Glitsky 02 - Guilt

by John Lescroart

  The top to Christina's dresser had been cleared of all her bric-a-brac - their wedding portrait, pictures of her parents, the small jewelry box, a precious (to her) row of carved soapstone seals, her perfumes.

  What the hell. . .

  He grabbed the handles of the top drawer - her underwear - and pulled it quickly out toward him. Then, more quickly, the next one down - pants. The next - sweaters and shirts.

  Empty, or nearly so.

  Empty enough.

  He raced into the bathroom. Her toothbrush was gone, her combs. Wait wait wait, slow down.

  She's having the baby, he told himself. She must have tried to call him and ran out of time. She'd driven herself to the hospital. That was it.

  But he had had the cellphone with him all day. He would have gotten the call. Still . . .

  He checked downstairs in the foyer closet. The small suitcase was gone. It was the one they'd packed for the delivery. All right, he thought. She's in labor. He'd call the hospital and get down there.

  But something else struck him - the large suitcase was missing, too.

  At the phone now, he called St Mary's to see if she'd been admitted. No. Unwilling to believe anything else, he told himself again that she had to be in labor somewhere. He tried the other hospitals - Shriner's, the University of California Medical Center.

  He punched at the redial feature on the phone and waited while it rang. Irene Carrera answered again, but he'd just spoken to her and she'd known nothing. Surely, if Christina had been in labor and hadn't been able to reach him, she would have called her mother. He hung up without a word.

  She'd left him.

  The post-it he'd stuck on the wall had a telephone number with Christina's handwriting. It might tell him something, might be someplace to start looking. He entered the numbers and listened to the message.

  Farrell.

  Okay, he told himself. Okay. Just think. She's gone, but it couldn't have been too long ago and it probably wasn't very far. And she hadn't yet told her mother, that was for sure, so she was staying close.

  Maybe she was planning to call him, to give him a chance to talk her back.

  She wasn't going to do that.

  He'd have to find her and get her and bring her back. She was carrying his baby, Goddamn it. Even if he didn't want it, it was his. And women just didn't walk away from Mark Dooher. He was not going to let that happen.

  So she got Farrell's number, but hadn't called him, at least it hadn't been the last call from this phone. The redial told him that.

  He was trying to figure it. The last call from this phone had been to her mother, but he had just talked to Irene, and she knew nothing. So what was going on? And where did Farrell come into it?

  If she wasn't in labor - he shouldn't be kidding himself, she wasn't - that meant she'd at least looked up Farrell. It had to be for protection. From him.

  He hit Farrell's numbers again. When the machine answered, he spoke calmly. 'Wes, it's your old friend Mark Dooher. Would you call as soon as you get this message? It's very important, about Christina. If she's in labor and you know it, would you let me know. I'm worried sick.'

  Hanging up with exaggerated care, Dooher sat immobile on the kitchen stool.

  Farrell, that ne'er-do-well busybody. Doesn't he know better by now - he ought to - than to go head up against Mark Dooher? If it came to a fight, Mark would destroy him. He always had, always would.

  Christina hadn't been lying to Farrell and Glitsky - she didn't know what she was going to do. The only certainty was that she had to get away from Mark. She had to protect the baby.

  She would stay near her doctor, Jess Yamagi. If he delivered the baby, it would be fine. It was about all she was sure of anymore.

  She had checked into a motel room on 19th Avenue near Golden Gate Park, not far from the hospital. A kind of exhausted clarity had kicked in. She was too pregnant to get to her parents' house anyway, to do any real traveling at all. With the stress, she'd had contractions on and off throughout the day.

  The thought of having to face her parents with another failure was almost worse than the failure itself. She would have to call them eventually to let them know, downplaying it at first to get them used to the idea, but it was going to be awful. It would have to be done, she knew that - but later.

  She realized she didn't have any important phone numbers. The Duncan/ Farrell home was unlisted. She had to call information for Farrell's number and left a message with him. The Crisis Center was also closed up for the night. She didn't leave a message.

  The contractions were irregular, but they were continuing. She got into the bed, turned the television on, and pulled the covers up around her.

  48

  Farrell had reached Glitsky at his office near the end of the day, and told him he'd remembered something Abe hadn't known. It wasn't in the Trang file, but it might be important. About Jim Flaherty.

  Since he'd made Lieutenant, Glitsky had learned that it was bad luck to subvert the regular channels and lines of command. Credibility was all. If Abe called on the DA in his official capacity as the head of Homicide and requested a meeting, the DA had to know he wasn't trying to sell bingo tickets.

  Glitsky first discussed Farrell's information with Dan Rigby, the Chief of Police, and Rigby told him that if the DA said it might go somewhere, he could move on it. Otherwise, it was a waste of company time. Having obtained Rigby's permission, Glitsky called the DA.

  Which was why he was back downtown on this Friday night after a quick meal at home with Rita and the boys. He and Paul Thieu walked into the office of the new District Attorney Alan Reston. (Chris Locke, who had been the DA during the Dooher trial, had gotten himself killed - shot to death during one of the race riots that had rocked the city the preceding summer.)

  Glitsky had come to admire Reston, a mid-thirties African-American. He was as political as Locke had been but, unlike Locke, had within this century put quite a few actual criminals behind bars.

  Reston's face was black marble, smooth and unlined, under a closely trimmed Afro. His tie alone had more colors than Glitsky's entire closet, and the suit couldn't be bought for a week of Abe's pay. But he was a professional prosecutor, and for that, Glitsky could forgive the fancy clothes.

  Everybody shook hands. The politician naturally remembered Paul Thieu by name, and he directed both the officers to chairs in front of his desk. He went around to his own seat and didn't waste anymore time on amenities. 'What do you have?' he asked, straight out.

  'How much do you know about Mark Dooher?'

  Reston hadn't been in the city during the Dooher trial, so his recollection of it was vague. Glitsky went over the facts. Reston had his hands crossed on his desk and, listening, didn't so much as twiddle his thumbs. When Glitsky wound it up, he waited ten seconds to make sure he'd finished, then spoke. 'And the point is?'

  Paul Thieu popped in. 'We never tried him for Trang, sir. Locke pulled us off the case, and Thomasino ruled any mention of our investigation inadmissible at the trial.'

  Reston looked confused. 'Who's Trang?'

  'Paul.' Glitsky, stopping his subordinate. 'The point, Alan, is that this man's a multiple murderer and I'm afraid he's going to do it again.'

  Reston remained cool. 'Well, then, isn't the usual procedure to wait until he does, then collect the evidence he's so kindly left us.'

  'Yes, sir, no question that is s.o.p.'

  Reston opened his hands. 'Well?'

  'Well, that brings us back to Victor Trang.' He turned to Thieu. 'All right, Paul. Now.'

  It was a little bit like turning a terrier loose. In under five minutes, Thieu outlined the entire history on the death of Victor Trang - the proposed settlement on the amended complaint with the Archdiocese, the computer notes, his mother and girlfriend, Dooher, the Vietnam connection, the bayonet - wiping the blood, the cellphone ...

  Again, Glitsky cut in. Paul could get a lot of information on the table in a hurry, but it could overwhelm, an
d Reston's eyes had begun to glaze. 'We had a case building - circumstantial, but righteous. And then Locke pulled it.'

  'Why did he do that?'

  'I think he did a favor for the Archbishop.'

  Reston frowned. 'You're saying Chris Locke downloaded a murder investigation? That's a hell of a strong accusation, Abe, especially against someone who isn't around to deny it.'

  This response was expected, and Glitsky shrugged it off. 'Locke told Rigby' - the Chief of Police - 'that he wasn't going to try a circumstantial case against Dooher. He wanted to see physical evidence - the bayonet, an eyewitness or two, fibers or soils or fabrics, something.'

  This made sense to Reston. 'He wanted to win if it went to trial. There's nothing sinister there.'

  'I understand that. And as it turned out, we got a warrant and tore his place apart and didn't find anything.'

  Reston shook his head. 'I'm afraid I don't see where this is going. You got some new evidence?'

  Thieu, unable to restrain himself, up on the front of his chair. 'The Archbishop. Flaherty.'

  'What about him?'

  Glitsky: 'He's the one who convinced Locke to back off. He talked Locke into keeping the Trang murder out of Dooher's trial. I talked to Dooher's old lawyer today - Wes Farrell. . .'

  'A defense lawyer?'

  'Farrell's a good guy. He and Dooher don't get along anymore. His news was that Flaherty went sideways on Dooher's character testimony. He found something out.'

  'You think?'

  'We can find out. Flaherty's not a fan of mine or I'd ask him myself. Since the trial he's pulled the plug on all contacts with Dooher's firm. He should have led the cheering when Dooher got off. Instead, he cut him out.'

  'I'm listening.'

  'Ask Flaherty.'

  'Ask him what?'

  'Ask him why he and Dooher aren't playmates anymore.'

  'And?'

  'Then we know something, don't we? We've got new evidence. We try to build the case. We brought up all the files - you can check 'em out. A guy named Chas Brown—'

  Reston held up a hand. 'I will.'

  'Fine. And meanwhile we keep looking for the good stuff. Above all, we take Dooher off the street again. Maybe save a life or two.'

  'Whose?'

  'I don't know. His new wife's maybe. My guess is she's leaving him, and that's going to stir up the pot.'

  'Saving lives isn't the job, Abe.'

  'I never said it was, Alan. But wouldn't it be nice?'

  'You want to get him, don't you? You got a hard-on for Dooher?'

  But Glitsky had been down this road enough times. He knew where the potholes were. 'I see a way to take a dangerous man off the street legally. It's a skull case we can close. That's all Dooher is. It's nothing personal.'

  Reston considered. 'That's a very good answer.' Telling Glitsky he didn't believe him. But he nodded. 'Okay. I'll call Flaherty, see what he says.'

  It didn't take any time at all.

  Glitsky and Thieu were talking over the relative merits of a no-warrant arrest - picking up a suspect without a warrant signed by a magistrate - and had pretty much reached the conclusion that in Dooher's case, it wouldn't be a great idea. Dooher wasn't acting like he was going to flee the jurisdiction. He'd committed no new crimes that they knew of. If Glitsky and Thieu just went in and arrested him on their suspicions, they'd open themselves up to charges of false arrest, harassment, police brutality.

  On his desk, the telephone sounded. 'Glitsky.'

  When he hung up, he told Thieu that it had been the DA. 'Flaherty told Reston he's got no personal knowledge of any crimes committed by Mr Dooher. Emphasis added. If there's evidence he committed a crime, we ought to pursue it vigorously. His words.'

  Thieu broke a grin. 'What do you say? Let's do that very thing.'

  At 10:18, Sam had her feet up and was reclining in the barco-lounger. She was vastly enjoying the political philosophy of Al Franken, laughing aloud every two minutes. Bart slept under the table and Wes was in a chair at that table perusing the Trang file - there had to be something in it.

  The doorbell rang and Bart raised his head and barked. Wes looked a question over at Sam. 'This time of night?'

  'We don't want any,' Sam said. 'I know.'

  He closed the Trang file and stood up. Crossing the living room, giving an affectionate tug on Sam's toe as he passed her, he got to the stairs and turned on the outside light.

  Half of their front door was frosted glass, and a man's silhouette was visible behind it. Farrell paused with a premonition, then spoke to the door. 'Who is it?'

  'Mark Dooher.'

  He opened the door halfway, but kept a hand on it. The sight of Dooher, on his stoop in the fog, made his mouth go dry.

  The damn physical reactions. His heart was turning over. 'What do you want?'

  'That's not the friendliest greeting I've ever heard, Wes. How about, "How you been?" or "Long time no see?"' When Farrell made no response, Dooher cut to it. 'I'm trying to find my wife. She here?'

  'No, she's not here. Why would she be here?'

  'She called you today.' It wasn't a question. 'You saw her. I think you know where she is.'

  'I don't have any idea where she is.'

  A coldness in the eyes. 'I think she's here.'

  Behind him, Wes heard Sam's voice at the top of the stairs. 'Who is it, Wes?'

  Dooher's eyes narrowed. He tried to look up the stairs around Farrell. 'Finally getting some, are you? She pretty?'

  'Get lost, Mark. I don't know where Christina is. I didn't know she was leaving you, though I don't blame her. She got an earful of the evidence on Victor Trang today. I think it kind of bothered her.' He turned around to Sam. 'It's Mark Dooher.'

  'So you did talk to her?'

  Damn. Farrell had to stop giving things away. He had to remember who he was talking to. 'How did you know where I live?'

  A condescending smile. 'Parkers.'

  Lord. Wes was pathetic. When the Parkers Directory - the lawyer's guide to other lawyers - had sent him their update form, he'd filled in his address here on Buena Vista. He hadn't opened his new office yet, hadn't wanted to lose any business. Stupid.

  Sam put her hand flat against his back. He hadn't heard her come down the stairs.

  Dooher kept up with questions. 'So what did Christina say? What did you talk about?'

  'Soybean futures, Mark. Maybe some pork bellies. Famous killers we have known.'

  Dooher put his hand on the door. 'You've always been a funny guy, Wes.' He popped the heel of his palm against the frosted pane. 'Where is she?' Another shot with his palm, rattling the window. Loud. 'Where the fuck is she?'

  Suddenly Sam was around Wes, slamming the door shut, turning the deadbolt. 'Keep the hell away from here!' she yelled through the door.

  Bart set up a racket and Wes leaned over, patting him, holding him by the collar, getting him under control. When he looked back up, the shadow was gone. He slumped against the wall. Sam had her back against the opposite wall. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I just didn't want...'

  'No, it's okay. He's gone now. That was a good move.'

  She came toward him, into his arms. 'What did he want?'

  'Christina's left him. He thought I'd know where she went.'

  'I don't want him coming around here.'

  'I don't either.' They started up the steps, arms around one another. 'You don't have to worry,' Wes said. 'He's just looking for her.'

  'I do worry. He didn't have to come by here. He could have called you at work tomorrow.'

  Wes thought about it. 'He's not going to do anything to me. He doesn't perceive me as a danger.'

  'This was a threat, him coming by here. He was threatening you.'

  'I don't think so. What for?'

  'For talking Christina into leaving him.'

  'I didn't do that. She did that on her own.'

  'She did it on her own after she talked with you at your office. It's a fine distinction.'

&nb
sp; Wes shook his head. 'There's no way.'

  She stared up into his face. 'You want to promise me one thing? You thought you knew him before. Remember that, would you? Remember that.'

  He kissed her. 'Okay, I'll remember.'

  Ravenwood Street in the dark.

  Slumped behind the wheel of his city car, Glitsky had the lights off but had left the motor running and the heater on. His hands encircled an oversized cardboard cup which had once held hot tea. The driver's side window was down an inch.

  Across the street, Dooher's house appeared and disappeared in the shifting fog. Fifteen minutes before, Glitsky had knocked on the front door and returned to his car to wait.

  He was thinking about Flaherty, wishing he hadn't come on so aggressively back long ago when he'd interviewed him. But then again, that's who Abe had been back then - a cop with a chip on his shoulder over Flo, over his life. Ready to explode at anybody, even people who might help him. Alienating everyone. Ineffective.

  The Lexus pulled into the driveway. Glitsky got out of his car and reached the front door at about the same time a light came on in the back of the house. He pushed the doorbell and listened to the eight tones: Lord we thank thee. We bow our heads.

  Another light inside, then overhead on the porch. When Dooher opened the door, Glitsky put a foot against it. 'I thought you'd be interested to hear that we're looking into Mr Trang's murder again. I wanted to give you the opportunity to confess to it now, save us all a lot of time and trouble.'

  'Get a life, private.' Dooher moved to close the door, but it wouldn't go.

  Glitsky kept talking. 'You've been through one trial. You know the heck it plays with your life. You don't really want to go through that again. And I'm betting you don't get bail this time. Just a hunch, but I'd go with it.'

  'What the hell are you doing here?'

  'I just told you.'

  'You got a warrant? You don't have a warrant, Sergeant, get off my property.'

  Glitsky moved his foot. 'I'm going to take that as a "no" on the confession, but you're making a mistake.'

  Dooher, disgusted, closed the door and turned out the overhead light. Glitsky, thinking he'd burned up his Friday-night fun quotient, decided to go home. He was almost across the patio when the light came back on. He heard the door open, the commanding voice. 'Glitsky.'