Guilt

by John Lescroart

  It turned out Janey did remember the call from Trang on the day he had died. He'd called while Dooher was at lunch, left an urgent message that Dooher get back to him.

  'This was about the settlement deadline, isn't that right?'

  Janey paused, perhaps wondering if she was saying too much. Glitsky didn't want to lose her. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'that was the impression I had.' Let her think he'd gotten it from Dooher.

  It worked. Janey continued: 'Mr Trang reminded me to tell Mr Dooher that he needed to hear from him before five, no later, or that he'd have to go ahead and file the amended complaint the next day.'

  So Trang's call to Dooher had been about the settlement. Janey had said as much. And that made Dooher a liar.

  And if that were true, it dramatically increased the odds that, at the very least, Dooher knew more than he was letting on, and at the most, that he was a killer.

  Glitsky was bouncing it off Frank Batiste. The Lieutenant was sitting forward in his chair in his office, arms on his desk, pencil in hand, shaking his head. 'I believe you, although I'd be a little happier if you had any idea why.'

  'Wasn't it you who's told us a zillion times that we're not in the motive business, we're in the evidence business?'

  'Yep, that was me, and I was right.'

  'So?'

  'So what? Where's your evidence then?' Batiste continued drumming his pencil. 'Because we agree you don't have a motive.'

  But Glitsky didn't want to let the motive go. In his experience, people didn't often get killed – not by someone they knew – for no reason whatever. 'Look, the Archdiocese is Dooher's biggest client. If the case gets filed, he gets fired.'

  'Why would that happen?'

  'Because he hasn't done his job, which is keep the lawsuit hush hush.'

  'And why would that be?'

  Glitsky rolled his eyes. 'Because, Frank, it's politically embarrassing to the Archbishop.'

  'So to keep it from getting filed, Dooher kills Trang? That's a reach, Abe.'

  'I know. But it's all I can think of.'

  Batiste straightened up, bopped his pencil a couple more times, stretched out the crick in his neck. 'Are you sure you're not just on Dooher because you haven't got any other suspects?'

  'Maybe there aren't any other suspects because he did it, Frank.'

  'Maybe that's it.' Batiste didn't want to fight about it. He took a beat. 'Well, that was instructive and a hell of a lot of fun. We should do it again sometime. This was where we started, isn't it? No motive? So let's leave motive. You came in here wanting to talk evidence. Evidence is good. What do you got?'

  But there wasn't much. Glitsky had gotten his search warrant for Dooher's phone records by trotting out the old probable cause argument to Judge Arenson, who knew him fairly well and was aware that he didn't abuse the privilege.

  Now the question was whether the information in the phone records – the three calls that coincided with Trang's notes – moved things along the probable-cause trail. Glitsky knew that the Judge wasn't about to give him carte blanche on the more invasive search warrants he was going to want to request – Dooher's house, office, car, and so on – unless there was something real, whether or not it was physical evidence, to back up Glitsky's suspicions.

  He was hoping the phone calls would be enough, but Batiste wasn't buying that either, and didn't think Arenson would. 'So is this just your day to be difficult, Frank, or what?'

  The pencil was tap-tapping again. 'What do they prove, Abe, the calls?'

  'Dooher said they were talking about a personal injury case. Trang's notes say it was the settlement.' Even as he said it, Glitsky knew the objection, and it was valid.

  'So it's "he said this, but he said that.'"

  'But Dooher's secretary, Janey, agrees with Trang.'

  'She didn't overhear the last two calls.'

  'Why would Trang have written fictitious notes to himself on the calls? That just doesn't make any sense.'

  Batiste held up the pencil. 'Abe, even if they talked about the settlement, even if Dooher is lying about it, we got nothing. Maybe Dooher was sleeping with Trang's girlfriend.'

  'Or his mother,' Glitsky said. 'Maybe his girlfriend and his mother.'

  Batiste liked it. 'Now we're on to something.'

  Glitsky's lips were pressed tightly together in frustration, and the scar stood out in relief. 'I need a warrant. I've got to look through the guy's laundry.'

  Batiste didn't think so. 'Arenson won't do it, not with what you've got so far. You're going to need more. What about the bayonet?'

  'He never brought it home from Viet-' Stopping short.

  Batiste broke a smile. 'Says he.'

  'Lord, I'm stupid! The wife!'

  If she invited him in, he would not need a warrant.

  He kept a white shirt and regimental tie in the drawer of his desk for the occasional forgotten court date. He changed in the men's room and traded his flight jacket until tomorrow for Frank Batiste's gray sports coat – a little short in the sleeves, but the chest fit. It would do.

  He was on the semi-enclosed front porch, his badge out, introducing himself to Sheila Dooher. There had been sun and a cool breeze at the Hall, but out here, a mile from the ocean, the fog clung and a savage wind dug itself into his bones. He didn't mind, though. At this moment, it was to his advantage.

  '… the Victor Trang case. You're familiar with that?'

  'Yes. It was really such a tragedy. Mark was very upset about it.'

  'Yes, he was. I'd been planning on coming by a little later, when your husband was home, but I was in the neighborhood, and thought I could save some time. I wanted to ask you a few questions, too.'

  'Me?'

  'Yes, ma'am.'

  'What about? I didn't even know Victor Trang.'

  Glitsky shrugged. 'But you know where your husband was on the night of the murder.'

  'Yes. Well, I don't know. You don't think…?'

  'I don't think anything at the moment, Mrs Dooher. But the fact is that your husband was one of the last people we know who talked to Victor Trang. So, far-fetched as it might seem to you, he's a suspect. And you could eliminate that possibility right now. Was he here that night, Monday a week ago?'

  He noticed that she was gripping the door handle, her face set, eyes shifting. 'I think I should call Mark,' she said.

  'You could do that, but you understand that anything you say to me now, before talking with him, will have a lot more weight. You could verify his alibi right now and that would be the end of any suspicion.' He added conspiratorially, 'Really, ma'am. It would be a good thing.'

  She wrestled with it a moment, then dredged it up. 'Monday night he went to the driving range, I think. I could check.'

  'That's what your husband said.' Glitsky broke his smile. 'See, that wasn't so bad.'

  Behind him, the wind gusted, and Sheila Dooher seemed to notice it for the first time. 'I'm sorry, Sergeant. Would you like to come in out of this weather?'

  'I wouldn't mind, now that you mention it.'

  She fixed him a cup of tea. They were sitting on either side of a marble bar in a sky-lit kitchen that was about the size of Glitsky's duplex. Through the French doors, he had a partial view of an expanse of manicured lawn, a patch of early daffodils, stubbly bare roots and trunks marking an ancient rose garden.

  He took a slow sip of the tea, swallowed, then plunged in. 'Mrs Dooher, your husband was very upset by Victor Trang's death. He asked me if there was anything he could do to help with our investigation.'

  Her expression, pleasant concern, teased at the edges of his conscience. But, more importantly, it meant that Dooher hadn't told her that he was under suspicion.

  'That's Mark,' she said, waiting for Glitsky to continue.

  'I really didn't think much about it until we discovered that Trang had been stabbed with a bayonet.'

  'Oh God, how horrible!'

  He nodded. 'Yes, ma'am, it was bad. But the point is, we weren't able to g
o much farther than that. The weapon hasn't been found – undoubtedly the murderer's thrown it away. Anyway, I mentioned all this to your husband – he wanted to be kept in the loop – telling me that if we could just identify exactly what kind of bayonet it was, from the size of the blade and so on…' he assayed a smile, speaking more quickly now, hoping to keep her riding on the flow of verbiage '… the forensics guys can tell these things, that we might be able to determine where it had been bought, or what war it might have been used in, that kind of thing. And from there maybe get a lead as to where the murderer might have got it.'

  He hoped.

  She was paying attention, still with him.

  'I was hoping to compare it with the one your husband brought back from Vietnam. Trang being Vietnamese, it might narrow it down to someone in that community. It's a long shot, but might be worth checking.'

  She was nodding. 'I'm not sure I completely understand, but it sounds like it might be a good idea.' She stood up. 'I think it's out in the garage, up pretty high. You might have to help me get it. Do you mind?'

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  By dusk, Farrell still hadn't reached Sam.

  It worried him enough that he decided to drive by her house, find out what was going on.

  Yesterday, the day of the quake, okay, lots of lives had been disrupted, his own more than many others. While he was trying to get his own mess cleaned up, he'd tried to call Sam a few times, but had no luck.

  He'd been sure he'd get her today.

  But he'd started calling as soon as he woke up, had placed maybe two dozen calls, and nothing. Her machine hadn't even picked up, neither had the phone at the clinic, no one had heard from her. Her brother Larry had an unlisted number.

  Farrell eventually even thought to call Dooher back after their surprising lunch, to see if by any chance he had Christina Carrera's number, if she might have heard from Sam. But no, Dooher said Christina was in Ojai, visiting her parents.

  Why and how did Mark know that?

  The first indication that something might really be wrong was the construction equipment all the way up Ashbury Street, stopping traffic trying to get up over Twin Peaks. Farrell was in his 1978 Datsun, painted by his son six years previously in what Lydia called a 'fetching puke yellow'. (Lydia was driving the metallic green 1992 BMW – he really hated her.) Bart wasn't enjoying the wait in the fog and fumes anymore than he was.

  Finally, when divine intervention produced a parking space, he pulled in and decided he and Bart would hoof it. It was time Bart met Quayle anyway, he thought. He attached the dog's leash and they got out.

  But drawing up close, getting to Sam's block, he was struck by the air of disaster, and hurried his steps. There were more than a few police cars, plus other emergency vehicles. A revolving knot of gawkers milled around in the street, quietly taking in the destruction.

  Four brick structures in a row on the west side of the street, with Sam's third on the way uphill, had taken the big hit. All of them had lost their chimneys, a majority of their street-facing windows. Though crews were still there and had obviously been at the cleaning a while, piles of brick rubble and roof slate still littered the area.

  Supporting scaffolding had already been erected around the two downhill buildings, but Sam's, from the look of it, might be beyond salvage. The front corner appeared to have caved in completely, and the entire house listed forward as though waiting for one more tiny aftershock to send it toppling.

  My God! he thought. That was Sam's room. She was in there!

  Farrell walked up to one of the blue-uniformed policemen who were keeping the crowd from getting too close to the unstable structure. 'Excuse me. I know somebody who lives in that building. Do you have any news about the tenants?'

  The cop turned around, his eyes sympathetic. 'Have you tried the hospitals? Maybe I'd start there.'

  Wes nodded mutely, then stood another minute, struck again by the power of moving earth. 'Excuse me,' he repeated. 'Do you know if anybody died in these buildings?'

  The cop shook his head, commiserating, conveying the worst. 'I'd check the hospitals,' he said again.

  Once Sheila Dooher admitted that her husband had owned a bayonet – although it was no longer in the garage – Glitsky thought that getting his search warrant would be easy.

  He filled out his new one and brought it down to this week's duty Judge, Martin Arenson. But Arenson, like everyone else, was cleaning up from the earthquake. He'd handed off his magistrate assignments to another Municipal Court Judge, Ann Connor, and she hadn't been particularly receptive to Abe's version of probable cause. She'd refused to sign the warrant, which put him in a bind, since once one Judge in the Muni Court declined to sign a warrant, no one else there would touch it.

  Glitsky did have another option – one he'd used in emergencies in the past. He could go to Superior Court and get a sealed warrant from one of the Judges on the Senior Bench. He was fairly well known in Superior Court since most trials he attended were for homicides. And he was anxious to move quickly, before Dooher had a chance to hide or ditch anything else.

  'But the wife can't testify against him.' Judge Oscar Thomasino had the search warrant in front of him on his clean desk, awaiting his signature. He'd listened to Glitsky's tale and wasn't close to sold on more probable cause. 'And am I wrong? I don't see anything pointing to this man, except your questionably legal search.'

  'She let me in, Judge.'

  Thomasino waved a hand. Sixty-ish, he wore his gray hair brush cut. He had thick slab of a face, a swarthy, liver-spotted complexion, and a reputation as a judicial hardass.

  It was Friday night and he had been going home after a grueling week of earthquake-related delays, but Glitsky had caught him at the back door and tried to guilt him back inside. He'd come, but out of duty, not guilt, and now he wasn't disposed to be cooperative, and he treated Glitsky to his bushy eyebrow trick – up and down over the glare. No words.

  'I don't need her testimony, your honor,' Glitsky repeated. 'I just need what might be in the house.'

  The Judge smoothed his hands over the grain of his desk. 'Abe, this is a prominent man, not some lowlife from the projects, not that as a matter of law that makes any difference, of course. And you're telling me you didn't find out anything incriminating from the phone records?'

  Glitsky more or less agreed, but tried to sweeten it by riffing around it for a couple of bars. Thomasino stopped him. 'I don't see this one, Abe.' The Judge straightened up in his chair, considering something, then decided to come out with it. 'You know, Abe, this business of coming to Superior Court when Muni turns you down is tricky. I know you've got good instincts; you might even be right. But what I see here, I don't have enough. Connor didn't either.'

  'Judge…'

  Thomasino held up his hand again. 'I understand you can't go back to Muni, not now. But you've got to get me a little more. If you find it, come by the house, I'm around all weekend. I'll sign off. But I need something I can point to. Do you even know where he was on the night in question?'

  'He was killing Victor Trang.'

  A face, the eyebrows. 'Okay. But what does he say?'

  'He says he went to the driving range, then came back to his office and worked late.'

  'Well, if he did that, maybe somebody saw him. Or didn't.'

  'That may be.'

  'Well, good luck,' the Judge said. 'Have a nice weekend.'

  Glitsky was damned if he was going to find himself a picture of Mark Dooher and go trotting with it out to the city's driving ranges, showing it to employees and asking if they specifically remembered seeing him a week and a half before. If he thought that course of events would produce any results, he might have considered it, but he believed what he'd told Thomasino. Dooher had been killing Trang that night, not hitting golf balls.

  But the bottom line was that he didn't have the signed warrant and couldn't go looking where he stood a chance of finding, so what the hell else was he going to do?


  Pondering, he was standing in the downstairs lobby of the Hall, by the elevators, hands in his pockets, oblivious to the passing throngs checking out for the weekend.

  'Too much lemon in your tea, Abe?' Amanda Jenkins, the Assistant DA who'd shared Levon Copes with him, had moved out of the flow of humanity and, amused, was looking up at him. 'That expression – I just sucked on a lemon – it's so you.'

  'It so happens I did just suck on a lemon.' He held up the unsigned warrant. 'But what's really made my day is Thomasino's call on this.'

  Jenkins snatched it away and scanned it quickly. 'This looks good to me. House, car, office, personal effects. What's the problem?'

  'You'll notice the good Judge didn't sign it. My first choice for perp appears to be a pillar of the community, so he's got a higher probable cause threshold than lesser mortals.'

  'Ah, democracy.'

  'Ain't it grand? I don't have any evidence, so I can't get permission to look for evidence.'

  'It's a beautiful system,' Jenkins agreed. 'So what do you have? You got anything? You must have something.'

  Glitsky started to tell Amanda what he did have – his hunches, the settlement background, the discrepancy between Trang's women's story and Mark Dooher's, the hazy alibi, the bayonet that had mysteriously – and apparently recently – disappeared, and finally the one search warrant Thomasino had signed off on, for Dooher's phone records.

  'They don't by any chance include a earphone, do they?'

  'Yeah. But so what?'

  Jenkins's normally stern visage cracked. Her eyes lit up with excitement, with the thrill of the chase. 'You got time to take five, get some coffee? All may not be lost.'

  The downstairs cafeteria was nearly deserted, cavernous and echoing with the cleanup workers' efforts. Glitsky and Jenkins brought their paper cups over from the long stainless steel counter and were sitting down across from one another at one of the fold-up tables. Amanda was already rolling with it, explaining the new technological investigating-tool breakthrough that had been discovered as a by-product of the cellular phone network. 'You never heard of it,' she enthused, 'because I don't think anybody's ever used it to find out where someone was. Normally, they use it to track where somebody is, right now.'