who’d take the chance. I mean, I’m the deputy chief. They get caught, they’re toast. Who’d risk it?”
Hardy was standing behind the desk in his office. The shades were down, cutting some of the afternoon glare, but his eyes were twinkling, his color high. He’d had a martini and most of a bottle of Pinot Grigio at lunch at Sam’s, with a plate of sand dabs. He’d reeled in another client from the bottomless pool of troubled police persons. And now for an unexpected bonus, he was getting to console Glitsky on the terrible breach of security in his office, somebody moving his drawers around. The way it was going, Hardy thought there was some small chance he could talk Abe into paying him to put an private investigator on it.
But then Glitsky said, “Well, it was probably some stupid prank anyway.”
The opening was just too wide, and Hardy couldn’t resist stepping into it. “I don’t know, Abe. There are some bona fide crazies in your building. At least I might send a sample of the peanuts to the lab and throw the rest out.”
“You think?”
“Better safe than dead.”
“How could I get dead around this?”
“I don’t know. Was there any powder in the bottom of the drawer?”
Glitsky snorted. “Yeah, but they’re salted in the shell peanuts, so the trained inspector in me thinks the white powder is probably salt. And if it was anthrax, it’s too late already.”
“Did you taste it?”
“No. Just a minute. Yep. Salt.”
Hardy clucked. “Your tongue goes numb in five minutes, do me a favor and call nine one one. And I’d still send some of the goobers to the lab. You never know.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“You don’t sound sincere. You remember the song ‘Found a Peanut’? The guy in that song died if you recall. I’m serious.”
“That’s what worries me, that you’re serious.” Glitsky sighed. “Can we leave the peanuts, please? I didn’t call about the peanuts anyway.”
“All right. It’s your funeral. So what do you want?”
“I wondered what time you might be going home. I’ve got a five o’clock meeting with Batiste that just came up and Treya’s got to be home at the regular time because Rita’s . . . never mind. The point is if you’re staying a little late, maybe I could bum a ride with you.”
“Your driver ought to take you to and from work.”
“My driver works the day shift. I come in too early and go home too late. I think I’ve mentioned this to you before.”
“I probably didn’t pay attention. So what time?”
Glitsky said six-thirty or so and Hardy told him it was his lucky day. He had his own meeting after close of business with Amy Wu about this double homicide she was handling.
“That would be Andrew Bartlett,” Glitsky said. It wasn’t a question.
“Doesn’t it get boring when you already know everything?” Hardy asked. “But I bet you haven’t heard that Boscacci’s filed him juvie.”
“Sure he did. And next year I’m quarterback for the Forty-Niners.”
“I’ll expect great tickets. But it’s true. Boscacci, I mean.”
Silence. Then. “How did that happen?”
“Wu is having him cop a guilty plea in exchange for juvenile sentencing.”
“And Jackman agreed? Jackman who likes to say if you’re old enough to kill somebody, you’re an adult? That Jackman?”
“The very same. And I’ve heard him say the same thing. But Wu says it’s a done deal.”
“I’d make sure before I go real large telling anybody. Like the newspapers.”
“Well, that’s what Wu and I are going to be talking about, so I’ll let you know.”
4
T he name Youth Guidance Center, or YGC, had an avuncular ring to it, as though the juvenile detention facility were some kind of a counseling haven for wayward children, a rest stop filled with soft stuffed chairs and couches, pastel colors, New Age music in the background. And in reality, in simpler times when the place was new, it had pretty much been like that. Kids who stole
Hardy was standing behind the desk in his office. The shades were down, cutting some of the afternoon glare, but his eyes were twinkling, his color high. He’d had a martini and most of a bottle of Pinot Grigio at lunch at Sam’s, with a plate of sand dabs. He’d reeled in another client from the bottomless pool of troubled police persons. And now for an unexpected bonus, he was getting to console Glitsky on the terrible breach of security in his office, somebody moving his drawers around. The way it was going, Hardy thought there was some small chance he could talk Abe into paying him to put an private investigator on it.
But then Glitsky said, “Well, it was probably some stupid prank anyway.”
The opening was just too wide, and Hardy couldn’t resist stepping into it. “I don’t know, Abe. There are some bona fide crazies in your building. At least I might send a sample of the peanuts to the lab and throw the rest out.”
“You think?”
“Better safe than dead.”
“How could I get dead around this?”
“I don’t know. Was there any powder in the bottom of the drawer?”
Glitsky snorted. “Yeah, but they’re salted in the shell peanuts, so the trained inspector in me thinks the white powder is probably salt. And if it was anthrax, it’s too late already.”
“Did you taste it?”
“No. Just a minute. Yep. Salt.”
Hardy clucked. “Your tongue goes numb in five minutes, do me a favor and call nine one one. And I’d still send some of the goobers to the lab. You never know.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“You don’t sound sincere. You remember the song ‘Found a Peanut’? The guy in that song died if you recall. I’m serious.”
“That’s what worries me, that you’re serious.” Glitsky sighed. “Can we leave the peanuts, please? I didn’t call about the peanuts anyway.”
“All right. It’s your funeral. So what do you want?”
“I wondered what time you might be going home. I’ve got a five o’clock meeting with Batiste that just came up and Treya’s got to be home at the regular time because Rita’s . . . never mind. The point is if you’re staying a little late, maybe I could bum a ride with you.”
“Your driver ought to take you to and from work.”
“My driver works the day shift. I come in too early and go home too late. I think I’ve mentioned this to you before.”
“I probably didn’t pay attention. So what time?”
Glitsky said six-thirty or so and Hardy told him it was his lucky day. He had his own meeting after close of business with Amy Wu about this double homicide she was handling.
“That would be Andrew Bartlett,” Glitsky said. It wasn’t a question.
“Doesn’t it get boring when you already know everything?” Hardy asked. “But I bet you haven’t heard that Boscacci’s filed him juvie.”
“Sure he did. And next year I’m quarterback for the Forty-Niners.”
“I’ll expect great tickets. But it’s true. Boscacci, I mean.”
Silence. Then. “How did that happen?”
“Wu is having him cop a guilty plea in exchange for juvenile sentencing.”
“And Jackman agreed? Jackman who likes to say if you’re old enough to kill somebody, you’re an adult? That Jackman?”
“The very same. And I’ve heard him say the same thing. But Wu says it’s a done deal.”
“I’d make sure before I go real large telling anybody. Like the newspapers.”
“Well, that’s what Wu and I are going to be talking about, so I’ll let you know.”
4
T he name Youth Guidance Center, or YGC, had an avuncular ring to it, as though the juvenile detention facility were some kind of a counseling haven for wayward children, a rest stop filled with soft stuffed chairs and couches, pastel colors, New Age music in the background. And in reality, in simpler times when the place was new, it had pretty much been like that. Kids who stole
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