35
AT THE JAIL, his former colleagues were giving Hal Chase every courtesy, breaking a lot of the rules to do it, but what the hell. He was still one of them. As soon as they got him in the elevator after he’d been booked, they took off his handcuffs. They couldn’t let him remain in his civilian clothes, but at least the jail jumpsuit fit him.
The cell on the seventh floor was the same as all the others: ten feet by twelve, with a bare porcelain toilet, a sink, and a bed that was not much more than a mattress laid down over a rectangle of concrete. Someone, though, whether for him or for another segregated VIP guest in the past, had scrounged up a well-used comfortable leather armchair and a small wooden table with a wooden chair to go with it. The bed had a pillow. A makeshift shelf held twenty or so paperback books. The big problem everywhere in the jail was heat—the ambient temperature was around sixty-six degrees—so they’d provided him with two extra blankets and a red and green afghan he could throw over his shoulders. His dinner tray was loaded with double rations of meat loaf, gravy, green beans, mashed potatoes, pepper and salt, six slices of bread with packets of real butter. Milk and two chocolate chip cookies for dessert.
In spite of the terrific Italian lunch he’d had with Hardy at Original Joe’s only five hours before, Hal ate it all, making conversation the whole time with Paul Landry, one of his buds from the shift. There were inmates on either side of him, but he couldn’t see them and vice versa, and for the most part, he was unaware of their presence.
It was going to be a long haul, he knew, but he was confident he could handle it. He’d been coming to work in this same jail for half a dozen years; even if he was on the wrong side of the bars, he didn’t feel particularly uncomfortable or threatened.
Or at least, he didn’t feel threatened until he was settling down in his leather chair after dinner with Nelson DeMille’s novel Night Fall—Hal was a big John Corey fan—and somebody knocked on the bars. He looked up to see his chief deputy, Adam Foster, looking down at him. Closing the book, he got right to his feet and saluted.
Foster returned the greeting. “You mind if I come in?”
“I don’t think I get to choose.”
“True that,” Foster said, not without humor. In a minute, he’d unlocked the door and come inside, then closed the door behind him, two big men in a small place. Hal sat himself on the mattress and motioned to the leather chair, which Foster settled into. “So, how are we treating you? You comfortable?”
Hal gestured at his surroundings. “Presidential suite. No complaints. The food’s better than I make at home.”
“Still, the situation sucks.”
“No argument there. I didn’t kill Katie, Adam.”
“Nobody here thinks you did, Hal. You got any ideas who might have?”
The inmate shook his head. “If I did, I would have told somebody, I promise.”
“You don’t think your girlfriend . . . ?”
“No.”
“Just sayin’. You could point at her, make ’em look that way.”
“I don’t want to do that. Besides, it wouldn’t do any good. It could never come out, ’cause she didn’t do it, either.”
“You’re sure?”
“No question.”
“What’s your lawyer say?”
“Not too much. He seems to think it’s a good idea to put off going to trial for as long as I can. But nice as the accommodations are here, I don’t think I want to hang out in this room for a year or more.”
“No. You probably don’t.” Foster cast his eyes about the small space. He blew out a breath in apparent frustration. He lowered his voice so it couldn’t carry to any of the adjoining cells. “And do I have this right? Your lawyer is working with Glitsky?”
Hal nodded, then also spoke more softly. “They’re old friends. He’s been an inspector half his life. Maybe he’ll find something.”
“Yeah. Well, the thing is . . .”
Hal waited him out for a moment before asking, “What?”
Foster took his time, choosing his words with care. “He talked to Burt at your place, you know. After the burial. He seemed kind of interested in this story your wife’s brother was telling.”
“Daniel’s a jerk.”
“Maybe, but still. Glitsky’s at the goddamn grave site asking Burt about stuff he’s heard about what’s going on here at the jail, as though maybe he thought it had something to do with your wife’s death.”
“How could that be?”
“I was hoping maybe you could tell me.”
Hal shook his head. “That’s just trying to pin another so-called motive on me, as if they need another one. I was shutting her up because she was going to blow the whistle on what I’d told her about some things that happened here? I’m sure. What would that get me? Beyond that, what would telling her get me?”
“Plus, you know that nothing’s happened here. We—you and me—were in San Bruno when Tussaint fell down.”
“No. I know that. I never said anything else.”
“That’s the funny thing, Hal. You see what I’m saying? It sounded to Burt like maybe you’d gone and told your wife some stories about your work, stuff that’s gone down here.”
“I didn’t do that.”
“Somehow Glitsky was on to it.”
“I don’t know what that’s about.” Even in the chill room, Hal felt a film of sweat blossom around his forehead. “I never mentioned anything to Glitsky. I swear to God.”
Suddenly, Adam Foster had moved himself up to the front edge of the leather chair. He had his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped between his legs. “That’s the way we want to keep it, Hal. You understand me?”
“I’ve always understood that, Adam.”
“How do you think your brother-in-law got the idea?”
“I told you. He’s a jerk. He’s a lawyer, too, you know. Maybe he heard the rumors we’re always dealing with and decided to play with them.”
“Well, that makes Burt nervous. Me? It just makes me unhappy.”
“There’s nothing to it. Nothing that came from me.”
“You never talked to your wife about what goes on at work?”
“Not that kind of stuff.” Hal swallowed, his throat suddenly parched. He got up, crossed two steps over to the sink, ran some water over his hands, splashed his face, cupped a mouthful, then wiped his face with the small hand towel. He turned back to his interrogator, sat down on the bed again, cleared his throat. “Adam. I swear to God. That’s all I can say.”
“Okay.” Foster reached out and touched Hal’s knee. Gave him a tight smile. “Just crossing my i’s and dotting my t’s, you know?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, then.” Foster started to get up, checked himself, settled back down. “One other thing. I mean, it goes without saying, but I’ll feel better if I just come out with it so there’s no . . . misunderstanding.”
“I’m listening.”
“If they convict you—not saying they will, but it’s always a possibility—you’re going to be looking at some serious prison time. You know that and I know it. In the face of that, you might be tempted to cut some kind of deal with the DA, maybe trade some testimony for a sentencing break. You know what I’m saying?”
“I’d never do that. That’s not who I am, Adam. You ought to know that.”
Foster shrugged. “That’s who you are now, Hal. But people go through changes, get some different ideas. Think about saving their own skins. And all I’m telling you is that this would be unwise.” He held up a hand as Hal started to object. “No, no. I know you’re not thinking anything like that now. But the temptation might come along, and it would be a bad idea if you couldn’t resist it. A long time in prison is better than some alternatives. I know you know what I mean.”
“I do. Of course I do.”
That same parody of a smile. “Otherwise”—Foster stood up, prompting Hal to do the same—“you need anything up here, we’re going to take care of you. You’re one of us, Hal, and we’re not going to forget, so long as you don’t forget, either. And that’s not likely, is it?”
“No. Not gonna happen.”
The smile brightened. Foster punched Hal’s shoulder. “We good?”
“Good.”
Foster took a last look around the cell, lowered his voice. “Anything, just let somebody know, and we’ll make it happen. You hear me?”
“Loud and clear, Adam. Loud and clear.”