John Lescroart - Damage

Which meant it couldn’t wait.

So, accepting the congratulations of the multitude, he thanked his way off the podium and walked out into the hall, where he could hear himself think. He touched the cell phone screen to connect him to the head of homicide.

Without preamble, Glitsky said, “Do you know where Ro Curtlee is?”

“How would I know that?”

“So you don’t? You don’t have a secret tail on him? Anything like that?”

“No, of course not. What’s happened?”

“Felicia Nuñez got herself killed tonight. Maybe raped first, then set on fire. You know who Felicia Nuñez is, right?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“We’ve got to get this guy off the streets. Like yesterday.”

“Oh. Okay. Let’s do that.” Sarcasm dripped into the connection. “You got an idea how that gets accomplished? You got anything implicating him at the scene?”

“No. Everything was burned up. Ro never occurred to me until I placed the woman’s name. I’m going to go rattle his cage.”

“Don’t do that, Abe. Really. Anything remotely smacking of harassment-and that would-and we’re sued from here to Denmark. If you arrest him, even if you get him back downtown just to talk, he’s back out in a day or two anyway.”

“That’s two days he can’t kill anybody else.”

Glitsky was just venting and Farrell knew it, but he still felt he had to make his point. “No, listen. It’s going to be hard enough to get his new trial on the docket, even without muddying the waters with harassment and a false arrest.” Farrell drew a breath. “So. Has the press got ahold of this yet? The connection?”

“There were TV vans at the fire. I don’t know if anybody’s put this Nuñez woman together with Ro yet. But that’s only a matter of time, and probably not too much of that. I’ve got to go talk to him.”

“And then what? You think he won’t have an alibi? You think he’ll invite you in to have a nice talk? You think you can get a warrant to search his place? I can tell you right now, the answer’s no to all of the above.”

“Wes, the guy’s got to be back in jail.”

“I hear you, but I don’t know how to make that happen.”

“Rescind his bail.”

“I can’t do that. You need to find some evidence on this new one.”

“At a fire scene? The place is gutted.”

“Maybe there’ll be his DNA on the victim.”

“I thought of that, too, but not a chance. You didn’t see her. There’s no place to get swabs from. I didn’t even know for sure that she was a woman. Arnie Becker says we’ll be lucky to get a positive ID from dental records.”

Farrell took a moment. “You’re saying you’re not even sure it was Nuñez?”

“It was her apartment, Wes. She was the only one in it.”

“But if it’s not, in fact, her, then there’s no connection to Ro.”

“Give me a break, Wes. You and I both know it’s her, which means it’s Ro. It’s got to be Ro.”

“I know, I know. I’m just thinking about containment.”

“It’s not a containment issue.”

“Well, at least part of it is. Anyway, it could give us both some breathing room.”

“And meanwhile, he kills his last remaining witness.”

“Maybe not. Hopefully not. Who is she?”

“Another former Curtlee domestic servant, smack in the middle of the profile. Gloria Gonzalvez.”

“Do we know where she is?”

“Not yet, but I intend to find out. Meanwhile, speaking of that, what’s the problem with getting his new trial on the docket? Get him back behind bars that way.”

“I’m working on that, Abe. Believe me. But his lawyer-you know Denardi?-needs to get up to speed on the facts of the case. He told Baretto it’s going to take him six months at least, and over my strenuous objections he thought that seemed reasonable and continued the goddamn thing until August, and that’s just to set a trial date.”

“Lord,” Glitsky said. “The man’s a menace in his own right.” A beat. “So, what happens next? We can’t just let this go on.”

Farrell scratched his jaw with his cell phone. “Somebody around the fire might still have seen or heard something. Tell Arnie Becker what this might be about, and he can go back and recanvass the neighborhood. Talk to your crime scene people. Locate some DNA somewhere. You get anything real, Abe, bring Ro in and I’ll take the flak and hold him. But get ready, and make sure it’s real, ’cause there will be beaucoup flak.”

The Curtlee mansion and its grounds took up the last third of Vallejo Street on the uphill side in the last block before it abutted into the abundant greenery of the tamed forest that was the Presidio.

Glitsky sat in his city-issued Taurus, driver’s side window down, and stared across the street at the imposing structure. Set back about sixty feet from the curb, but otherwise surprisingly open to the street, the vast white block of stucco rose three stories up into the trees on the escarpment behind it. The driveway and its landscaping blocked an unimpeded view of the ground floor, but on the two upper floors, lights shone in six of the sixteen windows. From where he sat, Glitsky could only just make out some flickering light and occasional movement behind the enormous bay window through the well-tended shrubbery on the house’s right side.

He didn’t know precisely why he was there. He might have told himself that he was investigating a murder in which a resident of this house, recently released from prison, was already his prime suspect, and this was true as far as it went. But it was also true that everything Wes had told him was probably correct-he had neither evidence nor a warrant to search for it. Ro would have an alibi and would probably refuse to talk to him in any event. The Curtlees were not only wealthy, they were by now experienced in dealing with, and frustrating the efforts of, law enforcement. They would have a lawyer down here the minute Glitsky showed his face, and he would wind up having nothing to show for all of his trouble.

But he didn’t care.

He wanted them-the whole family-to know that he knew. And to remind them that in spite of their money and power, he’d won last time, and that he would win again. And that this time-with the Nuñez murder rather than the retrial of Ro for murdering Dolores Sandoval-he would get his special circumstances, and maybe even succeed in putting Roland Curtlee on death row, where he belonged.

It was juvenile, undisciplined, visceral, and Glitsky was acutely aware of, even somewhat embarrassed by, all that, but basically, at bottom, he wanted to put this dangerous and irresponsible family on notice that the damage they’d done to his career had not broken him. And that, in fact, he had resurrected himself to the relative eminence he had enjoyed before. In spite of the Curtlees’ best efforts to ruin him through slander, libel, and innuendo, he was back at his job in homicide.

He opened his car door, and as the inside light came on, he checked his watch. It was ten fifteen, much later than a San Francisco policeman was authorized to pay a call on a citizen who was not actively involved in a crime or its aftermath either as perpetrator or victim. Glitsky knew that by ringing their doorbell, he was giving the Curtlees ammunition to claim that he was harassing them. But he had a ready response: The circumstances surrounding Felicia Nuñez’s death, along with the role she had been about to play in Ro’s new trial, necessitated a swift, early police interrogation, if for no other reason than to eliminate Ro as a suspect. He could argue that, if anything, he was doing them a favor.

In a cathedral of old-growth cypress, he stepped out of his car and into the hushed and imposing street.