The Keeper by John Lescroart

predicted life span of a man suffering from multiple sclerosis—Elliot had been writing a column on page three called “CityTalk,” a staple of San Francisco’s media diet. When he’d started out, he was slim, clean-shaven, and baby-faced, and he got around town pretty well with the occasional help of crutches. He’d even been able to drive in his specially rigged car. Now, though the newspaper supplied him with a car and driver, he rarely strayed out in the field. His sources either phoned in their information or came to him. After all of his time on the job, his contacts in the city were second to none. If there was a story to be told, Elliot probably knew something about it.
    He and Glitsky had a lot of history. Once Glitsky had been shot making an arrest, and while he was in the emergency room and expected to die, Elliot had written an obituary column praising him as a cop and a person. Word that Abe was going to live arrived just in time to keep the column out of the paper, but it had been typeset and ready to go; Glitsky had a framed copy of it hanging in the hallway of his home.
    Now Glitsky knocked on the doorframe, and the reporter pushed himself away from his desk, turning as his wheelchair slid back. His face broke into a welcoming smile. “Look what the wind blows in. Dr. Glitsky.”
    The men shook hands, and Glitsky sat himself down on the ancient leather armchair next to the cubicle’s opening. They caught up on personal stuff—kids and wives all good, life going along—before Elliot said, “I’m thinking this is not purely a social visit. Which in itself is interesting, since, if I’m not mistaken, you’re still retired.”
    “I am, although you seem to be one of the few who know. I stopped by the Hall yesterday, and nobody seemed to realize that I’d been away. I think I could have gone back to my office and set up shop and nobody would have blinked.”
    “Devin Juhle might have been a little perplexed.”
    “Okay, him, but nobody else.”
    “So what were you doing at the Hall? Business?”
    Glitsky played it casually. “I’m doing some work for Hardy.”
    Elliot’s steel-wool eyebrows went up. “You’re going private?”
    “I wouldn’t say that. Just a little freelance. I wondered if you might be able to tell me anything that isn’t in the public domain about Hal Chase or his wife.”
    Jeff squinted into the distance for a second, then came back. “The wife who’s gone missing?”
    “That’s her.”
    “Is she dead?”
    “We don’t know yet.”
    “If she is, did he kill her?”
    “Homicide seems to think so, but he says not. He came to Hardy. Diz is choosing to believe that there’s more here than meets the eye, and he thinks I’m the guy who can sleuth it out. Whatever it is.”
    “And you think I might know something?”
    “You usually do.”
    “Well, let’s see.” Elliot closed his eyes and took a deep breath or two. “Nothing in the immediately downloadable brainpan.” Holding up a finger, he swung around in his chair. “Hal, right?” He tapped on his keyboard, waited a second or two, then nodded as the screen filled. “Okay, maybe this has nothing to do with his wife, but . . . he still works at the jail?”
    “Yep.”
    “Have you talked to him about what he does there?”
    “No. I gather he’s your basic guard. What do you have?”
    “Same thing, nothing. But any time I see the words ‘San Francisco County Sheriff,’ my antennae go up. It’s not the best-run show on the planet. Maybe you’ve heard.”
    Glitsky, of course, knew the general reputation, which was not good. San Francisco was a geographical anomaly in that the physical boundaries included both an incorporated municipality—the city—and a state jurisdictional entity—the county. Thus, two law enforcement agencies—SFPD and the Sheriff’s Department—coexisted, cooperated, and sometimes overlapped, but were totally distinct entities. The chief of police was appointed by the