The way Dooher saw it, his acquittal should have restored him to his accustomed power, influence, and gentility. He'd been cleared of the charges, after all. That should have been the end of it and perhaps would have been, if Wes Farrell had not led the charge of rats from the ship, adding to the illusion that it was, in fact, sinking.
He supposed it was because he had never cultivated friends. The way it had always worked was that people came to Mark Dooher. Not the other way around. They had always needed something he could give them – position, money, esteem – but he did not need them. He would give no one the satisfaction.
He had been the center of Sheila's life, providing her with a house and an income and children, but even in the early years she had never been his equal. That had been tacitly understood.
And Farrell? Until the trial, Wes Farrell wouldn't have dared presume that he was on the same level as Dooher. The man's entire existence had been lived at a rung below Dooher's. His clearly defined role had always been as fawning admirer to whom Mark permitted easy access because Farrell amused him.
Flaherty – a friend? Hardly. The Archbishop was a man who needed Dooher's advice and guidance, and who paid for it. If he chose to believe that Dooher harbored any real affection for him, that was a need of his own nature, not Mark's.
Their social life had always been directed by Sheila. The occasional dinner in restaurants or at the Olympic, a night at the theater or a movie with longstanding acquaintances – that had been about the extent of it. Mark never thought he'd miss it and he didn't; at least not specifically. Dooher should have realized that Sheila's friends would shun both him and his new wife, but he didn't miss anyone's personal company.
There was an emptiness, though, a social void that filled him with a sense of isolation.
It wasn't fair and just, he thought. The ostracism was as complete as it would have been if he'd been found Guilty. He and Christina had married within a couple of months of the trial and now, between them, had no friends.
And very little business.
Flaherty had led that abandonment. Somehow, sometime during the trial, the Archbishop had lost faith in his innocence. He had taken no joy in his acquittal; hadn't even called to offer his congratulations. In the weeks after the trial, the legal work from the Archdiocese had slowly but inexorably dried up, and with it had gone the ancillary contracts from the network of agencies, charities, schools, and businesses that were one way or the other tied to the Catholic Church in San Francisco.
McCabe & Roth held on without the Archdiocesan billings for seventeen months, though the layoffs began almost immediately. First to go were the word processors. Then the attorneys began having to double up on secretaries. Next the junior associates started getting their notices. Morale went into the toilet. A splinter group of four senior partners left with their clients to form their own firm, getting away from the Dooher stranglehold.
Christina went back to work but there was a lot of barely concealed resentment about her situation. Engaged, then married to the managing partner, she was avoided by the other associates and mistrusted by the partners.
Still, she was a game fighter and threw herself into her role of reestablishing her husband's credibility. She and Mark were together for the long haul. If none of the lead attorneys would assign work to her, then she would do business development, taking prospective clients to lunch or dinner, trying to help any way she could.
She fought the guilt that she had doubted him. Her actions must make that up to him. She would stand by him when the world had let him go. It was romantic and noble and filled her with a sense of mission and meaning. They would make what her parents had made – a life built on trust.
She told herself that she did not get pregnant to save the marriage. It had always been her dream to have children, a family, a normal life. But things with Mark had gotten difficult – his moods, darker than anything she had seen in their early going. But the failure of his firm, his power dissipated, that was devastating to a man.
A few weeks ago, it had come to a head.
'Mark, please.'
'Just don't touch me, all right? It's not working. It's not going to work.'
He violently threw the covers off the bed in frustration, then stood up and immediately snatched at his bathrobe, wrapping it around him. Turning, he grabbed the comforter from off the floor and threw it back on the bed, snapping at her. 'Cover yourself, would you, for God's sake!'
'I don't need to cover myself.'
His jaw set, his angry eyes ran down the length of her body, over the protruding belly, the swollen breasts. She could not believe he could look at her like that. She loved the way her body had changed in the past eight months.
'This just isn't doing it for me right now,' he said.
'What isn't?'
'Us, if you must know. You and me. All these doubts.'
'What doubts? I don't have-'
'You don't talk about them, but I see them. You think I don't see what you're thinking? You think it turns me on to see you trying so Goddamn hard?'
'I'm not trying anything, Mark. Come to bed. Just hold me. We don't have to do anything.'
'I know don't have to do anything. I want to do something, don't you understand that? But I can't. I can't with you! Nothing's happening.'
He swore and stalked out of the room.
He hadn't felt any guilt or regret. When he got arrested, it actually played into his hands. Christina was sympathetically drawn to the grieving spouse, who was tragically and wrongfully charged with murder. She would help defend him.
It had been beautiful. He couldn't have planned it better.
But now Christina was ruining everything.
She pulled a flannel nightshirt over her head and came downstairs, turned on the reading light next to where he sat in the library, then crossed the room and lowered herself on to the couch. 'I don't want to feel like it's not working with us when we're about to have this baby. I don't like you thinking I'm not attractive like this.'
'My problem is not how you look. I said it upstairs. It's us. The way we are.'
She settled back into the cushions. Her eyes flicked to the glass next to him, nearly empty.
'Yeah, I've been drinking. I might be drinking more. Is that a problem?'
She stared across at him. 'Why are you so hostile to me? What have I done, except stand by you, support you? Don't you want this baby, Mark? Is that it?'
Defiantly, he drained the rest of his drink before he answered her. 'No, that's not it.' He got up abruptly, grabbed his glass and went over to the bar. He poured another stiff one. 'I have always dealt from power, Christina. It's the only way I'm comfortable. What works is when you want me, and I see how you look at me now.'
'I don't look at you any way, Mark.'
But he was shaking his head. 'You loved who I was when you met me, when I was running the firm, when I had a big dick…'
'You don't have to talk like that.'
'I'll talk any way I want in my own house.'
She shook her head and stood up, thinking she'd tried her best tonight. 'Okay,' she said, 'but I don't have to listen to it in my house.'
She was all the way to the door before he stopped her with a whisper. 'Don't you hear what I'm saying at all, Christina?'
Taking a step toward him, she spoke evenly. 'I don't recognize you, Mark.I know the firm failing is hard and I don't know how you're dealing with it. But I'm not trying to take away any of your power. I've been here for you, I've kept trying even when-' She stopped.
'When what?'
'All right.' A few more steps, up to his chair. She eased herself down on the arm of it. 'Even when I found out you lied to me, even then.'
Narrowing his eyes, giving nothing away. 'When did I do that?'
She had to get it out. She'd come this far, maybe it would help. 'I ran into Darren Mills a month ago, two months, something like that. Over at Stonestown. Remember Darren, your old partner?'
'Sure, I remember Darren. What about him?'
'During your trial, Darren wound up doing a lot of work down in LA with Joe Avery. They got to be friends.'
'Good for them.'
She ignored that. 'Darren figured I'd be interested in how Joe was doing. He's still down there, you know. He got on with a new firm.'
'I'm happy for him.'
She paused. His venom was poisonous. She put her hand protectively over her stomach. 'Darren mentioned Joe's transfer down to LA, how it had come on so suddenly.' A beat. 'You told me Joe's transfer had been in the works for months.'
'I did?'
'Darren said that wasn't true. You sprang it on the Managing committee a couple of weeks before it happened. It stunned everybody. Joe hadn't even been up for partner for another year, but of course they did what you told them they had to – rubber stamp it.'
Dooher pulled a stool around and sat on it. 'That's my terrible lie? That's it?'
'Yeah, that's it. And it made me think…' She paused and started over. 'It made me remember your explosion in the courtroom, when you blew up at Amanda Jenkins, and then saying it had all been an act.'
'I got into the role.' He shrugged. 'And so what did the other lie – that whopper about Joe Avery – what did that make you think that you stopped yourself from saying just now?'
Swallowing, she met his gaze. He was unflinching, challenging her, casually sipping from his glass. He wanted her to get it out in the open. 'It made me think you got rid of Joe so he'd be out of the way. You knew it would break us up.'
'And then I could subtly court you? While Sheila was still alive? And if you responded, then I could kill her?'
She crossed her arms.
'Okay,' he said, 'let's say I did that.'
'I'm not saying you did.'
'Oh, but you are, Christina. That's exactly what you're saying. And if that were the case, then you were part of it, weren't you? And for a sweet person like yourself, that's hard to take, isn't it?'
He came off the stool, his hands in the pockets of his robe, pacing in the area between them. 'So let's say I did do it, let's say I killed Sheila because I had the hots for you – and get this straight, Christina, I did. And you knew it. You're not stupid. You knew it. So I killed her and now it's been almost two years and I got away with it. Now you tell me this: how does that change anything between us?'
'It changes who you are,Mark. It would change everything.'
Hovering over her now, he shook his head. 'No, it wouldn't.' He came down to one knee. 'I am the same person.'
She couldn't face any more of it, and she closed her eyes. 'Tell me you didn't do that, Mark. Please. You're scaring me to death.'
'And I suppose I killed Victor Trang for practice.' He put his hand around the back of her neck. 'It's your own guilt that's eating you up, Christina. Not mine. I don't feel any guilt.'
'Did you do it?' she repeated.
'And the guy in Vietnam, too. And raped Diane Price.'
'Did you?'
'What does it matter?'
'Please! I have to know.'
'No,' he said, 'you have to trust me.'
She took his hand away from her neck, holding it to keep it off her. 'When I know you've lied to me? When you act so convincingly? When you're just so cruel? I need to know, Mark. I need to know who you are.'
The eyes – at long last – softened. Shaking his head, he let out a sigh. 'I don't even remember this lie about Joe Avery, Christina. I don't remember what it was about, when I told it, anything about it. If I told you a lie, I'm sorry. The act I put on in the courtroom was a strategic decision. The insane accusations got to me and I let myself lose my temper, which I normally hold in pretty good check. That's all that was.'
'But were they insane, Mark – the accusations? That's what I'm asking you.'
'How many times do I have to answer that question, Christina?' He hung his head. 'God help the accused. It never ends.'
'It can. It can end right now.'
'What's it going to do for us? Or for me? I'll tell you again, no, I didn't do it, and then some other doubt will come up in six months or a year, or you'll hear some new story about something I did or didn't do in the Stone Age.'
'No, Christina, what's happening here is I've got to keep proving myself to you, over and over again. And I'm going to tell you the truth – it's wearing me down. You're doing what Wes has done, what Flaherty did…'
'What did they do, Mark? What did they do?'
'They abandoned me, Goddamn it! They didn't believe me, don't you see? They emasculated me. Except with you, it's more literal. That's what tonight was about, all these times it hasn't worked. I can't take your doubts anymore. What's happened is you cut my balls off.'
'Mark
'No! We've taken it this far. I don't feel like I'm a man around you anymore. I'm afraid the smallest slip of the tongue, the tiniest slip in behavior, and I'm back on the block being scrutinized and judged – and asked- over and over again. Well, I can't do it. My body doesn't lie. I'm not loose. I'm not having any fun. Nothing's easy anymore. It doesn't feel like you love me.'
He put his hands under her shirt and ran them over her belly, her breasts. She didn't want that – any part of it. What was the matter with him? Couldn't he tell that?
But he had just told her it didn't feel like she loved him anymore. And now, if she told him to stop, it would be worse.
She no longer felt she knew what the truth was. Maybe the whole thing was her fault, her weakness in not being able to believe.
She understood why he wouldn't tell her again, once and for all. He was right – it wouldn't be once and for all. The last time she asked him, it had been once and for all then, too. The question had been asked and answered. How many times did she have to ask, and what damage did it do to him each time?
He was going to be the father of their child, and her own inability to trust was threatening all of them.
But it wasn't all her. She knew that. Something had darkened in him. His hands were still moving over her, his breath quickening.
Maybe the darkness had always been there and it had taken these troubles to make it visible. But the way he treated her now, talked to her, it was coarse. He had coarsened. She didn't respond to it and never would.
She felt his hands on her. He was strong and powerful and she realized that she was afraid. Her skin seemed to crawl under his touch. After all they'd covered tonight, she couldn't imagine that he felt amorous. He pulled her shift up, brought his mouth to her breasts.
God, what made him work?
He yanked at the rope that held his robe and it fell open. He was hard, protruding. He took her hand and put it on him, exultant at the simple functioning. 'Here's something for you now.'
He pulled her underpants off – quickly now, roughly – afraid that the moment would pass again.
No words. He was pushing her back into the chair, opening her legs. There was a savage set to his jaw, and emptiness in his eyes.
She could do nothing to stop him.
After the trial, Wes Farrell gave up for a long time.
He decided not to cut his hair again until something – anything – made sense. He stopped cleaning his apartment, not much of his forte anyway. Enrolling in night classes, he started taking history courses because everyone in them was already dead and couldn't hurt him anymore.
As part of his decision to quit the practice of the law entirely, he gave up the lease on his North Beach office. He located and reattached the ten pounds he'd lost for the trial, cut off his fancy mustache and mothballed his fancy clothes.
The world was a sham. People – particularly charming winners – were scum. Any form of idealism was delusion. Since a quick and painless suicide by, say, gunshot wound smacked of commitment, he elected to pursue the more leisurely course of gradual alcohol poisoning.
There had been a short window of opportunity right as the trial was winding down during which he considered calling Sam Duncan. After he'd read Diane Price's diary, he knew he'd been an arrogant fool and was wrong on all counts.
After he'd heard from Flaherty and decided to abandon the character issue, Wes realized he would not have to cross-examine Diane Price. He would not have to take her apart.
And that, in turn, might give Wes the chance to tell Sam that he'd come to believe her. He was a schmuck. He loved her. Could they perhaps try again?
But Wes wasn't Mark Dooher with his good timing and phenomenal luck. He was the punching bag for a hostile universe. The Diane Price fiasco with her rogue firearm took his play with Sam out of the game.
Since he was down anyway, Lydia chose this moment to confide to him the tender tale of her and Dooher's carnal union on the day of Sheila's funeral.
So Wes decided to sink for ever into his quagmire of drink and despair over humanity. Lydia's story strengthened his resolve against women in general. He couldn't let himself forget that any commitment in the love area was bogus and suspect and programmed for failure. And he'd had enough failure.
In what he took to be a sign of his mental health, he forged a firmer bond with Bart, firing the graphic designer in his building who had been taking the dog out for walks. Wes started caring for Bart – albeit haphazardly – on his own.
The dark period lasted seven or eight months, but the race riots that nearly destroyed the city in the summer following the trial got his attention and he wound up being coerced by circumstances into helping a fellow student who was being framed for a racial murder, and making an unlikely ally in Abe Glitsky.
Finally, he'd done some good as a lawyer.
So he cut his long hair and broke out his old suits and started again.
And by then, time had healed some of Sam's wounds as well.
He put the full court press on her with apologies and flowers and apologies and dinners. And apologies. He was an insensitive non-Nineties type of guy but he was going to try and change. And he meant it.
Almost a year to the day after Dooher had been found Not Guilty, they moved together into the upper half of a railroad-style Victorian duplex on Buena Vista, across from the park of the same name, not two blocks from Sam's old place on Ashbury, not much further from the Center.
They were sitting in striped fabric beach chairs on the tiny redwood deck that a previous tenant had built within the enclosure of peaks and gables on the rooftop. They were planning to barbecue large scampi on the Hibachi when the coals turned gray. They were drinking martinis in the traditional stem glasses. The latest CD from the singing group Alabama wafted up through the skylight, the country harmonies sweet in the soft breeze.
Far down below and across the street, they could see the light-green slope of the park, the strollers and frisbee players, the long shadows, a slice of the downtown skyline beyond.
It was the last week of May. The weather had been warm for two entire days in a row – San Francisco's abbreviated springtime. To the west, behind them, a phalanx of fog was preparing for its June assault, and it looked like it was going to be right on time and the long winter that was the city's summer would begin on the next day.
As a favorite topic of conversation, Mark Dooher did not make it to the Top 100 of their personal hit parade, so Sam had been avoiding it for several hours, but now she decided the moment was propitious. 'Guess who I saw this morning?'
Farrell dug out his olive, sucked it, then tossed it over to Bart, who caught it on the fly. 'Elvis? He is alive, you know. It was in the Enquirer at the counter, absolute proof this time, not like all those phony other times.'
'You know what I'm looking forward to?' she asked. 'No, don't answer right away because it kind of relates. I'm looking forward to some day I ask you a question like "Guess who I saw today?" or "You know what I'm looking forward to?" and you say, "Who?" or "What?" – whichever word happens to apply in that given situation. I think that's going to be a great day, when that happens, if it ever does.'
Wes nodded somberly. 'I'd pay you a dollar if you could diagram that sentence – if it was a sentence.'
'That's what I mean,' she said. 'That's a perfect example.'
'It is a problem,' he agreed. 'I must not be a linear thinker.' Then, reaching over and putting a hand over her knee, leaving it there. 'Okay, who?'
'Christina Carrera.'
She saw him try to hide his natural reaction. He took in the information with a slow breath, threw a look off into the distance, took his hand from her knee, sipped at his drink. 'How was she?'
'She was pregnant.'
'You're kidding, yes?'
'I'm kidding, no.'
A glance, still guarded. 'Wow.'
'She came by the Center. No,' sensing the question he was thinking, 'just to visit.'
'Catch up on all those good old times?'
'That's what she said.'
'How long did you believe her?'
'I didn't check my watch, but less than three seconds.'
'Good,' he said. 'That was long enough. Give her story a fair chance. What did she really want?'
'Now, see, here – if I were you I'd give you an answer like, "She wanted me to help her negotiate a new treaty between Hong Kong and China for the new millennium." But I don't say stuff like that. Usually. I try to be responsive.'
'That's because you're a better person than I am. So what did she really want?'
'I don't know for sure. Just to talk with somebody she used to know. Take a reality check. She was scared and didn't know how to admit it.'
'I'd be scared too. Did you tell her she was smart to be scared?'
'No. That wouldn't have helped. We talked. Well, mostly I listened and she talked, pretending she really had dropped in out of the blue to say hi. She was in the neighborhood. And after a while the pretense kind of ran out of gas and she got to it.'
Wes stood up and walked over to the roof's edge, looking out across the park. 'He beating her?'
She was next to him, an arm around his waist. 'No. She says not. It doesn't look like it.'
'How pregnant is she?'
'A lot. It looks like she's getting close. Then after a while, maybe an afterthought to be polite, she got around to asking a little about me, what I was doing, my personal life. I told her about me and you.'
'Not all the good parts, I hope.'
Sam squeezed against him, then lifted herself on to the edge of the roof. 'When I mentioned you, it was like I threw her a rope. She said she'd looked you up, but didn't know what she could say. She didn't believe you'd talk to her.'
Wes was silent. There was more than a little truth to what Sam was saying, he probably wouldn't have talked to Christina if she just walked in on him. During the trial, the teams within the defense team had split up, obviously and cleanly – Wes on one side, Christina and Mark on the other.
Afterwards, as his doubts about Dooher grew, Christina made it clear she didn't want to hear them. Her own agenda with Mark, her own priorities had taken over.
Then, when it was done, Wes had felt the tug of his misguided idealism again. He had tried one last time to get to Christina, to get her to consider, in spite of the Not Guilty verdict, that their guy had done it.
Maybe his timing had been wrong – it certainly wouldn't have been the first time – but she was already wearing an engagement ring. That should have been his first clue. She had asked him for proof, for something new that they hadn't seen at the trial or during preparation for it.
And Wes had really blown it then, coming right out and telling her that Mark had told him…
'He told you? He admitted it?'
But Wes had to be honest. He always had to be honest. Someday, he was sure, it was going to do him some good. But this hadn't turned out to be the day. He said, 'In so many words.'
'You mean he didn't tell you and he didn't admit it? Is that what you're saying?'
At the time, Wes had ruefully reflected that she sounded like him on cross. So by having Christina watch him during the trial, cop some of his moves, he had probably helped turn her into a lawyer. He wished, hearing her now, that he could work up some soaring sense of accomplishment, but it just didn't come.
Instead, he admitted that Dooher had not admitted…
And that had been that. She wasn't going to consider it.
Farrell thought she probably wouldn't believe it if Mark himself told her. She'd worked herself up into being a true believer and Wes Farrell's niggling doubts only served to reinforce for her the fact that she and Mark were in this alone together.
She'd told him about his problem. He was jealous that Mark had come to depend more upon her than on him, that Wes's role in Mark's life was going to diminish, that…
He'd tried. He really had.
'I'll consider it,' he said. 'Okay, I have. No. I don't think so.'
'She asked if I would talk to you.'
'And you have.' He walked to the other end of the tiny hollow in the roof. There was really nowhere else to go. He turned back, facing her. They were going to have to expand this deck, give him someplace to hide. 'And what am I supposed to say to her that I didn't try to say last time?'
'I don't know. Maybe this time she'll be disposed to believe you.'
'I don't care if she believes me! I don't care what she believes!' His volume was rising. He heard it and didn't like it. He didn't want to yell at Sam. He loved Sam. This didn't have anything to do with the two of them. He tightened down the control button.
'She's living with a murderer, Sam. What am I supposed to tell her, exactly? Here I am, listen. "Hey, look, Christina, maybe it wouldn't be too good an idea if you kept living with your husband because, see – now how can I put a nice pleasant little spin on this for you? – he kills people once in a while. Not everyday, you understand, and I'm not saying he'll kill you, of course, but just to be safe…'" He shook his head. 'No, I don't think so.'
He put his hand up to his forehead, combed his hair back with his fingers. 'And after that, what's she going to do anyway? Leave?'
'She might. It might save her life.'
'She could leave now. Save her own life. It's not my job. No part of it is my job. Shit.'
Sam came toward him – she always did this because it so often worked – and put her arms around him. 'I think she wants to know what you know, Wes, that's all. She's carrying his baby. That's a hell of a commitment. She can't just walk out. She's got to be absolutely sure.'
'She'll never be sure, Sam. She knows everything I know already. It's all in her head, damn it.' But his arms came up around her, his head down to the hollow of her neck.
'When?' he asked.
'I told her tomorrow morning,' she said, smiling sweetly up at him, going up on her tiptoes to plant a kiss. 'Would that be a good time?'
Glitsky had moved in his deliberative way back to the land of the living.
Nat, at seventy-eight, started studying to become a rabbi. He was doing aerobic walking from Arguello to the beach every single day and was never going to die, wasn't even going to age any further, and for this Abe was grateful.
Glitsky's oldest son Isaac was graduating from high school in a couple of weeks, and he'd turned into a reasonable approximation of a young adult. On the day after graduation, he was leaving on a bicycle tour of the West Coast with three friends. He planned to be gone for most of the summer and had been accepted at UCLA in the fall.
Jacob – his hip seventeen-year-old – had gone on what Glitsky thought had been a mercy field trip to the Opera with his godmother, one of Flo's old college roommates. Over the howling derision of his brothers and his own misgivings, Jacob had spent an evening in San Francisco's Grand Hall. Then another. The experience – the grandeur, drama, emotion, tragedy – had transformed him. Before too long he was going down for Sunday matinees, standing in the back, buying discount tickets with his own money.
He'd started buying CDs. First the old duplex had been filled with the strains of the Three Tenors doing songs. But in short order he'd branched out into arias, then whole passages. He would study the scores, the librettos. He began taking Italian, of all things, as a special elective in school. Discovering that he had a rich baritone of his own, Jacob found an instructor who said it could be developed.
And the youngest boy changed his name. Living in the house of a half-black cop, the nickname O.J. had to go, so now he was Orel James, his given name. The boy looked more and more like his mother, Flo, each day.
Orel was still having a difficult time. At school, he remained withdrawn. He did a lot of headphones time, his Walkman. SEGA Genesis ruled the rest of his waking hours. And he'd developed a stutter.
His older brothers didn't play with Orel like they used to. Abe knew, heart-rending as it was, that this was how it should be – everybody was growing up. The older boys had their lives. Orel wasn't their responsibility anyway.
It fell to Glitsky, no one else. He accepted it, and sometimes thought that somebody else needing him was what saved him, what pulled him through it finally.
He had to start coming home, to help Orel with homework, to go to parent conferences about his boy, to be free on weekends. Abe had played college football – tight end at San Jose State – and Pop Warner needed coaches.
Suddenly he found himself out among humanity. Fathers, women, non-cops, other children. This was disorienting at first, but then he and Orel would go out for a shake afterwards and they'd have some things in common to talk about. Football, then – startlingly for both of them – what they were feeling.
He started making it a point whenever he could to be home in time to tuck Orel in at night, to sit and see Flo's face in his son's and realize part of her was still there, and listen to the stutter lessen as sleep closed in.
And then, gradually, starting to hear the boy himself, his own voice and identity, what he was saying – his secrets and worries and hopes – and sometimes he didn't know what this feeling was for his baby, it was so strong. Where before, he had barely known Orel.
Wondering – marveling – at the seeds that could spring up after the forest had been felled and cleared, he'd sit there, Orel sleeping with his breath coming deep, and he'd rest his hand on the boy's chest in the dark. Empty.
Filling up.
Now he was washing the dinner dishes, looking out his open back window into the Presidio National Park. A glorious evening, the sky above dark blue, almost purple. The day's remaining light had a peculiar reddish glow. Fog over the ocean.
The older boys, out doing important end-of-school teenage things, hadn't made it home for dinner. He heard Orel doing his spelling words with Rita, the letters coming out clearly, one by one. No stutter.
The telephone rang and he dried his hands, picking it up on the third ring, another change for the better. It used to be on one, always.
At home now, when the phone rang, it wasn't always for him. Girls would call for the boys. Also other guys. For years, Glitsky's greeting had been to growl his name. Now he picked up the receiver and said hello, just like a regular citizen.
'Abe?'
'Yeah.'
'This is kind of a strange call. A voice, as it were, from the strange and distant past. Mostly strange.'
Glitsky, standing at his kitchen wall phone on this Thursday night, couldn't place it. He knew it, but not well. Whoever it was had his home phone number, so though mostly strange, it couldn't be too distant. Then the tumblers fell. 'Wes?'
'Very good, Lieutenant. I'd even say excellent. How've you been this fine past year?'
'I've been good, Wes. What can I do for you?'
Farrell spent a couple of minutes running down some background on his meeting tomorrow with Christina Carrera. Glitsky listened without interrupting.
Glitsky had survived the political fallout from the Dooher trial, and over the past year and a half had distinguished himself in his job to the point where he felt relatively secure in it.
But Dooher was unfinished business. Any mention of him got all of Abe's attention right now.
Farrell concluded, 'If she's getting ready to walk away from him, I'd like to give her a hand. It looks to me she's gotten to where she knows what he's done, but she still can't face it. She's going to want something more.'
Glitsky was sitting on a chair at the kitchen table. 'So what do you need from me?'
'I don't know. I thought you might have come across some evidence since the trial.'
Glitsky was not unaware of the irony. The defense lawyer who'd convinced a jury that his client was Not Guilty was now asking if they'd turned up any new evidence to convince a colleague that he'd been guilty after all. 'I gave everything to Amanda Jenkins, Wes. When Dooher got off, the investigation ended.'
There was a pause. 'How about Trang? That case is still open, isn't it, technically?'
Glitsky admitted that it was, although by now it was what they called a skull case – long gone and all but forgotten. 'Trang hasn't been taking up a lot of my time, Wes. We got called off on that one, you may remember.'
Farrell felt as though he deserved the rebuke, but he persisted. 'What I'm trying to do,' he said, 'is give her a taste of what you've got, what you had.'
'And then what?'
'I don't know. It might save her life.'
'He threatening her?'
'I don't know. But I don't know if he threatened Sheila either. Or Trang. Threats don't seem to come with the package.'
Glitsky knew what Farrell was saying. This man plotted and struck. He wasn't going to telegraph any moves. 'So what do you want?' he repeated.
'Maybe your file on Trang? I never saw any of that. I don't know what you had.'
Repeating it got Glitsky's blood flowing. Maybe they could still get this guy. Maybe Glitsky could close the circle once and for all with him. But, as was his way, he kept the enthusiasm out of his voice. 'We had the same kind of circumstantial case we built for the trial. Conflicting witness interviews, a motive that only worked if you knew what you were looking for. We never found the bayonet.'
'But you were sure? Personally?'
Glitsky went over the discrepancies between Dooher's version of his phone calls to Victor Trang on the night of his death, the computer files Trang had kept, and the interviews with Trang's mother and girlfriend. 'All of that, taken together – I knew it wouldn't fly at a trial. We needed some physical evidence that put him in Trang's office. The closest we got to that was the cellphone trace. For me, it was enough. The DA didn't agree.'
'You think it might be enough for Christina?'
Glitsky considered it. 'I don't see how it could hurt.'
After Wes has hung up, he walked into the living room where Sam was sitting in the window seat, staring out at the fog.
'Whoever wrote that stuff about little cats' feet?' she asked. 'This stuff comes in on a steamroller.'
Wes got to her and looked out the bay window. He could barely make out the lights directly across the street. 'Glitsky says he'll send over some stuff, but maybe not by the morning.'
'You know,' Sam said, 'I was listening to you in there talking to him. What was the moment for you, finally?'
He didn't have to think for long. 'Diane Price. That diary. When it was obvious that she wasn't lying.'
She nodded. 'You've still got that, don't you, somewhere in your well-organized files?'
'I never throw anything out, you know that.'
She patted his cheek. 'It's one of your many charms.'
Christina almost canceled.
The weather was terrible. Dense fog, forty-mile-per-hour gusts of drizzly wind, temperature in the low forties.
On top of that, the baby had kicked all night. She'd only slept three hours. She was exhausted.
Part of her wished she could undo having gone to see Sam yesterday. It put things in motion somehow, made her feel as though she had betrayed Mark. But living with him had become a daily exercise in controlling fear.
Day-to-day, Mark wasn't acting in a threatening way. He went off to his office – one room and a reception area on the sixth floor of Embarcadero One. He would call sometime in the late morning to check and see how she was feeling. Often he wasn't in the office in the afternoon; she didn't ask where he'd gone.
He played golf, kept in shape at the squash courts, went to lunch with business acquaintances. His world hadn't ended. To the objective observer, he was back – almost – to his normal, charming, confident self.
Since their last episode, though, a fault line ran through their lives. She couldn't shake the feeling that Mark had manipulated her to a place where she didn't feel she could refuse to have sex with him.
Fear.
She realized that the nebulous worries and doubts had coalesced into real fear. The sex since then had been frequent, impersonal, so rough she was afraid for the baby.
He was her husband. You had to trust your husband.
She could leave. If it got any worse, she told herself she would do that. She would protect the baby – that was the greatest imperative.
But she kept trying to be fair. All of Mark's other friends had abandoned him. Could she join that parade?
She didn't trust herself, that was the problem. What if she were wrong? This could all be her own paranoia, the rush of hormones, another typical episode in her seemingly lifelong quest to have her relationships fail.
She always found an excuse, didn't she?
This was why she couldn't tell her mother, though they talked on the telephone three times a week. She could not bring herself to admit out loud that there was anything wrong in the marriage. She and Mark were happy happy happy.
She also couldn't afford to let her parents develop any doubts about Mark. She'd worked so hard to convince them that he was innocent. If this marriage failed, it would kill her mother. And Christina would appear a fool to her father.
So yesterday she decided she'd talk to someone she liked, even though she knew that Sam didn't have anything approaching an objective view.
And when she'd found out that Sam and Wes Farrell were together, a couple, she let herself revel in the sense that, somehow, she could get the answer. Wes would… but again, what could he do?
It was a mistake. She knew what Wes was going to say. And once he did, once it got to that stage, there wouldn't be any more excuses. She was having a baby any day now. This was not the time.
She couldn't do it. She couldn't go. She would just call Wes and cancel and say she'd been having a bad day yesterday. That's what it had been.
Sitting on one of the stools by the marble counter in the kitchen, she got the number from the phone book and wrote it on the pad by the phone. She punched up the prefix, then stopped and hung up, watching the fog outside. The baby kicked inside her.
A tear coursed down her cheek.
Wes had rented a converted shopfront on Irving Street at 10th Avenue. Compared to his old office in North Beach, this one was a high-tech marvel in blond woods and glass block, skylights and decorative plants. He had a full-time, computer literate secretary/paralegal named Ramon. He'd even broken down and decided an answering machine would be appropriate.
Wes was behind his desk, pretending to be taking notes from the Evidence Code. Christina sat in the teak and leather chair, reading Diane Price's diary. Other than obviously exhausted, Wes thought she looked – big surprise – terrific. She wore jeans, a pair of well-worn hiking boots, a black, heavy sweater with a cowl neck.
He decided that Sam had been right about Dooher not beating her, though perhaps, Wes thought – non-Nineties insensitive jerk that he was – in some ways it might have been better if he had. He knew Christina was strong, intelligent and aware enough not to accept anything overt of that nature. If Dooher hit her, she'd be gone.
But Dooher wasn't overt. That was his thing.
He could tell when she finished the first half of the diary – where Diane was going out with Dooher the next night and she 'couldn't wait'. He imagined his own face had taken on the same confused expression.
She looked up at him. 'It just ends.'
'Keep reading,' he said.
When she got to the next entry – the only other one – she sat still for a long time. Then she flipped the final pages, closing her hands over them finally, staring at the floor or somewhere just above it. She was finished.
He spoke carefully, quietly. 'I don't think she wrote that as a publicity stunt for the trial. I think that's genuine.'
Christina's head was bobbing, as though she were conferring with herself. 'Something happened,' she agreed.
He didn't push. 'Anyway, I thought you should see it.'
'Why didn't you show me this during the trial?'
A good question. He wasn't proud of himself and it showed on his face. 'My first reaction was that if you read this, you wouldn't be as effective if you had to cross her. So it was need to know. Then, after Flaherty bailed on us, I knew we weren't going to do character, so Jenkins would never get a chance to call her. It became moot.'
'But not for me, Wes. It must have been obvious I was getting involved with Mark. If I'd seen this…'
'You wouldn't have believed it,' he said. 'You would have called it a forgery or a fake of some kind. Think about it.'
Silence.
'You remember that Mike Ross never caved under my pretty intense attack? You know why? Because he knew what he'd seen. He was facing Mark's tee and saw a lot of air where Mark should have been if he'd been there, which he wasn't.'
She took a breath, blew it out hard.
'You want to meet this woman, Diane – talk to her? I know her pretty well by now. There's nothing flaky about her. Mark raped her.'
The tears started again, without sound or movement of any kind. He figured it was as opportune a time as any. 'I've got to tell you something else, Christina.'
Her gaze came up to him, expressionless.
'On the day of Sheila's funeral, after everyone else had gone home, Mark and my ex-wife had sex on the floor in the living room of your house. So much for the grieving husband.'
She took it calmly, as she had the rest, nodding. In shock.
Wes's intercom beeped softly. He picked up his telephone. 'I said no interr- who?' He sighed. 'Okay, send him back.'
Farrell stood by the door, holding it open.
Glitsky appeared in the hallway. 'Sorry I didn't call, but I went in early and down to Records, found the file and had an appointment out here anyway. You said you needed it sooner, so I thought it would save time to run it by.'
Farrell took the file, gesturing him inside. 'I believe you know Christina.'
She had tried without great success to fix her eyes. Glitsky, trained investigator that he was, saw the blotched mascara, the redness. 'Am I interrupting?'
Shaking her head no, Christina looked up at him. 'I don't know what to do,' she said. 'What's that file? Is that about Mark?'
'It's about Victor Trang.' Farrell had the file in his hand and was moving back to his desk. 'But if the Lieutenant's got five minutes, he can probably do the short version.'
It took more like a half-hour. Glitsky had pulled over the other wingchair from across the room and sat kitty-corner to Christina while Wes perched himself on the end of his desk. When he'd finished, Abe spread his hands. 'So unless you want to believe that Trang was laying this elaborate scam on his mother and girlfriend, creating bogus records in his own file that matched the exact times of real calls he got from Dooher, all the while knowing for a fact that he had turned down Flaherty's six hundred thousand dollar offer in the hopes of getting more…' He trailed off. The conclusion was inescapable.
'You're saying Mark killed him, too?' The eyes had dried by now, had taken on a glassy look that Glitsky had seen in survivors of hostage situations. In a sense, maybe that's what she'd been through, was going through still.
He nodded. 'That's what I believe, yes. There is one other thing – you ought to know. It wasn't brought out at trial.'
'Okay.'
'There were very distinctive stripes in blood on both Victor Trang and Sheila Dooher. You can compare the crime-scene shots. The killer of both of them wiped the blade on their clothes. And remember Chas Brown?'
She nodded. 'Thomasino wouldn't let him testify?'
'Yeah, him. His story – the guy in Vietnam, Andre Nguyen? The first interview we did with him, he volunteered that your husband told him he'd wiped his bayonet blade off on Nguyen's pajamas. It's the same M.O. You can believe me or don't, but it's as true as anything gets.'
Wes went on with the double-team. 'One last thing, Christina, and I'm glad Abe's around to hear it. I've gone back over this case now nine ways from Sunday, and it was all by the book. All the reasons Mark gave us why Glitsky was somehow out to get him – we were just primed to believe them. We got sold a bill of goods.'
Christina wasn't much in the mood for a lecture on how the justice system worked or didn't. On how she and Wes had been less than ept. She pulled down her sweater and got herself to her feet. 'I want to thank both of you for your time,' she said.
It was a dismissal. She was picking up her purse, grabbing her jacket from the peg next to the door.
'If you decide to leave him,' Wes said, 'go someplace he won't think to look. And let us know, would you?'
She nodded, although she didn't really seem to be in agreement. She was inside herself. Throwing them both a last ambiguous expression, she went out the door.
Farrell was back on the corner of the desk. 'So what's she going to do?'
Glitsky shrugged. 'I believe her exact words were that she didn't know. If she's got brains, she'll get out.'
'I don't think brains is the problem. This was something I had a pretty hard time with myself, and she's pregnant with his baby. Thinking about it doesn't seem to help.'
'Well, I hope it helps a little. I would hate to get another call about one of Dooher's wives.' If Glitsky knew anything, he knew about murderers – the first killing was the hardest and if you got away with it, the second was easier. And if you got away with that…
But the topic rattled Wes and he stuck with it. 'Why would he do that – kill Christina?'
'I don't know,' Glitsky said. 'Maybe he won't.'
'But you think he might?'
Standing, Glitsky thought it was time for him to go. He didn't like dealing in hypothetical. His job did not begin until something had actually happened. Until then, speculation wasn't much more than a parlor game. But he didn't want to alienate Farrell – he might need him, after all. For the time being at least, they were on the same side, and Glitsky had the germ of an idea. 'Yeah, I think he might.'
'But why?'
'Why did he kill Nguyen, or Trang, or his wife? He didn't have to do any of those people, did he? So what's that leave? I'll tell you – he likes it. He likes tormenting you with it, he likes rubbing my face in it, he likes living with the fact that he's done it. Most of all, though, you want my take? He likes the moment.'
Farrell's shoulders were slumped, his hands clasped in his lap, and he nodded, agreeing. 'The funny thing is, I've seen him that way. You'd think I'd have figured it out.'
'Seen him what way?'
'I mean hurting people – his kids, Sheila, waiters, anybody. Those moments when he was in the middle of hurting somebody, you could tell there was some level at which he liked it. But afterwards he'd be so sorry, go back to the charming act.' He shook his head, disgusted with himself. 'Really, all you had to do to stay Mark's friend was never to get in his way. Don't cross him. Let him have whatever he wanted. Which between the two of us wasn't a problem. We wanted different things.'
Glitsky moved toward the door. 'Well,' he said, 'you know now.'
Farrell took up the Trang file. 'You want this back? I don't think Christina needs it.'
'No. It's a copy. Why don't you look through it? Maybe your sharp attorney's eye will see something we missed. Although I doubt it.' He grabbed the doorknob.
'Abe.' One last thing. 'Really. Is there anything we can do about her? I've got the same instinct as you do – let the thing work itself out, but Sam wants to help. She's not going to let it go.'
Glitsky shrugged, glad it was Farrell's problem, his girlfriend's problem. 'Here's the deal, Wes. He'll either leave her alone or he won't. I can't do anything until he does.'
'I hate that part,' Farrell said.
'If it's any consolation,' Abe replied, 'it's not my favorite either.'
Dooher saw that Christina's car wasn't in the garage, but didn't think anything of it. It wasn't uncommon. She had a life – she wasn't a prisoner.
He let himself in through the side door and was immediately aware of the silence – a profound and ominous stillness. Standing there in the laundry room, by the alarm box, he listened – had the electricity been shut off?
He turned on the kitchen light. No, that wasn't it.
Silence.
'Christina!'
No answer.
Probably out shopping.
He had been thinking they'd go out to dinner. He'd gotten himself a decent referral from one of his old partners today. It looked like he was going to be getting work subbing on an asbestos lawsuit. If it came through, the job could be milked for a couple hundred hours.
Christina would be glad to hear about it. They'd celebrate. Get her out of the dumps she'd been in lately. It was really a pain, tell the truth, dealing on this level with female hormones.
He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, twisted off the cap. Once Christina had this kid, he was thinking, he'd talk her into getting a nanny and put her back to work.
She was better when she worked, when he kept her busy. She was one of those women who wanted to please. You kept them focused on the trees, they never saw the forest which, basically, scared them.
Christina loved cutting the trees, though. She loved clearing the brush around the trunks, pruning the foliage. At the end of the day, Dooher would tell her what a good job she'd done, what needed to be done the next day. She'd been happy. And she loved him because he counted on her. He made her feel important, needed, fulfilled.
He could fix things between them, he knew he could. As a pure physical specimen, she was worth all the trouble, because she was who he deserved. She was the one he wanted.
So he'd tough it through the next couple of months, and she'd get back to the way she'd been when she'd been trying to save the firm. He'd get her back.
This interview today was a sign that things were turning around. His potential new client didn't mention his notorious trial of over a year before.
It was all fading into the background, where it belonged. And about time, too. Where was she?
He removed a frozen stein from the freezer, opened the plastic container of chocolate chip cookies. Poured his beer. There was the pile of mail on the marble counter and he walked over to it, flipping through the usual bills and solicitations.
The telephone. There she was, calling in.
'Hello.'
'Mark, it's Irene.' Christina's mother, checking in. 'How are you doing?'
'Outstanding,' he said. 'How about yourself?'
She was great, Bill was great, the world was a beautiful place. Mark's business was going along fine. No, the weather here had turned cold again. Maybe he and Christina should come down to Ojai for a couple of days this month, get away from the gray. She was out shopping just now, but he'd tell her she'd called, and he was sure she'd get back to her later tonight.
He reached for the little green post-it square next to the telephone and pulled off the top page, where there was a number in Christina's handwriting.
Popping the last of his cookie into his mouth, washing it down with beer, he went upstairs to get into something more comfortable.
Lord, it was a big house. Completely re-done, of course, since Christina had moved in – more busy work, more trees to trim. There was no sign left of Sheila.
He looked in at the library, crossed the foyer, climbed the circular stairway. At the door to the bedroom, he turned on the light and stopped still.
Something here – as when he'd entered the house – something felt wrong.
The top to Christina's dresser had been cleared of all her bric-a-brac – their wedding portrait, pictures of her parents, the small jewelry box, a precious (to her) row of carved soapstone seals, her perfumes.
What the hell…
He grabbed the handles of the top drawer – her underwear – and pulled it quickly out toward him. Then, more quickly, the next one down – pants. The next – sweaters and shirts.
Empty, or nearly so.
Empty enough.
He raced into the bathroom. Her toothbrush was gone, her combs. Wait wait wait, slow down.
She's having the baby, he told himself. She must have tried to call him and ran out of time. She'd driven herself to the hospital. That was it.
But he had had the cellphone with him all day. He would have gotten the call. Still…
He checked downstairs in the foyer closet. The small suitcase was gone. It was the one they'd packed for the delivery. All right, he thought. She's in labor. He'd call the hospital and get down there.
But something else struck him – the large suitcase was missing, too.
At the phone now, he called St Mary's to see if she'd been admitted. No. Unwilling to believe anything else, he told himself again that she had to be in labor somewhere. He tried the other hospitals – Shriner's, the University of California Medical Center.
He punched at the redial feature on the phone and waited while it rang. Irene Carrera answered again, but he'd just spoken to her and she'd known nothing. Surely, if Christina had been in labor and hadn't been able to reach him, she would have called her mother. He hung up without a word.
She'd left him.
The post-it he'd stuck on the wall had a telephone number with Christina's handwriting. It might tell him something, might be someplace to start looking. He entered the numbers and listened to the message.
Farrell.
Okay, he told himself. Okay. Just think. She's gone, but it couldn't have been too long ago and it probably wasn't very far. And she hadn't yet told her mother, that was for sure, so she was staying close.
Maybe she was planning to call him, to give him a chance to talk her back.
She wasn't going to do that.
He'd have to find her and get her and bring her back. She was carrying his baby, Goddamn it. Even if he didn't want it, it was his. And women just didn't walk away from Mark Dooher. He was not going to let that happen.
So she got Farrell's number, but hadn't called him, at least it hadn't been the last call from this phone. The redial told him that.
He was trying to figure it. The last call from this phone had been to her mother, but he had just talked to Irene, and she knew nothing. So what was going on? And where did Farrell come into it?
If she wasn't in labor – he shouldn't be kidding himself, she wasn't – that meant she'd at least looked up Farrell. It had to be for protection. From him.
He hit Farrell's numbers again. When the machine answered, he spoke calmly. 'Wes, it's your old friend Mark Dooher. Would you call as soon as you get this message? It's very important, about Christina. If she's in labor and you know it, would you let me know. I'm worried sick.'
Hanging up with exaggerated care, Dooher sat immobile on the kitchen stool.
Farrell, that ne'er-do-well busybody. Doesn't he know better by now – he ought to – than to go head up against Mark Dooher? If it came to a fight, Mark would destroy him. He always had, always would.
Christina hadn't been lying to Farrell and Glitsky – she didn't know what she was going to do. The only certainty was that she had to get away from Mark. She had to protect the baby.
She would stay near her doctor, Jess Yamagi. If he delivered the baby, it would be fine. It was about all she was sure of anymore.
She had checked into a motel room on 19th Avenue near Golden Gate Park, not far from the hospital. A kind of exhausted clarity had kicked in. She was too pregnant to get to her parents' house anyway, to do any real traveling at all. With the stress, she'd had contractions on and off throughout the day.
The thought of having to face her parents with another failure was almost worse than the failure itself. She would have to call them eventually to let them know, downplaying it at first to get them used to the idea, but it was going to be awful. It would have to be done, she knew that – but later.
She realized she didn't have any important phone numbers. The Duncan/ Farrell home was unlisted. She had to call information for Farrell's number and left a message with him. The Crisis Center was also closed up for the night. She didn't leave a message.
The contractions were irregular, but they were continuing. She got into the bed, turned the television on, and pulled the covers up around her.
Farrell had reached Glitsky at his office near the end of the day, and told him he'd remembered something Abe hadn't known. It wasn't in the Trang file, but it might be important. About Jim Flaherty.
Since he'd made Lieutenant, Glitsky had learned that it was bad luck to subvert the regular channels and lines of command. Credibility was all. If Abe called on the DA in his official capacity as the head of Homicide and requested a meeting, the DA had to know he wasn't trying to sell bingo tickets.
Glitsky first discussed Farrell's information with Dan Rigby, the Chief of Police, and Rigby told him that if the DA said it might go somewhere, he could move on it. Otherwise, it was a waste of company time. Having obtained Rigby's permission, Glitsky called the DA.
Which was why he was back downtown on this Friday night after a quick meal at home with Rita and the boys. He and Paul Thieu walked into the office of the new District Attorney Alan Reston. (Chris Locke, who had been the DA during the Dooher trial, had gotten himself killed – shot to death during one of the race riots that had rocked the city the preceding summer.)
Glitsky had come to admire Reston, a mid-thirties African-American. He was as political as Locke had been but, unlike Locke, had within this century put quite a few actual criminals behind bars.
Reston's face was black marble, smooth and unlined, under a closely trimmed Afro. His tie alone had more colors than Glitsky's entire closet, and the suit couldn't be bought for a week of Abe's pay. But he was a professional prosecutor, and for that, Glitsky could forgive the fancy clothes.
Everybody shook hands. The politician naturally remembered Paul Thieu by name, and he directed both the officers to chairs in front of his desk. He went around to his own seat and didn't waste anymore time on amenities. 'What do you have?' he asked, straight out.
'How much do you know about Mark Dooher?'
Reston hadn't been in the city during the Dooher trial, so his recollection of it was vague. Glitsky went over the facts. Reston had his hands crossed on his desk and, listening, didn't so much as twiddle his thumbs. When Glitsky wound it up, he waited ten seconds to make sure he'd finished, then spoke. 'And the point is?'
Paul Thieu popped in. 'We never tried him for Trang, sir. Locke pulled us off the case, and Thomasino ruled any mention of our investigation inadmissible at the trial.'
Reston looked confused. 'Who's Trang?'
'Paul.' Glitsky, stopping his subordinate. 'The point, Alan, is that this man's a multiple murderer and I'm afraid he's going to do it again.'
Reston remained cool. 'Well, then, isn't the usual procedure to wait until he does, then collect the evidence he's so kindly left us.'
'Yes, sir, no question that is s.o.p.'
Reston opened his hands. 'Well?'
'Well, that brings us back to Victor Trang.' He turned to Thieu. 'All right, Paul. Now.'
It was a little bit like turning a terrier loose. In under five minutes, Thieu outlined the entire history on the death of Victor Trang – the proposed settlement on the amended complaint with the Archdiocese, the computer notes, his mother and girlfriend, Dooher, the Vietnam connection, the bayonet – wiping the blood, the cellphone…
Again, Glitsky cut in. Paul could get a lot of information on the table in a hurry, but it could overwhelm, and Reston's eyes had begun to glaze. 'We had a case building – circumstantial, but righteous. And then Locke pulled it.'
'Why did he do that?'
'I think he did a favor for the Archbishop.'
Reston frowned. 'You're saying Chris Locke downloaded a murder investigation? That's a hell of a strong accusation, Abe, especially against someone who isn't around to deny it.'
This response was expected, and Glitsky shrugged it off. 'Locke told Rigby' – the Chief of Police – 'that he wasn't going to try a circumstantial case against Dooher. He wanted to see physical evidence – the bayonet, an eyewitness or two, fibers or soils or fabrics, something.'
This made sense to Reston. 'He wanted to win if it went to trial. There's nothing sinister there.'
'I understand that. And as it turned out, we got a warrant and tore his place apart and didn't find anything.'
Reston shook his head. 'I'm afraid I don't see where this is going. You got some new evidence?'
Thieu, unable to restrain himself, up on the front of his chair. 'The Archbishop. Flaherty.'
'What about him?'
Glitsky: 'He's the one who convinced Locke to back off. He talked Locke into keeping the Trang murder out of Dooher's trial. I talked to Dooher's old lawyer today – Wes Farrell…'
'A defense lawyer?'
'Farrell's a good guy. He and Dooher don't get along anymore. His news was that Flaherty went sideways on Dooher's character testimony. He found something out.'
'You think?'
'We can find out. Flaherty's not a fan of mine or I'd ask him myself. Since the trial he's pulled the plug on all contacts with Dooher's firm. He should have led the cheering when Dooher got off. Instead, he cut him out.'
'I'm listening.'
'Ask Flaherty.'
'Ask him what?'
'Ask him why he and Dooher aren't playmates anymore.'
'And?'
'Then we know something, don't we? We've got new evidence. We try to build the case. We brought up all the files – you can check ' em out. A guy named Chas Brown-'
Reston held up a hand. 'I will.'
'Fine. And meanwhile we keep looking for the good stuff. Above all, we take Dooher off the street again. Maybe save a life or two.'
'Whose?'
'I don't know. His new wife's maybe. My guess is she's leaving him, and that's going to stir up the pot.'
'Saving lives isn't the job, Abe.'
'I never said it was, Alan. But wouldn't it be nice?'
'You want to get him, don't you? You got a hard-on for Dooher?'
But Glitsky had been down this road enough times. He knew where the potholes were. 'I see a way to take a dangerous man off the street legally. It's a skull case we can close. That's all Dooher is. It's nothing personal.'
Reston considered. 'That's a very good answer.' Telling Glitsky he didn't believe him. But he nodded. 'Okay. I'll call Flaherty, see what he says.'
It didn't take any time at all.
Glitsky and Thieu were talking over the relative merits of a no-warrant arrest – picking up a suspect without a warrant signed by a magistrate – and had pretty much reached the conclusion that in Dooher's case, it wouldn't be a great idea. Dooher wasn't acting like he was going to flee the jurisdiction. He'd committed no new crimes that they knew of. If Glitsky and Thieu just went in and arrested him on their suspicions, they'd open themselves up to charges of false arrest, harassment, police brutality.
On his desk, the telephone sounded. 'Glitsky.'
When he hung up, he told Thieu that it had been the DA. 'Flaherty told Reston he's got no personal knowledge of any crimes committed by Mr Dooher. Emphasis added. If there's evidence he committed a crime, we ought to pursue it vigorously. His words.'
Thieu broke a grin. 'What do you say? Let's do that very thing.'
At 10:18, Sam had her feet up and was reclining in the barco-lounger. She was vastly enjoying the political philosophy of Al Franken, laughing aloud every two minutes. Bart slept under the table and Wes was in a chair at that table perusing the Trang file – there had to be something in it.
The doorbell rang and Bart raised his head and barked. Wes looked a question over at Sam. 'This time of night?'
'We don't want any,' Sam said. 'I know.'
He closed the Trang file and stood up. Crossing the living room, giving an affectionate tug on Sam's toe as he passed her, he got to the stairs and turned on the outside light.
Half of their front door was frosted glass, and a man's silhouette was visible behind it. Farrell paused with a premonition, then spoke to the door. 'Who is it?'
'Mark Dooher.'
He opened the door halfway, but kept a hand on it. The sight of Dooher, on his stoop in the fog, made his mouth go dry.
The damn physical reactions. His heart was turning over. 'What do you want?'
'That's not the friendliest greeting I've ever heard, Wes. How about, "How you been?" or "Long time no see?"' When Farrell made no response, Dooher cut to it. 'I'm trying to find my wife. She here?'
'No, she's not here. Why would she be here?'
'She called you today.' It wasn't a question. 'You saw her. I think you know where she is.'
'I don't have any idea where she is.'
A coldness in the eyes. 'I think she's here.'
Behind him, Wes heard Sam's voice at the top of the stairs. 'Who is it, Wes?'
Dooher's eyes narrowed. He tried to look up the stairs around Farrell. 'Finally getting some, are you? She pretty?'
'Get lost, Mark. I don't know where Christina is. I didn't know she was leaving you, though I don't blame her. She got an earful of the evidence on Victor Trang today. I think it kind of bothered her.' He turned around to Sam. 'It's Mark Dooher.'
'So you did talk to her?'
Damn. Farrell had to stop giving things away. He had to remember who he was talking to. 'How did you know where I live?'
A condescending smile. 'Parkers.'
Lord. Wes was pathetic. When the Parkers Directory – the lawyer's guide to other lawyers – had sent him their update form, he'd filled in his address here on Buena Vista. He hadn't opened his new office yet, hadn't wanted to lose any business. Stupid.
Sam put her hand flat against his back. He hadn't heard her come down the stairs.
Dooher kept up with questions. 'So what did Christina say? What did you talk about?'
'Soybean futures, Mark. Maybe some pork bellies. Famous killers we have known.'
Dooher put his hand on the door. 'You've always been a funny guy, Wes.' He popped the heel of his palm against the frosted pane. 'Where is she?' Another shot with his palm, rattling the window. Loud. 'Where the fuck is she?'
Suddenly Sam was around Wes, slamming the door shut, turning the deadbolt. 'Keep the hell away from here!' she yelled through the door.
Bart set up a racket and Wes leaned over, patting him, holding him by the collar, getting him under control. When he looked back up, the shadow was gone. He slumped against the wall. Sam had her back against the opposite wall. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I just didn't want…'
'No, it's okay. He's gone now. That was a good move.'
She came toward him, into his arms. 'What did he want?'
'Christina's left him. He thought I'd know where she went.'
'I don't want him coming around here.'
'I don't either.' They started up the steps, arms around one another. 'You don't have to worry,' Wes said. 'He's just looking for her.'
'I do worry. He didn't have to come by here. He could have called you at work tomorrow.'
Wes thought about it. 'He's not going to do anything to me. He doesn't perceive me as a danger.'
'This was a threat, him coming by here. He was threatening you.'
'I don't think so. What for?'
'For talking Christina into leaving him.'
'I didn't do that. She did that on her own.'
'She did it on her own after she talked with you at your office. It's a fine distinction.'
Wes shook his head. 'There's no way.'
She stared up into his face. 'You want to promise me one thing? You thought you knew him before. Remember that, would you? Remember that.'
He kissed her. 'Okay, I'll remember.'
Ravenwood Street in the dark.
Slumped behind the wheel of his city car, Glitsky had the lights off but had left the motor running and the heater on. His hands encircled an oversized cardboard cup which had once held hot tea. The driver's side window was down an inch.
Across the street, Dooher's house appeared and disappeared in the shifting fog. Fifteen minutes before, Glitsky had knocked on the front door and returned to his car to wait.
He was thinking about Flaherty, wishing he hadn't come on so aggressively back long ago when he'd interviewed him. But then again, that's who Abe had been back then – a cop with a chip on his shoulder over Flo, over his life. Ready to explode at anybody, even people who might help him. Alienating everyone. Ineffective.
The Lexus pulled into the driveway. Glitsky got out of his car and reached the front door at about the same time a light came on in the back of the house. He pushed the doorbell and listened to the eight tones: Lord we thank thee. We bow our heads.
Another light inside, then overhead on the porch. When Dooher opened the door, Glitsky put a foot against it. 'I thought you'd be interested to hear that we're looking into Mr Trang's murder again. I wanted to give you the opportunity to confess to it now, save us all a lot of time and trouble.'
'Get a life, private.' Dooher moved to close the door, but it wouldn't go.
Glitsky kept talking. 'You've been through one trial. You know the heck it plays with your life. You don't really want to go through that again. And I'm betting you don't get bail this time. Just a hunch, but I'd go with it.'
'What the hell are you doing here?'
'I just told you.'
'You got a warrant? You don't have a warrant, Sergeant, get off my property.'
Glitsky moved his foot. 'I'm going to take that as a "no" on the confession, but you're making a mistake.'
Dooher, disgusted, closed the door and turned out the overhead light. Glitsky, thinking he'd burned up his Friday-night fun quotient, decided to go home. He was almost across the patio when the light came back on. He heard the door open, the commanding voice. 'Glitsky.'
Reaching inside his jacket for his.38 – you never knew – he revolved halfway around. Dooher stepped out on to the porch. 'It was you brought the Trang file over to Farrell's, wasn't it?'
'He asked so nice, I couldn't refuse.'
'And you saw my wife?'
'Here's the thing, Mark. In my business, I generally ask the questions. You want to talk about Victor Trang, I'll listen all night long. But I've got nothing to say about your wife.'
'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.
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.
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 moment 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.
But the situation would also work to his advantage. He'd walk into her room and she'd see him holding the baby. He had gotten to their son in the hospital without her knowing about it. She couldn't have stopped him, whatever she had done.
A message would get delivered there, now, wouldn't it? He wouldn't have to say a thing.
She would come back to him. They wouldn't ever have to mention these past couple of days. This was how training worked. There had to be periods of pain, of testing, of finding out how far the chain would go until you felt it choke.
Well, Christina had found out.
Dooher didn't remember the births or much of the infancy of his other children. He'd been putting in yeoman hours when they'd been born – in those days men went to work. They didn't change diapers.
So the size of this baby surprised him – so small, nearly weightless.
They had wrapped it tight, it arms cocooned in its blue blanket. The nurse he'd charmed earlier escorted him out of the nursery, reminding him to keep the neck supported, to cover the head and shield it from any drafts while they were in the hallway.
At the door to 412, Dooher turned to her. 'Would you mind if I just go in alone and surprise her?'
Who could say no to such a reasonable request?
Christina was looking past Glitsky. The door was beginning to open and it would be the nurse with her…
No. This couldn't be.
In her dreams, something like this would happen. But this wasn't a dream.
Dooher stopped inside the door. 'Well, look at this, a little impromptu party. Corporal Glitsky, of all people.'
No one said a word. Dooher made sure the door was closed behind him. His eyes swept the room and alighted on Diane Price.
'Who's this?' he asked.
Christina spoke up protectively. 'She's a nurse practitioner here, Mark. She helped with the labor.'
Dooher accepted this. 'Well, thank you very much.' A shift of focus. 'And how are you, Christina?'
She forced herself to speak calmly. 'I'm fine, Mark. It went all right. No real complications.'
'I'm glad.' A pause. 'Though it wasn't exactly how we planned, was it?'
'I'm sorry,' she said. Her eyes never left her son. 'I don't know what happened yesterday, Mark. I guess I lost sight of things for a minute.'
'I guess so. That happens sometimes. Moments of stress.' Another silence.
'Can I have my baby, please? I have to feed it.'
'Actually,' he smiled at her, 'it's not just your baby, it's our baby, isn't that right?'
'Of course, that's what I meant. It's our baby. I meant our baby.' She held out her hands. 'And he's hungry, Mark. Thank you for bringing him in, but I'll take him now, okay?'
He shook his head. 'No, I don't think so. Not quite yet.'
He didn't even recognize her!
Diane wasn't prepared for the wave of anger that swept over her. He looked – impossibly – the same as she remembered him from college.
And now he stared directly at her and saw nothing.
She wasn't there.
It all flooded back – the experience was etched in acid. Afterward, she had been curled up on the top of her bed, great pain down there. Too hurt for tears.
This couldn't have happened to her. Her blouse, torn open, had been still around her shoulders – a distinct memory. She remembered lying there in a fetal position, holding the scrap of her blouse collar in her fist, as though it offered some protection. He'd ripped the rest off.
He was pulling up his pants, tucking himself in. She could still hear the sound his breath had made. He'd said nothing.
When he looked down at her, just like now, she hadn't been there.
She found herself speaking in the same even tones Christina had been using. 'The baby needs to be fed, sir.'
He didn't like the diversion. Snapped at her. 'I'm talking to my wife.'
'The baby needs to be fed,' Diane repeated.
This time Dooher glared at her. 'Who are you? Do I know you?'
Glitsky broke in. 'Give her the kid, Dooher.'
A disappointed expression. 'Not right yet, private. Christina and I have a few things we've got to work out first.' He turned to her. 'I want you back home.'
Christina was glued to the child. 'I was upset, Mark. With the hormones, I guess. I got scared. Of course I'll come back. You're the father. I'd never think of raising the boy without his father.'
It seemed to anger him further. 'You're just trying to get your hands on this baby, aren't you, Christina? You'd say anything now, wouldn't you?'
'No, that's not true. But the baby is hungry, Mark. He hasn't eaten yet.'
Christina had re-introduced Diane to Glitsky, so he knew who she was. It would complicate matters if Dooher realized it. Glitsky had his gun inside his jacket. He'd drawn it only occasionally in his career, and had never fired it at a person.
If this turned out to be the first time, he wanted to know what was behind his target. He moved to his left.
'Stay where you are!' Dooher backed up a step. A wider angle on the room. 'Whatever you're trying to do, it's a bad idea.'
'I'm not doing anything.'
'You're moving. I don't want you to move.'
'And if I do, what then? Are you threatening to hurt your baby if I do, is that it?'
It didn't faze him. 'I'm holding my child, Sergeant. That's all. What are you doing here?'
'I heard you were here. I wanted to talk about Wes Farrell.'
A turn of his mouth. 'I don't know anything about Wes Farrell.'
The baby mewled quietly. Christina: 'Mark, please. Let me hold him.'
Glitsky looked to Christina, back to Mark. 'Let her have him, Dooher.'
He shook the baby, shushed at it.
'Don't shake him,' Diane said.
'You shut up. I'm talking to the Corporal here.'
Diane saw it clearly. He was going to wind up killing the child.
'All right,' Glitsky said. Talk to me.'
'I told you I don't know anything about Farrell. We were supposed to have a meeting today. He didn't show up.'
Glitsky was impassive. 'We found him. He wasn't dead. Not yet.' Christina was staring at Dooher. 'Oh God, Mark, not Wes. Not your best friend.'
Glitsky pushed at it. 'You thought the fall finished him, didn't you?'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
The baby began to cry.
'Please, Mark, let me take him.'
He shook his head at his wife, backed up another step, looking down at the infant. 'Shh!' At Christina: 'Wes wasn't any friend of mine. He's the one who poisoned you about me, who made you leave me.'
'So you killed him,' Glitsky said.
The baby wailed. 'Shh!' More roughly. 'Shhh!'
'Don't shake him, please. Don't shake him, Mark.'
But he was back on Glitsky, holding the baby against his shoulder, both hands around the tiny body, shaking him up and down. 'I thought you said he wasn't dead.'
'When we found him. I said when we found him he wasn't dead.' Glitsky played the trump. 'We followed you to the lake.'
'From where? Who did? What are you talking about?'
'Give it up, Dooher. It's over. We know where to look. We're going to find everything, aren't we?'
'And then what? You find a bag of wet clothes, big deal. You can't connect them to me.'
'I don't need to. I can connect Farrell to you.'
Dooher shook his head. 'You can't prove anything. Just like with Trang, just like with Sheila. That old proof keeps on fucking with you, doesn't it, Private? So Wes Farrell fell off a cliff. He died. So what?'
Glitsky's scar stretched white through his lips. 'So he didn't die, that's what.'
Dooher took in a breath. He nodded, bitterly amused. 'As if Wes Farrell matters.' He pulled the child closer to him, holding it with one arm, pointing with the other. 'You think Sheila, Victor Trang, Wes Farrell – you think I feel bad for what happened?'
The baby began crying again and he pulled it roughly against him, pressing the infant's face into his body.
'Mark, please! You're hurting him!'
Diane was in slo-mo. She stood up. She lifted the purse from the floor. 'Sit down!' Dooher barked at her.
'No.' She took a step toward him.
Christina, pleading. 'Please, Diane, no. Mark, just let him breathe. Let your son breathe.'
Dooher pointed at his wife. 'I had to have you, don't you understand that? After the trial, I told Wes I was sorry for what I'd put him through. If I'd made life hard for him, I'd make it up to him.'
Christina had her hands out. The baby, the baby. Anything he said, just let her have the baby. 'Okay, Mark, fine. We can talk about that.'
He included Glitsky. 'This nigger can't prove anything. They'll never convict me. We could start again, Christina. I could make it up to you. I could.'
'Dooher!' Glitsky said. 'Let the baby go.'
Diane moved forward.
He glared across at her. 'I told you to stop right there.'
'Give me the baby,' she said.
'Back off!' Dooher slammed a palm against the wall behind him. 'What do you think you're doing?'
The baby got a breath and managed another piercing yell.
Dooher took it in both of his hands. He held it up in front of him.
He kept shaking it. 'Shut up, damn it! Shut up!'
Diane Price dropped her carry-all purse to the floor and lunged forward.
Glitsky started to react, reached inside his jacket.
There was no time.
The gun was a metallic blur in her right hand moving toward Dooher's head. The sharp, flat report.
She let the gun fall. It clattered to the floor.
Diane grabbed for the child as Dooher collapsed.
The room hung for an instant in surreal suspension.
Glitsky smelled the cordite. His hand was still on his own weapon, but there was no need. It was over.
The baby began crying again.
Diane was bringing it over to Christina when the door flew open, a nurse and two attendants rushing in after the noise from the shot. They stopped in the doorway.
Diane laid Christina's son in her arms.
'He was killing the baby,' she said. 'I had to stop him.'
That would be her story, Glitsky knew. It was a good one.
Her eyes pleaded with him. Did he understand what she was saying? 'Guy says he's sorry and thinks that's enough? I don't think so.'
Glitsky nodded at her. He was going to arrest her, but she posed no danger at the moment.
He held out a hand to stop the influx of other staff crowding to the door. He crossed the room and went down to one knee next to the still and crumpled body. Almost as an afterthought, he picked up the small gun.
He felt for a pulse. The throat at the carotid artery twitched once under his fingers. Then he felt nothing. He leaned over, closer.
'It's Lieutenant,' he whispered.
After his fight with Sam, in his heart Farrell had still wanted to believe that Dooher was turning himself in, that the guilt had gotten to him. But the more he considered it, the wiser it seemed to cover his bases, so he'd called Glitsky and the Lieutenant had given him his marching orders.
In the event that Dooher did not confess, if the meeting began to look like an ambush, Farrell was to extricate himself as quickly as he could, remembering to drop the bait – 'Glitsky knows where you hid the stuff.' Thieu would be tailing them, so the threat to Farrell would be minimal.
Minimal. Farrell had liked that.
It was a gamble, but their only chance. If Dooher took the bait, if he went to make sure his hiding place was still secure, Thieu would follow. Dooher would lead them to the evidence. Thieu would call Glitsky when he'd found something.
And that's what had happened.
But not soon enough for Farrell.
They hadn't planned on the fog and they'd underestimated Dooher's dispatch. Always stronger, faster, more determined than Farrell, Dooher had walked up close, concealing his intention, then come at him like an enraged bull. A blow to the solar plexus, then another to the face had driven Farrell backward, and Dooher had kept coming, forcing him off the pavement, on to the steep angle under the trees, all the way to where the land fell off and the air began.
Now, Monday, Thieu and Glitsky were playing lunchtime chess at one of the open tables on Market Street. The sun was bright overhead; the air still. Glitsky was thinking mate in three moves, but his concentration got diverted when a bare-chested man in sandals and shorts stopped to watch the endgame. Carrying an enormous wooden cross, he just stood there looking on with his companion, who was a fashionably dressed businesswoman in her mid-thirties. The cross, Glitsky noticed, had a wheel at its base to facilitate pulling the thing along.
He moved his bishop and the man shook his head. 'Blew it,' he said, and moved on, pulling his cross, chatting with his friend. Daily life in the city.
Studying the board, Glitsky realized the man was right. Thieu made his move – one move! – and tried not to smile. It wasn't a really good try, though.
Glitsky started putting away his pieces. His brow was not clear. Throughout the game, they'd been discussing their sting operation, how it had gone so wrong. 'I still don't understand how you lost Farrell.'
Thieu was holding the bag. 'I didn't lose Farrell. I never had Farrell.'
'You followed him,' Glitsky said.
Thieu explained what had happened. 'Two cars, Abe,' he said. 'We always tail with two cars. You know that. We waited by the lot by the bridge when they pulled in there. When the Lexus pulled out, I followed Dooher down to Merced. There was nothing to call you about until we found the bags. The guys in the second car didn't find Farrell right away and they had better things to do than report to us, like get him out of there, try to keep him alive. What I'm curious about is the Price woman.'
'After this,' Glitsky was laconic, 'odds are she'll get her movie deal.'
'Not precisely what I meant, Abe.'
'I know, Paul. I know what you meant.'
They crossed Market, negotiating a stalled Mini bus spewing out a stream of unhappy campers. When they had forded it, Glitsky told Thieu that the DA hadn't yet decided on the charge for Price. 'My guess is Reston will go with manslaughter, she'll plead and get some community service. Maybe not even that if I have any real influence, which I don't.'
'Community service for killing a guy?'
'Using deadly force, Paul to save a life. The situation called for it. I was there. He was going to kill the baby. That's what I'm going to say. It's what Price's lawyer is going to say. It'll fly.'
Thieu was skeptical. 'How was Dooher going to do that, exactly? Kill the kid, I mean. Did he have a gun, a knife? What was he going to do?'
'He was shaking it. Kills infants every day. You know that, Paul. We've got that nice poster on the column – "Never, never, NEVER shake a baby!" I'm sure you've seen it.'
'So she had to shoot him dead?'
Glitsky shrugged. 'Must've seemed like a good idea at the time.'
'You're cute with those tubes coming out of you.'
'Mmmmfff.'
'I know, I agree. Oh listen, I brought you a present. You can pin it on your Take me drunk, I'm home shirt.' Sam fished in her purse and pulled out the button. She turned it to face Wes. It read, What if the hokey-pokey is what it's all about?
Two weeks later, Christina was on the deck of her parents' home, breastfeeding William. Her father was coming out of the house with a tray of food.
'Your mother will be along in a minute,' he said, sitting down on one of the wrought-iron chairs, 'but I wanted to tell you something. She feels so guilty about telling Mark you were at the hospital. It's been paralyzing her.'
'She did what she thought was best, Dad.'
'You know that; I know it. She did it, though. I think it feels different.'
Christina looked out over the valley. 'She didn't trust me. She didn't believe what I told her.'
Bill was all agreement. 'That's true. She feels terrible about that, too.' He leaned forward, his voice soft. 'I'm just trying to tell you her intentions were the best.' He put a paternal hand on her knee. 'I've got to ask you to let her share her grandson, Christina. You can't go on punishing her. You've got to trust her again. Let her hold him.'
'I can't.'
'I think you can. She loves you, Christina. I love you, too. This is something you can do.'
She blinked a couple of times. William gurgled and she looked down at him. She had finished nursing. She took a moment fixing her swimsuit, her eyes down.
'I can't do anything. All I've done is cause you both pain. Now I'm hurting Mom and I can't make myself do anything else.'
'I'll say it again. You can.'
She forced herself to breathe. 'No, Daddy, it's more of the same. I mess my life up and then I do it again and again and again. Now I'm a single mother with no job and no career and you're taking care of me again.'
'That's what we do, Christina. That's what parents do. You followed your heart.'
But she was shaking her head. 'I didn't. I followed some dream, to be like both of you. And I'm not really like either of you. I've got all this stuff, this baggage. A woman's role, a mother's role, a daughter's role… roles define everything I am, so I'm not anything anymore. I'm just not carefree.'
Bill's elbows were on his knees. He canted forward in his chair. 'I know that. It's a different world than we grew up in, your mother and I. Maybe it's better, I don't know, worrying about so much, trying to do right on so many levels.'
'But I haven't done right. I'm guilty about everything. I'm all lost.'
Bill took her hand. 'You guilty about William here?'
She looked down at the boy. 'No.'
'You know where you are with him?'
'Yes. Definitely.'
He sat back in his chair, took an olive and popped it. 'You're going to make mistakes with him, you know. Just like your mother did with you about telling Mark. Like I did, too, lots of other times. Still do. We make mistakes.'
'But…'
'No buts. It's a fact. Guilt isn't going to help – William or anybody else. It hasn't helped you. Let it go. Start over.'
'That's just it. I don't know if I can.'
Irene opened the French doors and came down the steps onto the deck. She pulled up a chair and smiled a practiced smile. Christina could see that she'd been crying, had tried to hide the traces. 'You two having a nice talk at last?' she asked. 'Oh, these are excellent olives. Have you tried these, Christina?'
She was sitting up, emotion ripping through her. She could feel the invisible chain tying her to her son. How could she ever loosen it. He was anchored to her.
She swung her legs over the side of the lounger. 'I'm taking a dip, Mom. Do you want to hold William?'
She held her baby out and her mother took him. The chain hadn't broken – she'd let him go and they were still connected. Her mother's eyes brimmed over again.
Christina walked to the pool and stood at its edge.
It was the pink moment.