A Certain Justice

'We've got to talk, Abraham.'

But this wasn't the best time. In the homicide detail behind him, he could see Lanier, Banks, two other inspectors looking in, waiting for him to be free so they could get some direction. He also wanted to see the coroner, John Strout, regarding the autopsies on both Arthur Wade and Chris Locke – something he liked to do with every homicide in the jurisdiction.

On top of the stack of phone messages he was flipping through he noticed one from Greg Wrightson, one of the city's supervisors – a rare pleasure. Chief Rigby wanted to see him again. Unrelated to the riots, there had been a run-of-the-mill domestic-disturbance homicide last night in North Beach.

Not to mention Loretta Wager – what all that meant.

But this was his father, who wouldn't be here if it wasn't important in some way – Nat was no hysteric. 'Should I close the door?'Abe asked. Of course, there was no door.

Nat pointed an index finger. 'Eat your bagel.'

Which Glitsky was doing, enjoying the hell out of it. 'So?' he asked. 'What?'

As always, Nat got right to it. 'You know Jacob Blume? You do. He's my rabbi and would be yours you start going to synagogue again.' He held up a hand. 'This is not what I'm here about – you. I'm here about Blume. A good man.'

'Okay.'

Again, the hand. 'Don't rush. Chew. I'm getting there. So a couple of nights ago – you know this – the riot is not two blocks from the temple

Abe did know it and was surprised that it hadn't occurred to him before. His father's synagogue – Beth Israel – was at Clement and Arguello, around the corner from the site of the lynching. 'I'm sorry, say that again.'

'This is not your old father railing away, Abraham. This is your work here. Put your mind on. Pay attention.' Nat waited, got a nod from his son – Abraham was listening. 'This woman Rachel with some last name you don't believe, she is here maybe three months from Lithuania or the Ukraine or whatever they call it now. She comes to Blume, who comes to me.'

'What about Rachel?'

'She is scared and confused and comes to Blume and he talks to her two hours yesterday – her English, oy - but better than my Ukrainian, I suppose – and it comes out she was on Geary, going home from temple, when the mob starts coming out

'Out of the Cavern? She saw that?' This was what Abe needed, a credible witness who had been there and could say what had happened. It could be a wedge to get some truth out of the barkeep Jamie O'Toole, among others.

Nat nodded. 'But she is scared, Abraham. A Jew, the police. This is not something to comfort her where she comes from. She has seen something. She knows she should tell. But she did nothing to stop it. So is she guilty of a crime? It's a shanda, certainly, taking no stand. What does she need to do? She doesn't know. She wants no trouble here in the U.S. So, finally, a day goes by, she sees what's happening in the city. Maybe she has a duty – she wants to do right… So Blume comes to me, asks me will I talk to you, see if this can be… if you need this. Which I must tell you there's no guarantee Rachel's going to go through with.'

The telephone was ringing. Glitsky stuffed in the last bite of bagel and worked it to the side of his cheek. 'Set it up, Dad, I'll be there.' He picked up. 'Glitsky, homicide.'

It was another one of the assistant district attorneys, Ty Robbins, asking him where the hell he was – he was supposed to be testifying in Judge Oscar Thomasino's courtroom today in People v. Sully, a trial for Murder Two in Department 34. Had he forgotten?

Come on, lieutenant, life was going on. The judge had given a ten-minute recess but he'd better get his ass down there in a New York minute if he didn't want to get slapped with contempt.

Nat Glitsky tapped his son's cheek, said it was nice chatting with him. He'd call.

The ten-minute recess found itself transformed into a day-long continuance – Mr Sully's defense attorney had developed a migraine and pronounced herself unable to continue, and neither Judge Thomasino nor Mr Robbins had had any objection.

This did not sit well with Glitsky, who had thrown on the tie he kept in his desk drawer for just such an occasion and run down to Department 34, wishing he had thought to borrow his father's all-purpose classic men's blue blazer. All he had was his flight jacket – the judge might ream him for a poor sartorial showing just to vent his displeasure at the delay.

Except that now the original delay meant nothing. The entire exercise had been futile and the day was too full for this idiocy. Abe was starting to decide that he was going to mention as much to Ty Robbins when Ridley Banks crabwalked into the pew next to him and sat down, begi

'Couple of things. One, on the Mullen thing, I think we might have a bite. I drove out to McKay's after our little soiree yesterday at the Greek's. Poor guy – McKay – can't seem to find work, just sitting around the house. Wanted to talk to me on the stoop. Actually, didn't want to talk to me at all. I'm a trained investigator, I could tell.'

'It's a useful skill, Ridley.'

'So I mentioned the word warrant…'

'You got a warrant? What for?'

'I didn't. I just mentioned the word and said he didn't have to let me in, but if he didn't I'd probably come back and it wouldn't be so friendly.'

'The broken sliding door,' Glitsky said.

Ridley Banks looked up to Glitsky, the only other dark-ski

If there wasn't a broken window in a sliding door at McKay's house, there went his story that he and his cousin Brandon Mullen had cut their arms when they fell through it during their fight.

'Did you mention this to him?'

'I believe I neglected to.'

'Okay, good,' Glitsky said. 'Let's get both those guys down here today. Start in again.' Then, thinking of his father's information, he added that they might even want to hold Mullen and McKay for a lineup – there was a chance they had a witness who wasn't involved in the mob and who would talk about who she had seen there.

Banks took that in, sca

Robbins raised a hand feebly. 'Sorry, Abe. Maybe tomorrow, huh?' He kept walking, not waiting for any reply. The huge double doors shushed closed behind him, and Glitsky and Banks were alone.

'Something else?' Glitsky asked.

Banks appeared to be having some trouble making up his mind. He made sure again that the room was empty, then took in a breath and, letting it out, said, 'I want to tell you a story. Maybe a little personal.'

Impatient in any event with today's interruptions, Glitsky almost stopped him – it wasn't a good time, could they get to it later? But something about the young inspector's tone…

'Out on Balboa there's this restaurant called the Pacific Moon – small place, been there twenty-five, thirty years.'

'Sure, I know it. I've eaten there.'

'Everybody has.'

'Food's not very good, if I remember.'

Banks gri

Glitsky sat back on the hard bench, not knowing where this was going. 'Okay?' he said.

'So before Homicide I did eight years in White Collar, and when I first got in there there was an on-going investigation about money laundering at the Pacific Moon.'