The Keeper (17 page)

41

I
N THE ATTORNEY'S
visiting room at the jail, Hal Chase slid down in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. It was a few minutes after nine
A.M
. He was, of course, in his orange jumpsuit. He hadn't shaved yet, and his stubble was dark. His hair looked like he'd combed it with a towel. Having slept poorly, he squinted at Hardy through bloodshot eyes. His voice was phlegmy and weary, not much more than a whisper. “I don't understand what you're trying to say.”

“I'm asking if you and Katie talked a lot when you were at work.”

“When?”

“Any time.”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“I'm collecting information,” Hardy said. “Let's go with that for now.”

“I don't know what you mean by a lot. Once or twice a day? Lunchtime?”

“More than that.”

Hal closed his eyes. Hardy saw his chest rise and fall. When he opened them, he said, “No.”

“There wasn't a period of time when you had to talk a lot? Maybe right after you had your first child?”

Hal shook his head. “We're not encouraged to take or make private calls at work. To get to a phone, you have to come off the tier. If it's incoming, a deputy has to get you and cover your station while you're on the phone. If it's outgoing, you've got to find a deputy. Either way, it's a major disturbance. I might have called her, or she might have called me, a couple of times with emergencies, or what seemed like emergencies. Ellen once swallowed a good part of a bottle of Tylenol. Katie called me then, and I met her at the hospital.”

“No,” Hardy said. “It wasn't like that. It was like ten times a day.”

Hal almost laughed. “No way. No fucking way.” He straightened up a little. “You want to tell me what this is about?”

Hardy told him about Glitsky and the phone records. When he finished, Hal had slumped back down, his visage closed and tight. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “This was just after Ellen?”

“Apparently.”

“That was our worst time. I mean, absolutely the worst. We couldn't say two words without fighting. That's when she started seeing your wife, wasn't it?”

“Pretty much,” Hardy said.

“Yeah, well, if I was going to kill her, you know, that's when I would have done it. But I wanted her to get happy again. So who was she calling?”

Hardy shrugged and looked at him for a long moment. Then, “I was hoping you could tell me. Why did you just say ‘son of a bitch'?”

“You're saying she had a thing with somebody here. Somebody I work with.”

“I'm not saying anything, Hal. I'm asking if you ever suspected anything like that. Then or now.”

Hal blew out heavily. “We never socialized with anybody from here. I mean never. Katie didn't want anything to do with . . . anyone from here. Somehow I made the cut. But the rest of the guys? To Katie, they were a lower life-form.” He took a beat. “You know this happened?”

“I know the phone calls happened.”

“Did she tell your wife something? Something Katie told her?”

Hardy hesitated, then came out with it. “It came up, but only recently.”

Hal pulled himself upright, righteously angry, the volume way up. “She was fucking somebody here at the jail? She admitted that?”

“She told Frannie she was seeing somebody. She didn't say he was from here, but we've got the phone calls. They may be unconnected. We don't know.” Hardy leaned in and lowered his voice. “I've got to ask you something else. I need you to tell me everything you know about this Alanos Tussaint matter.”

If Hardy had hauled off and slugged him, Hal wouldn't have shown more surprise. His eyes darted around the room. “I don't know anything about that.”

Hardy waited until Hal's gaze settled, then locked in to it. “Well, Hal, that's just patently untrue.”

“It isn't. It's the goddamn whole truth.”

“Hal.” Hardy drew in a breath. “Listen to me. Daniel Dunne told the Homicide inspectors that your motive for killing Katie was that she was threatening to expose your role in the cover-up around Tussaint, if not his actual murder. So how did Daniel know about it—how did he even imagine it?—if he didn't hear it from Katie? And she had to have heard it either from you—”

“Or from somebody else who works here,” Hal said, “who was making up shit on me.”

Hardy acknowledged the point with a nod. “All right. So which was it? And if it's the second case, who would have done that?”

Hal uncrossed his arms, got to his feet, and walked over to the glass block wall. Hardy remained in his seat, watching and waiting. At last, Hal turned and came back to the table, where he rested his weight on his palms. “First thing,” he said, “is that I never laid eyes on Alanos Tussaint. I had nothing to do with him getting killed. I'd barely heard about it when Burt Cushing had me and a few other guards up to his office and told us that if anybody asked, all of us had spent the entire afternoon the day before—one o'clock to five o'clock—transporting inmates down to San Bruno and bringing some back. He told six of us, including Adam Foster. Did we have any questions?”

“Did you?”

“Nope.”

“But you told Katie?”

Hal looked over his shoulder, then came back to Hardy. “The whole thing was getting out of control. It was, like, the third or fourth time this year, covering up for Foster. Yes, I told Katie about it. I also told her that I was thinking of trying to get transferred out to Evictions, not that they don't have problems, but at least I'd be out of the jail. Then maybe, down the line a ways, I could leave the department altogether, maybe get into another line of work.”

“How did Katie feel about that?”

“She thought it was a great idea. Couldn't be too soon.”

“Did she threaten to tell anyone else about this or your role in it?”

“Why would she do that?”

“Her brother said she'd do it to ruin you if you left her.”

“No. She wouldn't have.”

“I'm just telling you what we're hearing.”

“Well, that's Daniel, and he doesn't know. The thing that bothered her wasn't the cover-ups so much as what we were covering up for, the actual stuff going on here.”

Hardy found himself lowering his voice. “Which is what?”

“Uh-uh,” Hal said. “We're not going there. That's got nothing to do with me.”

“I hate to tell you, Hal, but yes, it does. I need to know.”

Hal shook his head. “With all respect, counselor, you don't need to know anything about that, whatever it is. You can believe me or not, I'm not involved in any of it. I come in and do my job, and so do most of the rest of the guys. We hear about some of this stuff, but we keep our mouths shut, and usually, it's under control and doesn't hurt anybody.”

“Except when it's not and it does.”

Another shrug. “Shit happens. It's a closed system.”

“Katie wasn't in the system, and she knew what was happening.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Okay. So maybe she had trouble dealing with the idea that people were getting killed here in the jail and nobody was doing anything about it. Maybe she wasn't going to threaten you with exposure, but she brought it up to somebody else, let him know what she knew.”

“The guy she was calling.”

Hardy pulled at the knot of his tie. “Did she know Burt Cushing personally, Hal?”

“No. Not really. I mean . . .”

Hardy could see it all falling together in Hal's mind, as it was in his own. “You mean she only knew him as your boss? Department picnics, like that?”

“Not exactly. He had a problem getting medicine for his daughter's acne a few years ago, and she met with him and the daughter a few times and . . .” Hal stopped. “Son of a bitch,” he said.

His jaw set, Hardy nodded. “Right,” he said.

42

W
ES
F
ARRELL HAD
been awake since he'd gotten the call from Homicide at around one o'clock that morning, telling him that Maria—sweet, ambitious, smart Maria—had been killed in an apparent robbery. They'd taken her purse; police found it in the gutter around the corner with her driver's license but no credit cards or cash. Even though there was a reasonable amount of foot traffic on Nineteenth Street—911 fielded seven calls in the immediate aftermath—there had been no witnesses to the crime. People heard the shot and came running, but the perpetrator had fled, leaving no signs.

Wes wasn't particularly tired, but he couldn't seem to get his brain to focus. He'd canceled all of his morning meetings. In a minute, he was planning to draw the blinds in his office and lie down, but until he found the energy to commit to even that, he passed the time by mindlessly pumping a Nerf basketball at the basket hanging from a bookshelf. He'd been doing the same thing, over and over, for the past twenty minutes.

Treya's familiar knock, almost inaudible, startled him back to where he was. Before he had a chance to say anything, she opened the door a crack, swung into the office, and closed the door behind her.

“You're awake,” she said. “I thought you might be sleeping.”

“No. But I'm a zombie.”

“Are you still not seeing anybody?”

“Like who?”

“Dismas Hardy's out here. He says it's important.”

“Of course he does.” Farrell realized that he was still holding the Nerf ball, so he took another shot at the basket and missed. “Oh, hell, Treya, he's here, just let him in.”

Hardy hadn't gotten two steps into the room before he stopped and looked his former law partner up and down. “What's happened?”

Farrell almost couldn't get the words out. “One of my investigators got killed last night. Maria Solis-Martinez. Excellent kid. Sweet as sugar. It makes me sick to my stomach.”

“Something to do with work?”

“No. Random robbery. Shot her in the face, grabbed her purse, and ran, the asshole. Did I once say I didn't believe in the death penalty? I get my hands on who did this to her, I'll shoot him myself.”

“I'm sorry, Wes.”

“Yeah. I'm sorry, too. “ He drew a deep breath, shook his head in dismay, raised his hand as though he was going to say something else, then let it fall. “Treya said you had something important?”

“It might be. I think so. It's why I came right up.”

“Up from where?”

“The jail. Hal Chase.”

“The jail, the jail, the fucking jail. And Hal Chase. I already told you it was out of my hands, Diz. The grand jury has spoken, and I'm not in the mood to argue about it. If you don't like the case against him, get him an early trial date and convince a jury to acquit him, but meanwhile . . .” Farrell's anger finally caught up with him, and he raised his voice. “Meanwhile, I've got a few things on my plate here, and I'm having just a little trouble trying to deal with any of them. Is that clear enough for you?”

Hardy waited a long three-count, then took a seat on the coffee table. “I'm not here to argue about the grand jury.”

Wes, who looked wrung out by his little explosion, inclined his head toward Hardy and sat on the arm of a stuffed chair. “Didn't you just say you were here to talk about the grand jury? Your man's indictment?”

“No,” Hardy said. “That's probably what you expected to hear, so you actually thought you heard it, but all I said was I'd come up here from visiting Hal Chase in jail.”

“Jesus Christ, you can wear a guy down, Diz, you know that?”

“That's not my intention, especially right now. I'm sorry about your investigator. I can come back another time, no sweat. But you need to hear what I've got, and the sooner the better.”

“All right. What?”

Hardy started from the beginning: the bare fact of Katie's affair, corroborated independently by Daniel. On to Glitsky's discovery of the telephone records and the dozens of calls to the jail, where her husband not only did not receive those calls but where his use of the telephone was severely discouraged. Hardy concluded with a few words about Burt Cushing's daughter and her acne problems, which had put the sheriff into close contact with Katie Chase, at about the time she was conducting an affair and speaking to someone at the jail numerous times a day. In conclusion, he said, “It turns out the number she was calling wasn't Hal's, on the tier, but Burt Cushing's main office number.”

By the time he'd finished, Farrell had slid down off the arm and into the chair. “I already know the answer,” he said, “but have you come across anything like evidence that they were having this affair?”

“Just the phone calls.”

“Lots of people talk to each other on the phone. That doesn't mean they're having sex.”

“Granted. But ten times a day?”

“Did they meet somewhere that might have a record of it? Photos of them checking in together at some motel? Witnesses?”

Hardy didn't bother answering, just shook his head.

“So why are you telling me this?” Farrell asked.

“Because you need to know it.”

“No, I don't. How long has it been since this alleged affair ended?”

“Couple of years.”

“And you think, I gather, that it's relevant to her murder?”

Hardy stared across at his friend.

Eventually, Farrell raised a hand and, with his thumb and forefinger, pressed at his eyes, left them there for a moment, then brought the hand down and stared at the ceiling. “You know this investigator of mine, Maria?” he asked. “You know what I said about her death being unrelated to her work? I lied.” He took a deep breath. “She'd just volunteered to reopen the investigation into Alanos Tussaint's death. You know about that?”

“A little hearsay.”

Farrell filled him in on the rest: Luther Jones's recanted testimony, the possibility that he was close to cutting a deal to testify again.

“Which I guess won't be happening now, will it?”

Farrell seemed almost glassy-eyed. “I think I need to call in the FBI, although that's pretty much admitting that I've lost control of the situation, if I ever had any. Did I actually campaign for this job?”

Hardy hesitated. “Hal told me that this was the third or fourth time this year.”

“For what, exactly?”

“For Cushing pulling in a handful of guys—Hal was one of them—and giving them the story they were to tell if anybody came around asking questions about accidents that happened in the jail. He didn't know about the accidents themselves, hadn't been in the vicinity at all—”

“But of course he would say that.”

Hardy shrugged. “The point is, Katie knew about them, too. And she wanted to be important, wanted to do something worthwhile with her life, not just be a stay-at-home mom.”

“How do you know that?”

“She was one of Frannie's clients. Self-esteem was one of her big ­issues.”

Farrell cocked his head. “Are you shitting me? Your wife's client?”

“Cross my heart.”

Farrell shook his head in disbelief. “So you're saying that when Katie finds out about these alleged murders in the jail, maybe she calls her former lover and asks about them and threatens to expose what's been going on?”

“Yep. Maybe.”

“Did she talk about any of this stuff with Frannie? Specifically? Did she say she was going to threaten somebody—this former lover of hers, maybe the sheriff himself—who worked at the jail?”

“No. Not that I know of.”

“But you're saying maybe she did, and then maybe because she did that, he had a motive to kill her? To shut her up?”

Hardy held his ground. “Not impossible,” he said.

“Maybe not in the ultimate cosmic sense,” Farrell replied, “but so unlikely that it is beneath contemplation. Truly. If that's going to be part of your working theory on your client's defense, you ought to cut a plea right now and call it a day, Diz. I'm serious.” Farrell all but collapsed into his easy chair. He shook his head wearily. “What am I ragging on you about? I'm getting a pretty clear picture of what's going on here. Do I think part of it might have extended out to Katie's death? Could have. Do I think it also has something to do with Maria? Goddamn, I hope not. There is no evidence at all either way, which is a big problem when you have law enforcement officers like Hal Chase turning to crime. I just don't know how to go about any of this, except calling in the feds, which is something I really don't want to do.”

“On that note,” Hardy said, “I do have an idea.”

He didn't get to tell Farrell his idea just yet. The telephone rang, and Wes shook his head—more interruptions, more exhaustion—then picked up the receiver. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. All right. Yes, I hear you.”

He hung up. His shoulders all but collapsed. “Luther Jones is dead. Heroin OD in the jail.”