Free The First Law by John Lescroart Page B

waste his money on overhead,” he said. Neither the single glass door nor the large picture window afforded a hint about what was inside—both were tinted black with fitted blinds. On the wall next to the door, gone-to-green brass lettering identified the building as the home of WGP Entepises, Inc. Cuneo looked across at his partner. “Maybe Roto-Rooter needed the ‘r’s and stole ’em.”
    Russell had no idea what he was talking about and wasn’t going to ask. He got out of the car and was a step behind Cuneo when they walked in. Inside, the place was much deeper than it looked from without. Several offices opened off the hallway back behind the well-appointed reception area. A pretty, dark-eyed young woman in a heavy cowl-neck white sweater stopped working on her computer and smiled a greeting at them. “Can I help you?”
    “Absolutely.” Cuneo flashed all his teeth.
    All business, Russell stepped around his partner. He had his identification out and showed it to her. “We’re with homicide. We talked to Mr. Panos last night at Mr. Silverman’s pawnshop. He’s expecting us.”
    “Oh yes. You’re the gentlemen who called earlier?”
    “Well, one of us is,” Cuneo said, then clarified, “a gentleman.”
    “That’s nice to hear. They’re getting to be in terribly short supply.”
    He extended his hand. “Inspector Dan Cuneo. And this is Inspector Russell. First name unnecessary.”
    She took his hand. “Liz Ballmer. Nice to meet you”—her eyes went to Russell—“both.” The smile disappeared and she swallowed nervously. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”
    It was an impressive, albeit industrial, office. Glass block served as opaque windows just under the ceiling, and found an echo in the large coffee table in front of the long leather couch against one wall. The rest of the furniture—several chairs and another smaller couch—was all chrome and leather. Framed and mounted photos of Panos with various luminaries—San Francisco’s mayor, the police commissioner, both U.S. senators, rock stars and other celebrities—covered most of one entire wall.
    “That’s who was there,” Panos was saying. “All of them.”
    Cuneo studied the list of the poker players from Silverman’s game. He was sitting sideways from Panos’s expansive desk drumming the theme from Bonanza with two fingers on the coffee table in front of him. “With addresses yet,” he said. “Very nice.”
    Panos nodded. “I thought I’d save you guys some legwork.” As he had last night, he wore his uniform. Steam curled from a large mug of coffee at his right hand. “One of the guys in the game—Nick Sephia?” He pointed. “You’ll see him there—he’s my nephew. Used to work for me, in fact.”
    “Since when has poker gotten legal?” Russell asked.
    “You know anybody in vice wants to hassle with it?” Panos asked. “When so many of them play themselves? Anyway, it turns out Nick knows all the guys from Wednesday. Those five, six including him. Which makes this your lucky day.”
    Cuneo stopped his drumming. “In what way?”
    Panos sipped coffee. “In the way that you won’t even need to talk to all of them.”
    Russell came forward to the edge of the couch. “How would we avoid that?”
    “You start with John Holiday. You ever heard of him?”
    Cuneo raised his head. “Not much since Tombstone. I heard he died.” Then, “Why would we have heard of him?”
    “He had some legal troubles not too long ago. They made it into the newspapers.”
    “What’d he do?” Russell asked.
    “What he used to do,” Panos said, “was run a pharmacy, Holiday Drugs. Ring any bells?”
    Cuneo looked the question to Russell, shrugged. “Nada,” he said. “So, what?”
    “So he got into the habit of filling prescriptions without worrying too much about whether or not they had a doctor’s signature on them. When they stung him, they had guys on videotape writing their own scrips at the counter right in front of