Read Online The First Law by John Lescroart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Lescroart
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status, he had conceived the notion that he somehow outranked her, a mere clerk originally hired from the civil service pool, though by now she’d been working full-time for five years, three more than Fallon.
Fallon was in his early forties. His wife had some honcho job in what he called the private sector. Between the two of them and the police union, they’d brokered a deal with the city whereby Deacon could stay home a lot with the kids. He’d been in the department for twenty years and could have already retired on pension, but the department had a few of these part-time positions, and Deacon could increase his retirement base one year for every two he worked, which he considered a good deal.
Glitsky, propped on the corner of one of the desks, sat back with his arms crossed. His concentration had been wavering in the tedium and now he realized that Fallon—pacing in front of him while he’d been talking—expected some sort of response. “I’m sorry, what?”
Fallon sighed. “Jacqueline. She says she’s always taken her lunch between noon and one, though we know that isn’t true, and she doesn’t have to change now if she doesn’t want to. But Cathy and I . . .”
“Cathy?”
“My wife.”
“Okay, right.”
“Cathy and I signed up for this incredible six-week course on Website design. I know, I know, but it’s the new wave of this net stuff, believe me. It’s going to explode. It really is a great business, Abe; you might even want to look into it yourself. The opportunities are just . . .” Perhaps sensing Glitsky’s lack of enthusiasm for the project, he wound down. “Anyway, it’s twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays, at noon.”
“Which happens to be when you’re supposed to be here.”
“Right. I mean, I get the hour lunch, which is enough time. Each lesson is forty-five minutes.” Glitsky knew that what Fallon meant was that by leaving twenty minutes early and getting back half an hour late, then eating lunch at his desk, he could squeeze the class into his “hour” lunch. Nobody would ever say a word about an abuse of free time like this. These were the little perks enjoyed by those ready to lay down their lives for their fellow citizens. “But it’s got to be the noon hour, and Jacqueline won’t trade.”
He looked expectantly at Glitsky, who hadn’t moved. His posture was relaxed, his arms still crossed over his chest. He might have appeared to be thinking hard.
“Abe?” No response. “I mean, I don’t want to have to go to the union about this.” He tried another tack. “Maybe we could both get off at the same time, me and Jacqueline. It’s only for six weeks.”
Finally, Glitsky took a deep breath. His eyes came into focus. “When I came on here, didn’t I read in your file that you decided that you’d like to have lunch from one to two? And didn’t Jacqueline agree back then to change to noon so the office would be covered?”
“Yeah.” Her earlier scheduling flexibility didn’t seem to have made much of an impact on Fallon. “But that was before this class, and I’m the sergeant here after all. Besides, she’s not doing anything special, just meeting her regular friends. And hell, it’s only six weeks. . . .”
Glitsky later told Treya that the knock at the door probably saved him from at least a charge of aggravated mayhem if not homicide. It was Mercedes, telling him Frank Batiste was on the line and wanted to talk to him immediately. He thanked her, slid off the edge of the desk, and without so much as a glance at Fallon, hurried from the room.
The rain continued unabated, a fine slow drizzle that only seemed heavy to Glitsky because he hadn’t supposed he’d be leaving the building and so was in his shirtsleeves. Batiste had been standing, waiting at the head of the hallway that led to his office. When Glitsky got off the elevator, he’d fallen in beside him and without much preamble led the way out the Hall’s front entrance to
Fallon was in his early forties. His wife had some honcho job in what he called the private sector. Between the two of them and the police union, they’d brokered a deal with the city whereby Deacon could stay home a lot with the kids. He’d been in the department for twenty years and could have already retired on pension, but the department had a few of these part-time positions, and Deacon could increase his retirement base one year for every two he worked, which he considered a good deal.
Glitsky, propped on the corner of one of the desks, sat back with his arms crossed. His concentration had been wavering in the tedium and now he realized that Fallon—pacing in front of him while he’d been talking—expected some sort of response. “I’m sorry, what?”
Fallon sighed. “Jacqueline. She says she’s always taken her lunch between noon and one, though we know that isn’t true, and she doesn’t have to change now if she doesn’t want to. But Cathy and I . . .”
“Cathy?”
“My wife.”
“Okay, right.”
“Cathy and I signed up for this incredible six-week course on Website design. I know, I know, but it’s the new wave of this net stuff, believe me. It’s going to explode. It really is a great business, Abe; you might even want to look into it yourself. The opportunities are just . . .” Perhaps sensing Glitsky’s lack of enthusiasm for the project, he wound down. “Anyway, it’s twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays, at noon.”
“Which happens to be when you’re supposed to be here.”
“Right. I mean, I get the hour lunch, which is enough time. Each lesson is forty-five minutes.” Glitsky knew that what Fallon meant was that by leaving twenty minutes early and getting back half an hour late, then eating lunch at his desk, he could squeeze the class into his “hour” lunch. Nobody would ever say a word about an abuse of free time like this. These were the little perks enjoyed by those ready to lay down their lives for their fellow citizens. “But it’s got to be the noon hour, and Jacqueline won’t trade.”
He looked expectantly at Glitsky, who hadn’t moved. His posture was relaxed, his arms still crossed over his chest. He might have appeared to be thinking hard.
“Abe?” No response. “I mean, I don’t want to have to go to the union about this.” He tried another tack. “Maybe we could both get off at the same time, me and Jacqueline. It’s only for six weeks.”
Finally, Glitsky took a deep breath. His eyes came into focus. “When I came on here, didn’t I read in your file that you decided that you’d like to have lunch from one to two? And didn’t Jacqueline agree back then to change to noon so the office would be covered?”
“Yeah.” Her earlier scheduling flexibility didn’t seem to have made much of an impact on Fallon. “But that was before this class, and I’m the sergeant here after all. Besides, she’s not doing anything special, just meeting her regular friends. And hell, it’s only six weeks. . . .”
Glitsky later told Treya that the knock at the door probably saved him from at least a charge of aggravated mayhem if not homicide. It was Mercedes, telling him Frank Batiste was on the line and wanted to talk to him immediately. He thanked her, slid off the edge of the desk, and without so much as a glance at Fallon, hurried from the room.
The rain continued unabated, a fine slow drizzle that only seemed heavy to Glitsky because he hadn’t supposed he’d be leaving the building and so was in his shirtsleeves. Batiste had been standing, waiting at the head of the hallway that led to his office. When Glitsky got off the elevator, he’d fallen in beside him and without much preamble led the way out the Hall’s front entrance to
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