"So somebody ought to tell Wade and Roy to watch out," he said. "These guys are serious. I mean, Glitsky's up there in the department. He's also tight with Clarence Jackman, the District Attorney. His wife, get this, is even Jackman's personal secretary."
"And they're all in this together?"
"My boss didn't know how high up it went. He didn't want to think it went to Jackman, but it might. But there's no doubt a conspiracy here."
"Trying to frame Wade?"
"That's what it looks like. Glitsky had this poor old lady prepped like you couldn't believe. Didn't Wade still have a key to Sam's place? I doubt she even knew what she was saying, but Glitsky sure as hell knew what he was feeding her."
Liz came up on an elbow and the blanket slipped down to reveal the arc of her breast. "I haven't heard Glitsky's name before around this. Although I know Dismas Hardy, of course, and David Freeman. They've been out to get us for most of the past year now. I don't know why. Wade's the nicest man. Secretary's Day last year he took me to Masa's. It must have cost him three hundred dollars. And flowers every day that week."
"You don't have to sell me. He basically did my job for me on this one."
"You're being modest."
"I don't know about that. But I do know Wade had better be careful. This Glitsky is a very serious man. Wade's got to be clear on that."
"I'll sit him down and make him listen. Except what can he do, really? That's the problem with being a good guy. You can't stop anybody until they do something to you first."
"So maybe somebody will do something."
"To Wade? I don't want that, either."
"No. I mean stop Glitsky. The DA or somebody might step in."
"I can't believe he's with the police and he's so bad."
"I know," Cuneo said. "It's a problem."
21
Motor running and heat on, Paul Thieu's car was parked across the street from Glitsky's duplex on Monday morning. When he and Treya came down their steps at a little after 7:30, Thieu turned off the engine, opened the door, and got out. Glitsky stopped, said something to his wife, and left her on the sidewalk while he crossed over.
"You could have come up and knocked, Paul," he said. "We would have let you in."
Thieu said, "I thought it would be better if we didn't talk at the Hall."
Thieu wasn't yet thirty-five years old, and Glitsky suddenly realized that except for Marcel Lanier, he was now the oldest inspector in homicide. He recalled when he'd pulled Thieu out of Missing Persons six years ago to translate as he'd interviewed the Vietnamese mother of another murder victim. Then, as now, the face had been grave-if the man had a flaw, he was too serious. This morning, he exuded gravity.
"I was going to be driving in with Treya," Glitsky said.
"I could take you, drop you off a block down."
It wasn't really a request. Glitsky had years and rank on Thieu, but neither played much of a role in their connection. Thieu's brains commanded respect, and Glitsky simply nodded, then walked over to Treya to give her the news.
She didn't exactly embrace it. "Unless I'm mistaken," she said, "Paul's still in homicide." Then, "You didn't sneak out and call him, did you?"
He tried a feeble joke. "Maybe it's about his overtime."
"Maybe it's about Sam Silverman."
Last night, Nat had called with a recap of the interview Sadie had had with Cuneo. Not that the inspector's theory was any less defensible than Glitsky's. Certainly it was possible that Holiday had reentered the store with a key and then stolen the ring on another day. But at the very least, Glitsky thought Cuneo should have been open to the possibility that someone-not necessarily Panos but necessarily Silverman's killers-had planted the ring at Holiday's. It made him wonder. Somehow homicide and Panos kept seeing facts-even ambiguous or incriminating facts-in the same light.
When he'd been in homicide, he'd never had that experience with the Patrol Special.
It still wasn't his job, but with the attack on Hardy, it was at least his business. Treya, even, had come to agree with that.
She kissed him good-bye and said she'd be around if he wanted to have lunch. He watched her walking away for a few steps, then put his hands in his flight jacket pockets and crossed the street.
"I've been wrestling with guilt," Thieu began after they were rolling.
"Who's winning?"
"I guess the guilt. I'm here." He threw a quick look across the seat at his old boss. "You know anything about this double in the 'Loin?" Wills and Terry.
Glitsky chuckled. "Treya just called it."
"What?"
"Silverman."
Thieu took that in, nodding as though it confirmed something he'd been thinking. "I didn't draw Silverman. It wasn't ever my case. You know Cuneo and Russell?"
"Not personally."
Thieu shrugged. "Well, they got Silverman. Few nights later, I pull this kid Creed, who was the main witness for Silverman."
"I heard," Glitsky said.
"You know about this?"
"Some." He looked over, qualified it. "What I read in the papers."
Stopped at a red light, Thieu tried to find a clue in Glitsky's expression. Apparently, there wasn't one. "All right, I'll cut to the chase. Creed and these two poor schmucks in the 'Loin, suddenly they're connected because Creed had ID'd them for Silverman. Then a gun's at their place, ballistics confirms it killed both Silverman and Creed, everybody's happy, right?"
"I know I am," Glitsky said.
"Except there's a third guy Creed named."
"John Holiday."
The trace of a smile lifted Thieu's mouth. "But you're not following the case."
Glitsky shook his head, straight-faced. "Hardly at all."
"Then maybe you wouldn't know they pulled a warrant for him."
"I did hear something about that."
"Okay, here's where the guilt comes in. None of these are my cases. Gerson yanked two of them out from under me after I'd already worked the scenes."
"Let me guess," Glitsky said. "You're conflicted about telling them they screwed up."
Another red light had stopped them. Thieu turned to his mentor. "Worse. I want them to screw up."
Glitsky sat with it a minute. "What'd they miss?" he asked.
It wasn't a long laundry list, but it was compelling enough. Thieu told Glitsky that when it had become obvious that Holiday, by default, was going to become the prime suspect in all the murders, Thieu had gone by the place he worked and, to his own satisfaction, verified that he had a reasonably good and, more importantly, verifiable alibi for the time of his bartender's-Terry's-death. Thieu had questioned dozens of killers and witnesses in his six years in homicide, and was all but positive that if the arrest warrant hadn't been hustled through so quickly, Holiday would have supplied the names of his customers who would have eliminated him as a suspect at least in the deaths of Wills and Terry.
Beyond that, Thieu said, it flew in the face of reason that this grotesque and sexually tinged double murder had been a result of thieves falling out among themselves. There was also too much of Silverman's money lying around-if it was about the robbery, Holiday would have known it was there somewhere and at least searched for it. Then taken it.
In Thieu's opinion, and he'd given it a lot of thought, only two scenarios worked here. One was Faro's: this was a pickup gone bad. The other was his own: that whoever killed these guys was some kind of psycho who enjoyed it all right, but whose true motive was to implicate the only suspect left alive, Holiday. Who, unfortunately for the actual bad guys, had an alibi. The whole thing screamed overkill. It was far too neat a package. The dope, the money, the gun, the shoes.
"Oh, and while we're on the shoes." Thieu had been talking for five minutes and now suddenly paused for a breath. "You read about the gunk? All well and good. Nice Italian shoes, size thirteen. But guess what? Terry wore a thirteen, all right, but the Italian thirteen is at least a half size smaller than our thirteen. No way he wears those shoes. They weren't his. Especially when every other pair in the closet was crappy. Six pairs of sneakers, some Birkenstocks, flip-flops, one lace-up wingtip. Anybody who looked would see which pair didn't belong there."