Guilt

by John Lescroart

  'Okay, you're sorry. Nice talking to you.'

  He hung up.

  'That was our friend Mark Dooher again,' he told Sam. 'He said he was sorry. I told him I was glad for him.'

  The subject made her nervous, but she played along. 'That wasn't what you said. You said it was nice talking to him.'

  'It was,' Farrell agreed. 'We had a full and frank discussion of the issues.'

  The phone rang again.

  'Don't pick it up,' Sam said.

  But he already had.

  'Wes! Don't hang up. Please. You still there?'

  'I'm here. What do you want?'

  Sam was telling him to hang up again.

  'I need to talk to you.'

  'It must be your lucky day. You are talking to me.'

  'No. You and me. Privately.'

  Farrell's voice had no inflection. 'I'll drive the hordes away from the extensions. We're talking privately right now. We can talk like this or you can hang up. Your call.'

  Dooher measured his silence. Finally, he produced a sigh. 'I don't…' Starting again. 'I need your help. Your legal help. I may want to talk to the police.' Another silence to let the ramifications sink in. 'I don't want to say anything specific on the telephone. You can understand that.'

  'You want to turn yourself in? Is that what you're saying?'

  'I don't believe in telephones much anymore, Wes. You could work something out. I don't want to say anything else over these lines. I need to see you, is why I called. I need your help. I can't live with it anymore.'

  The Little Shamrock, the bar where Wes and Sam had met.

  The fog obscured nearly everything outside the picture windows; across Lincoln, the cypresses were spectral shadows in the netherworld.

  Sam sat across the table from Wes, holding both of his hands in both of hers. Neither had touched their Irish coffees.

  That morning they'd bundled up and gone out early for an aerobic workout – a 'power walk' from their duplex to the beach and back. The Bay to Breakers race – 7.2 miles from the Ferry Building to Ocean Beach – was in two weeks, and Sam ran it every year. Wes had no desire to try to die crammed shoulder to shoulder with 98,000 assorted crazed runners, walkers, naked folks, cross-dressers and caterpillar floats, but he didn't mind the exercise leading up to it.

  They weren't talking about the race, though.

  'Wes, I am begging you, please don't do this.'

  'He's going to give himself up, Sam. He wants me to negotiate how it's done.'

  'Give himself up for what?'

  'I don't know. Trang, maybe.'

  'I don't trust him.'

  But some part of Wes, evidently, still did. 'I'm surprised it's taken him this long. Christina left and that made him see it.'

  'See what? That it's wrong to kill your wife? A lot of people get that concept right away. You'd be surprised.'

  'He said he needs to talk, Sam.'

  'So do you really believe he's going to admit killing anybody? That he'll go to jail?'

  'Maybe living with the guilt is a kind of jail.'

  'A motto for the ages, Wes, but then again, maybe it isn't. Maybe that's not him.'

  'It's everybody. It catches up with everybody.'

  'Wes, listen to me. People do live with guilt. You know this. You've defended criminals your whole life… people don't care about guilt. They care about getting caught.'

  'Mark isn't most people. He's got a conscience.'

  'No, he doesn't.'

  Farrell shook his head, sticking to his guns. 'You don't know him.'

  'I do know him. He's a killer.'

  'You didn't hear him on the phone. He needs help. I've got to help him.'

  'Somebody else can help him. Call one of your lawyer friends. Call Glitsky, he'll help him.'

  Farrell had to smile at that, though it wasn't much of a light moment. He squeezed her hands. 'Sam, if he needs me, how can I not help him? What kind of man would that make me?'

  'A live one.'

  Again, he shook his head, rolled his eyes. 'Please.'

  'Please yourself, Wes. He's killed three people. Why wouldn't he kill you?'

  'Why would he kill me? That's a better question.' He pulled his hands away, looked at his watch. 'I told him I'd be over there at three. I've got to

  go-'

  'Don't, please. For me.'

  He came around the table, put his arm around her shoulders and drew her to him. 'Sam. Don't ask that. This isn't me against you. This is somebody I've known my whole life, reaching out to the only person he trusts, trying to save himself. There's nothing to worry about. I love you. I'll be home in a couple of hours. If I'm going to be late for any reason at all, I'll call. Two hours, max. Four-thirty.'

  He tightened his arm around her, but she resisted. 'No. NO!' Standing up, she pulled away, knocking over their table.

  He watched her, half running through the bar, through the double doors, and out. Never looking back at him.

  When she got home, she let the tears go on for a while. That's why she'd run – damned if she was going to use tears to make her point, to convince him to stay, although a part of her wished she had.

  In the kitchen, drying her eyes on a paper towel, she noticed the message light flashing on her answering machine. Pushing the button, she heard Diane Price saying that she'd talked to Christina Carrera. She was in labor.

  Since Sam wasn't home and Terri had come in for her shift at the Center, Diane was going to help Christina, maybe drive her to the hospital if she needed it. She'd call back when she had more information.

  Sam glared malevolently at the machine. 'Where is she, Diane? Where is she?'

  But the machine provided no answer, and neither did Terri when Sam called back to the Center.

  Paul Thieu was in a small internal room – no windows – in the Hall of Justice where he'd spent most of the morning on the computer, hoping to find some heretofore unknown reference to Victor Trang or Chas Brown or anyone who'd known either of them. He didn't really know what he was looking for, but this was an unturned stone, and there might be something under it.

  But so far – and it had been three hours – nothing.

  Deciding to give it a rest for a while, Thieu got out of his program, blanked the screen. As far as he knew, he was the only person in the building who logged off the computer when he was finished using it. It was a small point of pride. He interlaced his fingers behind his head and leaned back, stretching.

  Timing.

  His Lieutenant, Abe Glitsky – in on a Saturday, pumped up – knocked on the doorsill, pulled up a chair. 'Our plan won't work.'

  Glitsky had dreamed it up and run it by Thieu last night after he'd returned from Dooher's. The younger man had liked it.

  They'd run a sting. Farrell was a real ally. He could re-establish his contact with Dooher and either wear a wire or, failing that, simply try to provoke him, as Glitsky had when he went to his house. Farrell would get him to say something incriminating. The veneer had begun to crack. They could get him.

  But Glitsky didn't think so anymore.

  'Why not?'

  'Farrell is Dooher's lawyer. Anything they say is privileged.'

  Thieu had thought of this and sold himself on a rebuttal to it. 'He won't take a retainer. He'll go to Dooher as a friend. The relationship won't be a professional one.'

  Glitsky told him this was wishful thinking. 'Besides, if Farrell denies it, Dooher will say he was the lawyer and Farrell was his client. It won't get past the DA.'

  A scowl. 'I hate it when you're right, you know that?'

  'I don't blame you. My kids do, too. It's infuriating.' Glitsky had become almost human. 'There is something else we can try, a long shot.'

  'Is it legal?'

  Glitsky's expression conveyed shock that Thieu could even think such a thing. 'Forget what he says. Try to make him do something.'

  'What?'

  'What physical evidence did we get with Trang? Clothes, the bayonet, shoes?' />
  'Nothing.'

  'Right. Which means? Tell me.'

  Thieu thought a moment. 'I give up.'

  'It means he got rid of it. He stabbed the guy and held him close and he got blood on himself. Then he had to get rid of what he wore. No way around it.'

  Another bad idea, Thieu was thinking. 'Abe, this was two years ago. Those clothes, all that stuff, is gone. Burned up, disintegrated.'

  'Not his Rolex. Not Sheila's jewelry.'

  Thieu kept shaking his head. The Lieutenant must be tired. 'You just said it. The Rolex was his wife's murder, the burglary. It isn't Trang. We can't touch it. That stuff's been pawned anyway.'

  'I don't think so, Paul. We looked hard when it was fresh. It didn't get fenced. He got rid of it.'

  'Which makes it gone, am I right?'

  'But maybe not forgotten.'

  Farrell righted the table in the Shamrock. He went into the bathroom and got most of the Irish coffee washed off his pants. He hadn't intended for Sam to get so mad, for himself to get so defensive. They were both too hot-headed.

  Dooher. The source of every fight they'd ever had.

  Disgusted, he came out of the bathroom and pulled up a stool at the bar. He was going to have a long beer and chill out and be late for his appointment

  with Mark. Too bad. Let his ex-friend wait for once. He ordered a Bass and put a napkin on his lap, soaking up more of the damp.

  The bartender's name was Moses McGuire. He was approaching his sixth decade with a new wife and a young child and seemed determined not to go placidly amid the noise and haste, remembering what peace there may be in silence. His nose had recently been broken for about the fifth time – some unpleasantness about a softball game – and he sported two black eyes and a bandage. During Farrell's blue period, as he called it, he had spent more time here with McGuire than he had at his apartment. With Bart, which had endeared Farrell to McGuire.

  The Bass came sliding across the rail and McGuire leaned over, smiling. 'Everything patched up between you lovebirds?'

  Farrell sighed. 'She's mad at me.'

  'I guessed that. I don't blame her. They're always right, you know. I don't know why we argue with 'em.'

  He sipped at his ale. 'I know.'

  McGuire got called away on an emergency down by the picture window – Tommy, a fixture, had finished his fourth Millers of the day and was slapping the latest empty on the bar.

  There was more truth than Farrell wanted to admit in what McGuire had said. Which of course meant that there was more truth than he'd acknowledged in what Sam was saying.

  Mark Dooher was a dangerous man who studied his prey. He knew Trang worked alone and would meet him alone. He'd known Sheila would never refuse a drink – even a mickey – that he put in her hand. He knew Farrell was an idealist who believed in the goodness of man, in confession's healing power, in forgiveness. He also knew he would come when beckoned.

  So Dooher had beckoned, and Farrell was going.

  CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

  Dooher looked wrung out, with bags under his eyes and a deep pallor to his skin under an uncharacteristic stubble.

  He wore a Sam Spade overcoat, an old felt hat and a pair of tattered running shoes. A grieving husband, he blew out in frustration. 'Christina's got to call somebody, wouldn't you think? Who would she call?'

  'I don't know. Not me.'

  Dooher stepped out on to his porch. 'About last night. I don't know what to say.'

  Farrell waved it off. 'We going somewhere?'

  'There's something I want to show you. I bet your heater still doesn't work?'

  'Good bet,' Farrell said.

  'We'll take the Lexus. That all right?'

  'Sure.'

  They walked back down the driveway, past the infamous side door. Farrell let Dooher go into the garage. He waited outside, nervous. The garage door opened and Dooher backed out.

  Sliding into the passenger seat, Farrell noticed that he' d put on his driving gloves, and cast him a sideways look. Dooher gave him a weak smile. 'Alea jacta est, I guess.'

  The die is cast. They both understood the reference – Julius Caesar's words as he crossed the Rubicon, after which he would either rule Rome or be killed as a threat to the Republic. Dooher was saying he was crossing over, taking the irrevocable step – he was going to turn himself in. He put the car in gear and they began to move.

  They drove out to the beach, up to Golden Gate Park, back halfway through it, then south on Sunset Boulevard – a straight and usually scenic shot to Lake Merced. Today, in the fog, the scenic aspect wasn't evident, but the road wasn't crowded and Dooher drove slowly, talking about the lives they'd lived together, trying Farrell's patience.

  Finally he couldn't listen to it anymore. 'I didn't come out here with you to talk about old times, Mark, to talk about us. You said you had something to show me. You want to tell me what it is?'

  The ever-enigmatic Dooher didn't answer directly. 'I want you to understand what happened, Wes, that's what I want.'

  'What you want isn't a burning issue with me anymore. I'm not going to understand what you did. That's not going to happen.'

  Dooher kept driving, eyes on the road. 'And what did I do?'

  'You killed Sheila, Mark. You may have killed Victor Trang, too. Andre Nguyen. How am I supposed to understand that?'

  'Did I ever say I had?'

  'Fuck you, Mark. Let me out. Pull over.' But he didn't. He kept driving. 'You think I did all that?'

  'I know you did some of it, and any part of it's enough. Christ, you all but told me after the trial.'

  Dooher was shaking his head no. 'You misinterpreted that.'

  'Bullshit!'

  Shrugging, Dooher kept his tone relaxed. 'You wearing a wire, Wes? Glitsky hook you up? That's why you really agreed to come today, isn't it? To set me up.'

  The great manipulator was wearing Farrell down. 'There's no wire, Mark. I came because you called me and that's who I am,' he said. 'I didn't call you. You called me. You couldn't take it anymore, whatever "it" is. Remember?'

  Dooher spent a long time not saying anything, driving slowly through the deep fog. Finally, he sighed heavily. 'What do I need to do? What do you want me to do? I want my wife back.' There was real anguish in his voice. 'I want you to forgive me.'

  Farrell asked him to pull over at a gas station just off Sloat Boulevard. They'd made a big circle from where they'd begun in St Francis Wood. He had, he believed, forced the play, though it wasn't over yet.

  He told Dooher he had to use the can. This wasn't true. It was nearing the time he'd told Sam he would be home, and he wasn't going to make it. He didn't want her to worry. 'I know I said two hours, but I was late getting here… I had another beer is why. Another hour, tops… No, listen, it's perfectly safe, he's… Sam! He's beaten.' An earful. 'I know that, too. No, we're… one more hour, I promise.'

  He had more to say, but she hung up on him.

  Contractions every four minutes. Three centimeters dilated.

  'Three? Only three? I've got to be more than three.'

  Diane was next to Christina in one of the labor rooms at St Mary's, holding her hand, doling out ice chips. Jess Yamagi, Christina's doctor, checked the monitors, ignoring her outburst. 'Everything's going along fine,' he said, 'but it's going to be a while.' He gave her a reassuring pat and turned to Diane. 'You okay with this?'

  She nodded. 'I'm here for the duration.'

  'You bring along any music?' Yamagi asked. 'You could use a phone if you want. You're going to have some time, Christina, might as well enjoy it.'

  Another contraction began and Diane helped her breathe through it. Yamagi was frowning at the monitors.

  'What?' Christina asked.

  'Nothing. A dip in the baby's heartbeat. It's normal during contractions. We'll keep an eye on it.'

  Christina looked over at the beeping machine. 'I'll take that phone now.'

  'Where are you, hon?'

  'Mom, it's okay. I'm okay. I'
m in labor. At St Mary's. Everything's fine.'

  'Where's Mark? Is he with you? He called this morning. He's so worried.'

  'No, Mom. No. Mark isn't here.'

  'He said you'd left him.'

  She didn't have the strength to come out with all of it. She sighed. 'Just for now, Mom. Until we figure some things out.'

  'Can't you figure them out together, Chris? Having a baby, that's a time you can't get back.'

  'I know that, but…' It was so tiring, trying to explain. 'Mom, you have to trust me. Everything will be all right. I'll tell you all about it after the baby's born.'

  'But Mark, he deserves to-'

  'Mom, please. Don't tell him. Don't say anything to Mark. Promise me.'

  Farrell's rising hopes when he'd called Sam had been dashed when he got back in the car. The critical moment – Dooher vulnerable – had shifted again.

  Dooher had begun driving, heading north now. He had not yet confessed and Farrell was at the end of his tolerance. This wasn't going to work. Suddenly he saw it clearly.

  Hard by the Golden Gate Bridge is a parking area favored by pedestrians who want to walk the three miles across it. Sepulchral in the fog, the place was otherwise deserted now in the late afternoon. A perennial gale battered the evergreens that bordered the northern lip of the lot, where below the trees, a cliff dropped nearly a hundred feet to the beach below.

  Dooher parked the car, opened his door, and got out. Farrell sat a minute in his seat, then did the same. They heard the foghorns moaning deeply, the wind here on the headland raking the trees.

  'What are we doing here?' Farrell asked.

  'You'll see. This is it. What I wanted to show you. Come on, walk with me. Out on the bridge.'

  Farrell took a few steps, then stopped. 'I'm not going with you, Mark. You can tell me here.'

  Dooher wasn't giving up. 'I'm not going to throw you off, Wes. Is that what you're thinking?'

  'I'm thinking that I'm done. I'm going home.'

  Dooher's face clouded. 'What do you mean?'

  'I mean I thought you needed me. I'd give you a chance. But you don't want a chance. You want me out of the way.'