Damage

22

The only Courier reporter who worked in an office instead of in one of the cubicles on the main floor city room was Sheila Marrenas. She had earned this eminence not only because she was an excellent stylist as a writer, with a distinctive voice, but because her column, "Our Town," was the most widely read and popular recurring feature in the newspaper. She had a great eye for news and especially for conflict disguised as news. It didn't hurt, either, that Marrenas had early on been inculcated with a belief system that coincided with the politics of the newspaper's owners, and that she could and did express these views with the passionate conviction of the true believer.

Now she came into her office, fresh from her lunch with the mayor's press secretary, a bit of a coup in itself, her brain considering the slant to take on Leland Crawford's first weeks in office, to cast him in the best possible light. She wasn't overly concerned with her objectivity, which so many other news outlets had long ago proven to be a spurious virtue when it came to reporting. Besides, she was a columnist now-not just a reporter. She was all about opinion, nuance, point of view.

Marrenas knew that newspapers were about wielding influence and molding public opinion, and the point was that Leland Crawford had accepted a great deal of the Curtlees' campaign money and now, even at the very beginning of his administration, was showing signs that he knew which side his bread was buttered on. He could be a crucial ally in the political wars that were always on the horizon in San Francisco. A flattering column by her on his first weeks could go a long way toward setting his inclinations toward them into concrete. Maybe she could contrast Crawford's own bold agenda and no-nonsense activism with Wes Farrell's fairly abysmal continuing performance to date.

That might really shake things up.

Her phone was ringing as she came through the door and she reached over her cluttered desk to pick it up, chirping her name in her trademark response.

"Sheila. Cliff… Something's come up. You got a minute?… Good. I'll be right down."

She went behind her desk, opened her drawer, and took out her hand mirror, checking to make sure that every little thing about her face and hair was as it should be. She needn't have worried. At forty-three years old, she possibly looked better than she had at thirty. Certainly she'd grown into her style, which was professional and cultured. She'd tamed the wild mane of frizzy black hair she'd had ten years ago with soft curls now, settling about her shoulders. And her face had never been a problem. Her olive-tinted skin was not simply clear, but luminous, small pored, and glowing. Her smile, under the sultry coals that were her eyes, was genuine and generous after the braces had come off at last about six years ago.

She was more than comfortable with her looks, and now as she put the mirror back in her drawer, she allowed herself a small smile, thinking that it was almost a shame that she wasn't inclined to consolidate her position here at the paper by seducing Cliff, who clearly had always found her attractive. Her taste, though, truth be told, ran much more to Theresa, but-she asked herself-what would be the point of seducing the second in command?

"Ahh, here you are. Looking even more lovely than usual, I might add."

"Oh, stop, you flatterer." But she was smiling as she stood and came around the desk, offering first one cheek to Cliff, then the other one, kissing the air on either side. By long custom, when Cliff came down to her office to visit, they sat on either end of the leather couch that ran along under the window with the view down onto Castro Street.

"So how'd the lunch with the mayor go?" Cliff asked by way of warm-up.

"His press secretary," she corrected him, "but it went very well. She's very quotable. I got some good stuff. You'll see." She shifted, facing him on the couch, tucking one leg up under her. "But you've got something hotter."

"Not so much hot as in sexy," he said, "as hot as in urgent. It's Ro and the police again."

A small bubble of laughter shook her. "You've got to be kidding me. You'd think after last week they would have learned."

"I don't know if they're capable of learning."

"I don't, either. Was this Glitsky again?"

"No, although with Glitsky running homicide, it's obvious where the orders came from. This is an inspector named Bracco."

Marrenas nodded. "Darrel. I know who he is. What did he do?"

"Well, maybe we should thank him, actually, since he's giving us this story. But he came up to Tristan Denardi's office today to ask Ro some questions. Tristan didn't want to let that happen under any circumstances, but on reflection I thought since you weren't available, it might be a good idea if Tristan and Ro went ahead so long as Theresa and I came along to represent our interests."

Her eyebrows went up in surprise. "Go on."

Cliff, sitting sideways on the couch, leaned in toward her. "Anyway, Glitsky, it turns out, is working on another murder, just some random murder across the city out in the Sunset. Although Glitsky naturally thinks maybe it isn't really random. He thinks Ro's got something to do with this one, too, and he had Bracco ask for the meet today to get Ro's alibi for the time of the murder."

"This other murder, you mean?"

"Yes, and I know. It's bizarre."

"So what's the possible connection to Ro?"

"You'll love this. You remember that difficult jury foreman at Ro's trial?"

"Michael Durbin." Suddenly she snapped her fingers. "That's who it was!" she said, her eyes flashing.

"Who?"

"This guy outside the courtroom last week who wouldn't give me the time of day. It was Durbin. I knew I'd seen him before."

"At Ro's arraignment? Why was he there?"

"I have no idea." She shook her head. "So, what are you saying? Somebody killed him?"

"No. Somebody killed his wife. And then burned down the house around her."

Marrenas took in a quick breath and let it out in a rush. "That's not very nice."

"No. But the point is that the police apparently somehow think, by some tortuous logic, that Ro had something to do with it. In fact, it's so obscure that I can't believe anyone really thinks it, but it seems like it's going to be the next point of attack on Ro. And this in spite of the fact, as Ro told Bracco this morning, and Theresa and I backed him up because it was true, that he was sleeping at home at the time that this murder occurred." Lowering his voice, Cliff went on, "And here's the thing, Sheila. He was sleeping in his room. This was last Friday. I remember distinctly and so does Theresa. He came down and had breakfast with us at around nine or nine thirty and I promise you on my word of honor that he hadn't been out killing some woman in the Sunset an hour before, and then setting her house on fire. That just didn't happen."

Sheila picked up his thread. "But the cops still came to question him?"

"Right. And you want to hear another one? That DA investigator who got shot yesterday out in the Fillmore?"

"Yes?"

"Evidently that was Ro, too. If you ask Bracco or Glitsky."

Marrenas nodded admiringly. "Wow. Ro's been busy."

"Hasn't he? Isn't this just totally outrageous? In fact, he had lunch yesterday with Tristan Denardi at Tadich's, the two of them talking about their legal strategy, then he and Ez went to the planetarium together. They did not stop and kill a DA investigator on the way." He let out a deep sigh. "This is long past amusing, I must tell you."

Marrenas got up, stretched her back, showing off the merchandise, and walked across her office. When she turned around, she asked, "So what do you want to do?"

Cliff came forward to the last few inches of the couch's seat. "Well, the story itself, the cops suspecting Ro for every murder committed since he's gotten out of jail, that's got to get out. But more particularly, there's got to be another story around this Durbin murder, and one that doesn't have squat all to do with Ro, since it's absolutely definite that he didn't kill her. Or anybody else.

"Now we've got public opinion largely on our side, I think, especially after your last couple of brilliant articles on police brutality. It would be interesting to illustrate how badly the police can get off course when they've got a preconceived idea and they're out to get an innocent man. Do you think you could do some looking around and write that story?"

"With my eyes closed, sir. With my eyes closed." "Are you and Mommy mad at each other?" Rachel asked.

They had parked at the airport in the hourly lot, and now they were walking out to the terminal. Treya had wanted Abe to just drop them off at the curb by the departures lane, but he had overruled her and said he wanted to be with them all for as long as he could. To which Treya's response had been silence.

And which, in turn, led to Rachel's question.

The two of them, father and daughter, were about fifteen feet behind Treya and Zachary, lagging on purpose. Glitsky's daughter was holding his hand with one of hers, pulling her small pink rolling suitcase with the other one. Her monkey doll, Alice, rode on Rachel's back, its hands Velcro'd together under her chin.

Glitsky said, "No. We're having a disagreement, that's all."

"But you're not mad at her."

"I said no."

"I know, but I think she's mad at you."

"She might be at that."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not going with you."

"Why aren't you? Isn't this a vacation? Mommy said it was like a vacation."

"I know. But 'like' a vacation isn't the same as a vacation. If it was a real vacation, I'd be going."

"But why can't you go on this one?"

"See if you can guess."

She looked up and over at him. "You'll get mad."

"I won't. I promise."

"Okay, then. Work."

"Correct."

"It's always work."

"Now you do sound like your mother."

"But do you have to work this time?"

"If I didn't think I did, don't you think I'd be going with you?"

"I don't know. Probably."

"No. Definitely. And you know why? Because I love you. I love all of you."

"Even Mommy?"

"Especially Mommy."

At this moment, Treya and Zachary got to the escalator leading up to the security checkpoint, and Treya turned around, yelling back to them. "C'mon, you two, can't you try a little harder to keep up?"

Rachel again looked up at her father. "I don't care what she says, she's mad."

"I think you're right," Glitsky whispered. Then they were where the line for security began. In Glitsky's arms, Zachary wore the modified bicycle helmet he'd been living with for over a year now. The four of them had already done the "sandwich hug" with Rachel holding on to both Abe's and Treya's legs. Now Glitsky lowered Zachary down next to Rachel and told them to hold hands and stay together and guard the luggage for just one minute while he and their mother said a little private good-bye.

Glitsky took Treya's hand, and after only a slight hesitation, she moved off with him a few steps away. He put his arm over her shoulder and drew her around into him. For a moment, she simply stood there, arms at her side, but then he felt and heard her sigh, and she came full around in front of him and brought her arms up against his back.

Pulling her head away, she stretched up and kissed him. "I love you," she said.

"I love you, too. I'm sorry about…"

She brought a hand around and put it up against his lips. "Shut up, okay. I'm sorry, too. This is just what I've got to do."

"I get it."

"And you do what you've got to do."

"Right. Those are the rules. For the record, I'm going to be fine. And careful."

She put some work into a smile. "Okay. Sure you will."

"You take care of our guys."

"I will."

"And we talk every day. Deal?"

"Deal."

"And you're all coming back."

"There's no question of that. Really. None." She stretched up and kissed him again. "I've got to go. I love you."

"Me, too."

After another fleeting half smile, she turned toward the children and Glitsky waved good-bye to them. He heard them say good-bye and tried to get out a word or some facsimile of a smile, but it was no use, so he waved good-bye one last time, then turned and started walking back toward the parking lot.