John T. Lescroart - Betrayal

Betrayal
A Novel
John Lescroart

DUTTON

DUTTON
Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright 2008 by The Lescroart Corporation
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARKMARCA REGISTRADA
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lescroart, John T.
Betrayal: a novel / by John Lescroart.
p. cm.
ISBN: 1-4295-9721-6
1. Hardy, Dismas (Fictitious character)Fiction. 2. Glitsky, Abe (Fictitious character)Fiction.
3. United StatesNational GuardFiction. 4. ContractorsIraqFiction.
5. Iraq War, 2003Fiction. 6. San Francisco (Calif.)Fiction. I. Title.
PS3562.E78B48 2008
813'.54dc22
2007045783
PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

To Lisa M. Sawyer,
Who shares my life and owns my heart
ALSO BY JOHN LESCROART
The Suspect
The Hunt Club
The Motive
The Second Chair
The First Law
The Hearing
The Oath
Nothing But the Truth
The Mercy Rule
Guilt
A Certain Justice
The 13th Juror
Hard Evidence
The Vig
Dead Irish
Rasputin's Revenge
Son of Holmes
Sunburn

"A man's death is his own business."

Aaron Moore, First Sergeant, U.S. Marine Corps

"Injustice is relatively easy to bear; it is justice that hurts."

Henry Louis Mencken

PROLOGUE
[2006]

ON A WEDNESDAY EVENING in early December, Dismas Hardy, standing at the thin line of dark cherry in the light hardwood floor of his office, threw a dart. It was the last in a round of three, and as soon as he let the missile go, he knew it would land where he'd aimed it, in the "20" wedge, as had the previous two. Hardy was a better-than-average playerif you were in a tournament, you'd want him on your teamso getting three twenties in a row didn't make his day. Although missing one or even, God forbid, two shots in any given round would marginally lower the level of the reservoir of his contentment, which was dangerously low as it was.So Hardy was playing a no-win game. If he hit his mark, it didn't make him happy; but if he missed, it really ticked him off.After he threw, he didn't move forward to go pull his darts from the board as he had the last thirty rounds. Instead, he let out a breath, felt his shoulders settle, unconsciously gnawed at the inside of his cheek.On the other side of his closed door, in the reception area, the night telephone commenced to chirrup. It was long past business hours. Phyllis, his ageless ogre of a receptionist/secretary, had looked in on him and said good night nearly three hours ago. There might still be associates or paralegals cranking away on their briefs or research in some of the other rooms and officesafter all, this was a law firm where the billable hour was the inescapable unit of currencybut for the most part, the workday was over.And yet, with no pressing work, Hardy remained.Over the last twenty years, Wednesday evenings in his home had acquired a near-sacred status as Date Night. Hardy and his wife, Frannie, would leave their two children, Rebecca and Vincentfirst with baby-sitters, then aloneand would go out somewhere to dine and talk. Often they'd meet first at the Little Shamrock, about halfway between home on Thirty-fourth Avenue and his downtown office. Hardy was a part owner of the bar, with Frannie's brother, Moses McGuire, and they'd have a civilized drink and then repair to some venue of greater or lesser sophisticationSan Francisco had them alland reconnect. Or at least try.Tonight's original plan was to meet at Jardinire, Traci Des Jardins's top-notch restaurant, which they'd belatedly discovered only in the past year when Jacob, the second son of Hardy's friend Abe Glitsky, returned from Italy to appear in several performances at the opera house across the street. But Frannie had called him and canceled at four-thirty, leaving a message with Phyllis that she had an emergency with one of her client families.Hardy had been on the phone when Frannie's call had come in, but he'd been known to put people on hold to talk to his wife. She knew this. Clearly she hadn't wanted to discuss the cancellation with him. It was a done deal.After another minute of immobility, Hardy rolled his shoulders and went around behind his desk. Picking up the telephone, he punched a few numbers, heard the ring, waited."Yellow.""Is the color of my true love's hair," he said. "Except that Frannie's hair is red. What kind of greeting is 'yellow'?""It's hello with a little sparkle up front. Y-y-yellow. See?""I liked it better when you just said 'Glitsky.'""Of course you did. But you're a well-known troglodyte. Treya pointed out to me, and she was right as she is about everything, that growling out my name when I answer the phone at home was somewhat off-putting, not to say unfriendly."As a lifelong policeman, Glitsky had cultivated a persona that was, if nothing else, self-protectively harsh. Large, broad-shouldered, black on his mother's sidehis father, Nat, was JewishGlitsky's favored expression combined an unnerving intensity with a disinterested neutrality that, in conjunction with anomalous ice-blue eyes and the scar that ran through both of his lips, conveyed an impression of intimidating, barely suppressed rage. Supposedly he had wrung confessions out of suspects by doing nothing more than sitting at an interrogation table, arms crossed, and staring. Even if the rumor wasn't strictly true, Glitsky had done nothing to dispel it. It felt true. It sounded true. So it was true enough for a cop's purposes."You've never wanted to appear friendly before in your entire life," Hardy said."False. At home, I don't want to scare the kids.""Actually, you do. That's the trick. It worked great with the first batch.""The first batch, I like that. But times change. Nowadays you want the unfriendly Glitsky, you've got to call me at work.""I'm not sure I can stand it.""You'll get over it. So what can I do for you?"The connection thrummed with empty air for a second. Then Hardy said, "I was wondering if you felt like going out for a drink."Glitsky didn't drink and few knew it better than Hardy. So the innocuous-sounding question was laden with portent. "Sure," Glitsky said after a beat. "Where and when?""I'm still at work," Hardy said. "Give me ten. I'll pick you up."Next page