John Lescroart - Damage

The servant who opened the door was new since the last time Glitsky had been to the Curtlees’ home. Ten years ago, they hadn’t had a formal butler, but now it seemed that had changed. This guy was impressive, with the build of a wrestler. He looked to be in his late forties, with a full head of perfectly groomed salt-and-pepper hair. In a dark gray business suit and black tie, the man exuded a quiet and cold-blooded competence. His frankly Aztec face betrayed neither curiosity nor concern at Glitsky’s arrival, his request to talk to the Curtlees if they were home, or the badge he proffered.

He spoke with an exaggerated politeness, in an exceptionally deep, unaccented voice. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No. As I said, I’m with the police department.”

“Yes. I understand. Do you have a warrant?”

“No. I hope to get a few words with one of the Curtlees to apprise them of a situation that has come up.”

“Can you give me the message?”

“I’d prefer to speak to one of them personally.”

The man took a long moment, deciding. “And the name again?”

“Lieutenant Glitsky. San Francisco homicide.”

“Yes, sir. One moment, please. I’ll see if one of them is available.”

Gently but firmly, he closed the door on Glitsky’s face.

Glitsky turned around and distracted himself by looking down the driveway to the street beyond. There was no gate. He’d been able to walk unimpeded up to the front door. For the first time, this struck him as unusual, and he wondered what, if anything, it said about this family, about its arrogance and its culture. True, this block didn’t get much foot traffic, and what there was of it wasn’t particularly threatening in the mold of, say, the Tenderloin district; but every other domicile on this block had its fence and its gate. Maybe the Curtlees figured first that everyone would know who lived here and second that no one would dare disturb them because to do so would be to invite the family’s wrath and retribution.

So a fence wasn’t necessary; neither was a gate. The psychic barrier was enough.

When he heard footsteps approaching from back inside the mansion, Glitsky turned back and was facing the door when it opened on Ro Curtlee.

The young man had filled out some in the years he’d been away, but with the milky blue eyes and the weak jawline, he still had a bit of the look of a sullen child. His light blond hair had grown out in the weeks that he’d been out on bail. Somewhere he’d acquired a scar that began high on his forehead and disappeared into his hairline. The white tank top he wore tucked into his slacks revealed all of his arms, now with well-defined biceps; he’d clearly spent a lot of time working out in prison.

Seeing Glitsky, he let out a scornful note of laughter, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Ez said it was you out here disturbing our peace so late on a weekend night, and I told him you knew better than that. So I had to come see for myself, and here you are, in the flesh. You got yourself a giant set of balls, I’ll give you that, showing your face around me again. So what the fuck do you want this time?”

“I hoped to try to eliminate you as a suspect in a murder that happened today.”

“Sure you did. Who got herself killed?”

Glitsky paused. “Who said it was a female?”

Ro’s face went blank for an instant before a cracked smile flittered back. “Oh. Ouch! Got me with a little zinger there right out of the gate. Nice work. I better get my lawyer down here before I incriminate myself. You got your tape recorder going?”

“Nope.”

Ro clucked. “That’s a shame. You could have used that moment in court.”

“I still can.”

“Okay, you got me shakin’ now, and especially if it turns out it was a woman got killed.”

“You want to guess?”

“I don’t suppose I do. Especially if I got it right. How would that look? You know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah. You’re way too smart for a silly trick like that, Ro. But what I’m really here for, maybe you can tell me where you were this afternoon and who, if anyone, you were with.”

“Maybe I don’t have to tell you dick.”

“That’s right, you don’t. But you could save us both some trouble if you did.”

“That’s my goal, Sergeant. Save you some trouble.”

“It’s lieutenant now. I got promoted.”

“No shit! Well, congratulations on that one. I thought I heard your career had kind of gone in the toilet after my trial, arresting the wrong guy and all.”

Glitsky’s lips turned up a fraction of an inch. “Actually not so much. You getting convicted and all. You know? So?”

“So what?”

“Today. This afternoon. Where were you?”

“Out. Taking a drive.”

“Alone?”

“You bet. Enjoying my freedom.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Up to Napa, across to Sonoma, back down here by dinnertime.”

“You stop anywhere?”

“I got a burger and a milkshake at Taylor’s Refresher in Napa. You know that place? Awesome food. None of that fancy shit they serve everyplace else up there.”

“Yeah,” Glitsky said. “It’s a good spot. What kind of milkshake?”

“Chocolate.”

“Well, there you go. You think anybody up there, maybe working at Taylor’s, would recognize you?”

“I got no idea.”

“How about your car?”

“How about it?”

“What were you driving?”

“The Z-Four. The Beemer, you know. Top down.”

“What color is it?”

“Purple.”

“So it’s pretty visible?”

“People notice it, yeah. It’s bitchin’ wheels. That what you wanted to know?”

“It’s a good start.”

“So who got killed?”

Glitsky looked at his watch. “It ought to be on the news right about now. You can check it out yourself.”

“Ro.” A female voice from upstairs. The mother, Theresa. “Who’s there at this time of night?”

Ro Curtlee hesitated about a second before he allowed himself another dismissive half smile and looked Glitsky straight in the eye. “Nobody,” he said.

And closed the door.

Glitsky could have-perhaps should have-gone back home. But his blood was racing and he knew he’d keep Treya up if he stayed in the living room and simply paced, or even sat.

So he drove back downtown, parked in the city lot, and ascended back to the self-contained little universe that was his office. Switching on his lights, he crossed over to his desk.

High on his left-hand wall, five grimed-over identical windows provided a tenuous connection to the real world outside, although when the room lights weren’t on, even in the daytime, his office was almost too dark to read in. Under his framed personal photographs and departmental honors-Glitsky had been San Francisco Policeman of the Year in 1987, among other accomplishments-low shelves filled with bric-a-brac, memorabilia (his patrolman’s hat, a football signed by his old teammates at San Jose State), and random case files half filled his right-hand wall. Behind him a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf sported an array of reading material, eclectic for a policeman: hundreds of paperbacks; a complete collection of Patrick O’Brian’s seagoing novels along with their obscure reference volumes; a set of the Encyclopedia Britannica ; an abridged but still enormous Oxford English Dictionary ; the Compendium of Drug Therapy ; a couple of dozen sports books; the translated librettos of The Barber of Seville and Tosca (one of Glitsky’s older sons by his first marriage, Jacob, was a rising baritone in the opera world); the California Penal Code; and many other legal tomes.