Guilt

by John Lescroart

  Dooher stepped close, hurt. 'Wes, this is me, Mark Dooher. We've been friends since we've been kids. It's paranoid to think-'

  'That's right. It may be.'

  'And you think I would…?' Dooher couldn't even say it – it was too absurd.

  'Over everyone's advice, Mark, I wanted to help you. Be your lawyer and maybe even your friend one last time. Now I've got to tell you. It's going to be over soon and you're going to need a lawyer and it's not going to be me.' He hesitated, then came out with it. 'Glitsky knows where you hid the stuff.'

  Dooher's face cracked slightly. He moved toward Farrell.

  It was a flat and desolate stretch of bare earth – thirty yards deep by eighty in length – really not much more than a widening of the western shoulder of Lake Merced Boulevard though hidden from the road itself by a stand of wind-bent dwarf cypress.

  The Lexus inched forward over the area to where it dropped off steeply. Dooher pulled the car up near to the edge.

  Here an eastern finger of the lake extended nearly to the fence that bordered it. Inaccessible from shore, it was rarely fished. It was also deep, the underwater topography continuing the steep slant that dropped off from the turnout. In the fog, the lake itself was only intermittently visible.

  Dooher put the car into park, but didn't turn off the engine. Under his driving gloves, his hands hurt, but they were not bleeding. He got out and walked to the edge, looking out over the water, then around behind him. It was as it always was. No sign of anyone.

  At the edge of the lot, the incline fell off at a good angle for perhaps forty feet of sedge grass dotted with scrub brush. Dooher picked his way down, hands in his pockets, crabwalking. When his head got below the level of the lot, the minimal road noise from Sunset dissipated, and he suddenly heard the lap of the lakewater.

  This was where he'd ditched the evidence.

  Within twenty minutes, Dooher was in his garage, placing the running shoes into the bottom of the grocery bag, then the gloves, carefully folding the old Sam Spade overcoat so that it fit. He put the bag on to the passenger seat of the Lexus and drove the halfmile to Ocean Avenue, where he left it in the side doorway of the St Vincent de Paul thrift shop.

  Back in his kitchen, he realized he'd worked up an appetite, so he poured himself a glass of milk and grabbed a handful of frozen chocolate chip cookies, then went to the phone to call Irene Carrera, see if she'd heard yet from her daughter.

  CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

  Three generations of Glitskys were at the movies watching James and the Giant Peach when the beeper on Abe's belt began vibrating. He reached over his youngest son and nudged his father's arm, holding up the little black box. 'Back in five,' he said. Nat, caught up in the animation, barely nodded.

  In the lobby, he faced the disorientation he'd always experienced when he saw movies in the daytime, even on such dark days as this one. But his eyes adjusted and he checked the readout, walked to the pay phone and punched up the numbers.

  'Lieutenant, this is Sam Duncan. Wes Farrell's friend.'

  'Sure. Is Wes there?'

  'No. That's why I'm calling. I don't know what else to do. Mark Dooher called Wes earlier today and asked him to meet with him.' Glitsky was aware of the muscle that began working in his jaw. 'He convinced Wes he was going to turn himself in.'

  'I know.'

  'What?'

  'I knew that. He paged me and I called him back at some bar. He told me all about it. He's not back yet?'

  'You let him go? How could you let him go? Mark Dooher's a murderer, and now-'

  'He's probably still at Dooher's. He was meeting him there, right? Have you tried calling there?'

  'I just did. There's nobody home, no answer. Wes said he'd be home in two hours. Then he called to say he was going to be later. It's been almost four hours now. That's why I called you. Something's happened. He would have called me again. He knew I was worried. He would have called.'

  Glitsky was silent for a long moment.

  'Lieutenant?'

  'I'm here. I'm thinking. Have you tried his office?'

  An exasperated sigh. 'I've tried everywhere, Lieutenant. Dooher called him and he went and-'

  Glitsky chewed the side of his mouth another second or two, then made his decision. This time he was moving out before he was certain there had been a crime – if it was before. If it wasn't already too late.

  Irene Carrera debated with herself over the right thing to do. The birth of a child was the strongest bonding experience a couple could have together. She was torn.

  Distraught, Mark had called her again. Please, as soon as Irene heard anything, he'd implored her, would she call and let him know? He was desperate. He needed her.

  And though Christina might not realize it herself, he told Irene, her daughter needed him, too.

  It had ripped Irene up having to lie to Mark, not even to tell him that she'd heard from Christina. But what else could she do?

  Irene wrestled with it, couldn't get it worked out. She wished Bill were here; they would come to the right decision together. She knew he'd be calling her when he got to San Francisco, but first he had to take the afternoon shuttle from Santa Barbara to LAX, then wait for his evening flight. He wouldn't get there until very late tonight.

  Meanwhile, Irene knew that if Christina succeeded in excluding her husband from this moment of birth, there was a far greater chance that they would never be able to patch up whatever had come between them.

  On the other hand, if Mark were there, with her – if they went through it together, husband and wife, it might be the very last chance for Christina's happiness. Even though it would be against her daughter's express wishes.

  In the pink moment, Irene paced the ridge of her property overlooking the valley, agonizing over the greater good.

  Glitsky left Orel with his grandfather at the movies and ran a block and a half to where he'd parked his city-issue car. He made it to Dooher's house by seven o'clock. He should have heard from Paul Thieu long ago. He tried to page him, but there was no response.

  What was going on? Where had everything gone wrong? Glitsky didn't much care about probable cause anymore with Mark Dooher. He was going to take the man downtown on some pretext, get him off the streets before he struck again.

  The house on Ravenwood Street was dark. Dooher wasn't there.

  But Glitsky got out of his car, wanting to make sure. Crossing the front patio, getting to the porch, ringing the bell, waiting.

  Empty.

  There was no way he could explain away his actions to anyone if he were discovered. He would be reprimanded, perhaps fired.

  He was wearing his own pair of gloves, standing inside a suspect's house. He had entered without permission and without a warrant and that was the plain fact of it. He was in the wrong.

  The side door by the driveway had been left unlocked. So Dooher hadn't lied about everything during his trial. He'd testified – and standing under the cold and darkened portico Glitsky had remembered – that he tended to leave the side door unlocked when he went out, the alarm de-activated.

  Now he stood in the kitchen where so long ago he'd sat and had tea with Sheila Dooher. When he'd come in, he turned on the light in the laundry and the overflow lit the counters dimly.

  On the way here, he'd considered pulling over and making a another call to Sam Duncan, bringing her up to date on Farrell. But there was no up-to-date with Farrell. He might be going to die, if he wasn't dead already. What could he tell her that couldn't wait another hour? Until they knew something?

  But here, in the kitchen, it gnawed at him again. He remembered the last moments with Flo, where he hadn't been able to do anything, but had sat by the bed, holding her hand. Perhaps she'd felt something, some pressure from him, some love, in the last seconds. Maybe it had made some difference.

  Digging in his breast pocket, he fished out the piece of paper on which he'd written Sam's number. He'd at least tell her what he knew.

  He crosse
d the kitchen in a few strides, stood by the telephone, hesitated briefly, then picked it up.

  But instead of punching Sam's numbers, he noticed the Redial key and, without really considering, pressed it.

  There were eleven quick beeps. Long distance.

  'Hello.' A pleasant, cultured female voice.

  'Hello. This is Lieutenant Abraham Glitsky, San Francisco Homicide. Who am I speaking with please?'

  'Oh my God, Homicide?'

  'Yes, ma'am. In San Francisco. Who am I-'

  'Is Christina all right? Tell me she's all right.'

  'Christina?'

  'Christina Carrera, my daughter. Is she all right?'

  'I don't know, ma'am. I hope so. Right now I'm trying to locate her husband, Mark Dooher. Do you know where he might be?'

  'He said he was going directly to the hospital.'

  'The hospital? What hospital? Why was he going to the hospital?'

  'To be with Christina. She's at St Mary's, in labor. She's having her baby.'

  'And Dooher knows she's there?'

  'Yes, I told him…' The voice had lost its modulation.

  'When was this?'

  'I don't know exactly. Maybe a half-hour ago, not even that long. He called me again and I just thought…'

  Glitsky didn't need to hear any more.

  CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

  Diane was in the post-delivery room. She squeezed Christina's hand. 'It's all right,' she said. 'You're allowed to cry. He's beautiful. Handsome, I mean.'

  'Beautiful,' Christina said.

  Jess Yamagi leaned over her, laid a finger against the baby's cheek, brought his hand up to Christina's shoulder. 'I'm going to let you hold him for a couple of minutes, Chris, but his temperature is a degree or two low, which is perfectly normal. We're going to put him under the lamp and warm him up until he's stabilized.'

  'And then what?'

  'Then we wash him off and bundle him up and bring him to you. Meanwhile, you get a little rest if you can.' He squeezed her shoulder. 'You did good, Chris. Great job. You, too, Diane.'

  Christina couldn't take her eyes from her baby who seemed to be staring back at her. She'd always thought that infants were born with their eyes closed, but her son was wide-eyed, memorizing her.

  A nurse appeared and showed Christina the little plastic hospital tag they put around the baby's ankle -Baby Boy Dooher. Her husband's name startled her slightly, but the tag was already made up. It wasn't so important it had to be changed right away. 'Everybody worries we're going to mix up their children in the nursery, so we show you this to put your mind at ease,' the nurse went on.

  'All the babies get one,' Diane volunteered.

  Christina was staring through the mist down at her son. 'I'd know this guy anywhere. I could pick him out of a thousand other babies.'

  The nurse smiled again. 'I know you could, sweetheart.' Then, picking him up, 'He'll be back in no time, don't worry.'

  It wrenched her to have the baby taken, but it wouldn't be for very long, it was a normal procedure. She turned to Diane, the rock, and squeezed her hand again, the fatigue kicking in.

  She'd just close her eyes for a minute…

  Like the rest of life, it was simplicity itself if carried off with grace and assurance. Dooher was the natural father of the child, the legal father. He had as much right to be here as Christina did.

  'I'm sorry I'm so late,' he said to the nurse at the admitting station after he'd presented his ID, proving that he was who he said he was. 'I'm just in from the airport. I've been back East all week. I knew this would happen when I was out of town. I knew it. How is Christina?'

  The nurse double-checked his ID, then Christina's admitting record, verifying that yes, he was the husband, they lived at the same address. They were careful here – babies had been known to disappear.

  Looking up, satisfied, the nurse seemed to see Mark for the first time, the nervous father. 'Your wife got moved to her room a couple of minutes ago, Mr Dooher. Room 412, right down that hallway. She's resting now, doing fine. And congratulations, you have a baby boy.'

  Dr Yamagi diagnosed the Lieutenant to be on the edge of hysteria. His blue eyes were dilated in his dark-skinned face. An unusual combination.

  But the man – Glitsky – wasn't here about genetics. He'd come in through the emergency entrance, always a fun place on a Saturday night. Probably so that he could park as close to the hospital as possible. Waste no time.

  'Yes, I delivered the Dooher boy,' Yamagi said, 'maybe forty-five minutes ago.'

  'Is the mother all right? Christina?'

  'Yes. She was, anyway. Why?'

  Glitsky didn't answer that question. He had his own. 'Have you seen the father – Mark Dooher? Has he been here?'

  Yamagi shook his head. 'No. Christina had a friend helping her. Diane.' This name didn't seem to register.

  'I'd like to see them. Talk to her.'

  'She may be resting.'

  Glitsky nodded. 'I'll wake her up.'

  The doctor rode up the elevator with the silent Homicide Lieutenant. They passed the nurse's station without a word, and Yamagi escorted Glitsky into the maternity wing itself, past the double doorway that segregated the new mothers from the sick and the injured.

  This was the happy part of the hospital, with bright stencils decorating the walls and the hallway filled with flowers and balloons and, somehow, a sense of optimism.

  Glitsky noted it all, but little of it registered. Yamagi pushed open a door at the end of the hall – Room 412. The overhead light was turned off, but Glitsky recognized Christina in her bed, her eyes closed.

  Under a directional light, another woman was reading Modern Maternity. She looked up when the men entered, breaking into a welcoming smile at Yamagi, then a questioning glance at Glitsky. She dropped her magazine into the carry-all shoulder purse on the floor next to her chair. She stood up.

  'Hi, doctor. She's sleeping.'

  'No, that's all right, Diane. I'm awake.' Christina was already pushing herself upright, getting ready to hold her son. 'Is the baby here?' She opened her eyes, trying to get focused. She took in Diane and Yamagi, then blinked, as though having trouble with her vision. 'Lieutenant Glitsky?'

  He nodded. 'Ms Carrera.'

  'What are you doing…?' She came straight up, grimacing with effort. 'My son! Is my son all right?'

  'He's fine,' Yamagi answered reassuringly. 'We'll have him in here in a couple of minutes.'

  Christina leaned back, relief all over her.

  Yamagi came up to the bed. He held the switch to raise one end of it, propping Christina into a more comfortable position. 'You get some rest?'

  She nodded. 'A little.'

  'You ready for your boy?'

  'Please.'

  'Okay. I'll pass the word and they'll bring him along. Then: 'Lieutenant, is everything here okay for you?'

  Glitsky had already checked the corners. It was a private room with no place to hide. Mark Dooher wasn't here.

  'Good.' Yamagi looked at his watch. 'Christina, be sure to ask for help if you need anything. They'll wheel in another bed if you want Diane to stay. I'll be back first thing in the morning. You want me to show you the way out, Lieutenant?'

  Glitsky didn't like this. He didn't know what had happened with Farrell. Dooher knew Christina had come here, and yet – apparently – he hadn't. Something wasn't right, maybe a lot of things. 'I'd like to stay on a minute. I have a couple of questions.'

  This wouldn't have been Yamagi's choice, but Christina read the indecision in his face and spoke up. 'It's okay with me.'

  Yamagi yielded. 'I'd appreciate it if you kept it short then. All of you.'

  As the door closed behind the doctor, Glitsky took a step toward the bed. 'Have you seen your husband? I was sure he was coming here.'

  'Why would he be here? He doesn't know I'm here.'

  Glitsky considered that. He had to tell her. 'Yes, he does. Your mother told him.'

  A long, dead mo
ment as it sank in.

  Dooher didn't go right in to see Christina. He needed to see her, all right, to explain things, but he wanted to find his baby first. That would make it all clearer.

  He looked through the glass and read the identifying tag. Baby Boy Dooher was under the warming light. A tiny red heart was stuck to his chest, keeping track of his temperature.

  He pushed open the door to the newborn nursery. Inside, he stood quietly – the proud new father, overwhelmed with emotion, a little lost.

  A pretty young nurse approached him. 'Can I help you, sir?'

  In the role, Dooher gave her his best smile, shading it with a touch of self-deprecation. 'My new boy. I saw him through the glass in there. I just got here – I missed the birth. I wonder if I could hold him a second? It's the Dooher baby?' He had his identification out again, and this nurse, too, looked it over, then handed it back to him.

  But she was shaking her head. 'It's against the rules, technically. I'm sorry.'

  He sighed, heart-broken, met her eyes. At home, he' d showered and shaved, then dressed with casual elegance. He looked good and he knew it. 'Well, I certainly don't want to break any rules.'

  The nurse looked into the adjoining spaces, around behind her. She leaned in toward him. 'I'll get you a mask,' she said. 'We'll make an exception. You'll have to wash your hands.'

  They were going to be bundling the boy up right now. His mother had asked for him. Would Mr Dooher like to take the baby in to his wife?

  'That would be great,' he said. 'I'd like that.'

  What he'd do, he thought, was act like she'd never left him, like it had never happened. He would let her know that he understood what had happened – her emotions had gotten the better of her and she'd given into panic.

  She'd be vulnerable right now and he didn't want to scare her away. He would be kind and gentle, solicitous. He had to prove to her that she could trust him. She had always been able to trust him. Whatever he might have done, he wouldn't do anything to hurt her.