51
OUTSIDE THE BIEHL home, Glitsky called Dismas Hardy, who, as it turned out, was nearby. He had just arrived at the bar he co-owned, the Little Shamrock, where he was going to bartend from four to seven, as he liked to do from time to time. Hardy was interested and happy to hear about Glitsky’s afternoon, but the details would have to wait; he was already jamming behind the bar. Maybe Abe could embellish the story when he showed up in person.
Either Hardy had lied or the crowd packing the bar had mysteriously disappeared by the time Glitsky grabbed one of the open stools down by the beer spigots and ordered an iced tea. After Glitsky gave him the broad-strokes account of his interview with Allison Biehl, Hardy took a sip from his beer and gave Abe a look of mild distress.
“What?” Glitsky asked.
“Nothing.”
“Seems like something.”
“No.” Hardy sipped again, swallowed. “Nothing.”
Glitsky shook his head, perplexed. “I don’t get it. This is the second time today I tell you great news, and both times you’re . . .”
“Surly, discontented, unhappy?”
“Yeah. That’s a good start.”
“And you have no idea why?”
“You’re jealous ’cause I got all the answers first?”
“That’s not it.”
“Then how about you tell me what it is.”
Hardy put down his beer, placed his palms on the bar between them, and leaned over. “I’m really glad you got the break, Abe. That’s great news. But I’m just a little concerned. Let’s just do a logic game for a minute and pretend that your theory about Katie Chase is right. Because of what she heard about Foster’s alibi from Hal, she got perceived as a threat by somebody in the Sheriff’s Department—Cushing or Foster, it doesn’t matter. And their solution was to kill her. Doesn’t that pretty well capture the highlights?”
“Close enough.”
“Okay. Tell me, then. In what way was Katie’s situation before she got killed any different from the one you just put Allison Biehl in? At least, once you put the word out that she knows Foster’s alibi is worthless, what will be the difference? Why won’t she be in danger? Or her husband, for that matter? Just as an exercise in logic, mind you.”
“Nobody’s going to kill her, Diz.”
“No? Why not, exactly? Because this time nobody will find out who’s the weak link?”
“Among other reasons.”
“Really? Well, this just in, as I hardly need to tell you, you can know who did something till you’re blue in the face, and unless you’ve got some proof to take them down at trial, you got nothing. And these guys, Cushing and Foster and the rest of them, they’re not dumb. They’ve got this control-your-witnesses thing down to an art form. How many deaths in the jail last year alone, and every one investigated by the SFPD, every one, Abe, and no charges? Who knows how long all of this has been going on?”
“But after today, we know it’s going on. It’s not just a theory.”
Hardy pitched a glance at the ceiling. “There’s never been any doubt that it’s going on. It’s never been just a theory.”
“And now people are talking about it. And soon will be talking even more.”
“Swell. How is this supposed to help us prepare a case against any of them? With inadmissible hearsay from the wife of a witness who may or may not talk? No. The truth is that now they see you coming from a million miles away. And there is still no evidence. Even if Foster’s alibi on Tussaint falls apart, so what? It doesn’t mean he killed him. Nobody saw Foster kill him except Luther Jones, and he’s not talking, not ever, regardless of what you’ve done.”
Glitsky cupped his hands around his glass. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said in a level tone, “but wasn’t it you who said—it was yesterday, I believe—that nobody would come after Hal because the coincidence factor would be too great? Why doesn’t that apply to Allison Biehl, too?”
“Okay.” Hardy held up his hands. “Perhaps in my syllogistic zeal, I exaggerated about Allison. Perhaps she will be in no danger. Because she isn’t a threat to anybody. Her husband sticks with his perjury about the alibi—and he will, because why wouldn’t he?—and then Allison says you threatened or coerced or tricked her or something, and all of a sudden we’re back at square one. Except everybody is warned about everything. How do you not see this?”
“I see it, Diz. But I see it playing out differently.”
“You do? How’s that?”
“I keep the pressure on, and something gives. It’s already happened today, since ‘CityTalk.’ And now Allison. The logjam is breaking up.”
Hardy blew out a long breath in frustration. “It might be. People might be getting nervous, but that’s only going to make them more careful, not more reckless. Besides which, you know that the more you accuse without a show of proof—and I mean any proof—the less credibility you’ll have. You give us another cockeyed theory, and people roll their eyes. Until finally, Wes has to bow to public pressure and lay you off because you’re obsessed and you’ve stopped acting the way an inspector needs to.”
“I am obsessed.” Abe lowered his voice. “These guys are getting away with murder, Diz. Multiple murders. And I’m not supposed to break this nut open any way I can?”
“I hate to say it, but that’s right. You’re not just supposed to break it any way you can. You’ve got to break it the way you’re supposed to, so a case can stick. Otherwise it’s wasted effort. If anything, it’ll help them, not us.”
“So what about your client?”
“What about him?”
“Do you think he killed Katie?”
Hardy needed a moment to consider his answer. He suddenly remembered his beer. When he put it back down, he said, “The grand jury found enough to indict him, Abe. Even if most of what you think about Cushing and Foster is true, he’s as good as any other suspect. Or, rather, because there’s no physical evidence against him, as bad.”
“Do you think he did it, Diz?”
“It’s got nothing to do with what I think.”
“Sure, but still. Simple question, yes or no.”
At last Hardy nodded, barely whispering. “No.”
“And I’m not supposed to do everything I can to get him off? Isn’t that what you asked me to do, and what I’m doing now with Farrell?”
“You said it yourself. You’re obsessed. What you need to do is find evidence. Nothing else. No more theories, no hearsay, just admissible evidence.”
Glitsky found his temper flaring. “What do you think I got?”
Hardy shook his head. “Never admissible. Not in a million years.”
“Diz. It’s the first time we got a look at the truth here.”
“Oh, and what’s that? That Foster killed Tussaint?”
“And Maria, and Luther, and maybe Katie Chase, too.”
“We don’t know any of that. All we think we might know is that Foster’s alibi might not hold up. That’s a lot of maybe.”
“It’s a wedge. It’s the first one.”
“Yeah, if you could prove it. Can you do that? Because until you can . . .”
“I’m working from truth here, Diz. I know the truth.”
“Spare me the truth, Abe. Get me something I can use.”
In a cold fury, Glitsky stared across the bar at his friend. “You know what,” he said in a clipped tone, “I don’t need to talk about this anymore. I’m doing what I’m doing, I’m doing it my way, and I’m getting results. And I’m gonna keep doing it.” He pushed his tea over to the bar’s gutter and stood up. “Have yourself a nice day.”
He walked out the front door.