Glitsky 02 - Guilt (48 page)

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.'

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.

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 crossed 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.