Guilt

by John Lescroart

  CHAPTER FOURTY SEVEN

  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.

  CHAPTER FOURTY EIGHT

  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.