Hardy stood up. ‘This gives a whole new meaning to helping clean up the streets, you know.’
Drysdale allowed himself a smile. ‘Maybe the hand’ll turn into something.’ The baseballs flew back up into the air.
Hardy stopped in the doorway. ‘Maybe the hand’ll turn into something.’
Drysdale nodded, his attention split at best. ‘Could happen,’ he said. ‘Could happen.’
At four o’clock, Hardy called it quits and went over to Lou the Greek’s.
It had been a long afternoon. John Strout, the coroner, was a courtly Southern gentleman who accepted Hardy’s apology with apparent sincerity, although Sixto’s clipped and formal greeting at the desk indicated that there had been some harsh feelings earlier in the day.
The chief of police, John Rigby, wasn’t available, so Hardy scheduled an appointment with him for the next afternoon. The police sergeant who served as Rigby’s secretary took the opportunity to gently remind Hardy that homicides were usually determined by police work, after which they were passed up to the D.A.‘s office.
Hardy tried to cheer himself with the argument that he had very quickly passed through the just-another-face-in-the-crowd stage at work. Everyone in the building seemed to know who he was. It wasn’t much consolation.
He wrote a memo to Locke that he threw in the wastebasket. There wasn’t any fence to mend with Locke. He figured he’d either get a good conviction record and move up, or not get one and move out. There was a fine line between kissing ass and mending fences.
At Lou’s, Hardy sat alone at the bar, spinning the jade paperweight. He was nursing a black and tan when a tall, very attractive woman pulled up the stool next to him. Hardy had never spoken to her before, but he knew who she was. She put a hand on his shoulder, leaned close and told him not to let the bastards get him down.
He dropped the jade into his pocket as she flashed him a mouthful of teeth and extended the hand that had been on his shoulder. ‘Elizabeth Pullios. You’re Dismas Hardy.’
‘Guilty.’ Hardy took the warm, fine hand. ‘Which seems to be today’s magic word.’
Pullios might not be the best-looking woman in the D.A.‘s office, Hardy thought, but she thought she was and so occasionally really could be. Perhaps five foot eight, with shoulder-length chestnut hair that shone even in the dim light at Lou’s, she had a big nose, a generous mouth, deep-set eyes and high cheekbones. She wore a brush of tasteful makeup, just enough to set off the angles and highlight the eyes.
‘Guilty is every day’s magic word,’ she said. She signaled Lou behind the bar for a drink, then came back to Hardy. ‘Ruffled the brass feathers, huh? Art told me about it.’
‘Art told me about it, too.’
‘You get reamed?’
Hardy managed a wry smile. ‘I can still sit down. But I think I’ll pass on talking to reporters for a while.’
‘No, don’t,’ she said. Her drink arrived, a double Scotch mist from the looks of it, and she drank half of it in a gulp. ‘Don’t stop talking to anybody. They’re just trying to bust your balls. Talk to anybody you can use.’
‘Who’s trying to bust my balls?’
‘Locke and Art. You’re new and that’s what they do. Find out what you’re made of. They play the bureaucrat game ’cause it’s their control mechanism. Which sometimes is good for some people, but if you want some kick-ass cases, don’t let ‘em stop you. If you’re good in front of a jury, everything’s forgiven, believe me.’
It was coming back to Hardy, the story on Elizabeth Pullios. She was known as a ballbreaker in her own right. She delighted in prosecuting – did it with a singular passion. It was said, more than half truthfully, that she favored the death penalty for car theft, pickpocketing, purse-snatching. She had been married during her first few years as a D.A. to a guy in the office, and when he accepted a better job in private practice on the defense side, she had divorced him. She couldn’t live with a defense attorney, she said. They were the scum of the earth – worse, almost, than defendants.
Now the word was she’d have you if you were good enough.
So Hardy was forewarned. He figured he could talk to her safely enough. He was, after all, in love with Frannie. ‘I’m afraid this reporter Elliot kind of used me instead of vice versa,’ he said.
She shrugged that off. ‘Look, that’s what reporters do. But they can also keep a case hot. A lot of us have been known to leak stuff- just don’t let your name out.’
‘That message was pretty clear.’
Pullios finished her drink and signaled Lou again. ‘Buy you another?’ she asked.
Hardy wasn’t half through his first, but an old-hand bartender like himself could nurse a couple of brews along for as long as he needed. ‘Did Art ask you to talk to me?’
‘No, but he told me you were frustrated about your work. I put a little together and I hate to see new guys get shafted. It’s bad for all of us.’ The round of drinks came. Hardy and Pullios clicked glasses. ‘To the good guys,’ she said. ‘That’s us, Hardy, remember that. That’s always us.’
Hardy was out of Lou’s before five. There was a steady cool breeze coming off the Bay and it threw some grit up into his face and eyes as he walked down the alley next to the Hall of Justice.
Detective Sergeant Abraham Glitsky was sitting on the hood of Hardy’s Suzuki Samurai. ‘If you’re going home I could use a drop-off,’ he said. ‘My city-owned vehicle is once again on the blink. Why is there never enough money to keep things working?’
‘I’ve got a better one – what accounts for your jolly high spirits lately?’
Glitsky slid off the car, letting out a breath. ‘I know,’ he said. Hardy passed by him and unlocked the passenger door. ‘Too many dead guys, I guess. You go see enough bodies a day, you smile less. It’s a proven fact.’
It brought Hardy up short. His desire to get interesting cases – murders – tended in some way to reduce their horror especially after his chat with Elizabeth Pullios. But most of the time on his job he was in ‘suspect’ mode, where he had a perpetrator he was trying to convict. It was easy to forget that half of Glitsky’s job was concerned with victims – families, friends, mourning.
Hardy got in his seat and started the engine. Glitsky shook his head. ‘One of the weekend drive-bys was a kid about Isaac’s age.’ Isaac was the eldest of Glitsky’s three children, a twelve-year-old. ‘Even looked a little like him, except for the hole in his forehead.’
Even after a few months on the job, Hardy hadn’t developed a taste for cop humor. He didn’t know if he wanted to – it rarely made anyone laugh.
They rode in silence for a minute, heading west into the sun. Finally Hardy said, ‘I’m waiting.’
‘For what?’
‘Your two cents’ worth.’
Glitsky squinted into the sunset. ‘And I’d love to give it, as I know you’re often in need of my counsel and advice. But I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘The hand being a homicide.’
‘That was you, huh? I was afraid it was you.’
‘You didn’t see it?’
Glitsky shook his head. ‘I didn’t get to the paper today. But some guys were talking about this jerkoff D. A.’
‘Yeah. That was me.’
‘Well, look at the bright side like I always do. Maybe it was a homicide, maybe you’ll get the case, win it, get a big conviction, become D.A., run for governor, win that -’
‘Here’s your stop,’ Hardy said. ‘You need a lift in the morning?’
‘I’ll bet it’s a woman,’ Frannie said.
‘Not Andy Fowler.’
‘You wait and see. It’s a woman. The paperweight was a gift from a woman that he isn’t seeing. She broke up with him and suddenly he couldn’t bear to see it anymore. It reminded him too much of her and she’d broken his heart.’