Jackman lifted a peanut with his chopsticks and looked at it skeptically. The special today was Kung Pao Moussaka- not one of Chui's all-time triumphs- and everyone at the table was picking at their food. "Are you sure it's even worth the time, Abe?"
Glitsky knew what Jackman meant. He sagged a bit. "No. I don't."
"On the other hand," Roake said, "if it's the only thing you have to go on, what do you have to lose?"
"That's my feeling." Glitsky sipped some tea. "Whatever else he is, this guy knows what he's doing. I don't believe somebody's paying him to hit these people, and he's not picking them at random."
"Are you even sure of that?" Jackman asked.
Glitsky had to shake his head. "At this point, Clarence, I'm not sure it's Tuesday."
"And no hint about Allan, either, I assume."
Treya answered for her husband. "Abe sent out Inspector Belou this morning to talk again to Edie." Boscacci's widow.
"Meaning no leads on anything in his professional life?" Jackman asked. "Any of his active cases?"
"He didn't really have any, Clarence, as you know better than anybody. There might be something on the home front Edie couldn't remember with the initial shock. But I'm not holding out much hope there, either."
"So you really think Allan might have been shot by this Executioner, too?" Roake asked.
"No. I can't say I'm all the way to thinking it, Gina. I'm really just back where we were," Glitsky said. "It's the only place I've got to look. What I'm really hoping is that this guy last night has got a huge extended family, who'll tell us that a long time ago he invested in Wong's produce and dated Edith Montrose and bought a used car from Elizabeth Cary, and they all had the same banker."
"Who is a gun collector," Treya added.
"Right," Glitsky said. "That'd be even better."
"But you doubt it?" Roake said.
Glitsky nodded. "Seriously."
Everyone stopped and looked up as Marcel Lanier suddenly appeared at Glitsky's elbow. "Excuse me, I don't mean to interrupt. Abe. I was just up at your office."
Lanier's face was mottled with emotion. His breath came as though he'd been running. "I'm just back up from San Bruno," he said. "I begged crime scene down there to come back and look again and they found the slug."
"Tollman's?"
"Yeah. In the roof of a garage a couple of houses down. Given the circumstances, they let us run it up to our lab…," the San Francisco Crime Lab was halfway down to San Bruno anyway, "where they rushed it. You'll never guess."
Glitsky was already up. "I already did."
"Right. Same gun, no question. And Abe? All silenced. Four of the five slugs have a scuff mark. Same place on the bullet. Microscopically identical. A silencer, and the same one. And guess what else? Tollman? His daughter said he was on a murder jury one time."
"Where? San Bruno?"
"She didn't know. But they lived in the city until she was five."
"So it might have been here. What about the ex-wife? She'd know."
"She might. Except she's on a mission in India."
"How the gods favor the good." Glitsky put his hands to his face and pulled them down over it. He looked back at the table. "This is it," he said to no one and everyone. Then, to Jackman. "I need more people, Clarence. Yesterday."
Jackman nodded. "I'll give you some clerks and every deputy I can spare."
"Guys." The men looked back at Treya. "Forgive me for speaking up, but I'd be careful about that." She spoke to her husband. "I know you need people, Abe, but you don't need this to make the news, do you?"
"What?" he said. "You're saying the media isn't my friend?"
"She's right," Lanier said. "It gets out, it tells him we know."
"Good," Jackman said. "Then maybe he stops."
"Or maybe he hurries up to finish," Glitsky said.
"Call me slow," Roake said, "but what is it that we know, exactly? What's he going to hurry to finish?"
By now they were all out of the booth, standing in a knot. Glitsky leaned in to Roake. "He's recently gotten out of prison and he's killing the people that put him away. He's already killed the prosecutor and I'm guessing four of the jurors. That leaves eight more, and maybe the judge, whoever that was."
"The good news," Jackman said, "is if you're right, it's a finite list of suspects. Big, but finite. Maybe among your four hundred, Abe."
"That's where I'm starting, for sure," Glitsky said.
"If it's not on that list, though," Roake said, "what are you looking at?"
Glitsky thought of the cavernous basement to the Hall of Justice, nearly a city block square, packed to the fifteen-foot ceiling with file boxes of ancient transcripts. "A lot more victims," he said.
Jackman and Roake walked together across Bryant Street. They were about to say good-bye when the DA put his hand on Roake's arm and said, "I'm glad to see you back down here, Gina. I was worried about you. Although, of course, I understood. We all miss David, though never as much as you do, I'm sure."
"Thank you, Clarence. That's nice of you to say."
"I mean it. May I ask you, though, did anything specific bring you back today?"
She offered a slinky grin. "If credit is due, I'd have to give it to my oh-so-subtle partner."
"No offense to Mr. Farrell, but that would be Mr. Hardy?"
She nodded. "You've got to love the guy, except when you hate him."
Jackman gave his own imitation of a smile. "Yes, I had a little of both experiences just this morning. I wonder if you could give him a message for me?"
"Certainly."
"Just tell him that it's not about scratching backs. It's about justice and that's why Jamahl isn't being charged with murder."
"Jamahl isn't being charged with murder. Got it."
"It's about justice, too. That's important. That's why he's supporting my campaign."
"Jamahl and justice."
A wide grin. "And Jackman."
"Hand in glove," Roake said. She gave the DA a chaste buss on the cheek. "I'm all over it," she said. "See you next week."
30
Outside the YGC courtroom after lunch, Hardy said hello to Ken Brolin, Andrew's anger management psychologist, while he was in the hallway catching up with the Norths. Hal and Linda maintained their chilly demeanor, not saying a word to him as he introduced Brolin to Wu, explaining that she would be conducting Brolin's interrogation on the second criterion when court was back in session.
When the younger bailiff- Cottrell- called everyone in from the hallway, Hardy went out to his car, drove to the 280 freeway and headed south. He'd called Mike Mooney's father during the lunch break. The sad old man had been home, but had no idea how to get in touch either with Terri or Catherine, Mooney's ex-wives. He hadn't heard from either of them in years and years. So Hardy had asked him if he was still in possession of his son's effects. If the dissolution papers were among them, Hardy might be able to track the women down.
As it happened, the reverend had his son's papers and files stored in an empty room of the rectory until he could decide what to do with them. Until now, he hadn't even had the heart to glance at all the stuff, but he said Hardy was welcome to go through it if he'd like, if it would help him identify Mike's killer.
Mooney stood and raised a hand in feeble greeting as Hardy came up the walk. He wore his black sports coat today, and had obviously been in his chair on the small front porch waiting.
If anything, the house was sadder during the day, in the sunshine. Five painful minutes after he'd arrived, after he had assured Reverend Mooney that he would be welcome to join him if he'd like to take this opportunity to start going through Mike's possessions, Hardy was alone in one of the unused back bedrooms of the sprawling house. Even with the blinds open and the overhead light on, it was a dim room, with a threadbare light-orange carpet. There was a dresser with a mirror over it, a made-up single bed, an empty pocket-door closet, a small bathroom. Three rows of four packing boxes were tucked into the corner under the windows.