âReillyâ and a buzz cut of orange hair. Glitsky was six foot two, half black and all buffed. After his first three minutes with Reilly, Hardy thought it was amazing that they could look so much alike.
Because whether he knew it or not, the desk sergeant was giving Hardy his Glitsky imitation and doing a hell of a good job at it. Yeah, he was pretty sure Cole Burgess had been processed in. No, he hadnât heard about any heroin. Sorry, he hadnât made it into the computer yet. He couldnât say for sure where he was, even if heâd been taken to the sixth floor or to the hospital.
Hardy took that runaround until it became obvious, then demanded to speak to Reillyâs superior. Reilly told Hardy that, well, darn, he really wasnât sure whether anybody was in this time of evening. Deliberately pitching his voice so low that Reilly had to lean closer to hear it at all, Hardy whispered, âAll right, Sergeant, then get me the watch commander, and if heâs not in, Iâll call Dan Bolesââthe sheriffââat home. Oh, and I almost forgot, your inmate Mr. Burgess is the brother-in-law of Jeff Elliot, who writes the âCityTalkâ column for the Chronicle .â
Within two minutes, Reilly had located somebody who might know something. Big, black and beefy, the man appeared from a door behind the reception desk, made a show of spotting the man in the lawyer suit, pointed at Hardy and closed the space between them. âIâm Lieutenant Wayne Davies, Mr. . . . ?â
Hardy said who he was, laid out the problem. Then: âThis man needs detox. His medical evaluation hasnât moved forward, not as far as I can tell. Your admitting sergeant tells me heâs not even in the computer yet.â
âThen heâs probably not been processed. Thatâs when they do the med eval.â Davies had his arms crossed, his brow furrowed. Hardy was to understand that he was thinking hard about all this, trying to remember one in what must have been dozens of people brought to the jailtoday for processing. âAnd youâre his attorney?â he asked.
The veneer of patience now transparently thin, Hardy nodded. âHis sister retained me on his behalf. And heâs been in custody now for almost a full day.â
âHmm . . . and you say Lieutenant Glitsky brought him down?â
âLook, Lieutenant, Iâm talking about Cole Burgess, the suspect in the Elaine Wager murder. Heâs here. Heâs in withdrawal and youâre responsible for him. What are you going to do?â
Davies decided, although he dressed it up for Hardyâs benefit, pretending it had all just come back to him. âElaine Wager. That guy? Yeah, heâs here, but I donât know how far heâs gotten.â
âWhat do you mean?â
âI mean processing him in. It was busy today, thirty admits. There might still be some delay.â Another elaborate shrug. âI donât know.â
Hardy had heard more than enough. âOkay, Lieutenant, letâs cut the bullshit. I demand to see my client now. If heâs not in detox immediately, you personally can probably look forward to being named in about a billion-dollar lawsuit against the city . . .â
Davies held up an authoritative hand. âKeep your shorts on, Mr. Hardy. Iâm sure heâs here. Weâll find him and get him checked out. Heâll be upstairs in jail or on his way to County Hospital. You can see him either place when weâre through, Mr. Hardy. But not before.â
Â
Cole Burgess wanted to be dead.
There was nothing but the pain and no way he could make it stop. Not here. Not without the god.
When he was a boyâstill active, still doing sportsâheâd get cramps in his legs that woke him, screaming, from sound sleep in the middle of the night. The calf on his right leg, or a muscle somewhere under the tendons of one
Hundreds of Years to Reform a Rake