Damage

21

At seven forty-five the next morning, a homicide sergeant inspector named Darrel Bracco knocked at the door to Glitsky's office, which was open, although the lights inside were off. The lieutenant slumped in his chair, nearly reclined in fact, his outstretched arm around a cup of something on the desk. "You wanted to see me, Abe?"

"I did. Come on in."

"Lights?"

"No. Leave'em, please. Take a chair."

Obeying orders, Bracco entered the office and sat. Glitsky made no effort to sit up straighter. Even in the dim light, Bracco could see a grayish pallor under the lieutenant's light brown skin. His body language screamed exhaustion, although when he spoke, the words came out with a clipped precision. "You heard about Matt Lewis."

It wasn't really a question. Even if word of the shooting hadn't permeated as if by osmosis into every inch of the Hall of Justice building itself, the shooting of the DA inspector had been the lead story on all the local network news programs last night, and had made headlines in both the Chronicle and the Courier this morning.

Bracco knew that the whiteboard on the wall behind his head already had his name down as the lead investigator on three active homicides: a no-humans-involved gang-banger shooting in the Lower Mission, a tragic shaken baby case out in the Sunset, and a fiftysomething unmarried insurance broker who'd gotten himself stabbed to death the week before in the alley outside Alfred's Steak House. These, Bracco felt, put him at about the limit of his capabilities, particularly since he was working solo lately.

But now Glitsky was asking if he'd heard about Matt Lewis, and Bracco said, "Sure. Terrible thing. And I'll take it if there's no choice, but if somebody else wants it, my plate's pretty full."

"I'm not asking you to take it, Darrel."

"Sorry. I just thought…" He shrugged. "Go ahead."

"So what have you heard about it?"

"Lewis? Not much. Out there in the 'Mo'"-this was department slang for the lower Fillmore-"it could have been anything. Who's got the case?"

"Nobody. Not yet. I might wind up taking it myself." Glitsky turned his cup. "So you haven't heard anything?"

"No."

"What if I told you he was following Ro Curtlee around?"

Bracco kept his reaction low-key. "That's not come out."

"No."

"Is it true?"

"True enough."

In all of the news reports, Glitsky had carefully declined to state whether they had a suspect, or even a person of interest, in the shooting. It appeared to be a random, perhaps drug- or gang-related, homicide, but no one yet knew for sure. The investigation was continuing. That was all he could divulge.

"So…" Bracco waited.

"So I need a volunteer to call Curtlee's lawyer to ask him for an interview, and for obvious reasons that can't be me. No way is Denardi going to let that happen, but we have to ask. I don't want the accusation that we never gave him a chance to tell his side of the story."

"But supposing he says yes, do you want me to talk to him about this Lewis thing?"

"Actually that and one other case. Janice Durbin."

"Don't know her."

"Friday, her house burned down around her. Just like with Felicia Nunez, who happened to be a witness in Ro's trial. Also, like Felicia, strangled. And this latest victim, Janice Durbin, was married to the jury foreman in Ro's trial."

"I'm seeing a pattern," Bracco said.

"No flies on you. But the good news is that because of Lewis, and the fact that we know he was following Ro around, you've got a reasonable, even plausible excuse to talk to Ro, see what he says he was doing yesterday. And while you're at it, get his alibi for Janice Durbin, if he's got one."

"You think he'll talk to me?"

"Not a chance in the world. But we've got to do the drill."

Bracco said, "Lewis was really tailing him?"

"What, Darrel, you think I'm making this up?" But then, hearing how brusque he sounded, he held up a hand in apology. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't sleep last night. But yeah, Lewis was tailing Ro, at least until an hour or so before he got shot. That was his last check-in with Amanda Jenkins, outside Tadich's, where Ro met his lawyer."

"Then what?"

"Then Ro came out and hopped in his car with his driver."

"And Lewis took off after them?"

"Said he was going to, anyway. After that we don't know."

Bracco considered, then gave a brusque nod. "Close enough for me." It was nursery-school day at the DA's office. Treya came in late, getting on toward nine o'clock, trailing her two children. About fifteen minutes later, Farrell showed up with his dog in tow. Luckily Gert was well-behaved and liked children, so it wasn't the chaos it could have been. But neither was it exactly a finely tuned, professional office environment.

Now Rachel and Zachary were coloring together on the library table in Farrell's inner office, while Gert had stretched out under them. Treya and Wes had some important issues to discuss and they had migrated out to the reception area, Treya's domain, and closed the doors both into Farrell's office and leading out into the hallway so they could have some privacy.

Farrell was perched on the front of Treya's desk. "For how long?" he asked her.

"I don't know. As long as it takes." Treya stood leaning up against the wall of law books in the outer office. "I'm not leaving the kids with this kind of risk."

"Do you know where you're going?"

"I've got a brother in LA. We'll start out down there. And then Abe's father has a place here in town where we'd be welcome, although that may be too close. I don't want to be find-able."

"And what's Abe going to do?"

Treya's mouth went a little loose before it tightened up again. "He's staying on. He says it's only going to be a couple of weeks, now. Hopefully. I mean, until Ro's in jail again."

"If we can get an indictment. And now, with Amanda…" Farrell ran his hand back through his hair. "She was going to be presenting the case, but I don't know if she'll be able to pull it together quick enough after this Matt thing."

"You could do it yourself."

"I know. I might. But meanwhile"-he spread his hands out in front of him-"what am I supposed to do around here with you gone?"

"I'm sorry about that, sir, I really am. I wish there was some other way, but I don't see what that would be. I'm sure there's somebody good here in the building who could cover for me."

"You are? You got a name for me?"

She crossed her arms and shook her head. "No."

A silence built up between them.

"This is a real problem, Treya. You realize that? The more I get used to the idea, the more it's a real problem."

"Yes, sir, I understand. It's a real problem at home, too. But what am I supposed to do? I've got the vacation time accrued."

"That's not the issue."

"I'm sorry, but it's my issue. I can't keep the kids here. I'm afraid of what Ro might do to them. And you know he's capable of it, whatever it is."

Farrell digested her answer for a moment, then shook his head in disgust. "Fuck," he said. "Pardon me."

"The least of my worries," Treya said. "Anyway, I just wanted to tell you in person, see if I can help you find a replacement."

"In one day?"

Treya tried to put on a brave face, but it didn't take. She shrugged. "That's all I can try for. I'm sorry."

Wes boosted himself off the desk and looked straight across at her. "You know, Treya," he said, "if you do this, I don't know if I can guarantee that I'll be able to take you back in the same job. That's not a threat. It's just reality. I need somebody who's in here every day."

"I realize that," she said. "I couldn't ask that you take me back."

"Just so you know."

"Yes," she said. "I think that's clear enough." Bracco found out why Denardi had agreed to the interview when he showed up at his downtown office and found Cliff and Theresa Curtlee there, too, along with Ro. Tristan Denardi introduced them both to Bracco, explaining that they were here not only in support of their son, but as representatives of their newspaper. Bracco understood that clearly, no matter what happened, their presence meant that the Courier was going to spin this interview as a further example of police overreaching.

Denardi crossed an ankle over his knee, revealing a flash of argyle sock over his highly polished black brogues. The impeccably dressed elderly attorney took his cup of hot coffee on its saucer and placed it on the low table in front of him in the conference room.

"I'm not sure my client has anything to say to you," he said to Bracco when they settled down to business. "In fact, I'm fairly certain that he doesn't. It's clear that you people have a vested interest in harassing Mr. Curtlee, and I hope we've made it equally clear that we're not about to let such harassment go uncontested. Now you're here asking about my client's whereabouts on last Friday morning, and we're not inclined to provide that information without some sort of explanation as to why anyone should care where he was or what he was doing."

Bracco sipped at his own coffee to give himself some time. The silent presence of the Curtlees unnerved him. He looked from the solid, unyielding parents over to Ro Curtlee in his pressed blue jeans and form-hugging black T-shirt and his eight-hundred-dollar cowboy boots. He still wore the cast on his arm from his altercation with Glitsky and his patrolmen; his face, though, had all but cleared up. He'd shaved this morning and his hair was neatly combed.

When he noticed Bracco's eyes on him, Ro smiled dismissively.

Bracco chose his words carefully. "I'm investigating another case and would like to clear your client from suspicion."

"You mean he's under suspicion in another case?"

"Only in the sense that we don't have a suspect yet in this other matter. I am in the process of trying to eliminate possibilities."

"And Mr. Curtlee is among those possibilities?"

"Yes."

A bark of a laugh from Ro, and then he sat back in his upholstered chair. "Unbelievable," he said.

Theresa Curtlee finally got on the boards. "Truly," she said.

Denardi held out a warning palm toward both her and his client. "Ro. Theresa. Please." And then, back to Bracco. "This other case? A homicide, I presume."

"Arson murder, actually."

This brought a tight little turn-up of Denardi's lips. "Of course. And how would Mr. Curtlee be even remotely connected to this hypothetical arson murder?"

"The victim was the wife of the foreman of his jury. Janice Durbin."

Another prim smile from Denardi. "I see. And maybe you could draw me a road map, as it were, of how this poor woman's unfortunate death leads in any way, even remotely, to Mr. Curtlee?"

Bracco kept it simple. "She was strangled, and somebody lit a fire. The same thing happened to Felicia Nunez. And of course Ms. Sandoval was also strangled. There would appear to be something of a coincidence. So if your client will cooperate and we can eliminate him as a suspect, I'd like to do so. I just don't see what your objection could be."

Cliff Curtlee ostentatiously cleared his throat but said nothing.

Denardi took his cue. "Well, on general grounds, Inspector, my objection is that we American citizens have the right to our privacy. Mr. Curtlee doesn't have to tell you or anybody else what he was doing on Friday morning or any other time."

"No. Of course not."

"On the other hand." Denardi turned toward Ro again and some signal must have passed between them. "If you'd give my client and me a couple of minutes alone, Inspector, we might be able to come to some accommodation. If you don't mind." With that, lawyer, client, and his parents all stood and left the conference room.

Bracco sat back, crossed his legs, and leaned back to take in the large canvases of modern art and the leather-bound shelves of books, and photographs of the famous and powerful. He cast his glance out over the city-the chop on the bay far below, the scudding clouds, the Ferry Building and Bay Bridge elegantly sweeping out to Treasure Island.

Then, as though it had been choreographed, and maybe it had been, Denardi, Ro, and the Curtlees came back into the conference room.

"Inspector," Denardi began before they'd even sat down, "it would be wonderful if you could pass a message back to your colleagues in the police department that we are always ready to cooperate with its investigations when the proper procedures are followed. Mr. Curtlee is ready to make a statement about his actions last Friday morning. Do you have a tape recorder to get it down for the record?"

"Sure."

They sat down in their previous seats. "If you don't mind, Ms. Curtlee will be taking notes as well."

"Fine." Bracco pulled out his pocket recorder and placed it on the table. After his standard introduction, he asked Ro Curtlee what he'd done on the previous Friday morning.

"I woke up late, about nine fifteen, in the house here," he said. "I went down and said hello to my parents, who were just finishing breakfast, and then had some breakfast of my own-served by our lovely Linda."

"We'll corroborate that," Cliff Curtlee said, gesturing toward his wife. "Both of us. Would you like to know what we ate, too?"

Bracco kept his composure. "That won't be necessary," he said. Turning back to Ro, he asked, "And after breakfast?"

"I showered and put on some clothes and at about eleven I was at my doctor's where he checked the cast on my arm. How's that? Want to go later?"

"Yes, please." They ran down Curtlee's actions through the whole day until he joined his parents again later for dinner. "That's good," Bracco said when they finished. "Let me ask you a couple more questions about the morning. Is there anybody here who might have seen you in bed before nine fifteen?"

He thought for a moment. "Linda knocked at nine. That's what woke me up. It kind of pissed me off if you want to know."

"So nine, then? And before that?"

Denardi had had enough. "Before that, Inspector," he said, "he was asleep in his bed at his home. Is there anything difficult to understand about that?"

"No."

"Well, then." Denardi clapped his hands. "I believe that's what you came here for. You've got your statement, willingly delivered. Full cooperation. Now if you'll excuse us…"

Bracco made no move to reach for his recorder. Instead, he nodded amicably. "Hey, though," he said, as though he'd just thought of it, "now that we're talking, how's the food at Tadich's lately? Good as ever?"

The furtive look between lawyer and client disappeared almost as quickly as it came, but not so quickly that Bracco didn't see it. And they both knew that he'd seen it.

"The hell with this," Ro Curtlee said to Denardi. "This is never gonna end unless we do something about it. I'll tell you what, Inspector, I'll take a fucking lie detector test. We got to put an end to this. How'd you like that?"

Denardi extended his arm to its full length. "Ro!"

But the young man went on, "No, Tristan, this is just bullshit! The same shit they been laying on us since all this began. I didn't shoot anybody yesterday or any other day. I finished lunch and me and Ez went to the planetarium…"

Denardi actually came out of his seat. "Ro! Shut up! That's enough!"

But Ro couldn't seem to get himself under control. He stood up, too, now pointing at his attorney, his face flushed with anger. "What? I'm supposed to just take this? He just accused me again.. "

"Don't talk, damn it!" Denardi nearly bellowed. "Don't say another word!" Then he turned to stare down at Bracco. "This interview is over," he said. "Right now."

Bracco got his hands on his recorder first thing. Leaving it on, he stood and backed away a couple of steps. "What are you going to take a lie detector about, Ro? I never mentioned anybody getting shot."

"Don't answer that," Denardi said.

"He already did," Bracco said.

"This is absurd." Cliff Curtlee got to his feet.

Denardi reiterated, "He didn't admit a goddamn thing."

"Oh. Okay, then. He's got nothing to worry about."

Ro took a step toward him. "I got nothing to worry about anyway, dickhead."

"Ro. Enough." Denardi moved his bulk around in front of his client. "Get out of here, Inspector."

"Sure," Bracco said, backing away. "I'm gone," he said. "Nice chatting with you all."