Damage

by John Lescroart

  Since the slaughter last Friday, the Courier’s offices had been in a state of upheaval. Cliff and Theresa Curtlee had been hands-on managers, and without their presence, the ship was rudderless and Marrenas felt it keenly. The office manager was already engaged in a three-way power struggle with the managing editor and the head of sales; the stock had plummeted, and rumors of a hostile takeover by the McClatchy Group had put everyone on edge.

  The past four columns by Heinous Marrenas had eulogized the Curtlees and their legacy, such as it was. Beyond that, she’d made as much hay as she could blasting the police department and the district attorney for their unscrupulous persecution of Ro Curtlee, a man who was “guilty of nothing more than coming from a family who had dared to take on the city’s entrenched law enforcement establishment while it trotted out every trick in the book in a concerted effort to deny him his civil rights.”

  With her network of informers at the Hall of Justice, by last Monday morning she’d discovered that Ro Curtlee had in fact not murdered Janice Durbin. And for her it was but a short and seemingly logical extrapolation to conclude that he’d had nothing to do with the other murders either.

  Now she was in the middle of her Friday column, in which she was well on the way to characterizing the murderous actions of Linda Salcedo at the Curtlee mansion as the work of a low-intelligence, disgruntled domestic employee. It was shaping up to be the kind of emotional broadside she was best at, and she was wrestling with her prose when suddenly the door to her office opened and a man came in like a blast of angry wind.

  Who let this man in? What was going on in the front office that he hadn’t been stopped?

  Standing up, whirling to face him, her hands went to the phone to call security and her eyes flashed in fury over the invasion of her privacy. “What the hell . . .” But in the next second, she recognized him. She replaced the phone’s headpiece and leaned forward over her desk, her weight on her hands and arms. “You’re Michael Durbin.”

  “That’s right.” Durbin wore jeans and a windbreaker and carried a large cloth book bag from the San Francisco Mystery Bookstore over his shoulders. “How are you doing this morning?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, “but as you can see, I’m in the middle of a column. Normally I don’t take appointments until my column’s done for the day.” Heads are going to roll over this, Marrenas was thinking. Whoever let this clown into the building. Forcing on a patient smile, she said, “But since you’re already here, I can probably spare a couple of minutes. What can I do for you? Do you want to take a seat?”

  “That would be nice, thanks.” He pulled around the cafeteria chair from the side of her desk.

  When he’d gotten seated, Marrenas sat back down, too. “Well?”

  Durbin pursed his lips, took in a breath. “Well, Sheila—do you mind if I call you Sheila?—I noticed that the past few days you’ve been going out of your way to clear the name of Ro Curtlee, bringing out all the facts of the police investigation and so on.”

  “Right. That’s what I ...”

  Durbin held up a hand, stopping her. “I’m very familiar with what you do, Sheila, as you know. More familiar than most. What I’m down here for today is to tell you about the damage you do, to let you know how close you came to destroying me and my family, and to let you know that we’ve come out of it stronger and better.”

  “Well, I’m glad to see . . .”

  Durbin stopped her again. “Please. You and your poisonous column came a long way toward convincing my boy Jon that his father was capable of murdering his mother.”

  Marrenas shifted her gaze. “I’m very sorry about that. I was going on the facts as I knew them at the time. For the record, I didn’t print anything that was factually wrong, so if you’re entertaining a lawsuit, forget about it.”

  “I’m sure that’s how you justify your hatchet jobs to yourself. Select the facts you need for your own purposes, ignore context, and avoid responsibility.”

  Marrenas huffed in self-righteousness. “I’m not an irresponsible journalist, Mr. Durbin. I’m an investigative reporter.” She gestured to the walls around her office, the plaques for her awards and achievements. “They don’t give these things out in Cracker Jack boxes, you know.”

  “No, I’m sure they don’t. But let me give you a couple of facts. Feel free to take notes if you want. First, of course, the most important fact—I didn’t kill my wife. Second, I love my children. Third, since I didn’t kill Janice, the alleged affair that I had with my good friend Liza Sato could not have been the motive for that murder, now, could it? And as for her sticking up for me at our workplace, that was the simple loyalty of a friend, not an example of collusion to help me with a cover-up. Are you getting all this?”

  Marrenas gave him a dismissive shrug.

  Durbin went on, “Finally, here’s some excellent news about my plans for the future. I’m going to take Janice’s life insurance and enough from the fire to build a new house. I’m going to resurrect my career as a painter, the career you helped destroy for me ten years ago. How does that sound to you?”

  “Good,” Marrenas said, her eyes frankly nervous now, flitting back and forth between Durbin and the door behind him. “That sounds good. I’m very glad to see that things will work out for you. But I really have to insist you leave now.”

  Durbin shifted his weight in his chair. “Fine, but I want you to know that I’ll still have enough cash left over so that if I ever see my name in your column again, I’m going to pay someone to hunt you down and kill you like the vermin you are.”

  Staggered by the verbal assault, she could do nothing but stare at him.

  “Unless, of course,” Durbin said, “I don’t think you’re taking me seriously. In which case, maybe I’ll just do it myself right now.”

  Durbin reached into his book bag and brought out a small handgun.

  Marrenas’s eyes went wide with panic. She put her hands out in front of her. “Oh my God, don’t. No, please. Oh God, I just peed my pants. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I was just trying to do the best job I could. Please. Please, don’t . . .”

  Durbin allowed himself a small, tight smile. “Good,” he said. “I appear to have your undivided attention. I’m going to quote a famous line from The Graduate, Sheila. You ready for it? ‘Plastics.’ ” He reached out and placed the toy gun on the front edge of her desk. “Keep it as a souvenir to remember me by,” he said. “And don’t even think about calling the police. After all, what harm could I have done with a plastic gun? And I can practically guarantee that they might just agree with the position you took in your column on Ro Curtlee—that threatening people really isn’t a big deal. But never forget what I told you. If my name ever appears in your column again, I will have you killed. Now”—he smiled at her—“have yourself a nice day.”

  43

  Frannie Hardy came back into their house on Sunday morning just as her husband, Dismas, was sitting down to the hash and egg breakfast he’d cooked up in the ten-pound cast-iron pan he kept hanging from a marlin hook over their stove. “Where have you been?” he asked her. “I was thinking about getting worried.”

  “That’s what I love about you,” she said. “That ‘almost worried’ quality.”

  “I’m pacing myself,” Hardy said. “You don’t want to get too worked up and worry unnecessarily.” He pointed down at his plate. “You want some of this? I’ve got plenty.”

  “No. You go ahead.” She sat down across from him.

  “Where were you anyway?” he asked. “And don’t say something impossible like the Galápagos Islands or the Ukraine or someplace.”

  She said, “I went to church.”

  “I told you, no kidding around.”

  “I’m not kidding. I went to church. I could even tell you the specific one if you want.”

  Hardy put down his fork and looked across at her. “Not that it’s not a fine thing to do, especially here on a Sunday morning and all, but now I am a
little worried. Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine. Us, health, kids, all good.”

  “But ... ?”

  “But remember the other night when you and Abe were sitting here doing the postmortem on all this madness with Ro Curtlee? And he was telling you how it had all begun this time around with the burning death of this poor woman Felicia Nuñez, who’d evidently been one of his first victims, too?”

  “I remember it all too well. What about her?”

  “Well, for some reason I couldn’t get the idea of her out of my mind. I mean, here’s this young girl comes up to this country full of hope from Guatemala. She gets raped by her bosses’ son, does the right thing and testifies against him, then goes to work in a dry cleaners, lives alone, probably never has a boyfriend, maybe because of shame about the rape. And finally Ro gets out of jail and basically the first thing he does is kill her and burn her body.” Frannie grabbed Hardy’s napkin and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “It’s just so unfair, so unbearable.”

  “Hey.” Hardy got up and came around the table, put his arm around her. “Hey.” More gently. He kissed the top of her head and she leaned into him.

  After a minute, she sighed. “I don’t know why, but it just came to me sometime in the middle of last night that Abe said there really was nobody to mourn for her. Nobody even to come and get her body, and it just struck me as so, so sad. So I decided I’d go down to the church and light a candle and say a prayer for her. I know it’s such a small thing and it’s probably just superstitious and silly, but I just thought . . .”

  Hardy said, “It’s a beautiful thing, Fran. You are a beautiful person.”

  “Well, not really so much, but ... at least it was something for somebody who never had anything, not even a tiny chance. Do you know what I’m saying? I felt like I had to do something. So she could maybe at least, if there is such a thing, rest in peace. You know?”

  Hardy tightened his arm across his wife’s shoulders. “Amen,” he said.

  Since the present they’d bought for Zachary Glitsky’s fourth birthday was a relatively bulky electric piano keyboard, Hardy wound up dropping Frannie off early that Sunday afternoon at the bottom of the steps to Glitsky’s door, after which he continued to drive around looking for a place to park. When he finally made it to the front door, Hardy rang the doorbell, heard footsteps approaching inside, and then Glitsky’s voice. “Who is it?”

  “The Easter Bunny,” Hardy said.

  “You’re a few weeks early.”

  “I’m getting a jump on the holiday. Get it? Jump?”

  “Good one,” Glitsky said.

  “Are you going to open the door?”

  “If you say please.”

  Nearly ten minutes later, Hardy was still sitting on the top step outside when Wes Farrell and Sam Duncan appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

  Farrell was carrying a small gift-wrapped box. He looked up to see his former partner cooling his heels in jeans and a button-down shirt. “Hey, Diz. What are you doing out here? Isn’t Abe home? Isn’t this where the party’s supposed to be?”

  “He’s home all right.” Hardy stood up, shook hands with Farrell, gave Sam a hug. “He’s being immature. Let’s see if he’ll open the door for you.” And Hardy reached out and rang the doorbell. Again he heard the footsteps coming up to the inside of the door. “Who is it?”

  “Don’t say the Easter Bunny,” Hardy whispered.

  Farrell gave Hardy a quizzical look. “I’ll resist the temptation.” Then, to the door, “Wes Farrell, district attorney,” he said.

  “He loves to say that,” Sam said. “Makes him sound like an action hero.”

  “Hey!” Farrell said. “I am an action hero.”

  The door opened. Smiles and greetings, finally Glitsky looking around Wes and Sam and saying with apparent surprise, “Hey Diz, when did you get here?”

  “Just now with the rest of the party.”

  Frannie appeared from the kitchen, coming up behind Glitsky. When she saw Hardy, she said, “Hey, babe. I was starting to get worried. How far away did you have to park?”

  “Couple of miles,” Hardy said.

  Twenty minutes later, the three men stood in a knot over in the far corner of Glitsky’s backyard while six women, Glitsky’s father, Nat, and a gaggle of kids were deeply involved in a cutthroat game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

  “You’re damn right there’s no bail on Novio,” Farrell was saying.

  “On what possible legal basis?” Hardy asked.

  “Lying in wait. Makes it special circumstances.”

  “He was lying in wait at her house?”

  “That’s my position.”

  “For how long was he lying in wait?”

  “Long enough,” Glitsky said.

  “That’s a perfect cop answer,” Hardy said. “But how do you know he didn’t just knock at the door, knowing Durbin had gone off to work, and come on in like he had a hundred times before?”

  “No, this day was different. Abe interrogated him personally and he admitted to lying in wait. Unequivocally.”

  “You tricked him.”

  “I wouldn’t have done that,” Glitsky said. “That would have been unethical.”

  Hardy looked from one of them to the other. “You gentlemen better be careful you don’t give this guy grounds for appeal. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Duly noted,” Farrell said. “But I’m not going to let a possible appeal affect the vigor of my prosecutions. That’s what the people elected me for, and that’s the way I’m going to run the show from here on out.”

  “Spoken like a true DA at last,” Hardy said.

  Farrell seemed to consider that for a moment. “Damn straight,” he said. “That’s exactly what I am.”

  All the other presents were opened. Farrell picked up his box and crossed the living room where Zachary sat surrounded by the day’s booty—the portable piano, a football, a Game Boy box that Abe was clearly not all that pleased with, several books, the latest Disney DVD. “Here you go, Zack. Uncle Wes saved the best for last.”

  Zachary untied the bow, pulled off the ribbon, and ripped off the wrapping paper. Seeing the shape and size of the box underneath, Sam turned to Wes and said, “You didn’t.”

  “He’ll love it,” Wes said. “Guaranteed. Go ahead, bud, take it out and wear it proudly.”

  Zachary couldn’t read yet, which was probably just as well.

  The T-shirt read, LOCK UP YOUR DAUGHTERS.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Some books are more works of the imagination and spirit than are others, and this book falls into that category for me. While I generally have to do a great deal of research to get comfortable with legal details, criminal procedure, and other plot elements of my work, in this novel those elements were reasonably familiar to me from the outset. Accordingly, once I had settled upon the basic idea of this book, I set myself directly to the task of writing it, thinking I would interview acquaintances and sources as problems arose in the text. Much to my surprise, those problems for the most part did not arise. Aside from my usual dependence upon the legal expertise of my great friend Al Giannini, I did not have to seek very much other technical advice to make this story real and believable.

  This fortuitous circumstance did not come about purely or even mostly by accident, however. When I first starting flirting with the ideas that would become Damage, I sent a preliminary outline of the proposed book to my agent, Barney Karpfinger, and a copy to my editor at Dutton, Ben Sevier. Both of these gentlemen, keen from the outset on the basic idea for the book, spent the better part of a couple of weeks patiently helping me to iron out potential problems and roadblocks with the plot. In all, I believe I completed four complete iterations of the outline, and through the intelligence and efforts of Barney and Ben, by the time I was ready to start putting words on the page, I had a crystal clear vision of what the book would look and feel like, and how I would try to realize this visi
on. So a special thanks to you both, Barney and Ben—without your diligence, brains, and enthusiasm, Damage would not exist today.

  All of that said, an area where I did need some technical insight was the question of how a person goes, and stays, missing. For assistance in this matter, I’d like to thank Private Investigator Marcel Myres of Submar Investigations.

  Of course, just because I didn’t need too much technical help with this book doesn’t mean that a host of friends and relatives didn’t contribute to making the writing experience more fruitful and pleasant. This list includes: my siblings, Michael, Emmett, Lorraine, and Kathy; Don Matheson; Frank Seidl; Max Byrd; Tom Hedtke; Bob Zaro; Facebook Guru Aryn DeSantis; Web Master Maddee James; and Andy Jalakas. Day to day, my assistant, Anita Boone, makes things go smoothly and happily along in my workplace—I couldn’t write these books without her invaluable, cheerful, and continuing assistance because I would spend all my time gnashing my teeth over logistical details and office records and housekeeping that Anita masters without breaking a sweat. My daughter, Justine, and my son, Jack, also continue to inform my plots, themes, and life with cool ideas and unexpected perspectives.

  I’m most grateful for the help of my personal proofreader/ editors: Karen Hlavacek, Peggy Nauts, and Doug Kelly.

  Several people have generously contributed to charitable organizations by purchasing the right to name a character in this book. These people and their respective organizations are: Ritz Naygrow, Stacey Leung-Crawford, and Leland M. Crawford (The Sacramento Library Foundation); Vincent J. Abbatiello (Brenda Novak’s Annual Online Auction to Benefit Diabetes Research); Trisha Stanionis (Yolo Family Service Agency); Gladys Mueller (Notre Dame de Namur University); and Mike and Tina Moylan (University of California, Davis).

  A book’s very life ultimately depends upon its publisher, and I remain extremely fortunate and proud to be a member of the Dutton family—an incredibly intelligent, dedicated, hardworking, efficient team that also manages to be filled with people who know how to have fun while being creative and talented. Specifically, I’d like to thank publisher Brian Tart, the marketing team of Christine Ball and Carrie Swetonic, Melissa Miller, Jessica Horvath, Susan Schwartz, Rachael Hicks, Signet/NAL paperback publisher Kara Welsh, Phil Budnick, Rick Pascocello, and the brilliant cover designer Rich Hasselberger.