Betrayal by John Lescroart Page A

will. Yes, sir.” Finally, he hung up, got his feet back down on the ground, and brought his upper body in close to the desk, elbows on it. “That was the chief.”
    “I got that impression,” Glitsky said. “How’s Frank doing this fine morning?”
    “Frank’s concerned about our citizenry, lest they panic.”
    “And why would they do that?”
    “Well, that’s what I asked you down to talk about, since the media’s going to be all over this if it gets out, and I know how much you cherish all things that give you face time in front of cameras.” Everyone appreciated the irony of Lanier’s statement. Within the department, Glitsky was notorious for two things: He didn’t tolerate or use profanity, and he hated interactions with any form of media. Unfortunately, this latter made up about eighty-five percent of his job.
    Now, a tight look of resigned patience firmly in place, Abe sat back and crossed one leg over the other one, ankle on knee. “Okay. What do we got?”
    Lanier glanced at his two inspectors, came back to Glitsky. “We’ve got the possibility of a serial killer.”
    “Ah,” Glitsky said. “And we haven’t had one of those for a while.”
    “Hence the panic,” Lanier said, “which Frank would so like to avoid. Anyway, I thought I’d let Darrel and Debra get you up to speed and you can decide where we are exactly and how we handle things if it gets hot.” He nodded at his female inspector, whose pretty face she tried to make invisible, with limited success, by wearing a tough expression most of the time. “Debra, you want to start?”
    “Sure.” Bent over slightly in her chair, she had her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped in front of her. Raising her chin, she shifted a little to face Glitsky. “It’s not much of a story by itself, but last Wednesday, I got a late call down in the Mish, early a.m. There’s a body in an alley down there around the corner from the Makeout Room. White male, decently dressed, his wallet’s still in his back pocket. Turns out he’s a thirty-six-year-old ex–Navy SEAL named Arnold Zwick. No criminal record, unmarried and unconnected, currently unemployed. But he’d evidently come back from Iraq recently where he’d done some work for Allstrong Security, which is based here in town.”
    “What kind of work?” Glitsky asked.
    “Whatever they do over there with former military guys. I went back to Allstrong and they told me that their main contract right now is protecting Baghdad Airport. But they didn’t know where Zwick had gone to. The manager of the office told me they thought that he might have been killed over there. One day he just disappeared. Except that we now know he came back here. And some witnesses I talked to—neighbors he’d made friends with—seemed to have had the impression that he had a lot of money. But it’s not in a bank account that I’ve been able to find, and there wasn’t any cash in his apartment, so robbery might still be a motive, either that or he had the stuff hidden pretty well.”
    Glitsky asked, “Do you think it’s possible he stole money from Allstrong over there?”
    Debra nodded, apparently pleased at the question. “That was my assumption, too, sir. Especially given the way he died.”
    “And how was that?”
    “Somebody snapped his neck.”
    “Close work,” Glitsky said. “Not that easy.”
    “It’s even harder when you factor in Zwick’s training and that there was no sign of struggle or a weapon from his attacker. And Zwick was heavily armed. He had a knife in a sheath on his leg and a forty-five carried loose in his coat pocket. Both still on him when I got to him.”
    “So his killer,” Glitsky said, “was another commando. You were thinking probably with Allstrong, somehow, getting back their money.”
    Debra nodded. “That is kind of where I was going until Marcel called me yesterday and told me about Darrel’s latest.”
    Glitsky shifted his interest over to Bracco. “Talk to