Glitsky 02 - Guilt (47 page)

'You saw her at Farrell's. You know where she is now?'

'Another question about your wife.' Glitsky tsked. 'And here I thought I'd made it so clear.' He shrugged. 'Not that it hasn't been a good time, but I've really got to go. I don't have a warrant and I've been ordered off the property. Unless you want to invite me in?'

Dooher seemed almost to enjoy the moment. 'You're nearly as funny as my friend Wes – you know that, Glitsky? And I admire that in a man. Really, I do. But you can't touch me. You should realize that by now. The fact is – you just don't seem to be able to do your job, do you? Though I guess being black and all, that's not much of a problem. You don't actually have to
perform,
do you? Actually get anything done?'

'Sometimes,' Glitsky said, his scar tight now – he could feel it. 'You might be surprised.'

'Well, you do your best, then, would you? Give it your best shot. Or was that what you did with Sheila? No. That couldn't have been your
best
shot, could it?' Dooher took a few steps toward him, made his own tsking sound. 'Oh, that's right. You'd lost your own wife back then, didn't you? That must have been a hard time. That would explain why you couldn't touch me then either, why everything you did…' the voice got harsher, rasping '… was such a total fucking waste of time. You were sad, weren't you? Poor guy. That was it. That was why you were so incompetent. See? There's always a reason if you look hard enough for it. I wonder what it will be when you screw this one up.'

'It'll be fun to find out.' Glitsky wouldn't take the bait. It did his heart good to see the real man for the first time. He half turned, then stopped, facing Dooher. 'Oh, and hey, good luck finding your wife. I wonder why she'd leave you.' A beat. 'Must have something to do with
performance.'

Dooher couldn't sleep.

He kept coming back to Farrell.

What made a man valuable was imposing his will on the world he lived in. It was winning. Big risk, big prize. And he was the Alpha Male. He'd won. He'd beaten Glitsky, beaten Farrell, beaten the whole system. And it got him the mate he wanted, the prime female. And now he's supposed to feel
guilty?
Please. Peddle that twaddle to one of the sheep.

He kept coming back to Farrell, the whiner selling his loser's vision to Christina. By making Mark's guilt the big issue, he'd got her to leave him, tearing apart what Mark had
earned.

Naked, he wandered through the big house – the library, the kitchen, the living room where he'd fucked Wes's wife.

He wondered if he knew. He should tell him.

Outside, it was freezing. But he liked it, liked the midnight stroll down his driveway without his clothes on. He was untouchable – he could do whatever he wanted.

He let himself into the garage. His M-16 was tucked into its shelf high up over his workbench and he took it down, unwrapping the cloth, shooting the bolt, sighting down the barrel, an idea forming.

But no, he couldn't use anything as obvious as a rifle that could be traced to him. He put the gun down on the workbench and picked up a crowbar, hefting it against his palm.

Doubts had tossed him from side to side on the bed for hours. Doubts about who he was. Doubts that he'd gotten himself to here by wanting too much, by lying, by lust, by murder, by all the cardinal sins. Now this – his world imploding, Christina leaving him – was his punishment.

And maybe he deserved it.

'Fuck that.'

A violent shiver ran through him. He felt some coil release inside him and he brought the crowbar down in a deafening crash, shattering the wood, scattering hardware and the now-broken glass from the storage jars over the M-16 and the rest of the workbench.

Farrell was the prime mover here. He'd brought Glitsky back into it again after it should have been long over. Somehow Farrell convinced Christina that she had to move out.

The self-righteous son of a bitch. Farrell, who'd never succeeded at anything, who believed in fair play and the goodness of man, was a slinking dog compared to the men who walked on this earth. How dare he presume to judge what Mark had done?

But now it was clear: Farrell wouldn't rest until he had brought Dooher down to his level.

He needed a lesson in where he belonged, in what his station was, in who made the rules.

Dooher wasn't going to let this continue. He'd take care of it in short order, set the world back straight.

Then go reclaim what was his.

Diane Price volunteered at the Center on Tuesday nights and Saturday mornings. She picked up the phone when it rang at 8:45. 'I'm looking for Samantha Duncan's number.'

'I'm sorry,' Diane said. 'I can't give that out over the telephone, but I can call her and have her get back to you.'

A frustrated sigh. 'It's just I've been awake half the night and I'm starting… well, never mind. That would be good, if you could ask Samantha to call me.' She gave her room number, the motel.

'And who should Samantha ask for?'

A long hesitation. 'Christina Carrera.'

'You're Mark Dooher's wife,' Diane said.

'That's right.' And clearly Christina had no idea to whom she was talking, who
Diane
was. She wondered briefly if she should tell her, then decided against it. What would be the point?

'Oh…' On the phone, the woman gave a low moan, followed by a succession of quick breaths.

'Are you all right?'

The breathing slowed. The voice was normal again. 'I think I might be starting labor. Can you call Sam?'

'I'll call her right away.'

Irene Carrera walked out on to the pool deck where Bill was taking his morning laps. She watched the effortless glide of his body through the blue water, then her gaze went up and out over Ojai – the peace of it, the order.

She pulled up one of the moulded-iron chairs as Bill executed a swimmer's turn and headed back up to the deep end. She'd let him finish his workout, a few more carefree moments before she disturbed him.

Their daughter was in trouble again. Irene had just gotten off the phone with Mark. He told her he hadn't been completely truthful when they'd talked last night. Christina hadn't been home at that time. In fact, she hadn't come home at all. She was staring again out over the serenity of her valley.

'What's that look for?'

She hadn't noticed that Bill had finished and was walking toward her, toweling off, his usual easy smile in place. There was no avoiding it. She had to tell him.

A puppet whose strings got cut, her husband slumped into another chair as she spoke to him. Irene continued. 'Mark said she called him last night. Told him she needed some time to think, but wouldn't say where she was. She's hiding out.'

Bill let out a deep sigh, staring into the space between him and his wife. 'She's delivering his baby any time now and she's hiding out?'

Irene nodded. 'Mark said she'd been acting unstable the last couple of weeks – skittish, crying jags, seeing ghosts everywhere…'

'He called to ask us what we thought he should do. He sounded a wreck.' Anguish, now. 'Bill, why wouldn't she have called us?'

He barely trusted himself to speak. He would go up and find her. Somehow. Help Mark if he had to, though he'd never warmed to the man. 'I don't know, hon.'

'But wasn't it going so well? Hadn't she-'

Shaking his head, interrupting. 'She didn't want us to know,' he said. 'She didn't want to disappoint us.'

'So she won't call us?'

'She'll call.' But his face betrayed his words.

'Bill?' She stood and came up next to him, put her arms around him. 'I know what you're thinking, but we've got to keep Mark in this picture.'

He said nothing.

'He's her husband. He still believes in her -I heard it in his voice. If we hear from her, we have to tell her that. You don't leave. You don't always leave.'

'We don't know the whole story, Irene. Maybe Mark drove her in some-'

But she stepped away, fire in her eyes. 'No! That's always been her excuse and-'

'It wasn't an
excuse
with Brian, Irene. The bastard was married to somebody else, knocked her up and dumped her. That's not an
excuse.'

'All right, but what about Joe Avery? What about all the other men?'

'Maybe they weren't good enough for her.'

She glared at him. 'Spoken like a true father, Bill.'

'What do you mean by that? I
am
her true father.'

'And every time she left some man, it was always okay, because they weren't good enough for her. And every time, it broke her heart a little more, but it was okay, it was okay. She was still Daddy's little girl.'

'Irene…'

'No, listen. She's almost thirty years old. She's picked a good man, I'm convinced of that. A good man.'

'I don't know that.'

'Bill. You do.'

'Then tell me why she's left him?'

'I don't know. But
he
called us. This isn't someone who's beating her. She's never said a bad word about him. He doesn't know what to do, so he comes to us. Doesn't that tell you something? Isn't that a good sign?' He didn't want to hear it, but it needed to be said. 'Bill, she married him. It's time she learned that's where her life belongs, with her husband. Not with us. We love her, but she can't keep coming back to us. She'll never grow up. She'll never have a life.'

They faced each other in the calm Ojai morning. Blue jays were fighting for territory in the air above them. One of the canyons off to their left echoed with the howl of a coyote.

They went on the assumption that you always made mistakes, which was how they thought they'd catch you.

Dooher had to admit that even he had made a few.

Well, to be honest, he'd made none with Nguyen.

But there had been a couple of small errors with Trang – the cellphone business, how could anybody be expected to know about that? But with Trang they'd only gotten as far as an investigation.

With Sheila, they got him all the way to trial, so by objective standards, he supposed he was slipping. He'd been forced to hurry his plans after Avery had gone down to LA. If he didn't move fast, he ran a risk with Christina. Someone else might have come along and distracted her and he would have been back to where he started. So he'd had to strike when he did.

But the lack of planning had showed.

The knives were one of the problems, though he favored a knife because you had control. You put it where it needed to go and held it there, feeling the life slip away, until you knew you'd done it.

But a knife was too much trouble. Too dirty. He'd had to throw the bayonet off the Golden Gate.

He'd thought he'd solved the problem with the kitchen knife, the gyrations with the blood and the glove and the botched burglary. But that had been close – his cleverness had nearly done him in.

He'd really learned a lot – the trial had been instructive that way. There were phone trails, paper trails, evidence trails, eyewitnesses, and trackers among the police for each of them.

So this time, from the moment he began to move, he wouldn't leave any hint.

Glitsky would know. How could he not know? But there would be nothing he could do.

He wasn't going to leave any messages on answering machines. All Saturday morning, no one answered at Wes and Sam's, and he hung up as soon as he heard the message begin.

After he'd made his decision last night, sleep came more easily. Indecision was the ruin of lesser men. He'd set his body clock for around 9:00 and called the Carreras down in Ojai. If he was going to locate his wife, he would need Irene.

Sam didn't pick up, and Diane Price called Christina back at her motel and asked if there was anything she could do. 'How far apart are the contractions?' she asked.

'Not close. Seven minutes. They warned us about this in Lamaze. They won't admit me until it's two or three minutes. It's going to be a while.'

'Why are you in a motel?' Diane asked.

'That's a long story.'

'Is there anybody with you?'

'No.'

'I could come.'

'Why would you do that?'

'You used to volunteer at the Center here, too, didn't you? Us guys ought to stick together, don't you think?' Diane thought saying anything about the further connection between them at this moment would be counter-productive. She heard the breathing again. When it returned to normal, Diane spoke again. 'I've been through this with two kids of my own, Christina. I could keep you company. We could talk. You need somebody with you. How are you getting to the hospital?'

'I don't know.'

Diane made up her mind. 'I'll be there in ten minutes.'

Christina opened the door to her motel room. The woman was bundled for the chill – heavy woolen coat, enormous leather carry-all, designer ski cap pulled down over dense graying hair. But she smiled warmly, projecting a calm confidence that Christina found comforting. She had beautiful gray-green eyes.

There was also something familiar about her. 'Do I know you? How did you know I was Mark Dooher's wife?'

The smile remained. The eyes seemed to know everything. She didn't move forward, but seemed content to wait out in the cold until this was cleared up, until Christina had accepted it. She might not, after all, want her around after she knew. And that would certainly be understandable. 'Sam said you were smart.' A proffered hand. 'I'm Diane Price. It's nice to meet you at last.'

At 12:45, Wes picked up on the second ring, heard Mark Dooher's voice. 'I'm going to start by apologizing.'

He didn't reply. Dooher continued. 'I was out of line. I shouldn't have come by your house, made cracks about your girlfriend.' He paused. 'Look, Wes, Christina ran out on me. I freaked out. I'm sorry.'

'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.