47
FARRELL WAS RIGHT about the big guns circling. By the time Burt Cushing showed up for the nine-thirty appointment in Farrell’s office that he’d demanded, he had already spoken to Mayor Leland Crawford, denying the unfounded accusations in the strongest possible terms, and getting, he said, the mayor’s vote of confidence.
“These are the most irresponsible accusations that I’ve ever heard in the course of my twenty years of service to the city and county of San Francisco, first as a supervisor and then for the past six years as the county sheriff.” Cushing was pacing like a caged animal between the couches and love seats in Farrell’s office. “You got a problem with me or how I run my organization, you come to me, we talk it over, see if there’s anything to it. Which in this case, there isn’t. This is pure slander. SFPD says nobody up there is talking to Jeff Elliot. If you’ve got somebody in your shop who’s running amok, I hope you goddamn well get him under control.”
In spite of his earlier anger at Glitsky’s half-cocked decision to go public with his suspicions of Cushing, Farrell found himself surprisingly pleased that things between him and the sheriff were out in the open. He more than halfway believed that Cushing had played some role in Maria’s execution, up to and including ordering it. So he wasn’t inclined to apologize for Abe or anybody else. “Nobody in my office is freelancing, Burt. We’ll be doing our investigation in a professional and straightforward manner, so I’m sure you won’t have anything to worry about.”
Cushing stopped pacing and pointed a finger. “You’re not going to find anything in my shop.”
“Well, then, you’ve got nothing to worry about, do you?”
“So you are behind this?”
“I’m behind asking Maria Solis-Martinez to look into the Tussaint business, if that’s what you mean. And I think it’s possible that the assignment led to her death. Which grieves me more than I can say.”
“There was nothing in the Tussaint business, Wes. That was investigated by SFPD right after it happened, as you well know. Nobody found any sign of foul play.”
“Luther Jones did.”
For an instant, Cushing gaped, openmouthed. “Luther Jones was a lowlife snitch who’d sell out his mother for a cigarette. He was a nonentity who lied to try to get something a little better for himself, Wes. That shit happens twenty times a day in the zoo.” He spun around, worked up in a fury now, and came back to Wes. “Luther Jones. Give me a semi-f*cking break.”
Two could play the anger game, but when Farrell came down off the table, he wasn’t playing. Getting right up into Cushing’s face, he all but snarled, “You give me a break, Sheriff. Yeah, Luther Jones, who died of a heroin overdose in your jail and, as far as anyone can tell, never used heroin in his life. Luther called Maria on the day she was killed. He was going to deal and give up one of your thugs. And you knew it. So yeah, we’re going to be looking into what’s happening in that cesspool you run over there. You don’t like it, you go f*ck yourself.”
Cushing’s eyes narrowed. A muscle pulsed in his jawline. “You’re making a huge mistake.” He turned, yanked at the doorknob, and slammed the door behind him on his way out.
? ? ?
BESIDES HIS CALL from Dismas Hardy, Glitsky had also heard from Ruth Chase (“It makes all the sense in the world”), Patti Orosco (“I’m so glad to see that you have suspects who really might have done it besides me”), and Devin Juhle, who wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic. The Homicide chief, who had a pretty good idea that Abe was the unnamed source, didn’t waste time asking him to confirm or deny. He just wanted to know if Abe had any support for his theories, particularly about Maria’s killer, and if he did, would he please be so kind as to share his information with Abby and JaMorris, who had drawn Maria’s murder and were again laboring under a dearth of evidence. Did the DA really have something, and if he didn’t, what was this baloney doing in the paper?
Abe suggested that Juhle have his inspectors interview Adam Foster and get his alibi for the time of Maria’s death. Juhle left it unclear whether he was going to follow up on that, but he told Glitsky that he’d try to hook up with him when he got downtown a little later.
With all the talking and explaining he’d done by phone from his home, by the time Glitsky walked into the Investigations Division for the first time that Friday morning, it was almost ten o’clock. He expected an onslaught of profound silence, and even overt resentment, from the inspectors up here. As a lifelong cop, he knew exactly what he’d done and why he’d done it, but he didn’t fool himself that it would endear him to his professional associates.
But he hadn’t made it halfway across the bullpen on his way to Chief Inspector Frank Dobbins’s office when the women at the desks nearest the door got to their feet and started to applaud. Chairs scraped against the floor as the other inspectors stood up and put their hands together. Glitsky stopped and looked from face to face, his own visage softening as he took in this rare display of support. Other people were coming out from the hall where Maria had kept her office. Dobbins came and stood in his doorway, clapping three times himself and nodding in welcome.
“About f*cking time,” someone said ambiguously, and Glitsky, back in character, frowned at the profanity.
Five minutes later, Tom Scerbo came back to Dobbins’s office and dropped a manila file on the desk. “That’s everything I’ve got on Tussaint, including the transcript of the first talk I had with Luther. It’s also got the names of the five guards who swore they were out delivering inmates to San Bruno with Adam Foster. I only talked to two of them—Barani and Maye—and didn’t have the heart to go through the motions with the other three.”
“Not forthcoming?” Glitsky asked.
“Oh, to the contrary,” Scerbo said. “They both knew the exact time they left the jail, the route they took, who sat where in the bus, who drove each way. Impressively well rehearsed, and of course the written records and logs all agree.”
“Or they’re telling the truth,” Dobbins put in.
Scerbo was grim. “Of course. Or that.”
Glitsky scanned the pages. “Hal Chase?”
Scerbo nodded. “One of the five.”
“How about him being in jail now?” Glitsky asked.
Dobbins turned to him. “How about it?”
“Would he rat out Foster if we could do a deal and get him out?”
Scerbo shook his head. “No chance, Abe. First, these guys don’t talk, period. Second, Chase is charged with one of the murders you’re saying Foster did, so you’re into ‘I didn’t do it, he did it.’ It would never fly.”
Glitsky nodded. “Okay. I’m open to suggestions from either of you. This Tussaint thing is the only one of the four murders—Marie, Katie, Luther, and Alanos—where we’ve got some reasonable chance to get some evidence working for us. And that was almost two months ago.”
“It’s a tough nut,” Scerbo said. “Do you think Foster’s good for Katie Chase?”
“Better than Hal. But I’m keeping my mind open,” Glitsky said. “What about the other jail deaths this year? How many have there been?”
Dobbins clucked. “That number is open to interpretation. Does an overdose count? Suicide? Last April or May, somebody did a face-plant off his bed and broke his neck. No witnesses. That’s the way they tend to go.”
“To answer your question,” Scerbo said, “let’s go with three more that could use a little scrutiny. Which I’d be glad to give them.”
“That would be good,” Glitsky said. “Thanks.”
The telephone rang on Dobbins’s desk, and he reached over and grabbed it. “Dobbins . . . Yeah . . . Right, about fifteen minutes ago . . . I’ll give him the word, he’ll be right down.” Hanging up, he said, “Mr. Farrell would like a word with you.”
Glitsky looked from one inspector to the other. “Anybody want to bet he doesn’t applaud when he sees me?”