The Fall by John Lescroart Page A

say beyond the basics—somebody was arguing, a girl screamed—but they’d probably talk to us some more.”
    “That’s heartening,” Glitsky said. “Anything else?”
    Juhle shrugged. “In theory, the tunnel’s got surveillance video twenty-four/seven. I don’t know that anybody’s taken a look at that yet, or if it was even working.”
    “It was,” Waverly said. “I called in first thing yesterday and got them to hold it for us. I wouldn’t get my hopes up. The camera is down in the inside stairway, so it couldn’t pick up anything on the streets above or below, or we would have been all over it.”
    “Still,” Glitsky said, “someplace to look.”
    “Absolutely,” Juhle said. “Let’s not lose sight of what still seems to me like the best bet. Lawyered up or not, I’m reluctant to let go of Mr. Treadway.”
    “Yeah, but he won’t be talking to us anymore,” Waverly said. “Ms. Hardy was clear about that.”
    Glitsky straightened up in his chair. “Ms. Hardy? Rebecca Hardy? Is that his lawyer?”
    “That’s her. Why? You know her?”
    Glitsky nodded grimly. “Only since she was born. She calls me Uncle Abe. Her dad’s one of my pals, Dismas Hardy.”
    After a moment of silence, Yamashiro said, “So I guess we don’t want to have her killed.”
    “Probably not,” Glitsky said. “It would be awkward over Sunday dinner and at family gatherings.”
    “Is her involvement a problem for you, Abe?” Juhle asked.
    “Shouldn’t be,” Glitsky said. “Her dad and I have managed being on opposite sides about a hundred times and only rarely came to blows. I didn’t know The Beck was taking clients of her own, but I guess it’s got to start sometime.”
    “The Beck?” Yamashiro asked.
    “Her nickname,” Glitsky said.
    The Homicide inspectors shared a skeptical glance.
    “It won’t be a problem,” Glitsky said. “I promise.”
    “I ask,” Juhle said, “because I had a thought about how to keep Mr. Treadway on his toes, which, if it works, might lead him to make a mistake. And I’m predicting Ms. Hardy isn’t going to be too happy if I go ahead.”
    “And do what?” Glitsky asked.
    “Out him as aperson of interest. I don’t care what his lawyer says, the bottom line is he lied giving his statement. Most people will admit that lying raises questions about a person’s basic innocence. Even if Ms. Hardy tries to explain the lies away, lying is something guilty people do. So yeah, evidence or not, he’s a person of interest. He gets his defenses up, who knows what he might do. Or her, if she’s inexperienced. And it also, perhaps, gets Liam Goodman off our ass, at least for the weekend. No objection, Abe?”
    Glitsky shrugged. “Sounds like a plan to me. The goal’s still to get the bad guy, right? If The Beck is going into defense work, she has to get used to defending guilty people, and now’s as good a time as any. So”—he clapped his hands—“how are we going to divide this thing up?”
    •  •  •
    G LITSKY HAD DINNER with his family—Treya, eight-year-old Rachel, and five-year-old Zachary—and by eight o’clock he was back at the Hall of Justice, sitting in front of a computer monitor. The camera angle for the surveillance video in the bowels of the tunnel was from high above and captured the steps leading from Bush Street to the landing halfway down, then followed the steps in the opposite direction the rest of the way down to the sidewalk inside the tunnel.
    The panoramic lens captured both the up and the down sets of steps and most of the landing, although the homeless man sleeping against the wall wasn’t really visible—and then only his back—until he stood up, gathered his stuff, and walked back up to Bush. Since there was no message to the contrary from the department that had pulled the CD from the camera, Glitsky assumed that the time signature in the screen’s lower right corner was correct.
    Glitsky moved the image to begin at ten-thirty