Damage

by John Lescroart

  Now she covered his hand with hers. “I know that. He was naïve, hoping to keep the Curtlees happy. He knows that, too, now. And I know you did the right thing. But I don’t think Ro would dare do anything to us now.”

  Glitsky made a face. “Well, that’s the hope. I’d be a lot happier if Wes pushed a little on getting his new trial date set. But as to whether I feel guilty taking a day off . . . I don’t plan to make a habit of it, but after Monday, and now he’s out again, and I still don’t have enough inspectors or the budget to hire more.” He let out a breath. “I don’t know, Trey. I feel I’m a toxic presence at the Hall, and I’ve got to let some of this anger leach out before I poison my own troops. If I’m going to do that, I might as well quit altogether.”

  “Are you really thinking about that?”

  “Sometimes. Frequently, in fact. I don’t know what the point is anymore.”

  “Same as it’s always been, babe. Putting killers in jail.”

  “Yeah,” Glitsky said. “But then they let ’em out.”

  “Not always. Not even often.”

  “I know, I know. You’re right. But that’s why I need a day off here. Get some perspective back. Speaking of which . . .”

  He reached down and pulled his cell phone off his belt.

  “If it’s the office, don’t . . . ,” Treya said.

  But Glitsky was shaking his head. “It’s not downtown,” he said. “It’s Arnie Becker. I ought to get this.” And he pushed the connect button. “Arnie, it’s Abe. What’s up?”

  13

  “Of course,” Becker was saying, “we won’t know for sure until—”

  “Arnie.” Glitsky held up a hand and cut him off. “You got any doubt at all?”

  Becker drew in a large breath through his mouth. The stench of the burn was strong, but a whiff of the pervasive scent of cooked meat could bring even a strong man’s stomach up. “Very little,” he said.

  They were standing, hands in their pockets, on the second floor in the bright sunlight that shone through the collapsed roof of Michael Durbin’s home. The temperature was in the midforties, abnormally cold for San Francisco in February. The body was still in place in the burned-out shell of the upstairs bedroom, itself pretty thoroughly destroyed. The coroner’s van had just arrived out front, but the crime scene unit, with their surgical masks in place, had been photographing and collecting what little evidence they could since before Glitsky’s arrival about twenty minutes ago.

  Though the face was unrecognizable, this body was in somewhat better condition than Felicia Nuñez’s had been. Neither of this woman’s shoes, in this case low-heeled black pumps, had been burned away completely. One had come off, possibly from the power of the hoses during the active phase of fighting the fire, and had wound up under the bed, about eight inches from the woman’s right foot. But the other shoe still appeared to be a snug fit on her left foot. There were no unburned scraps of clothing under the body, no sign of a bra or other underwear, and Becker’s conjecture from those facts was that the woman had been naked either at or shortly after the time she died and was set ablaze. Due to the relatively light amount of charring where the woman’s body was in contact with the floor, Becker told Glitsky that if she’d been wearing any clothes, they would not all have burned away.

  “What about DNA?” Glitsky asked. “I mean, if the burning wasn’t really so bad.”

  “Well,” Becker said, “it’s all relative. You can see for yourself that not so bad doesn’t mean not bad. And it’s also pretty clear where the fire got started, same as with Nuñez. So all in all, I’d say DNA’s not a good bet, although of course we’re going to try.” Becker glanced again over at the body. “So the similarities. That’s why I called you directly, of course.”

  “I appreciate it.” Glitsky sucked carefully through his teeth, turned away so the body was out of his line of vision. “Although I can’t say it makes much sense.”

  “What has to make sense?”

  “I mean, if this was Ro Curtlee. First, the sheer balls of it. After last week.”

  “He’s telling you to go fuck yourself.”

  Glitsky’s mouth twitched at the profanity. “So he just picks some random woman?”

  Becker shrugged. “Maybe he knew her.”

  “Yeah, but everybody else he’s done has been a domestic. How’d he meet somebody out here? A normal civilian, I’m guessing, right? Any word about whether this was the cleaning lady or somebody like that?”

  “I don’t think so, Abe. The husband and some other family are down there.” He pointed out to the street. “They’re all wrecked, and they all think it’s the wife. She’s the only female who would have been in the house. The daughter’s still at school. He called and checked.”

  Glitsky looked up through the gaping hole in the roof above them. “Dear God,” he said. “How old is she? The daughter?”

  Another shrug. “I don’t know. School age.”

  “You’re right,” Glitsky said. “What difference does it make?” He took a last look at the body, closed his eyes against the horror of it, and shook his head. “So who is she?”

  “If it’s the wife, her name’s Janice Durbin. Her husband’s . . .”

  Glitsky put his hand on Becker’s arm and gripped it. “Michael.”

  “Yeah. How’d you . . . ?”

  Nodding, verifying to himself the sudden and unmistakable clarity, Glitsky pulled in a last, quick breath. “He was the jury foreman at Ro’s trial.”

  “I don’t know why I agonize about taking days off,” Glitsky said. “Nobody else even seems to notice when I do.”

  “Maybe,” Amanda Jenkins said, “that’s because you’re actually physically here in the building talking about a case, so to someone who isn’t paying close attention it seems like you’re on the job somehow. And just for the record, can you explain to me how it would be different if you weren’t taking a day off?”

  “Not too, I guess. You put it that way.”

  “Well, there you go.” She pushed her chair back from her desk, leaned back, and put her feet up on its surface, displaying a good 80 percent of her extraordinary legs in the process. “You want to get the door? Certain people see us talking, they’re liable to think we’re colluding to obstruct justice, like we did last time.”

  Glitsky turned and closed it.

  Jenkins crossed her arms, gave him a flat look. “So what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here talking to you. You might have an idea.”

  “Not any that I’m proud of. Well, that’s not true. I’ve got one.”

  “Hit me.”

  “Before anything else, I’d rule out arresting Ro again.”

  Glitsky allowed himself a small, grim smile. “That was my thought, too. Which, of course, leaves him free to go around killing other people whenever the mood strikes him. But hey, that’s not my decision.”

  “Don’t be bitter.”

  “No. Why would I be bitter?”

  “Good. For a minute there, I thought I detected a trace.”

  “Nope. Bitter-free, that’s me.” A wooden chair sat along the wall next to the cabinets, and Glitsky pulled it around and straddled it backward. “But in actual fact, I’ve pretty much decided that I’m going to pretend Ro isn’t any part of this Durbin murder, lower my own profile.”

  “That’s probably smart. You show up around Ro again, it’s a circus before it even starts.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m not going to be all over it.”

  “No. I didn’t think it did. So what’s the plan?”

  “The plan is I don’t make the connection to Ro. Not in public, anyway.”

  “And what’s that get you?”

  “Time, if nothing else. Maybe the Curtlees back off. Meanwhile, I go out and talk to people like any homicide inspector would. Develop a theory of the case, maybe even a list of suspects. I don’t get near Ro until something, some solid evidence, leads back to him, which is wha
t we’re going to need anyway if the good Mr. Farrell is ever going to charge him with anything again in our lifetimes.”

  “Except you’ve already got that up front. Something leading back to Ro.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The shoe, the MO, the jury foreman’s wife. Take your pick. The guy all but drew you a picture.”

  “Well, that’s the other thing.”

  “What?”

  “Arnie Becker’s theory is that this is Ro flipping me off. Actually, flipping both of us off, you and me.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  Glitsky shrugged. “So how’s he going to feel if he’s gone to all the trouble of killing somebody else and leaving all these clues to rub what he can get away with in our faces, and I don’t put it together? Instead, I go barking up another tree and don’t give him the satisfaction.”

  It took her a moment, but then she nodded. “He’s going to want to tell us what he did. And dare us to try and prove it.”

  “Need is more like it. It’s going to flush him. Or, it might. At least it’s a shot.”

  Glitsky was thinking that Treya was right about her boss. Without her organizational presence and staff sergeant demeanor, he’d be lost as an administrator. So much so, apparently, that in her absence this afternoon he’d simply closed up shop and disappeared. The lights in the outer office—Treya’s domain—were dark when Glitsky showed up, no visitors waited for their appointments with the DA himself, and the door to Farrell’s office was closed. Crossing the room and putting an ear to the door, he heard no sound. Not expecting to get an answer, nevertheless, he rapped sharply on the door three times.

  Nothing.

  And then, just as he was turning to go, the sound of footsteps came from within. Glitsky stopped and was all but at attention, facing the door when Farrell opened it. The district attorney was in his shirtsleeves and the lights in his own office were turned off, the blinds pulled against the bright sunshine outside. Glitsky thought he might have just interrupted a nap. “If this isn’t a good time . . . ,” he began.

  “No. It’s fine. I was just meditating for a minute. You ever do that, Abe?”

  “Not so much. I don’t get much free time.”

  “Twenty minutes a day, that’s all it takes. Everybody ought to be able to find twenty minutes.”

  “I keep looking for them,” Glitsky said. “I think the kids must steal ’em.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Your kids are still at home, aren’t they?”

  “Only for another eighteen or twenty years. But who’s counting?”

  “You’re right. I don’t think I would, either, under those conditions. Probably wouldn’t meditate, either.” Suddenly Farrell seemed to remember not just where he was, but who he was. His face went slack for a moment, then reanimated itself. “But here you are. What can I do for you? You want to come in and sit down for a minute? Is everything all right with Treya? How’s she feeling?”

  “Better,” Glitsky said.

  “She’ll be back in on Monday, I hope.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Good. Good. Well, come on in.” Farrell hesitated, then moved back a step. When Glitsky had gotten past the door, Farrell closed it behind them. He turned on the room’s overhead lights, then walked over to one of his couches and sat on it, motioning for Glitsky to do the same. But Glitsky remained standing.

  “What do you got?” Farrell asked.

  “Ro’s done it again.”

  Farrell dropped his head, then slowly brought it back up. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  “No, sir. Janice Durbin. Wife of the foreman of his jury. Set her on fire either before or after he killed her, burned the house down around her. Naked, with shoes on her feet. Might as well have left a business card.”

  “Sounds like he did.” Farrell brought a hand up and rubbed the side of his face. “Jesus Christ, Abe, what are we going to do?”

  “I thought you might go back to Baretto.”

  Farrell’s shoulders heaved, a spasm of bitter laughter. “He wouldn’t touch this thing, not after Donahoe. Now two judges have ruled Ro’s no danger to the community. No way does Baretto pull him back in.”

  “So at what point do the shoes and the MO count as evidence?”

  “Honestly, probably no point.”

  “Maybe I should go talk to him, make the case.”

  Farrell shook his head. “Your credibility around Ro is in the shitter, Abe. This is all coming across as a personal vendetta.” He hesitated. “Maybe I shouldn’t mention this, but I had Vi Lapeer stop by here this morning. Unexpectedly.”

  “What’d she know?”

  “It’s not what she knew. It’s what she wanted. She wanted advice.”

  “About what?”

  “About the fact that Leland told her he wants you out. Not just out of this investigation, but completely out. The political heat’s just too much for him. According to him, half the city thinks you guys are the Gestapo. And you’re the poster child.”

  “That’s Marrenas. The woman’s toxic.” Glitsky finally took a seat across from Farrell. Coming forward, he let out a breath. “So what was your advice?”

  “I told her she should stick by her guns and support you. The mayor wouldn’t dare fire her so soon after bringing her on. Of course, I may be wrong. I haven’t been right in so long I forget what it looks like. But I told her he’d look like a complete fool for making her his choice for chief in the first place.”

  “He threatened to fire her?”

  “I think it was more understood than stated. But the message was clear enough.”

  “So I should quit?”

  “I won’t lie to you, Abe. That’s an option, though not a good one. Better would be to get something real on Ro.”

  “I thought I did that last time.”

  “Yeah. Well, we saw how that played.”

  Glitsky took that in silence for a beat. Then, “Well, in any event, I’ve got my case file and notes from the original investigation, which I’m reviewing for the retrial. With Nuñez gone, we’ve still got her testimony from the first trial, but reading it to a jury is not going to be anywhere near as strong as hearing her would have been. Which leaves the one other witness, Gloria Gonzalvez.”

  “But she’s disappeared, too, hasn’t she?”

  “I haven’t really started looking. She may turn up. Plus, I want to go see the other rape victims again, the ones who got bought off, if they’ll talk to me.”

  “Why would they do that now, after all this time?”

  Glitsky shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they won’t. But maybe it’s bothering one of them they didn’t do the right thing.” He held up a hand. “I know. Long shot. But worth a try.”

  “It’s your time.”

  “Speaking of which, we’re still looking at August for the retrial?”

  “Minimum. Unless you get something sooner on Nuñez, or this latest woman.”

  “If I do,” Glitsky said as he stood up, “you’ll be the first to know.”

  14

  From the early years of their social and business prominence, the Curtlees had staffed their homes and some of their businesses with Guatemalan or El Salvadoran help. Rather than gamble with undocumented aliens, they could hire on site down in Central America and provide work visas, medical insurance, and an almost unbelievable standard of living for those lucky enough to be chosen. In return, they found their employees from these countries to be honest, hardworking, loyal, grateful, and—perhaps most important—fearful of being returned back to their homelands.

  Just at about the end of Ro’s trial, one of their talent scouts in El Salvador had been approached by Eztli. In Nahuatl, the language of the Mexica (meh-SHEE-ka), the people who white men call Aztec, eztli means “blood.” As is also the common custom among his people, Eztli had only one name. It fit him well.

  Thirty-five at the time, he already spoke excellent, unaccented, and idiomatic English, courtesy of an Ame
rican father who’d disappeared when the boy had been twelve. He had been in the regular El Salvadoran army for a decade beginning when he was sixteen. Connections he’d made in the service paved the way for civilian work as a majordomo for Enrique Mololo, one of the country’s drug lords. Mololo, unfortunately for himself, had decided that he did not want to share his profits or contacts with Mara Salvatrucha, one of the most powerful criminal organizations in the world. This decision had proved fatal for Mololo. If Eztli had not been on an errand to pick up one of Mololo’s new cars when the military-style raid on his boss’s compound took place, he almost undoubtedly would have died that day, too.

  But as it was, he had missed that party. Instead of going back home to Mololo’s place, he had called on the Curtlees’ procurer, for whom he’d supplied the names of several young women over the years.

  He needed to get out of the country. He had skills. He was willing to work.

  And the Curtlees were only too glad to have him.

  Now, on an overcast Sunday afternoon, Ro sat in the passenger seat of the 4Runner while Eztli drove south along the ocean on Highway 1. Ro’s left arm was still in its cast, but other than that, he bore little resemblance to the man he’d seemed in Judge Donahoe’s courtroom only six days before. He was clean-shaven, well-dressed in khakis and a black silk Tommy Bahama shirt. He wore expensive Italian loafers with no socks. He’d lost the bandage he’d been sporting over the bridge of his nose. The swelling around his mouth had gone down, and only a slight yellowing remained where the black eye had been.

  Ro’s idea when he woke up that morning was that he’d go down to the O’Farrell Theatre, get his ashes hauled by one of the girls in the booths—couldn’t get too much of that after being inside nine years. After that, he didn’t know. The afternoons tended to drag as a general rule. Maybe he’d go back to bed.

  But then, coming back home from the O’Farrell, he found Eztli waiting for him. The butler reiterated how he’d been feeling terrible about not being there when the cops had come to get Ro. Okay, he had an excuse—he’d been out with the parents, doing bodyguard work. But protecting the family—all of the family—that was his job. He should have been part of it when Glitsky and the other cops came by. Now Eztli wanted to make it up to Ro somehow, show him a good time at least.