A Certain Justice

'What rope?'

Lanier smiled, humoring him. 'What rope, he asks.'

'If Shea was in your bar and left to go lynch Wade, what happened? Did he stop off at his car and grab a rope from the trunk, or what?'

'I don't know what happened. I didn't leave the bar.'

Now Banks stepped in closer, also smiling. 'He keeps saying that, you notice?'

Lanier nodded. 'Sticking to his story. Didn't see a thing. Good strategy.'

Banks moved in some more and now they had him surrounded. 'We think… actually we're pretty sure, Jamie… that the rope came from the hardware store next to your bar. What do you think about that?'

'I don't think anything about it. I wasn't there.'

'Whew.' Lanier, impressed. "This is some consistent story, Ridley. We'd better just give it up and go on back to the office.'

'The only thing is,' Banks said, 'that we found what looks suspiciously like a beer glass, or big pieces of several beer glasses, in the display window of the hardware store, and I think there's a chance one of those pieces is go

O'Toole's eyes were darting back and forth. 'I'm the bartender, guys, I would have touched the glasses.'

"That's right, Ridley,' Marcel said, 'he is absolutely correct.'

'Gosh,' Banks said, 'that's right. I must have forgot.' He snapped his fingers, as though suddenly remembering something else. 'I do wonder, though, about the lawnmower. The one in the hardware store's window? Did somebody take that into the Cavern where you might have touched it – mow some Astro-turf or something – and then go put it back in the display next door? What could've happened there, I wonder?'

'Are you saying my prints are on some lawnmower?'

Banks shrugged. 'We're checking, Jamie. We're just checking a whole load of stuff, you wouldn't believe. You think we'll get lucky?'

'I think we will, Rid.'

'I do, too, Marcel.'

The inspectors smiled at Jamie O'Toole. In spite of the cold, he'd broken a sweat. His eyes were moving, the gears in his brain nearly audible as they turned. 'Well, I mean,' he said, 'there had to be other guys. One guy couldn't have done it himself, could he? I mean, there was a bunch of guys. Everybody was drinking, you know?'

Lanier kept up that affable smile. 'We don't know, actually, Jamie, which is why we're being so… I don't know… pushy. We'd really like to find out.'

Banks said: 'You know Brandon Mullen and Peter McKay?'

'Sure, I know those guys. I already told you that.'

'They were there, they admit it. When did they leave?'

'When did they leave?'

'I think that's what I said. When did they leave? After Shea, before Shea, with Shea, when?'

'I think after.'

That's fu

Then it must have been before. Look, guys, it was busy. I can't remember everything.'

'Our lieutenant said you told him it was slow.'

'I thought he meant afterward.'

They kept it up for about five more minutes, then thanked him for his time and sent him back to the line.

Walking back to their car, Banks said, That was kind of fun. I believe the man went outside.'

Lanier nodded. That was a good idea. 'We ought to dust that window. Fire damage or no, we find one of Jamie's prints on anything…'

'I hear you,' Banks said. 'Time comes, it would be a neat surprise.'

45

Lou the Greek's was begi

Glitsky stood blinking in the corridor at the bottom of the stairway that led to the bar, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. An overriding smell of cabbage made him wonder what culinary delight Lou's wife had prepared for lunch that day. Though he often hung out doing some business or other in one of its tiny booths, Glitsky had stopped eating at Lou's a few years back after an unfortunate reaction he'd had to the place's home-made kim chee, which others of his friends swore by.

The cabbage smell now triggered a sense memory of that, and his stomach rolled over. He took a breath, steeling himself, and walked in.

A hand went up at the bar, and Glitsky, after making allowances for the hair (now in a ponytail) and a few extra pounds, realized that he had known Wes Farrell in another lifetime, had testified in a couple of cases that the man had been defending over the years. As he pulled up a stool, Glitsky was further struck by Farrell's attire – most of the people at Lou's worked at the Hall and wore some variation of the uniform. Farrell looked as though he had just come from the beach – he must be freezing, Glitsky thought, and said as much.

'My veins are ice. I don't feel a thing.'

Farrell was having a coffee drink, maybe just coffee. Glitsky motioned to Lou that he'd like his usual – tea. "That's handy in this town,' Glitsky said, 'not feeling the cold.'

'I don't know what it is, probably age, like everything else. I used to feel it, chatter my teeth, all of that. On the other hand, it could be I'm just anesth… anesth…' He broke a weary smile. 'Fucked up. Never could say that word, even sober.' He sipped his coffee. 'Right at this moment, for the record, I'm halfway back to sober, I think. Haven't had a drink in two three hours.'

Glitsky nodded.

'This is not a problem for me, I hope it's not for you.' Glitsky shrugged as his tea arrived in a cracked brown mug to match Farrell's. 'But enough about me,' the lawyer said, 'I want to tell you a story.'

'That's why I'm here.' Glitsky sipped his tea.

Farrell started to talk, quietly, now with no trace of a slur.

'That's what he says.' Glitsky, to be saying something, did not want to come across as gullible, but even wearing his most cynical hat, he still believed every word he had just heard.

Farrell, holding the high ground, did not need to push. 'You have any evidence that refutes it, any of it?'

"The picture seems to.'

'You got it here?'

Glitsky did not, but there was a newspaper behind the bar and Farrell leaned over and pulled it from the counter. 'Let's glance at this puppy a minute, what do you say?'

For not even close to the first time, Glitsky was face-to-face with the ultimate truism of observation – you saw what you expected to see. Now, looking at the picture that was convicting Kevin Shea all over the country, but with different eyes, Glitsky only saw what Farrell had described – Shea was grimacing with the weight of holding Wade up. He wasn't pulling him down, he was trying to save his life.

There were tiny clues, visible if you knew what to look for, if you were so inclined. The ma

And then, and most convincingly, there were the knife wounds. The information hadn't been released to the press. No one had even admitted to having one – Glitsky hadn't yet heard about Colin Devlin and Carl Griffin. They didn't officially exist – the very possibility of someone having a knife wound was part of Abe's mix, not the public's. They were one of his secrets, one of the little tricks that experienced policemen liked to trot out and go 'boo!' with. And now Farrell had preempted him on them, told him all about them, how they fit the picture.

Kevin Shea had had to cut his way through the crowd. He had slashed at the men closest to Arthur Wade. He was sure he had cut some of them. There had been blood.

And Arthur Wade had died of asphyxiation, which Glitsky knew from the coroner. He had not had his neck pulled on.