The Keeper (2 page)

4

A
LTHOUGH HE ALREADY
had an idea of the answer, Hardy asked what he could do for Mr. Chase.

“My wife disappeared from our home last Wednesday night, while I was at the airport picking up my brother. I was cooperating with Missing Persons every way I knew how, until this morning, when a team of hard-ass inspectors—Homicide, not Missing Persons—took over, obviously thinking I had something to do with her disappearance.”

Over in the corner by the windows, Chase had taken one of the chairs in the more informal of the two seating areas in Hardy's office. So far, he had left untouched the cup of coffee Phyllis had brought in; it sat on the table in front of him. He held himself with his hands clenched on his thighs, his back ramrod-stiff, his feet planted flat on the floor. His hazel eyes were shot with red, bruised-looking underneath. “I'm sorry to barge in without an appointment,” he said, “but I didn't know I was coming here until I got to your front door.”

“Walk-ins are always welcome.” Hardy gave him his professional smile. “Did somebody refer you to me?”

“Not in so many words. You may know, though, that my wife, Katie, was—is—a client of your wife's. In one of your last trials, Katie had put together who you were. All of a sudden this morning, I think I might need a lawyer. So here I am.”

“Your wife's missing. Is there some evidence indicating that you had anything to do with that?”

“No. They say they found a few drops of her blood in the kitchen, but she was prepping the Thanksgiving stuff that night and probably cut herself. Big deal. Being more or less in law enforcement myself, I knew what they were thinking. These were not good cops wanting to help me find my wife. All they were interested in was me as a suspect, what I was doing when she disappeared.”

“You were at the airport?”

“Correct. Picking up my brother. Half brother. Warren.”

“And these inspectors you spoke to, they had a problem with your alibi?”

“Alibi. Jesus Christ. It's not an alibi. It's where I was. They didn't know why I left my house when I did. An hour and twenty minutes for a half-hour drive? I tell them, ‘Guys. It's the day before Thanksgiving, the biggest travel day in the world. Of course I went down early.' I figured traffic would be hell, although as it turned out, it wasn't. But who knew? I was checking my cell, and it turned out the flight was delayed, so I pulled off in South City and had a beer to kill some time.”

“And they weren't buying?”

Hal wagged his head from side to side. “It's like they were starting from the position that Katie was dead. And that I killed her. Okay, if we got home and she was dead on the floor, I could see where they're ­coming from. I know it's always the spouse. I get it. I'm a cop. It always is the spouse. But that's if she's dead, and she's not. Thank God. Not that we know of, anyway. She's missing, and nobody who knows how to go about it is trying to find her.”

Hardy took all of this in, fighting his own skepticism. He'd been in the law business a long time himself, and his experience told him that in cases like this, the spouse was most often in the middle of it one way or another. Hardy felt, on the one hand, that Hal was smart to get hooked up with a lawyer as soon as he began to feel that he was a suspect; on the other, the fact that he'd decided he needed a lawyer this early on was in itself somewhat—perhaps illogically—disconcerting. There must be something more to the picture if, without any physical evidence, the police were already considering Hal a suspect.

“I might be able to put you in touch with people who could help with trying to find her,” Hardy said. “Meanwhile, your job is to fully cooperate with the police, but through me. If they want to ask you specific questions about you and your wife, or the timing on the night she went missing, or anything that sounds to you like they're considering you as a suspect, you direct them to me. Your main concern is that you've got a missing wife and want to know what they're doing to find her. You're not willing to concede that she's dead, and you sure as hell didn't kill her.” He sat back. “That's where you are right now. If the inspectors come again, get back to me. No more talking to them directly, and never without me. When they talked to you earlier, did you tell them anything other than your concern about your wife's disappearance?”

“Not really. I saw where they wanted to go and cut off the interview.”

“When you say ‘not really,' do you mean no, you told them nothing? Or you got into it a little?”

At Hardy's questions, Hal's lips went tight, and he cast his eyes upward as though praying for patience. “They asked me how our marriage was, if we were having problems, and I told them what I'd told the ­Missing Persons cops. Katie was seeing your wife about some issues . . .”

“Yours? Hers?”

A shrug. “Both, I'd say. We were working on it. The kids were wearing us down. Even if we were doing that, what did it have to do with Katie being gone? Then they pressed it. ‘So there was something wrong between you two?' Which was when I told them I was done talking with them.”

Because Katie was Frannie's client, Hardy knew the marriage had problems, but what relationship didn't? Eventually, he would probably find out all he'd ever want to know about the Chases and their life ­together. Meanwhile, Hal's wife was missing, and Hardy thought that somebody should spend some time looking into that instead of trying to prove that this worried and exhausted husband must have been involved.

5

T
EN MINUTES AFTER
Hal Chase had left, Hardy was on the phone with Abe Glitsky. “You're an ex-cop,” Hardy was saying. “You've investigated hundreds of murders. I know you could figure out a way I could kill her where I wouldn't get caught.”

“You want to kill Phyllis because she didn't appreciate your dart game?”

“No, that's not the only reason. As you know, I've wanted to kill her for years on general principle. Today was the last straw. Really.”

“I don't know. It seems a little harsh.”

“Hey. It's not like I want to hurt her. Just eliminate her with something quick and painless.”

“And untraceable.”

“Ideally, yes.”

“I'll give it some thought. But what are you really calling about?”

“I told you, my perfect round. I had to tell somebody who'd appreciate it. Share the excitement.”

“Oh, okay. Whoopee.”

“That sounded a little sarcastic.”

“Not at all. I'm happy for you. Thrilled, in fact. You've made my day. A perfect round of darts. Yesirree. Now we're talking.”

“I was going to ask if you wanted to go to lunch and celebrate. Sam's. On me.”

“Now we're talking.”

•  •  •

I
T WAS A
cool day of perfect sunshine and no wind. Hardy walked the six or so blocks from his office and got to the restaurant early, then decided that goddammit, even if nobody else cared, he had thrown that perfect round and he was going to celebrate. After he ordered his martini, he told Dan Sillin, his favorite bartender, about his moment of glory, and at last got the rise he'd been hoping for—and a drink on the house.

He took his first sip; the door opened, and there was Abe.

In truth, Hardy was concerned about his best friend. Never the most upbeat of humans, Glitsky had been pressured to leave the Police Department a few months earlier, and it had shaken him up. For nearly forty years, he'd been a cop, most recently head of Homicide. At one point, he'd served as deputy chief of detectives. He was a police officer through and through, and now he was hanging out by himself most days, reading and reading some more at his upper duplex in the suburban Avenues while his two young kids went to school and his wife, Treya, worked full-time as the secretary to San Francisco's district attorney.

Glitsky cut an imposing figure. A former tight end in college football, he was six-two and about two-twenty. His father was white and Jewish, and his mother had been African-American, so he was milk chocolate with piercing blue eyes and buzz-cut gray hair. He had a prominent nose and a scar that ran at an angle through his lips, top to bottom. His default expression was a frown, and most people found him, frankly, scary. It was a reaction that, as a cop, he had cultivated.

Now he was showing off his version of a smile, a slight uptick of the corners of his mouth. Without a word of greeting, he pointed at Hardy's cocktail and made a show of checking his watch. “Talk about getting an early start,” he said. Glitsky rarely touched alcohol.

“It's a special day,” Hardy replied.

Dan Sillin leaned in over the bar. “He shot a perfect darts game.”

“I heard,” Glitsky deadpanned. “It's all they're talking about out in the Avenues.”

•  •  •

S
AM'S OFFERED BOOTHS
for private dining; tables that seated between two and ten diners could be closed off behind curtains. In their small booth, Glitsky was waxing eloquent about one of the books he was ­currently reading, Edmund de Waal's
The Hare with Amber Eyes
.

“. . . about this collection of Japanese netsuke.”

“Wait,” Hardy said. “Is there another kind?”

“Kind of what?”

“Netsuke. Ones that aren't Japanese, I mean. You don't hear much about, say, Ethiopian netsuke. By the way, what is a net-skey?”

“It's a small art object carved out of ivory or wood. It's spelled like net-su-kay, but it's net-skey.”

“Got it. And you're reading about these things why?”

“They're interesting. Fascinating, even. But the book's really about this guy's family, the author's, who used to be as rich as the Rothschilds, and how, being Jews, they lost it all in Germany. Except for this collection of netsuke. Having a drop or two of Jewish blood myself, I feel some resonance.”

“I can imagine.”

“Anyway, that's what I've been up to. Mostly reading.”

“Are you getting bored?”

Glitsky put down his fork. “Funny you should ask.” He paused, let out a breath. “Besides reading, yesterday I watched three episodes of
Friends
in a row. It looks like Ross and Rachel might be getting together again.” He held up a hand. “I know. You don't have to say it. Any reasonable ­alternative suggestions about how to pass the time gladly accepted. And don't say golf or fishing. Or darts.”

“Have you thought about going to work for Wes?” This was Wes Farrell, San Francisco's district attorney and a friend to both men. The DA's office had its own staff of inspectors to assist in cases the office was prosecuting.

Glitsky nodded. “That was my first thought, and I asked, but he's got budget problems. If somebody leaves, he says he'll do his best to try to bring me on, but adding staff is a luxury he can't afford right now.”

Hardy said, “Well, if you want to get out of the house, I could probably find a job or two to keep you busy, pay you enough to keep you off food stamps.”

Glitsky cocked his head, unable to disguise his interest. “What about Wyatt Hunt?” For the past few years, Hunt had handled all of Hardy's investigative work.

“He's on his honeymoon. Through New Year's.”

“That's some serious time off.”

“Tell me about it. I need to talk to him about his work ethic, but I don't think he cares. He says if you're going all the way to Australia, you might as well stay long enough to make it worthwhile. In any event, he's gone, and my practice soldiers on.”

Glitsky sipped at his iced tea. “It's tempting, but I don't have a PI license.”

“I won't tell if you won't.”

“And you've got real work?”

“I could probably keep you busy a few days. And there's one client who could be big—I've got a feeling his case might heat up. Hal Chase.”

Without missing a beat, Glitsky said, “The missing wife.”

“That's her. I see you're keeping your hand in.”

“He kill her?”

“He says no.”

“What else is new? Have they charged him?”

“Not as of an hour ago. But it's on their minds. Homicide talked to him this morning. He came to see me afterward.”

“Homicide is on it? How can that be? We don't know she's dead.”

Hardy shrugged. “We all know what's going on in the jail. Our sheriff's an asshole, and his department is corrupt. Maybe SFPD thinks this investigation will get them into his organization. Normally, I would call my friend Abe Glitsky and ask him, but he's all hung up on
Friends
just now.”

Abe ignored that. “What exactly would you want me to do?”

“Hal wants the focus to be on finding his wife, not his wife's killer.”

“Good luck with that.” Glitsky chewed ice. “What else is he going to say?”

“I got the impression that he really didn't expect the Homicide guys yet. He thought everybody was on the same bus he was, looking for his wife.”

“He thought that, huh?”

Hardy shrugged. “He could be faking me out, but I'm somewhat cynical by nature, and I believed him. At least about whether Missing Persons should be on this.”

“What do you see as my role in this?”

“I don't know, exactly. See if you can find her?”

Glitsky's mouth twitched. “With all the vast resources at my disposal?”

“Not to get your head all swelled up, but you are a seasoned investigator. So investigate. Homicide already thinks it's Hal, or maybe it's Hal. If you don't find the wife, at least find an alternative suspect.”

Glitsky chuckled. “Really? What about the Homicide guys I'll be shadowing?”

“Be subtle. Do it right, they won't even know you're there.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Could happen.”

“World peace could happen, too. I'm not holding my breath.”

Hardy sat back. “Hey, if you're not interested, give me a call when you find out if Rachel and Joey get back together.”

“Ross,” Glitsky said. “Not Joey. Ross.” He tipped up his glass. “You mind if I think about it?”

“I'd be disappointed if you didn't.”