"No. Nobody. Not a hint."
"Then drop it."
But he hadn't dropped it.
He couldn't do that, not while he was a cop and not while he believed that Cuneo had arrested the wrong suspect. Which meant that the real killer was still on the streets, and now-if not for Glitsky-with no one in pursuit. On top of that, Glitsky wasn't about to be chased off by the fear that Cuneo would expose him in some way. Once he let that happen, he might as well resign. He would be useless. No, the most effective way to neutralize Cuneo would be to discover what he'd missed-to be more thorough, more organized, a better cop.
He realized that in fact it would not hurt at all if Cuneo and Rosen believed that he was dropping out of the case. He could use the power of his office as a cover to pursue his own leads under their noses-if he played it right, and he would, he might actually be aided in his interrogations by his witnesses' perception that the police already had a suspect in custody, so Glitsky couldn't possibly be focusing on them.
He did not want this to become a political liability for Kathy West, however. There was no point in that, so he went to her and convinced her that he had to drop the case. He had nothing going anyway, no real leads. Then he told her a little about Schuyler's theories, Cuneo and Rosen, which she'd considered ridiculous and infuriating, but in the end didn't want to pursue. Obviously, the men lived in an alternate universe, but a witch hunt with her as the central figure in an undefined conspiracy theory was something she'd prefer to avoid.
Finally, Glitsky went to Lanier and gave him the news, too, that he was off the case. It was all Cuneo's from here on out. The homicide inspector had done a good job of identifying the defendant, and Catherine Hanover's arrest took Glitsky out of the loop.
So whatever conspiracy he'd been involved in around this case became moot to both Cuneo and Rosen, and he hadn't heard another word about it since.
It was still there, though.
Now, holding Treya's hand, he scratched at the kitchen table. "Maybe I should just call back and tell Diz no."
"I don't think so, hon. This thing has been sticking in your rather well-developed craw for months. If you want to help Diz, just acknowledge what you're doing so you're ready when the shit hits the fan, which it will, I promise." She smiled in her teasing way. "For the record, I apologize for the use of profanity in front of our daughter, too." She looked down at Rachel and said, "We don't say 'shit' in this house, little girl."
Rachel returned her gaze with a questioning, open expression. "What shit?" she asked.
Glitsky hung his head and shook it from side to side.
"Wonderful."
But Treya suddenly sat up straighter. "Oh." Her hand went to her stomach and she blew out a long breath.
Glitsky squeezed her hand. "Trey?"
She held up her index finger, telling him to be patient a minute. Breathing deeply and slowly, she looked up and found the clock on the wall. "We're there," she said.
"Where we?" Rachel asked.
"We're in labor, sweetie," Treya answered gently. "You know the little brother we've been waiting for all this time? He's telling me he's on his way."
16
Hardy parked under his office, in the managing partner's spot next to the elevator. His mind elsewhere, he got in the elevator and rode upward, not realizing that out of force of some long-buried habit, he'd pushed "3." Before he'd become managing partner, this was where he'd worked. Now, his partner, Wes Farrell, worked out of his old office. The elevator door opened and Hardy stepped out into the hall and stood for a minute, wondering where he was.
"Brilliant," he said to himself.
Knocking on Farrell's door and getting no answer as he passed, he descended the steps to the main lobby- Phyllis's station, the Solarium, David's old office, hermetically preserved-next to his own and then Norma, the office manager's. Off to his right ran a long hallway at the end of which was the lair of the firm's third name partner, Gina Roake. Behind the doors and their secre
taries' cubicles, the eight current associates now toiled. Hardy assumed most if not all of them were working already, although it was still a few minutes shy of eight o'clock. You didn't bill 2,200 hours a year if you didn't put in a very full day every day. Phyllis wasn't at her station yet-she came on at eight thirty-so Hardy crossed directly to his own ornate door and was surprised to see Wes Farrell, coat- and tie-less, throwing darts.
"I know what you're going to say," Farrell began.
"You do?"
"I do. You're going to say you're busy and you don't have time for any childish games. Your trial starts today."
Hardy brought a hand to his forehead. "That's today: Yikes!" He crossed around to behind his desk, lugged his triple-thick briefcase up and onto the blotter. "Actually, I knew it was today." He snapped open the clasps, started removing folders. He broke a brittle smile-not very convincing. He liked Wes a lot, but he didn't always work the way Hardy did, and sometimes his presence was more distraction than help. "So what's up, in ten words or less?"
"Today's shirt." He'd thrown the last dart of the round as Hardy had entered and had turned to follow his progress. Now, his grin on, Wes held open his unbuttoned dress shirt. Actually, this was an almost-daily ritual, and Hardy found himself breaking into a genuine smile. Wes prided himself on having one of the world's most complete, ever-growing collections of epigrammatic
T-shirts, which he wore under his lawyer's disguise. Today's shirt read: grow your own dope/plant a man.
"Sam gave it to me," he said, "and that goes a long way toward explaining why I love that woman." He was buttoning up. "Anyway, I thought you might need a little humor running around in your system before you hit the Hall."
"I might at that," Hardy conceded. "Did you drive by there on your way in?"
"No. You?"
Hardy nodded. "Thirty-seven mobile units, if you can believe it. You can't even get onto Bryant. They're diverting traffic around before you get within three blocks." Hardy glanced at his watch. "And we don't even start for an hour and a half. It's going to be a circus."
Farrell sat on the couch, doing up his tie. "You probably shouldn't have dated her. I mean, if you wanted to keep all these scurrilous lies out of the paper."
"Where were you when I was seventeen?"
"I didn't date until I was much older than that, so I couldn't have advised you very well."
"Funny. Frannie says the same thing."
A quick glance. Serious. "She okay with it?"
"Great. Peachy." He settled into his chair. "Although I can't say she's been totally thrilled with the Romeo lawyer angle everybody in the news seems to like so much. But the news jocks don't like it as much as my kids. Vincent's even taken to calling me Romeo in private, which of course just cracks me up. And then if the Beck hears him, she goes ballistic. It's a great time. Or how about last week, our 'Passion Pit' in the jail? Did you see that?"
"I thought it was pretty cool, an old guy like you."
"Yeah. Those Enquirer guys are talented."
"I wondered where that was exactly, the Passion Pit, to tell you the truth. But I was afraid you'd had so many intimate moments there that you didn't want to talk about it. Too private."
"So many. So many. Actually, it's the visiting room downstairs at the jail," Hardy said, referring to the antiseptic, brightly lit, glass-block-enclosed bullpen off the admitting area where lawyers got to meet with their incarcerated clients. "That's where we've 'consummated our love.' But to get to feeling really passionate in there, you've got to use some serious imagination, believe me. More than the Enquirer guys, even."
Wes had his tie on now and stood up, grabbing his coat. "And now it begins in earnest, huh? Can I do anything to help at home? Maybe Sam…"
Hardy shook his head. "No, I told you, we're fine. In fact, it's added a whole new dimension to our marriage, where she pretends it doesn't bother her and I pretend that I appreciate her understanding. It's special, but what am I supposed to do? It's a little late now."