Guilt

by John Lescroart

  Irene Carrera had a buffed leather complexion from too much sun, and her body, toned with regular exercise, was still twenty pounds overweight. Nevertheless, in a casual way she believed herself a beautiful woman, and so nearly everyone else thought she was, too. She frosted her hair and wore gold slippers padding about out by the pool and she appeared to be as shallow as a petri dish. But she'd never fooled Christina.

  Now she sat in the wicker chair next to her daughter's chaise longue, put down the tray that held the pitcher and glasses, and placed coasters on either side of the table. 'You picked the right day to come down. San Francisco's had another earthquake.'

  Christina sat up straight. 'A bad one?'

  Her mother handed her a glass. 'They're saying moderately serious. Although if you ask me, they're all bad.'

  'You can ask me, too.'

  'Do you want to call anybody?'

  'No, no. They don't want you to use the phones after emergencies anyway, Mom. Besides,' she took a sip, 'there's nobody to call.'

  Her mother sat back, gestured to her daughter's left hand. 'Your father and I noticed there's no ring. We didn't want to press last night. I guess we're not going to be meeting Joe.'

  'I guess not.' A sigh. 'It was my decision. It wasn't going to work out.' Irene took a minute stalling with her iced tea – lemon, sugar, mint.

  'You gave it enough of a chance? You're sure?'

  Christina shrugged. 'Come on, Mom, you know. Over a year. It just wasn't…' She trailed off. 'I'm not sad about it, so I don't think you should be.'

  'I'm not sad about you and Joe, hon. I worry about you, that's all. These relationships that get to…' She took a deep breath and plunged ahead to intimacy,' that go on a year or more, then end. They must be taking their toll.'

  'I know.' Christina was nodding. 'They are.'

  'I just look at you now – and I know this is foolish, don't laugh at me – and I don't see my happy little girl. It just breaks my poor silly heart.' Christina started to stop her, but her mother touched her shoulder and continued. 'No, I know what you've been through. I do, or a little. With Brian, and the pregnancy, and now this. I do know, hon, how it must hurt, how you're trying. But it just seems to me that every time you give up, when you let it end, then part of you dies. The part that hopes, and you don't want to lose that.'

  A tear coursed down Christina's cheek. She wiped it with a finger. 'The good news is I didn't put much hope in Joe.'

  'Then why did you say you'd marry him?'

  'I don't know. I was stupid. I wanted to convince myself that I could do just what you said – commit to somebody and make it stick. To get there, Mom. You know what I mean? You get so tired of waiting, of things being empty.'

  Her mother sat back in her chair and looked for a moment out to the horizon. 'It has to be right, that's all. The right person to begin with.'

  'Yeah, well where is he? That's what I want to know, Mom. Where the hell is he?'

  'Christina? It's Mark Dooher.'

  'Mark. Are you all right?'

  A refined chuckle. 'I'm fine. I was worried about you. We've had a pretty good earthquake up here, you might have heard. Several people didn't make work and you were one of them. So we tried to reach you at home and you never called back'

  'Was I scheduled to come in? I've got finals next week. I wasn't starting until after that. I thought I told Joe…'

  'No, no, it's all right. I was concerned, that's all. I remember you'd told me about Ojai, so I thought I'd see if your parents had heard from you, if you were okay.'

  'I am. In fact, I thought of you five minutes ago. We're drinking champagne. Remember? The lost art of pouring?'

  'I do. How is it down there, by the way?'

  She looked out through the French doors. A balmy evening was settling. 'It's the pink moment,' she said. 'The classic pink moment.'

  She could almost see his grin. 'I'm on my car phone, just at the Army Street curve on my way home and it's the classic gray moment here.' A moment went by. 'I heard about you and Joe. I'm sorry.'

  'Yes, well…'

  The pause seemed a little awkward to Christina. She was thinking that Mark didn't want to push. But then he spoke up. 'Well… good luck on your finals, then. And we'll see you in a couple of weeks?'

  'I'll be there.'

  'I know you will. If it's any help to you, Joe should be down in LA by then. There shouldn't be any awkwardness.'

  'I know. I guess.'

  'No guesses. This is a promise. If you have any problems, I want you to come see me, hear?'

  'I hear. I will.'

  'Okay, then.' There was a crackle on the line. 'Sorry, the call's breaking up. You hang in there, Christina. Things'll turn around, you watch. I'm glad you're okay.'

  'I am. And Mark?'

  'Yes.'

  'Thanks for checking. It matters.'

  It might be the pink moment, but it was also the yellow jacket moment. At dusk, the vicious bees seemed to come up like locusts, scouring the foothills for food, and making outdoor hors d'oeuvres a challenge at best.

  But it was one to which Bill and Irene rose whenever they could. Christina remembered sitting inside a hundred times as a child, afraid to go out. Until one day her father had sat her down: 'Look, we can either go outside where the weather's great and we've got the view and the air and things taste better, except we' ve got the chance of being molested by yellow j ackets, or we can sit cooped inside wishing there weren't such a thing as yellow jackets, but definitely inside, and definitely not having half the fun. I'll take the risk every time.'

  So tonight they had broken out some paté, three kinds of cheeses, cornichons, French bread, the works. After she'd hung up with Dooher, she stood a moment at the French doors, looking out at her parents who were sitting in their matching wicker chairs, holding hands, laughing at something.

  Okay, she thought. There was her father and there was Mark Dooher. Two good ones. It wasn't impossible. She would simply have to bide her time, do her work, live her life.

  The pink shifted, almost imperceptibly, to mother-of-pearl, and she stood in the door, struck by her third revelation this week. The first had been that she didn't love Joe. Then recognizing something deeper – something fundamentally different and better – in the way she and Mark Dooher related, something that would be part of her from now on, of any future she had.

  Then, watching her parents, the last illumination – that she was still afraid of the yellow jackets, so wary of being bitten that she was afraid to go outside. That was why she had always settled for her lesser men.

  It was so clear now, suddenly, and so wrong-headed: there had always been yellow jackets on otherwise perfect evenings, and she'd never gotten stung. And taking that risk of getting stung put you out where you really wanted to be.

  It was the only way, with luck, to get you to where her parents had gotten.

  To where she wanted to be.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  'Of course nothing happened to you,' Wes said. 'Why did I even feel like I had to ask? In fact, now that I think about it, I'm surprised some fissure didn't open in your backyard revealing a vein of gold.'

  'I didn't tell you about that?' Dooher put a hand on his friend's shoulder. 'Just kidding,' he said. 'How's the face?'

  Farrell had needed seven stitches and a tetanus shot. He had one bandage under his blackened left eye, another on the side of his mouth. 'Let's go with unpleasant.'

  'No, how's it feel?

  Farrell gave him a look. 'Funny.'

  It was Friday morning a little before noon, the day after the quake, and they were in Wes's office. Dooher took a seat in the ragged armchair. His friend was putting books back on the shelves. Bart, giving no sign that he'd ever been jumpy in his life, slept under the table.

  'So how'd your office make out?' Wes asked. 'Don't tell me, it wasn't touched.'

  'A little. It's a relatively new building with all the codes up to date. They don't shake much.'

  F
arrell turned around. 'You mean nothing, don't you?'

  'Nothing structural. Couple of bookshelves fell over, like here.'

  'Not like here, Mark! Not like here. Here we got cracks in all the walls, maybe you didn't notice, the place has got to get completely repainted, we got plaster in the ducts, the water's out in the bathroom, every single one of my books hit the floor running,' he whirled further around, pointing, picking up some steam, 'that window, check it out, is now plywood…' He blew out a long breath. 'No! No, decidedly not just like here.'

  Bart came awake, barked once, went back to sleep.

  Dooher, sympathetic as a hangman, held up a hand. 'Du calme, Wesley, du calme.'

  'Du calme, my ass. Easy for you to say.' His body sagging, Farrell crossed to his desk and edged himself onto the corner of it. 'I know there's no justice in the world, and nothing happens for any reason, it's all random -I know all of that – but what I don't understand is why all this perverse, random shit happens to me!'

  'It's like Grace,' Dooher said.

  'And don't give me any of that Catholic stuff, either.'

  'Not that Grace.' Dooher crossed a leg, enjoying himself. This lady, Grace, she's born ugly as sin, half-blind, one leg missing, her hair never grows, she gets cancer at thirteen, a mess. Dies horribly and goes up to the Pearly Gates. God looks at her, says, "Grace, you're going to hell."

  '"But why?" she asks. "Why, God? I've tried to be a good person, tried to please You, suffered my whole life…"

  '"I don't know, Grace," God says. "There's just something about you that pisses me off.'"

  Farrell was shaking his head. 'I can understand why that joke would appeal to you. You are lucky. I, on the other hand, am cursed.'

  'Oh bullshit, Wes. People-'

  'Stop! Stop! I know what you're going to say. That people make their own luck. That is what every lucky person in the world says, and that is bullshit!' He pushed himself off the desk, stepping on Bart's tail. 'Ruff!'

  'You, dog, shut up! I don't want to hear anymore out of you.' Back to Dooher. 'Look at me here, Mark. Look at me. My apartment is trashed, my office is ruined, my fucking dog – man's best mauling machine – nearly tears my head off…' he sank back to his corner of the desk, staring at his shoes.

  'Wes…'

  Tm sorry. I'm just a whining sack, aren't I? But I have to tell you, sometimes the weight of what appears to be random bad luck just gets a little hard to take. It's not like I want something terrible to happen to you, but don't you sometimes wonder when it never does? Does this mean something about me? Jesus!'

  'Hey, come on.' Dooher got out of his chair, walked over to his bud, put his arms around him. 'Come on. I love you, Wes, you know that. You need help here, I'll send over some of my associates. You need it at home, some money, whatever, you got it. You want, I'll put a couple of gashes into my own face, bleed a little.'

  Farrell looked up, shook his head in disgust. 'I'm a waste, aren't I?' Dooher pinched his good cheek. 'But cute. Come on, let me buy you some lunch.'

  It wasn't fancy, but the Chinese food was spicy hot and excellent. There were only six tables in the place, and Farrell took the opportunity to point out that he came here twice a week and never got an empty table.

  But Mark Dooher walked in the door, and there was one with his name on it, and no, they didn't mind if the dog came in, too. The owner had a dog looked just like Bart. This led Farrell to wonder aloud if there was any part of Dooher's experience untouched by good fortune.

  'For the record, I've got some pretty estranged, screwed-up kids, and you don't.'

  'I never see my kids,' Farrell said.

  'But when you do, they don't hate you, do they?'

  'No. At least I don't think so.'

  'Mine hate me. My failed artist namesake son hates me. My lesbian daughter hates me. My skiboard bum son hates me.'

  'They don't…'

  'Trust me, they do. You know it, too. Now I don't know whether that's luck or not, but it's not good. I must have had something to do with it.'

  'Okay, that's serious. Your life isn't perfect. I apologize.'

  A macho shrug, Dooher's mini-lesson in handling the pain the way a man should. 'It's life,' he said. 'It hits us all. Which is actually, since we're on the subject, why I wanted to see you this morning. More bad luck for me. But this is business.'

  'What business?'

  'I want to put you on retainer for a while as my personal attorney.'

  Farrell stopped with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. 'I'm listening.'

  'Victor Trang.'

  'Okay, what about him?'

  'I think the police think I might have killed him.'

  'Get out…! You! Are you kidding me?'

  'I don't think so.'

  'Why do they think that?'

  'I don't know. I'm not even a hundred percent sure they do, but this cop Glitsky called me the other-'

  'Glitsky?'

  'Yeah, that's his name. You know him?'

  'He was the cop handling my last case, Levon Copes. Screwed it up completely.'

  'Well, that's a relief. He might be screwing up this one, too.'

  'He thinks you killed Victor Trang? Why?'

  'Take it easy, Wes. I'm not sure. But he's called me back a couple of times, zeroing in, asking questions – where was I, did I talk to Trang, that kind of thing.'

  'And you answered him?'

  Dooher shrugged. 'Sure. I've got nothing to hide. Why wouldn't I talk to him?'

  'That doesn't matter. The first rule is never talk to a cop about a crime in your time-zone without your lawyer sitting there.'

  'But I didn't-'

  'Doesn't matter. What did he ask? What did you tell him?'

  'Does this mean you're on retainer?'

  Farrell nodded. 'Yeah. Of course. What do you think?'

  It was quarter past noon on Friday afternoon. Glitsky was walking the hallway on the 4th floor, heading back to Homicide. He'd spent the morning interviewing witnesses who lived in apartments on either side of his seventy-year-old victim, who'd owned a handgun for protection – the man whose last thought had been that his gun was going to help him if a burglar ever broke in.

  Nope.

  The last couple of days had been well over the line into surreal. At home, the earthquake damage had been serious but, miraculously, all cosmetic. They'd straightened up the armoire and rehung the clothes. In the boys' room, Jake had been crying out because it was dark and he'd been tipped out of his bed. Isaac and O.J. had remained so quiet because they'd slept through it all. (As he had, he reminded himself. If Flo hadn't yelled out for him…)

  Then, all day yesterday, his wife wouldn't stay still. She had been up and around, throwing away the broken dishes, shards of pottery and glass, straightening, vacuuming, rearranging, even washing the windows. Nesting, nesting.

  The day of the quake he'd stayed home. (A good day for it, as it turned out. There was not one homicide reported in San Francisco.) Today, day two, he couldn't stand seeing Flo working so hard, singing to herself, reborn. So much energy and sense of purpose – it was going to come crashing down. He couldn't let himself get his hopes up.

  This was pure adrenaline – hers.

  He wanted no part of it, and she didn't want him moping around, bring her down. They'd almost had a fight about it – would have, if he hadn't left.

  So he'd gone to his morning interviews. Now, back at the Hall, his plan was to call around, line up some more witnesses on his other cases, call the phone company and check on the progress of Mark Dooher's records.

  There was a package on his desk and he ripped it open. The phone records on Dooher weren't supposed to be delivered for at least another day, maybe two or three, but now here he was holding them in his hands.

  Wonders did never cease.

  Dooher's home was easy. He'd made no phone calls at all on the Monday that Trang had been killed. His office was a little more interesting. He'd called Trang twice – 1:40 and 4:50 – pr
ecisely the times noted in the dead man's computer.

  Which meant that if Trang had been making up a story to impress his mother and girlfriend, major elements of it were close to the truth. His pulse quickening – the thrill of the chase indeed – Glitsky turned to the last little packet of sheets. There, as promised by Trang, was the third call, from Dooher's cellphone, at 7:25.

  And even though Glitsky thought the official policy on miscreants in San Francisco was, 'Three strikes and you're misunderstood,' this time he was getting willing to call Dooher out. He sat back in his chair, feet up on his desk, wondering what, if anything, it meant.

  Trang's computer notes might have been cryptic, but they also told a consistent story – Mark Dooher was working on the settlement, not acting as an adviser on a personal injury case as he'd claimed. Glitsky could imagine no reason why Trang would lie to himself in his electronic notebook.

  And here was another tantalizing entry -MD from F. 's. The 7:25 call that Glitsky had interpreted to mean that Dooher had called from Flaherty's office. But, in fact, he'd made it from his car. What did that mean? Was it possible that F wasn't Flaherty?

  Another thought – did Trang even have any personal injury cases in his files? This, Glitsky thought, was a job for the ever-eager Paul Thieu. And the note? MD message. There might be something the lab could salvage from the tape that had been in Trang's answering machine, even if it had been recorded over. He leaned forward, pulled his yellow pad toward him, and started writing.

  He longed to catch Dooher in his lie. In any lie. There had to be one. In a kind of trance, he was lost in his notes. Then staring into the space in front of him, he picked up the telephone and punched some numbers.

  'Law Offices.'

  'Hello. This is Sergeant Glitsky, San Francisco Homicide. I'd like to talk to Mr Dooher's secretary, please. And I'm sorry, I don't remember her name.'

  'Janey.'

  'That's it. Thanks.'

  'Mr Dooher's office.'

  'Janey?'

  'Yes.'

  Another introduction, a little riff of bureaucratese, then he was saying: 'Janey, I need to confirm a couple of things your boss told me. This is just routine.'