"No law says you can't come across out of court as sympathetic, you know, a little… sensitive," he was saying over midnight drinks to Dan Cuneo as they sat at the bar at Lou the Greek's. "Then you get 'em in court, suddenly I'm the iceman and whop 'em upside the head. They don't know what hit 'em."
Rosen's experience had taught him that he needed every advantage he could get in San Francisco, where juries tended to see their main role as finding some reason, almost any reason-stress, hardship, bad luck, unfortunate upbringing-to let defendants off. There always lurked some mitigating factor, some reason for juries to forgive.
"Hey, but enough about me." Rosen sipped at his single malt. It wasn't anywhere near his working hours on a Friday night. He was out here now with his Oban on the rocks as a favor to his main-man arson inspector Arnie Becker, and also because the recent double-homicide fire was going to be the biggest case he'd tried to date. "Becker says you got a lead on Hanover."
Cuneo, on duty, drank Cherry Coke, no ice. "You know the basics?"
"Not much beyond Hanover and his girlfriend."
"All right." Cuneo tapped his fingers on the bar. "There was this couple, Maxine and Joseph Willis…" Drinking more Cherry Coke, fidgeting in his chair, continuing his percussion on the bar top, Cuneo laid out for Rosen the originally conflicting stories of the Willises- how Maxine had seen Missy D'Amiens leave the Hanover house within minutes of when the fire must have started, how Joseph had been uncertain-it might have been somebody else. Then there was Jeffie at the Valero station who volunteered that someone who looked something like her, but had different hair, had bought gasoline in a container and put it into her trunk.
"I'm still listening," Rosen said. "So you've got a woman who resembled this Missy."
"Well, wait. More than that. I've got a true fox, middle-aged…"
"Which one?" Rosen asked. "A fox or middle-aged?"
"Both." At Rosen's skeptical look, Cuneo said, "It happens. You'd seen her, you'd believe it. Anyway, she's in jeans and a shiny blue shirt, black leather jacket, driving a Mercedes, buying a container of gasoline and then coming out of Hanover's house a few minutes before it goes up."
"If it's all the same woman."
"Right. Of course. It was."
"Which means?"
"Which means, what if she had a motive?" Cuneo waited, but Rosen didn't bite. "Which she did."
"So you're telling me you've got a suspect."
"Not quite yet. I'm close. Light on physical evidence, but loaded with probable cause."
"You want a warrant," Rosen said.
"Yep, yep, yep." Cuneo bobbed his head, tattooed the bar with a final paradiddle. "Becker says you're tight with some judges."
Rosen shrugged. "The question is, can we make the case. I don't want to bring anybody in front of a grand jury and have nothing to talk about." He cast his eyes around. "I need a narrative. If I buy it, I can sell it to whoever's signing warrants."
Cuneo willed himself still, met Rosen's eye. "Grand jury's Tuesday, right?"
"Every week. You're thinking that soon?"
"I can do the search tomorrow if we can get a warrant now. We'll know by Sunday. Is that enough time for you?"
Rosen swirled the last of his Scotch and drank it off. "Plenty," he said.
11
Glitsky used police magic to find the address he wanted. Now, just before ten o'clock on Saturday morning, he was walking up Russian Hill in bright sunshine to the door of an enormous three-story brown box of a building on the corner of Green and Larkin. He stood in the covered entryway for a minute, trying to imagine what a place this big, in this neighborhood, would cost. Decided it didn't bear reflection. From his perspective, it was all the money in the world.
He rang the doorbell and listened as chimes sounded behind the double doors-etched glass in carved dark wood. After a long, silent moment, a short female figure appeared behind the glass and opened the door. In a black uniform with a white apron, she smiled formally and, seeing that Glitsky was a man of color in casual clothes said, "Deliveries are in the back."
Producing his wallet, Glitsky displayed his badge.
"I'm Deputy Chief of Inspectors Abe Glitsky. I wonder if I might have a word with Mr. Granat."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No, ma'am. I was hoping to catch him in."
"Is this, then, official police business?"
"I'd just like to talk to him, if he can spare a minute."
"Certainly," she said. "I'll see if he's available." She turned, had a thought and turned again. "Would you care to wait inside?"
Glitsky crossed the threshold into the house and watched the maid walk down the long hallway and then somewhere off to her left. She'd left him standing on a burgundy Oriental carpet that was larger than Glitsky's living room, yet still did not quite reach the walls around the grand foyer. Even with the sunshine outside and the windows behind him, even with the six-foot chandelier and its fifty bulbs lit above him, the space was dim. No sound came from the rest of the house, and only gradually did Glitsky become aware of the ticking of a clock, although he couldn't locate its source. His eyes went to the art-dark oils in large burnished gilt frames-hung in the spaces between doorways. They were frankly-he thought purposefully-disturbing, all blacks and reds, flesh and blooded browns. Erotic overtones, sexually ambiguous-hints of nakedness amid industrial waste, a pack of dogs gathered over something not quite identifiable in a graffitied doorway.
"You like my paintings?"
Surprised-where had the man come from?-Glitsky whirled and found out. A door on the left wall stood open, blessedly light and even inviting. "I can't really say they speak to me."
"Yes, I do suppose it's an acquired taste. The tension of whether something terrible has just happened, or whether it's about to."
Glitsky shook his head. "I get enough of that in my job."
"Yes, of course. I suppose you do." He extended his hand, revealing a mouthful of perfect teeth under a crisp gray mustache. He was about Glitsky's size, a bit thinner. His hair was thick, silver. Even here in his home on the weekend, he was well turned out-black merino sweater, tan slacks, expensive-looking loafers. A handsome, confident man. "Nils Granat," he said, gripping Glitsky's hand hard, meeting his eyes. "We've met before, haven't we?"
"Yes, sir, a couple of times at City Hall. I wasn't sure you'd remember."
Granat turned his mouth up slightly, touched his forehead. "I remember people. It's almost what I do best. So what can I do for you, Chief? Is 'Chief' all right?"
"Fine."
"You want to sit in the library?" He jerked a finger behind him. "Right here." Without waiting for Glitsky to respond, he was already through the door and into the large, airy, pleasant adjoining room. "That foyer is a little gloomy, isn't it?" he said over his shoulder. "I should probably leave the side doors open, brighten it up. But then, I wasn't expecting anybody, especially this early on a weekend morning." He turned, confident that Glitsky would be there, and when he was, motioned him to the red leather couch. Granat himself pulled an Empire chair around and sat on it, crossing one leg over the other. "So how can I help you?" he asked. If he had any sense that this no-warning, early-morning visit by a high-ranking policeman meant that he was in trouble, he showed no sign of it.
Glitsky came forward to the front edge of the couch, and came right to the point. "I'm investigating the murder of Paul Hanover."