"I can see that, and I assure you that I'm already disturbed, Phyllis. It's not your fault. I intend to have a word with her right away. Thank you."
He left his speaker on for a second or so while he began in a firm voice. "Ms. Wu, when I tell Phyllis I don't want to be disturbed, I expect you and all the associates to…" Then he pushed the button, breaking the connection. "Charging the door isn't very subtle, Wu. I need that woman, believe it or not. She's very good at what she does, none better."
"Maybe, but she's not very nice."
"She's not supposed to be. If she were nice, people would walk all over her. As it is, some of your colleagues are afraid to go to the bathroom if they have to pass her station. So they stay at their desks, working all day. This is good for the firm."
Wu allowed a smile. "You really are becoming more and more like Mr. Freeman."
Hardy inclined his head an inch. "I'll take that as a compliment of the highest order. Have you seen my darts?"
"Your darts? When would I have seen your darts?"
"I don't know. But they were here yesterday or the day before, and now I've mislaid them. Second time in two months. I think I'm losing my mind."
"Maybe you're just saving it for bigger things."
Hardy stopped his rummaging through his drawers, slammed the latest one closed. "Unfortunately, there's not much sign of that either." Scanning the room one last time for obvious places where he might have left them, he finally gave up and sat down in the big leather chair behind his desk. "So what's important enough to risk the wrath of Phyllis?"
She held up the envelope. "This is very cool."
"What is it?"
She handed it to him and he pulled out the pages.
Dear Ms. Wu,
I've been meaning to write to thank you and Mr. Hardy for all that you did for me, but I had so much work to make up at school, I never got the time. As I think you might have heard from my mom, Sutro took me back- some combination of Hal's money and Mr. Wagner making me sign a paper promising that I wouldn't bring a loaded gun to school again.
Oh. Okay. Or what? I get expelled?
Forgetting that we don't own a gun anymore, and as if that would stop me if I decided to. But don't worry, I agree that it's a bad idea.
The other reason I haven't had time is that I've been doing some more writing- I started almost the day I got out, totally different stuff than "Perfect Killer." Working with the narrative voice, wondering if maybe it wouldn't hurt to have it be accessible, even friendly. Anyway, maybe I'm getting somewhere, since just today I heard back from McSweeney's. They say they want to publish my latest story. I thought you'd be glad to hear about that, and maybe also to hear that I'm so glad I didn't die when I tried to kill myself. So glad.
You know the famous line from Anna Karenina? "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." Well, my time in my own unhappy family is getting to the end, and maybe when I get to going out and making one of my own, I can form it a little differently. The story McSweeney's is taking imagines a guy from a happier family, way later on. I hope you like it.
Just remember one thing, though, would you? I made it all up.
Brandt and Wu were at a table in the restaurant at the back of the Balboa Cafe. The waiter had brought their drinks, but both of them remained untouched. When Brandt finished reading Andrew's letter, he handed it gingerly back to Wu. It was a long minute before he said anything. "I don't like to think that I was trying to send him to prison for the rest of his life." He paused again. "I've never had a defendant be innocent before, you know that? It gives one pause."
"You wonder if you've sent up somebody who shouldn't be there?"
He thought about it for a few seconds. "Not really, no. I don't think so. I mean, Bartlett was unusual. At least I hope he was. But I don't know for sure, to tell you the truth. I'm sure Allan Boscacci thought what's his name, Welding, was guilty. In a funny way," he said, "it almost makes me feel better about the system. I mean, Andrew Bartlett got off, with me and Johnson both trying to bring him down. Sometimes it works."
Hardy and Glitsky hadn't seen much of each other for six weeks.
In the aftermath of the Executioner arrest, and in spite of its successful conclusion, the media couldn't seem to warm to Glitsky's politically incorrect style. The many published and broadcasted comparisons with his role in the LeShawn Brodie debacle, combined with his alleged insensitivity not only to the legal, but to the basic human, rights of suspects, especially those that came from backgrounds riddled with abuse, prompted several public and private calls for his resignation. Other advocacy groups demanded investigations into the police department's decision-making procedures, and called for the formation of various committees to oversee (and second-guess) the command structure.
How had it taken the police so long (nearly twenty hours!) to crib together the clues linking Lucas Welding with his son and his current identity? Why, even working with the luxury of an event number, had no one in the police department been able to discover sooner that the Executioner's victims had all been on the same jury? Surely, the records on these things should be more accessible. How had it taken so long to locate the address of the last victim, Wendy Takahashi? Better police work, quicker and more informed decision-making, would almost certainly have saved her life. How in the world had Glitsky seen fit to allow an unelected civilian to take part in a command decision involving the city's highly skilled and specialized TAC unit?
And on and on and on.
Fortunately, Batiste, Lanier, Jackman and the mayor himself- in a rare and somewhat surprising display of unanimity- had all closed ranks around Glitsky, shouldering their portions of the blame if, in fact, there had been any. Eventually, inevitably, the immediate outcry had died down.
Although Glitsky knew, and hoped, that his days as deputy chief were probably numbered. He couldn't say it broke his heart. He'd even spoken to Lanier and Batiste about the possibility of becoming an inspector at large, where he could float between the investigations of different details without being burdened by an administrative portfolio. He wasn't a politician and everybody knew it, so why not let him work where he could do some good, instead of where, with the best of intentions, a great work ethic and even a record of success, he caused nothing but headaches for the department?
For his part, Hardy had spent most of his time bringing his associates and partners up to speed on the workload surrounding what he called his "influence clients." He'd lost his taste for facilitating. What he liked best and did best was trials. Another of his associates, Graham Russo, had asked him if he'd consider another shot at second chair in a local potential death penalty murder case that would need an incredibly strong psychiatric defense to prevail. Russo was planning to argue some variety of mental illness to save his client's life. And in truth, Hardy had known golden retrievers with more brains than their client, who reminded him of Lenny in Of Mice and Men-"Tell me about the rabbits, George." The client had done some terrible things, it was true, but Hardy didn't believe the state should execute him. But whatever the outcome, it was going to be a complex and interesting case. Huge issues. He just wanted to be part of it.
He'd spent the better portion of the rest of his time, at his own expense, boning up on immigration law- there was already an enormous market there, and in California it was only going to grow- and using the Salarcos as his guinea pigs. He'd secured the sponsorship of several of Juan's gardening customers (all of whom lived in comparative splendor), and though it was early in the game, he held out some hope that the Salarcos could avoid some of the bureaucracy and despair of the long-drawn-out citizenship process.