Glitsky 02 - Guilt

by John Lescroart

  'I don't think that's it,' she said. 'You don't have to explain it to me. I think you just believed.'

  'That's the problem. I do.'

  'That's not a problem.'

  'Well...' He sipped at his coffee, moved food around on his plate.

  'Why is that a problem?' she persisted.

  Deciding to answer her, he let out a small sigh. 'Well, as you know, we lawyers get used to defending our positions. It's a bit awkward taking a position that doesn't really have a logical framework. I mean, it's faith. It's there or it's not. But there's really not any reason to have it.'

  'Or not have it.'

  'But you can't prove a negative.'

  'But,' she pointed a finger at him, 'there's no reason to prove it. It's personal.'

  'Well, of course, I know. But... it sets me apart, a bit, from my peers. It's old fashioned, fuddy-duddy

  'Come on. It is not. Not on you.'

  He pointed back at her. 'Says you.'

  'Yes,' she said, 'says me.'

  'Okay, I guess that settles it. So what about you?'

  'What about me and what?'

  'Faith. Belief. Why you've got ashes on your forehead here at. . .' he checked his watch '. . . seven o'clock of a rather inclement Wednesday morning?'

  She glanced down at her food, cut into her waffle, wiped it in syrup. She did not bring the fork to her mouth.

  'Evasive action,' Dooher said.

  Still looking down, she nodded. 'A little, I suppose.'

  'I'm sorry. I don't mean to push you.'

  She took in a breath, raised her head. Her eyes had a shine in them. 'Penance, too, mostly. Figuring things out.'

  Dooher waited. 'This isn't turning into the most modern of conversations, is it? Faith and penance. Sounds like the Middle Ages, or me and Wes on one of our retreats.'

  She seemed grateful for the reprieve. 'Wes?'

  'Wes Farrell, my best friend.'

  'Best friends, another not-so-modern concept.'

  Dooher studied her face - something was troubling her, hurting her. He kept up the patter to give her a chance to let the moment pass if that's what she wanted. 'Well, that's me and Wes, a couple of throwbacks. We go on retreats, we call 'em, replenish the soul, talk about the big picture, get reconnected.'

  'You're lucky, a friend like that.' A pause, adding, 'Still believing in connecting.'

  He took a beat, making sure. She didn't want to avoid it after all, didn't want to be protected, insulated from whatever it was. Not today, not now. She had decided to get it out, and this was an invitation to him, to ask.

  'It's really so trite.'

  She liked the way the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. 'Trite happens,' he said.

  She leaned forward over the table. 'You know last night when I let you believe I'd been in the workplace after college for a couple of years? That wasn't the truth.'

  She watched him for a sign, she wasn't sure of what - displeasure, boredom? Ready to retreat at any provocation. He only nodded, patient and tolerant. Taking a breath, she went on: 'He was a professor at Santa Clara, my adviser. Married, a great guy. You probably know everything I'm going to say, don't you?'

  'Do you ever talk about this?'

  'No. It's too ...' She shook her head.

  'I'm here,' he said. 'I'm interested and it won't go any further. If it would help...'

  Through the expanse of window, a volley of rain raked the parking area, beat briefly against their portion of the glass, passed over. 'He was going to leave his wife,' she began. 'I guess that's what I had the most trouble with when it was first starting to happen, that I was going to wreck his happy home. Except that he told me that Margie and he didn't love each other anymore, that he was leaving her anyway, it had nothing to do with me ... and I guess I wanted to believe that.'

  'You're not the first person that's happened to.'

  She had turned in her seat, one leg extended on the bench, her elbow on the table, leaning over toward him. The waitress came to clear and they both sat silently, watching her remove dishes, wipe the table down.

  'More coffee here?'

  After it had been poured, Dooher prompted her. 'It must have been painful. And not so trite after all.'

  She was biting her lip again. 'You've only heard the short version - girl falls in love with college professor, who's going to leave his wife for her after she graduates . '

  'Christina . . .'

  She held up a hand. 'Listen. It gets worse. Girl has best friend from childhood, let's call her Ginny, who's kind of the liaison between the two of them, covers for them with the wife, all that. Girl gets pregnant - professor had been childless with his wife, told girl he was sterile, low sperm count. Now accuses girl of sleeping with someone else - couldn't have been him. Dumps her just as she graduates.'

  Christina reached for her cup, took a quick sip, swallowed. She looked over at Dooher, met his eye. 'Girl has abortion,' she said. 'End of story. See? Trite. And PS, professor dumps wife and marries friend Ginny, just to tie it all up.'

  Dooher picked up his mug, holding it with both hands. He blew on it, glanced at the rain outside. That's what the penance is for?'

  She nodded. 'I still don't know what to do with it. It's been almost five years...' Sighing. 'It's so funny because I know better. I mean, I'm educated, reasonably smart. But, I don't know, it changed me, not just Brian's...' She looked embarrassed at the slip of the name, continued: 'Brian's betrayal, and Ginny's. Mostly the abortion, I guess.'

  Silence.

  'So what did you do for the two years before law school?'

  'I went home - down to Ojai. I moped around, let my mom and dad take care of me. And then one day my dad and I had a talk about how giving in to grief, too much, is really wrong. Well, that struck a chord, and I decided I had to do something, start living again. So I applied to law school, as if that's living.' She gave him a weak smile. 'Anyway,' she touched her forehead, 'that explains the ashes, the penance.'

  'The engagement to Joe Avery?'

  That got a rise out of her. 'I didn't say that. Why do you say that?'

  Dooher shrugged. 'I don't know. The connection just jumped into my head.'

  'Well, that doesn't make any sense ... I like Joe very much. Love him, I mean. Don't look at me like that!'

  Dooher's voice remained measured. 'I'm not looking at you any way. I just made an observation, that's all. I like Joe, too. Hell, I hired him. I shouldn't have spoken so frankly. I thought we were baring our souls here. I didn't mean to offend you. I'm sorry.'

  She softened. 'I'm sorry, too. I didn't mean ...'

  'No, it's all right.' He looked at his watch. 'And it's time for me to go to work. Can I drop you back at school?'

  Christina sat straight-backed, pressed against her bench. 'Now you're mad at me.'

  Dooher leaned across the table. 'Not at all. You're still applying to the firm? Today, tomorrow, the next day?'

  'I said I would.'

  'But will you? Now?' He broke a smile. 'After our first fight?'

  Gradually, the face softened again. She nodded. 'Yes.'

  'Then I'm not mad at you.'

  Glitsky closed the door, having just gotten the three boys off to school.

  He stood a minute in the tiny foyer, closing his eyes briefly against the constant sting of fatigue. He could hear the voices of his sons.

  But he didn't stand still for long. He had about a week's worth of work to do today, which was how he'd arranged it. He would just keep doing things - that was the trick.

  Today, Flo was alive, and his boys were healthy and doing fine in school. That's what he would concentrate on. He had five homicides he was investigating, and he was also studying for the Lieutenant's Exam, which he hadn't even decided to take. But it was more busy work.

  He looked at his watch. He had to go now into the kitchen, pour himself some tea, get his day moving.

  'Abe?' Flo, suddenly awake, called from the bedroom.

  'Yo.' Hearty a
s he could manage. He was already across the living room, stopping in the bedroom's doorway. His wife had propped herself up and she was smiling at him.

  'Get 'em off?' She meant the kids.

  Glitsky saluted. 'Out of here, on time and looking good.'

  She patted the bed and moved over so he could sit. 'What time did you get up?'

  'Actually, I had a pretty good night. Got up before the alarm, but not much -I think about six-thirty.'

  She searched his face, ran a light finger across the top of his cheek. 'Your eyes have bags.'

  'That's just the way they look, Flo. I'm working on them as an investigative tool. Keep me from looking too friendly.'

  'Oh yes,' she said, 'that's been a real problem.'

  'You'd be surprised,' he said, 'witnesses thinking I'm all warm and fuzzy. I decided I ought to look a little tougher.'

  'Good idea. You wouldn't want your sweet nature to show through.'

  'People just take advantage. You wouldn't believe.'

  Glitsky's mother Emma had been black. His father Nat was Jewish. So Glitsky had a dark-skinned face with a hawk-like nose. In spite of that, people tended to see first the uneven white scar that ran between his upper and lower lips. Even when his eyes didn't have the valises under them as they did now, his smile was a terrifying thing to behold.

  He laid a hand on his wife's thigh. 'So how's by you? You want some food? Coffee? Tantric sex?'

  She nodded. 'All of the above. I'll get up.'

  'You sure?'

  'Unless you want the tantric sex first, but I'm better after coffee.'

  'Okay, I'll wait.'

  'You put on the pot,' she said. 'I'll freshen up.'

  He went into the kitchen. There, on the table, were the remains of the boys' breakfasts - empty bowls, cereal boxes, milk, sugar all over the table.

  And his police reports - the five dead people and as much of their recent lives as Glitsky had been able to assemble. The latest, a young woman named Tania Willows who had been raped and murdered and whose body had been discovered just yesterday.

  The cereal in the cupboard. Sugar on the counter. Milk in the fridge. Got to clean out the fridge - if there's that much mold on the cheese, who knows what the meat drawer is going to look like?

  Sponge that sugar off the table. The smell of the sponge. The thing had to be three months old. He should toss it but they didn't have another one. Where did sponges come from anyway? He couldn't remember ever having bought a sponge in his entire life.

  And then, oh yeah, the coffee, the water boiling now, and he still hadn't ground up the beans. He really should grind up a bunch all at once so he wouldn't have to do it every morning, but Flo liked the fresh-ground, and he wanted her to have . ..

  At least he and Flo, this morning, that was a good wake-up. He'd just keep cheerful another few minutes, maybe a half hour, and so would she, and then that would be another morning, and if they just kept that up ...

  4

  Christina's seven-year-old Toyota hadn't started and when it finally did, the windshield wipers refused to function. So she walked down the hill from USF, past St Mary's Hospital. She was planning to cut through the panhandle of Golden GatePark on this rainy Ash Wednesday; the short-cut would get her to work on time.

  But she didn't count on San Francisco's seemingly endless capacity to provide local color. This morning's entry was a substantial coven of half-clad Druids conducting some sort of tree-worshiping ceremony, chanting and clapping and having themselves a hell of a good time.

  Christina broke right trying to skirt them, but a tiny, thick woman of uncertain though recent vintage latched on to her. A shawl covered the woman's shoulders, she'd woven flowers into her hair, and she wore a long leather skirt, but her breasts were completely exposed. When it became clear that Christina wasn't about to join them, was in fact going to work, she segued smoothly from missionary high priestess to spare-change artist.

  In any event, by the time Christina got to Haight Street, where the Rape Crisis Counseling Center maintained its office, she was soaking wet and twenty minutes late for her appointment.

  Her boss was a single, attractive, thirty-five-year-old smart-mouthed pistol named Samantha Duncan whose industrial-strength convictions on the ongoing battle of the sexes served her well in her role here - counseling women who had been raped.

  Her genuine compassion for these victims was unfortunately matched by her impatience with the healing process for the women, the legal process in identifying and punishing their attackers, and the administrative reality of having to depend on part-time volunteers to keep the Center functioning.

  When Christina had first interviewed for the work, Sam had impressed her with her humor and passion. Then she had laid out the ground rules in no uncertain terms. 'I know this job doesn't pay anything,' she'd said, 'but I need my volunteers to believe and to act like it's a job. I need you here when you say you're going to be here. I'm not very good with excuses.'

  Up until today, Christina had been punctual and dependable. Sam had a fire, a presence, and Christina admired the hell out of her and wanted to please her. She also wanted to prove that she wasn't a dilettante - this was her own very real commitment as well.

  Many of the barriers had been broken already; Sam and Christina had gone out for coffee together two or three times, outside of work, talking issues and politics. Christina thought they were close to real friendship.

  But Sam had a hair trigger regarding her volunteers, always ready to see signs of their lack of commitment in the work, and based on that, to bail out of personal involvements with her staff.

  And this morning, as Christina shook the water off herself, it was clear that their tentative relationship had suffered a major setback.

  Sam didn't exactly greet Christina with a smile. 'Oh, here she is now. Christina, this is Sergeant Glitsky. He's with the police, investigating .. . well,' Sam sighed, 'you know about that. I'll let him tell you. Sergeant, nice to have met you.' Sam didn't favor Christina with so much as a glance before she disappeared back into her office.

  But she couldn't worry about Sam, not now, and she turned her attention to the man in front of her.

  This guy Glitsky was in some kind of trouble, Christina thought. He appeared, even at a casual first glance, to be under incredible pressure, in the grip of some strong emotion he was struggling to keep under control. She noticed his fingers clenching and unclenching before he reached out and shook her hand. A surprise, it was a gentle handshake, his touch softer than she would have imagined.

  The half-smile he gave her didn't soften his looks any, though. 'I'm investigating the murder of Tania Willows, and Sam was telling me you had talked to her?'

  Christina nodded.

  Tentative, embarrassed and unsure, Tania Willows had been their most recent tragedy. Nineteen years old, just out to San Francisco from Fargo, North Dakota, she had come to the Center three times. She was being raped, she thought. She meant she thought it was technically rape. She didn't have a relationship with the guy, who was older. She was confused because she knew her assailant - he didn't jump out and attack her from behind some bush. So she wasn't sure if it was really rape.

  He'd started coming by her apartment, gradually getting more aggressive, and then he'd force himself on her - she was sure of that - but she also seemed almost certain that it wasn't like he was going to hurt her or anything like that.

  He never even hit her, though there was this sense of fear, that if she didn't . . . Maybe she had somehow been at fault, leading him on - did Christina know what she meant? How it could be? Sending the wrong signals.

  But she definitely felt forced, was forced - she had kept telling him no and he wouldn't stop - but otherwise Tania didn't think the person was like a criminal or anything, and really all she wanted was for him to leave her alone now. She didn't want to get him in trouble, maybe she shouldn't even be here . ..

  And then four days ago, Tania's murder had been all over the news. S
he'd been raped in her apartment, tied and taped to her bed, gagged and strangled.

  The Center had called the police at that time.

  Christina found she had to clear her throat. Glitsky was asking her something, which she didn't catch. 'I'm sorry ...?'

  He showed no sign that he was bothered by having to repeat the question. 'I was just wondering how much she might have told you about the man.'

  Christina was sitting on the front edge of the ragged couch, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, her hands folded in front of her. Her hair, still wet from the rain, hung in front of her face. 'Almost nothing,' she said. 'She knew him. He lived near her, maybe in her apartment building. She definitely felt that if she moved she could get away from him, but she couldn't afford to move.'

  Glitsky nodded. 'And she didn't want to press charges.'

  'I'd hoped we were getting to there, but no, not by - not in time.'

  'And no names, not an initial, a nickname ...?'

  She shook her head. 'No, nothing, I don't think. I wish ... I'm sorry.'

  'Did you take any notes I might look at? Maybe there was something.

  'I know I took some. I'll go check. It wouldn't have been much, but maybe . . .' The Sergeant's face had clouded - he was staring blankly out through the fogged glass, out into the desultory traffic on Haight. 'Can I get you anything?' she asked. 'Cup of coffee or something?'

  Glitsky didn't answer.

  She touched his arm. 'Sergeant?'

  Back with her. 'Sure. Sorry. Just thinking.'

  'Are you all right?'

  Suddenly the face wasn't terrifying at all. What she saw was sadness. Tm a little distracted,' he said. 'My wife's sick.' Then: 'Some tea would be nice, thanks.'

  It still wasn't noon.

  Christina was just tired, she told herself. After all, with the party, she'd been awake until nearly two last night, then had her nightly argument with Joe. This morning, then, her ashes and the long, strangely emotional breakfast with Mark Dooher, her car not starting, the neo-hippie woman in the park, Sam's disapproval.