Read Online The First Law by John Lescroart - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Lescroart
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an Osama bin Laden motif, mostly email printouts of the terrorist being sexually abused by a variety of weapons and animals.
Otherwise, the decor was the same. So was the smell, but at least Glitsky knew what that was. As usual, the last one out had left the coffee cooking and it had turned to carbon at the bottom of the pot. He automatically walked over, leaned down to make sure, and turned it off.
“Can I help you?”
He straightened up and turned at the voice. The lieutenant had silently come out of his office. Or maybe Glitsky’s senses were taken up with his impressions. In any event, for a heartbeat he felt somewhat bushwhacked, although there was no indication that that had been the man’s intention.
It was Barry Gerson. Glitsky recognized the face immediately from the newspaper pics, which he’d had occasion to notice when they’d announced the appointment. Ten years Glitsky’s junior, but no kid himself, Gerson had gone a bit to paunch and jowl, though he didn’t come across as soft or flabby in any way.
Here on his turf, he appeared relaxed and in complete control. The smile was perfunctory, but there wasn’t any threat in it. “You’re Abe Glitsky.”
“Guilty.”
“I didn’t realize you were back at work.”
“Four months now.” Glitsky kept it low-key. He pointed at the ceiling, put some humor in his tone. “Payroll, the throbbing pulse of the department.”
Gerson, to his credit in Glitsky’s view, clucked sympathetically. “They give you that ‘varied administrative experience’ crap?”
A nod. “It’s making me a better cop. I can feel it every day.”
“Me, too,” he said, then, more seriously. “Sorry I turned out to be the guy.”
Glitsky shrugged. “Somebody had to be. Not your fault.” He added. “I’m not hearing any complaints, though I can’t say I’ve been in touch.”
Gerson cocked his head, as though the comment surprised him. His next smile might have been a bit more genuine. “Not even Lanier?”
This question wasn’t a great surprise. Marcel Lanier was a long-time homicide veteran inspector who’d passed the lieutenant’s exam well over two years before. It was no secret that he’d craved the appointment to head the detail after Glitsky. He’d even turned down a couple other of the varied administrative experiences he’d been offered, waiting for the homicide plum, only to be disappointed at Gerson’s appointment. Like Glitsky, Lanier was homicide through and through. His refusal to take what they offered before he’d even made his bones as a lieutenant had, at least for the time being, doomed him with the brass. But Glitsky hadn’t talked to him in six months or more.
“Not a word,” he told Gerson. “He making trouble here?”
The lieutenant seemed to consider what he would say for a minute. Then he shook his head. “Naw, he’s all right.” And suddenly the preliminaries were over. “So how can I help you?”
Three hours after concluding his meeting with Gerson, Glitsky was in another of the payroll rooms, this one internal and hence windowless, and more crowded since it held not only as much paper and other junk, but also two desks to accommodate its two workers. In practice, because the two office residents rarely worked the same days, one desk probably would have sufficed, but nobody ever brought this up, or suggested that the second desk be removed to make more room. That, of course, would mean that neither person working there would have his own desk, and wouldn’t that be just an unbearable slight? In any event, pride of desk was typical of a number of similar crucial issues facing the detail.
At this moment, Glitsky was behind the closed door of this office with Deacon Fallon, who it appeared was having continuing problems with Jacqueline, the romance novel fanatic from the office across the hallway. As a sergeant with the police department, Fallon made more money per hour than Jacqueline did. In spite of his part-time
Otherwise, the decor was the same. So was the smell, but at least Glitsky knew what that was. As usual, the last one out had left the coffee cooking and it had turned to carbon at the bottom of the pot. He automatically walked over, leaned down to make sure, and turned it off.
“Can I help you?”
He straightened up and turned at the voice. The lieutenant had silently come out of his office. Or maybe Glitsky’s senses were taken up with his impressions. In any event, for a heartbeat he felt somewhat bushwhacked, although there was no indication that that had been the man’s intention.
It was Barry Gerson. Glitsky recognized the face immediately from the newspaper pics, which he’d had occasion to notice when they’d announced the appointment. Ten years Glitsky’s junior, but no kid himself, Gerson had gone a bit to paunch and jowl, though he didn’t come across as soft or flabby in any way.
Here on his turf, he appeared relaxed and in complete control. The smile was perfunctory, but there wasn’t any threat in it. “You’re Abe Glitsky.”
“Guilty.”
“I didn’t realize you were back at work.”
“Four months now.” Glitsky kept it low-key. He pointed at the ceiling, put some humor in his tone. “Payroll, the throbbing pulse of the department.”
Gerson, to his credit in Glitsky’s view, clucked sympathetically. “They give you that ‘varied administrative experience’ crap?”
A nod. “It’s making me a better cop. I can feel it every day.”
“Me, too,” he said, then, more seriously. “Sorry I turned out to be the guy.”
Glitsky shrugged. “Somebody had to be. Not your fault.” He added. “I’m not hearing any complaints, though I can’t say I’ve been in touch.”
Gerson cocked his head, as though the comment surprised him. His next smile might have been a bit more genuine. “Not even Lanier?”
This question wasn’t a great surprise. Marcel Lanier was a long-time homicide veteran inspector who’d passed the lieutenant’s exam well over two years before. It was no secret that he’d craved the appointment to head the detail after Glitsky. He’d even turned down a couple other of the varied administrative experiences he’d been offered, waiting for the homicide plum, only to be disappointed at Gerson’s appointment. Like Glitsky, Lanier was homicide through and through. His refusal to take what they offered before he’d even made his bones as a lieutenant had, at least for the time being, doomed him with the brass. But Glitsky hadn’t talked to him in six months or more.
“Not a word,” he told Gerson. “He making trouble here?”
The lieutenant seemed to consider what he would say for a minute. Then he shook his head. “Naw, he’s all right.” And suddenly the preliminaries were over. “So how can I help you?”
Three hours after concluding his meeting with Gerson, Glitsky was in another of the payroll rooms, this one internal and hence windowless, and more crowded since it held not only as much paper and other junk, but also two desks to accommodate its two workers. In practice, because the two office residents rarely worked the same days, one desk probably would have sufficed, but nobody ever brought this up, or suggested that the second desk be removed to make more room. That, of course, would mean that neither person working there would have his own desk, and wouldn’t that be just an unbearable slight? In any event, pride of desk was typical of a number of similar crucial issues facing the detail.
At this moment, Glitsky was behind the closed door of this office with Deacon Fallon, who it appeared was having continuing problems with Jacqueline, the romance novel fanatic from the office across the hallway. As a sergeant with the police department, Fallon made more money per hour than Jacqueline did. In spite of his part-time
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