The Keeper by John Lescroart Page A

investigations, sitting at the end of the bar next to an attractive Hispanic woman. She was probably around thirty years old, with sleek black hair and sparkling brown eyes, and though he would never use the word around any female of any age, the Neanderthal in him couldn’t help but notice that she was just plain cute. Low heels, terrific legs, a short plaid skirt, and a sky-blue cashmere sweater.
    His casual talk with Abe Glitsky had gnawed at him all day long. The cases of inmates who had died or been injured in custody were perfect examples, he thought, where the district attorney had a moral obligation to investigate and, if warranted, prosecute—even if that meant prosecuting the sheriff himself. Like everyone else in the greater legal community, Farrell had been aware of the rumors and innuendo surrounding Burt Cushing and his troops, but also like everyone else, he’d found it easier to ignore the whole situation.
    Cushing operated within his own little fiefdom. It was well ordered, efficient, and performed several important civic functions. And Cushing kept his nose clean everywhere else, so what would it profit Farrell or anyone else to hassle him? To make waves? Except—and this was the thought that had nagged at Farrell all afternoon—what if it were less about not making waves and more about rooting out criminal behavior within his jurisdiction and punishing those responsible for it?
    Wes crossed the room to join Dobbins and the young woman. “Yo, Frank,” he said, then turned to the woman. “You must be Ms. Solis-Martinez.”
    The woman gave him a bright smile and proffered her hand. “Maria T. Solis-Martinez, at your service, but please call me Maria, if you’re comfortable with that.”
    “Maria it is,” Farrell said. “And I go by Wes. Have we met before?”
    She nodded. “At my preliminary interview six months ago, when I flew up from L.A. We shook hands.” She pouted prettily. “You don’t remember?” Before Farrell could answer, she touched him on the arm and fetched another smile. “I’m teasing. Of course you don’t remember, and you’re forgiven. But next time . . .”
    “Maria,” he said. “Got it, now and forever.” But how, Farrell wondered, could Dobbins have reached her so quickly? Wes had talked to his chief investigator about this idea only a few hours ago. “Do you still live in L.A.?” he asked her.
    “No. I knew that Frank had me on his short list, and I wanted to get out of L.A. anyway, so I packed up and moved here a couple of months ago. Job or no job. I figured it would happen if it was meant to be.” Her bright smile flashed again. “And here I am.”
    Farrell beamed back at her. “Like magic,” he said.
    “If I may be so bold . . .” Dobbins leaned in, breaking up the lovefest, and moved things back to business mode. “Maria and I were talking about the job, Wes. She agrees it might be right up her alley, and she’s interested, but I told her you could fill her in a little more.”
    The waiter came over, and Farrell ordered a beer, then turned his attention back to the young woman. “Frank may have already told you that another inmate died in jail the other night. That’s the latest in a string of deaths in the jail this year. On top of a large number of overdoses and inmates who appear to have been assaulted. He was number ten this year.”
    “This year? Was he autopsied?”
    “Absolutely. Cause of death was ‘natural causes.’ His heart simply stopped. It’s stressful getting arrested. It could have happened.”
    “All right.” Maria crossed her arms, her brow furrowed. “But here we are, so something must be bothering you.”
    “This latest guy got my attention, but I’m more immediately concerned with a guy named Alanos Tussaint, who died in jail last month. Poor guy fell down and bumped his head.”
    “He bumped his head and died? That was a hell of a bump.”
    “Right. A significant bump. Anyway, it seems there was some