Dead Irish by John Lescroart Read Free Book Online Page B

leaving his interviews to Giometti, then letting Abe follow up the Candlestick stiff, which left him the only logical choice when, an hour later, the call from down in China Basin had come in.
    Now Carl Griffin was sitting in his car outside his partner, Vince Giometti’s, apartment on Noe Street. The fog almost completely obscured the streetlight at the intersection in front of him, forty yards away. The steam from the cup of Doggie Diner coffee clouded the windshield. The stuff seemed to stay hot about half a day. Maybe it was the acid they put in it.
    His partner and he had been up until after two, breaking it to the wife. So today was starting late. He honked his horn again. C’mon, kid, put your pecker back in your pants and come to work.
    Christ! he thought. They ought not to let homicide guys be married. So what if he was married—it wasn’t anything to talk about. It had never kept him home and never would, that was for sure.
    He kept thinking about instinct.
    If there was one thing that separated the good cops from the very good, it was instinct. You didn’t want to overdo it, Griffin knew, and ignore evidence, but every once in a while a situation came up that seemed to point in an obvious direction and your instinct made you stop and reevaluate.
    Glitsky was up for lieutenant. He was up for lieutenant. Frank Batiste likewise. Okay. So at this moment one of those two was standing in the roadway, trying to direct traffic, point Griffin in the obvious direction.
    Nine years a homicide cop, and not once before had Abe Glitsky showed up at a scene with his two cents’ worth.
    Why do you think that could be?
    Maybe Glitsky knew something he didn’t know. Okay, the Cochran kid could have done himself, maybe not. But why would it benefit Glitsky if he—Griffin—came down for a homicide, which was the direction Glitsky was pointing?
    Did he know something? Who was that guy he brought to the scene?
    Giometti, cleanly shaved, smiling, opened the door. He had a thermos of what was probably fresh coffee with him, a paper bag full of goodies.
    “Want a bagel, Carl?” he said.
    “Something tells me Cochran might have done himself,” he replied. He took the bagel.
    “But the gun was fired twice.”
    “Yeah, I know. First time could’ve been three weeks ago, two months, a year even.”
    “And the wife said—”
    “Wives don’t know how their husbands feel about squat.”
    Giometti, he could tell, was thinking about saying something and decided against it. He chewed his bagel. “What changed your mind?” he finally asked.
    Damned if Griffin was going to tell him everything. People talked, even partners. Word got around. It would be good for Glitsky’s career if he fucked up. And Glitsky was pushing him—okay, subtly, but it was there—to decide it was a homicide. And Glitsky, he was sure, knew something he didn’t, something that led in another direction.
    Put it together, Carl, he told himself. Make damn sure you’re not being set up.
    “Instinct,” Griffin said.
     
    Charles Ging’s nose was a map of capillaries, and his breath smelled like gin. His son didn’t often get close enough to smell him, but now, leaning over the blond desk in his father’s office, it was nearly overpowering.
    He was leaning over in anger. His own face was smooth, as though he hadn’t started shaving yet. His eyes were pale blue, hair light brown. He was impeccably dressed in an Italian suit.
    What he was saying was, “It’s beyond me. Absolutely. You think you’re doing the right thing, you’re the nice guy, doing everybody a favor. It’s bullshit, man. What you’re doing is gambling with my future. And don’t reach for the goddamn bottle, please.”
    Ging shrank back into his padded chair. “I don’t like you to use that tone of voice to me, Peter.”
    “The hell with my tone of voice! Listen to what I’m saying, will you? We get blackballed by the Catholic Church and I am personally screwed. You understand