Guilt

by John Lescroart

  'That's not true. You know there's a rule about-'

  'Stop lying to me! That's not it and you know it! We are, in fact, not actually engaged, you realize that? So there's no reason-'

  'But we were going to be!'

  She laughed. 'Here's how that happens, Joe. Listen up careful now. One person asks and the other says, "Yes." Not too difficult. So how about it -do you want to marry me?'

  'Chris, you know-'

  'Goddamn it, Joe! It's a yes or no question.'

  'But it isn't! You keep saying you don't want kids, ever, and I don't think-'

  Suddenly, she bolted upright on the sofa, kicking out at him. 'Get out of here! I mean it, get the hell out of here!'

  The lifebuoy in Santa Barbara Bay had a deep-toned bell and it didn't seem to be far off, although the fog was so heavy she couldn't see it. She was trying to save her baby from drowning. And she couldn't see it, either. Didn't even remember if it was a boy or girl, though of course she knew. It just wasn't in her consciousness at that exact moment.

  The tolling of the lifebuoy wouldn't stop, though. It was pulling her forward, toward it, through the water, which seemed to be thickening as she moved.

  There was the baby, so close, just out of her reach, disappearing into the brine. 'Wait! Wait! Don't…' Sitting up, now, in a sweat. Her eyes opened on the clock next to her bed: 2:15.

  The tolling continued – her doorbell. She tossed off the covers and pulled her robe around herself again.

  'Who is it?'

  'It's me, Joe.'

  Still groggy, too tired for any more anger, she sighed, flicked on the overhead, and opened the door, leaving the chain in place. Hangdog, he stood there, his hair damp as the coat of the suit he wore, hands at his sides. He'd been out walking around for a while, perhaps since he'd left earlier. 'I'm a total jerk,' he said.

  'That's a good start.'

  'I'm sorry.'

  She stood looking at him through the crack in the door. Finally, she closed it, undid the chain, and pulled it open. He came forward into her, wet and smelling of wool. She leaned into him, gradually bringing her arms up to encircle him. They remained that way a long moment before Joe let go of her, backed up a step, and theatrically went down on one knee.

  'Joe…'

  'No. This isn't a joke. I want to know if you want to marry me.'

  'Hypothetically, or what?' She didn't mean it to come out so harshly, but this hadn't exactly been the way she'd dreamed it (if in fact she ever had dreamed it about Joe Avery).

  He wasn't going to be side-tracked by semantics. 'No, not hypothetically. If I asked it wrong I'm sorry. I'm talking real life here. Will you marry me, Christina?' His hand grasped at the fall of her robe as his desperate eyes came up to her. 'Will you please say you'll marry me? I don't think I could live without you.'

  It surprised her that it was not at all pathetic, as it might have been. He'd finally woken up, realizing he was going to lose her. She saw it in his face. He thought, at this moment, that he loved her. Maybe she could work on that, make it last. It struck her that this was the best she was going to do, and it wasn't that bad, not really.

  At last, she nodded. 'Yes,' she whispered. 'Okay.'

  She reached down and pulled his head close up against her. His arms came around her, clutched her to him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  On the morning of St Patrick's Day, Mark Dooher stood at the door to Wes's apartment and shook his head in disbelief.

  'How do you live like this?'

  Farrell surveyed his living room, which he persisted in calling his salon. It looked about how it always had since he'd moved in half a year ago, with the books and old newspapers piled on the floor, the television astride the folding chair, the forlorn futon in its unfinished oak frame.

  Well, all right, this morning there were a few additions to which the fastidious – such as Dooher here – might object. His boxer Bart had spent a few delirious moments savoring the aromas of one of the used bath towels and had strewn its remains across the rug. And last night, Wes had ordered Chinese food and hadn't quite gotten around to putting away all the little cartons. And, come to think of it, there was the pizza delivery container from two – three? – nights ago on the brick and board bookcase. The paper plate on which Wes had served himself the reheated spaghetti he'd had for breakfast decorated the floor next to the futon, near his coffee mug.

  And, of course, there was Bart himself- sixty-five pounds of salivating dog, lending a certain aroma to the digs, sprawling over half of the futon, chewing a nylon bone.

  'Hey, do I make fun of your house when I come over?'

  'I'm not making fun. I am truly appalled.'

  Farrell gave the place another once-over. 'I think it's homey. It's got that lived-in feel. Realtors actually pay people to fix their houses up like this…'

  Dooher was crossing the darkened yellow rug, negotiating some ambiguous stains. 'I'm getting some coffee.'

  'So, Mr Dooher, tell me again how you found all this out about divorce, one of which you are not getting.'

  They were in the kitchen, drinking their coffee by the window that looked out over the early-morning traffic on Junipero Serra Boulevard. The old metal-legged table was pocked with cigarette burns at the edges of the Formica. Bart had come in to join them, settled on the floor under Wes's feet.

  'Gabe Stockman.'

  'Who is?'

  'Who is the official attorney for the Archdiocese.'

  'And this just came up in conversation?'

  'More or less. Actually, we were on the golf course last week and he started talking about annulment. In the Church.'

  'Maybe I could get an annulment,' Wes said. 'Is there alimony with annulment? But why do you care about annulment? When last we spoke, you and Sheila were in a state of bliss.'

  'We are.'

  'That's not what Lydia says.'

  Dooher had his mug nearly to his mouth when his hand stopped with it, turning it around slowly. 'Lydia?'

  'We still do speak, you know. Mostly she's digging to find out the secret location where I've squirreled away my last two coins so that she can take them to rub together, but occasionally she does mention something human. And she told me that Sheila thinks the two of you are in trouble, that you in fact might be nearly suicidal which, if that were the case, would make me sad.'

  Farrell put aside the wise-guy pose, rested his own mug on the table, his hands encircling it. This was his best friend and Lydia's information had worried him. It was why he'd asked Dooher over this morning to pick him up so they could drive downtown together for a game of squash and get a chance to talk. He wanted to find out if Lydia's information were true, and if so, if there was anything he could do to help. 'Are you all right?'

  'I can't say I'm in a state of bliss, but I'm fine.'

  'Which is why you're getting all the facts on annulment?'

  'I don't want an annulment. I don't want a divorce. And I'm not suicidal.' He pointed a finger. 'Annulment came up and I thought since you and Lydia… I thought you'd be fascinated. I thought maybe it could help you somehow.'

  'How?'

  'Well, the short answer is it can't.'

  'Great. That is fascinating.'

  Dooher was smiling. 'Nevertheless, I thought there might be something in it for you, so since Stockman brought it up, I asked. But the bad news is that there's no annulment without a civil divorce. Which of course puts you back where you are.'

  'That's okay. Bart and I are happy here, starving and all.' But Farrell the lawyer couldn't let it go, even if it didn't affect him directly. 'I thought the only way you could get an annulment was if you never consummated the marriage, and somehow the existence of my children would cost me credibility there.'

  'The other way to get an annulment is if one of the spouses isn't psychologically capable of making a real commitment.'

  Farrell sat back in his chair, his hands outstretched. 'Well, there you are! You have just described my soon-to-be-e
x-wife. Psychologically, possibly pathologically, incapable of commitment, that's her all over.'

  'Wes, you were married for twenty-seven years.'

  'Twenty-nine, actually, but-'

  'However many, that's going to count as a commitment.'

  'A mere twenty-nine years? Where I come from, that's barely going steady. My parents were together fifty-six years. Now that's a commitment.'

  'It's beautiful,' Dooher said, 'but twenty-nine years is going to count.'

  'Damn.'

  They had their three games of squash. Dooher won two, letting Wes take the second, 11-9, before creaming him 11- 3 in the third. When they'd been younger, both had been roughly equal as athletes; they had, in fact, remained a double-play threat through high school. But in the past few years, and especially in the six months since Farrell had been living alone, Wes had put on about ten pounds and, no surprise, it slowed him down.

  They walked together down to the Hall of Justice, where Wes was having a meeting with Art Drysdale, the Chief Assistant District Attorney, about a client of his, Levon Copes, who'd been charged in a rape/murder.

  Farrell had originally thought the case had a chance to go to trial and, since the defendant was a middle-aged white guy who owned an apartment building, he had money to pay his lawyer. The initial retainer had been $45,000, the check had cleared, and Wes had hoped, if he played it right, that the trial could carry him financially for a couple of years, even with Lydia chipping away at whatever she could.

  Since his client's arrest, though, he'd read the discovery – the prosecution's evidence – and concluded that there must have been some mistake. There wasn't nearly enough, in his opinion, to go to trial at all, much less get a conviction. So Wes was going to try to talk Drysdale into dropping the charges altogether. It would be extremely unusual in a case like this, but, he thought, possible.

  His success would be the best possible news for his client, if not financially for Wes. But he had no choice. He was a lawyer; if he could get his client off, he had to do it.

  Dooher had listened sympathetically to all of this, then left Farrell at the Hall of Justice.

  Now he was walking alone uptown the ten or so blocks to his office. The weather continued damnably Irish. The banshee was howling off the Bay only a few blocks to the east, the cloud cover occasionally dipped low enough to become fog, and the soft drizzle ate into his bones.

  Dooher was wearing a light business suit and no overcoat, but he didn't feel the cold. For the first time since she'd left her resume, he was seeing Christina again. In fifteen minutes.

  The engagement ring infuriated him.

  The fucking chintzy little fifteen-hundred-dollar, quarter-carat trinket – he wanted to rip it off her finger, stomp it under his foot, slap her silly for accepting the stupid thing.

  But he wasn't going to do that. He was going to smile and say, 'It's really nice, Christina. I'm happy for both of you. Congratulations.'

  They were in a cafeteria down Market Street from McCabe & Roth. She'd left a message asking to meet him, and for her own reasons didn't want it to be in the office. She thought it might be awkward. She seemed embarrassed at the explanation, her head tilted to one side, not meeting his gaze. 'I just thought that after our talk, after… everything you did for me…'

  'I didn't do anything.'

  'Well, I certainly wouldn't have applied without you, and now with me and Joe…' She twisted at the ring, gave Dooher a hopeful look. 'Anyway, now that we are engaged, there wouldn't be much point in going on with the application process, and I thought it would only be fair to come and tell you in person.'

  Dooher fiddled with his own coffee cup. 'You know, Christina, not to get too technical, but the rule regarding personal relationships isn't exactly written in stone. It's devised more to discourage the associates. We've had two or three couples in the past.'

  He'd fired them, but he left that unsaid.

  Forcing his easy smile, though his stomach churned, he risked reaching over and touching her hand lightly. 'But again, I'm giving away the house secrets.'

  Her remarkable green eyes sparkled briefly. 'They're safe with me. I'll take them to my grave.'

  'It's the only reason I tell you.'

  'And I appreciate it.'

  Their eyes met and held for an instant. Then Christina shrugged and the smile faded.

  'The point is,' he persisted, 'that if it's not a problem for you and Joe personally, I don't think it would stand in the way of you coming aboard, if that's still what you'd like to do.' Not only didn't he think it, he was the managing partner and it was a certainty. He'd see to it. But he was tiptoeing here, afraid to push too hard and scare her away.

  'I don't know,' she said.

  'What don't you know?'

  'Just…' Twisting the ring, round and round. 'Just if I'd want to start with the rules being bent. I'd want to be like everybody else.'

  Dooher's chuckle was real. 'Believe me, once the work starts getting given out, you'll feel just like one of the gang. Do you have any other offers yet?'

  'No.'

  'Well, I'm just saying I wouldn't withdraw yet, on the theory that it's always a good idea to keep your options open until they get closed for you.'

  'I know that, in general, but…' A silence, then her eyes lit again, a feeble flame. 'Damn you, Mark.' The face lighting now. 'This was supposed to be easy.'

  He sat back in his chair. 'I'm trying to make it easy.'

  Shaking her head. 'No, I mean just letting this whole thing go, but then here you are, Mr Reasonable…'

  'I'm not trying to stop you from letting it go, if that's what you want. I just want you to be dealing from the facts.'

  She seemed to jump in her chair. 'Ahh! Don't say that word!'

  'What word?'

  'Facts. God, spare me from the facts.'

  A little came out about Joe, and Dooher told her, lightly, she'd better get used to it if she was going to marry him. 'When's the happy day, by the way?'

  She shook her head, not exactly the picture of hopeful expectation. 'It's not final yet. We thought we ought to wait about a year.'

  Dooher let out the breath he realized he'd been suppressing since he'd first seen the ring. A year? Plenty of time.

  The world could change in a year.

  On the third floor of the Hall of Justice, a gray-blue block of concrete and glass at 7th and Bryant, Chief Assistant District Attorney Art Drysdale was having a discussion with an assistant district attorney named Amanda Jenkins and Sergeant Abe Glitsky regarding a murder case: People v. Levon Copes.

  Copes had a tattoo which did not, as it turned out, read Wendy, but, more prosaically, Levon.

  Unfortunately for the cause of justice, Levon's arrest had come about after Glitsky had interviewed several residents of the building he owned and lived in (and where Tania Willows, his victim, had resided as well). He learned that Levon's tattoo was no secret – Copes talked about it all the time.

  So Glitsky had a pretty good idea of the identity of Tania's killer from the beginning of his investigation. Finding other damning evidence hadn't been too hard. Fibers in Tania's bed that matched with clothes in Copes's closet; the same type of rope that had strangled Tania was in the building's basement, to which Copes had the only key; his hairs were in her bed.

  So Glitsky had gone to the DA's office with his evidence. Normally Art Drysdale would have reviewed this and assigned a prosecutor. But Drysdale had been on vacation.

  Which left Les McCann to handle administrative matters. McCann, a retired-on-duty drunk with seniority, had assigned the case to Amanda Jenkins, who was on record as saying that sex criminals were worse than murderers. In the Hall, it was common currency that she was perhaps not the soul of objectivity when it came to analyzing evidence in cases like Copes.

  She had reviewed the file. She'd had a talk with Abe Glitsky. He told her about the tattoo, which had clinched the fact of Copes's guilt for her. Armed with that knowledge, she had got
ten Les McCann's approval to go to the Grand Jury and seek an indictment, and Copes had been arrested.

  This morning, though, Art Drysdale – home from vacation – got a call from Wes Farrell, who inquired if Drysdale had taken vast quantities of mind-altering drugs while he'd been away. Because based on the discovery Farrell had seen, there wasn't enough in the way of evidence to support a murder charge on Levon Copes.

  What, Farrell wondered, was going on?

  This was the question Drysdale now put to Jenkins. Her short dark-green skirt rode high over legs that, while heavy, possessed some indefinable quality that tended to stop male conversation when she sat and crossed them. They were uncrossed now, her feet flat on the floor, hands clasped tightly on her lap as she was explaining to her boss all about the tattoo and her witnesses and so on.

  'Okay, but so what?' Drysdale asked. Feet up on his desk, effortlessly juggling three baseballs as he often did, he appeared calm, though Glitsky knew him better and wasn't fooled. 'I can't believe the Grand Jury indicted on this nonsense and I'm doubly disappointed in you, Amanda' – he stopped juggling long enough to point a finger – 'for getting conned into this.'

  Glitsky, in a flight jacket and dark blue pants, leaned forward in his chair. His eyes flicked to Jenkins, came back to Drysdale. 'I didn't con anybody, sir.'

  Drysdale palmed the balls in one hand and leaned over his desk. He knew all about Glitsky's home situation, was inclined to be sensitive on a personal level – but this was business, and Glitsky was, usually, one of the cops that the DA's office could count on. So he had a gentle tone. 'Figure of speech, Abe.'

  'How 'bout this, Art? I didn't get conned, either.' Jenkins' demeanor was severe as a sandstorm. 'Abe didn't get around to the duct tape.'

  Silver duct tape had been used to bind Tania Willows's hands to the bed's brass railings, and on the inside, sticky part of one of the strips of tape, Glitsky had found a fingerprint that belonged to Levon Copes.

  Drysdale sat back. 'I know about the duct tape, but again, so what?'

  'So that proves Levon Copes did it.'