"What are you going to be doing?"
Glitsky drew a sharp breath. "Well, mostly, given the lack of any forensic evidence, I'm going to be developing theories. But I'm not complaining. At least it's a homicide. Something I know how to do."
Treya put her cup down, reached over, put her hand on Glitsky's shoulder. "Is your side hurting you again? Maybe you should see a doctor."
"No."
"No to what?"
"Both."
"You won't see a doctor?"
Glitsky grunted. "I've seen enough doctors. You start in with doctors, it never ends. They looked when this started and couldn't find anything. I'm not about to let them cut on me again just to look."
"But it's still hurting you, whatever it is."
"I know what it is." He softened his tone. "I'm uptight. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, and till it does or I decide it's not going to, I've got to tough it out."
"So what's going to make you decide that? Do you have any idea?"
"I don't know," he said. "Maybe doing something I'm good at."
"What does that mean? You're doing a great job as deputy chief. Everybody says so."
"Nobody was saying so yesterday with LeShawn."
Treya waved that off. "Those were just the media vultures, Abe. You know that. You can't take them seriously. I'm talking about people like Clarence, and Frank Batiste. The mayor. Kathy West. I hear nothing but good things and where I work, that's saying something."
A shrug. "I make my numbers. I show up on time. My brass shines. But inside I'm not like these people."
"What people?"
"Frank, Clarence, the mayor- all the people who have these meetings." He pushed at his side again. "They're politicians. Plus I've got this little secret and can't help thinking that someday somebody's going to find me out."
Treya spoke with some care. "Maybe you want to talk to somebody?"
"What do you mean, a shrink?" He barked out a black laugh. "So then word goes out that the man is cracking up? And everybody starts to check out my office furniture? Half the folks would think I really am crazy and the other half would figure it's a scam to get disability. I'd kiss my credibility good-bye forever."
"It wouldn't have to be a psychiatrist. Maybe a psychologist. Or a career counselor."
"And what's this person going to do, talk me out of the pain?" He took her hand. "Besides, I talk to you."
Treya wasn't going to be conned. "And I can't help. I haven't helped. I'm just saying maybe someone else could get somewhere."
"Not if I couldn't tell them about it. And I can't. You know I can't."
"That's what you keep saying. But there is such a thing as doctor/ patient privilege, you know. That's a real thing. They couldn't tell."
"Right, in theory. But in real life, they tell all the time. A rumor gets started, and you know cops, they ask questions. And then where are we?"
"At least you're not in pain."
"Wonderful. Except that now I'm ruined, even in jail. How does that sound? There's no statute on murder."
"It wasn't murder. It was self-defense. You keep saying it was murder, and it wasn't."
"All right, but it killed a cop. And I was a party to covering it up. Whatever happens, if that comes out, even if I never go to jail, it's the end of my career." He exhaled with some force. "I've got to live with it, that's all. It's not that bad."
But as he said it, he tightened his lips, the scar through them going white with the pressure. Treya, her own face tight with concern, laid a palm on his thigh and he covered it with his own hand, squeezing hard. When the spasm had passed, he released his grip. "Not that bad," he repeated.
He came into the bedroom and Treya put down her book. "Who was that?"
"Marcel."
She checked the bedside clock. 10:42. "This time of night?"
"I told him he could call anytime."
She smiled at him. "Of course you did." She patted the bed next to her. "Here, sit down. What did Marcel find?"
"Well, again, it's more what they didn't find. Nobody heard anything."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, Marcel sent out our team to knock on every door within two blocks of the All-Day Lot. Have another go at them, catch the people who weren't home earlier. They got forty-four hits, which is the jackpot. Nobody heard a shot, not even the shoe repair folks still at work just around the corner, like fifty feet away."
"Maybe they just didn't want to say."
"Maybe. Some percentage wouldn't give away their trash to save humanity. But you've got to hope that with forty-four people, maybe a couple are good citizens. But these folks were there, admitted they were there, talked to our people. Nobody heard anything."
Treya sat up. "Is that so unusual?"
Glitsky shrugged. "You know what a nine-millimeter sounds like? Close up, a cherry bomb. A block away, you hear it and you stop a second and go, 'What was that?' "
"And nobody heard anything? Maybe he was inside a car and rolled the window down?"
"Maybe that," Glitsky said. "Or maybe he had a suppressor."
"A what?"
"A silencer. Suppressor."
"And what does that mean? Other than the shot doesn't make much noise?"
"It means he's probably a pro. In which case he's probably in another state by now. But if he was a pro, that also means somebody hired him. It's another place to look, that's all."
Hardy owned a one-quarter interest in one of San Francisco's oldest bars, the Little Shamrock, at the corner of Ninth and Lincoln, just across the street from Golden Gate Park. The majority partner was Frannie's brother, Moses McGuire, another emotional casualty of the shoot-out. By jogging just slightly from the direct route to his home from Juan Salarco's, Hardy could pass right by the place, check up on his brother-in-law, maybe have a short nightcap.
It had gotten late. After saying good night to Salarco, Hardy had gone out to his car and, with the interview still fresh in his mind, listened to the tape of it twice through again. With the sometimes lengthy time-outs he took for making notes, both as the witness talked and as ideas occurred after each listening, he worked for most of an hour that felt to him like five minutes.
The Shamrock's bar ran along one wall halfway back to where the room widened out slightly. At the front door, it was wall-to-wall people, five or six deep. His first glance told Hardy he had no chance to claim a stool anywhere near the bar itself, and even if he was successful at that, the crowd would keep Moses too busy to talk. Nights like this, Hardy would sometimes take off his jacket, grab a bar towel and help out behind the rail. He'd been a bartender once, and a good one.
But tonight he wasn't in the mood. It was too crowded, too loud, too hot. The jukebox was cranked up with some old Marshall Tucker music. Maybe he ought to go home.
He was just turning to leave when Wes Farrell and his live-in girlfriend, Sam Duncan, pushed their way in. Sam was a petite, feisty, pretty dark-haired woman, forty-ish, who ran one of the city's rape crisis counseling centers not far away on Haight Street.
"You're not leaving?" Farrell said. "Not when we're just getting here."
"It had crossed my mind. It's going to take an hour to get a drink."
"We've got that knocked," Sam said. "We know the owner. Come on."
Sam took Hardy's hand and led the way, jostling them through the crowd. Once they'd cleared the bottleneck up front, there was adequate room to stand and even move as long as nobody wanted to polka. Hardy noticed that Farrell was his out-of-the-office casual self, wearing one of his trademark T-shirts, which read "Be More or Less Specific." At Hardy's shoulder, Sam was saying that since he was buying, she'd have a Chivas rocks and Wes would have a pint of Bass Ale. Hardy could have whatever he wanted.