingernail, a sound infinitesimally small, tentative, gone. No one could have heard it, but that was all she would do. She'd wait here another little while and-

Something was moving inside the flat. The landing light came on. The door opened. Abe was barefoot, still wore his jeans, the black sweater.

'Does your doctor want you awake this late?'

'I'm bad with authority. You might as well get used to it. It's a little cold.' He backed up to let her enter.

'Where is everybody? Your boys?' she asked. Then, 'What's that noise?'

Glitsky listened intently for a minute. 'I don't hear…'

'There. That.'

'Oh.' His face softened. 'That's Rita. She snores sometimes. I'm so used to it, I don't even hear it anymore. She's behind that screen.'

'She sleeps in the living room?'

Glitsky gestured simply. It was a small place, homey, crowded with furniture. 'Only until we finish the guest wing.'

She grimaced. 'I'm sorry, Abe. I didn't mean…'

He touched her arm softly. 'It's OK. Anyway, the boys are out someplace. They made me swear on my mother's honor that I wouldn't budge. I was to sit and read my book, then go to bed, preferably early.'

'Which you haven't done.'

'I know,' he said. 'It's bad of me. That authority thing again. It's lucky I'm a boss. When I have a job, I mean.'

A long moment. 'So how's your book? The high seas. Good as Hornblower?'

'I think so. It's amazing how deeply he makes you feel it all.'

He was staring at her. She looked back at him. The silence settled.

Glitsky cleared his throat. 'Hardy says I should just ask.'

'What?'

'I should just say something, like I never did with Elaine.' He hesitated. 'I can't have anything like that happen with you.'

She waited.

'If you don't want to hear…' He took a breath, nearly choked out the words. 'I don't know what to do with this, but I need to have you in my life.'

Closing her eyes, she nodded. A sigh of what might have been relief. Then she looked at him again, and a smile played at the corners of her mouth. 'I was hoping that was it,' she said.

Then they were in each other's arms. Under his sweater, beneath the burns where they had shocked him back alive, his ribs ached with the pressure.