John Lescroart - Damage

“So you never called her on it? Confronted her directly?”

“No.”

“Not on last Friday, either?”

“No. Not then. Not ever.” He suddenly reached for the glass in front of him and drank deeply from it. “You ever go through a bad time with your wife, Lieutenant? Sometimes you just wait it out, you hope something gives.”

“Of course.” Glitsky had no intention of discussing anything about his marriage with Michael Durbin, or anyone else for that matter. “Would you happen to have a list of her patients?” he asked.

“No. They’d be at her office, over by Stonestown.” Durbin gave him the exact address and suite number. “If you can get at ’em. She was super-protective about her records. Patient/doctor privilege, you know.”

“I’ve heard of it. Is there anything else you can think of that you might want to tell me about?”

The way it worked with Eztli was that nearly every day he got most of the day off. He had no regular duties down at the Castro Street offices of the Courier , where Cliff and Theresa spent most of their time during daylight hours. Back home, Eztli was in charge of the general upkeep of the house, though, supervising the cleaning, kitchen, and gardening staff, coordinating visits from repair-men and deliveries. He was a very efficient manager, and these duties, even at their most onerous, would rarely keep him occupied until noon, after which his afternoon time was his own. When he wasn’t out on special projects, the Curtlees expected him to be home and dressed in his business suit to greet visitors and to serve as a generally unobtrusive bodyguard and butler.

He had a license to carry a firearm, courtesy of a sheriff from a small county in the Central Valley, so when he was dressed up in the house, he packed an ugly black semiautomatic under his arm in a shoulder holster. Sometimes he also wore it when he was outside. He had not shot anyone since a few months before he’d come to the United States.

Today, since Eztli was out with Ro and had already learned that anything might happen-he really liked the vibe around this kid-his gun rested snug up under the arm of his black Oakland Raiders jacket. Eztli had both dropped and then picked up Ro at Tadich Grill and now he pulled the 4Runner out into traffic with his passenger back aboard and said, “Somebody joined in with us. Waited with me in the garage the whole time.” When Ro turned around, Eztli said, “The white Honda, looks like an Accord. White guy, tie, no coat, half bald…”

“Got him,” Ro said, and came back around facing front. “You know him?”

“Never seen him before.”

“So. One of Glitsky’s plainclothes guys.”

“Got to be.”

“All right.”

They drove a few blocks farther west until just short of Polk, Ro told Eztli to pull over into the next parking spot he saw and keep the car running. When he did, the white Honda, which had been following about three cars behind them, cruised on by, the driver apparently whistling to the radio, eyes straight ahead.

“Guy’s going for the Academy Award,” Eztli said. “Now what?”

“Now he’s going to turn to go around the block and catch us again, so let’s get on his ass instead.”

Eztli pulled out in a squeal of rubber, then at the corner and against the light cut in front of a bus coming up Polk Street and fell in behind the white Honda just in time to see it turn right again at the next corner. Eztli didn’t need any instructions-accelerating up the block, he almost went onto two wheels as he turned steeply uphill and had gained half his ground by the time the Honda turned right again at the next corner.

This time, as Eztli got within sight, they saw that the Honda had done their old trick of pulling off to the side and coming to a halt.

“Block him off,” Ro said, and Eztli pulled a hard right into the driveway just in front of the Honda. Before their 4Runner had even come to a complete stop, Ro was out onto the street, the middle finger of his uncasted hand extended. “Hey!” he yelled, all the while flipping off the man who’d been tailing him. “Hey!” Coming right up to the window, now. “You want to get off my ass? What the hell are you doing?”

The window came down and the man, not at all impressed with Ro’s outburst, held his wallet up with his left hand, flashing his badge. In his right, he held a gun that was pointed directly at Ro’s face.

“And who the fuck are you?” Ro asked. “I’ve about had it with you guys, you know that?”

Seeing Eztli coming up, too, hands in the pockets of his Raiders jacket, the man held the badge up farther so that Eztli could see it, too. So there would be no misunderstanding. “I’m an inspector with the DA’s office, and I’m here to make sure you two boys don’t get yourselves into any more trouble.”

“Well, I’m here to tell you to stay the fuck out of my life. I’ve got my rights here. I can go where I want and do what I want. You hear me?”

Eztli put a restraining hand on Ro’s arm and leaned down. “Did Wes Farrell put you on this?” he asked quietly.

“We have other DAs,” Matt Lewis said. “I take assignments from many of them. Now get back in your car and move along.”

“Fucking Jenkins,” Ro said to no one, then to Eztli, “Got to be Jenkins.”

“She’s an extraordinarily determined woman, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, and those legs go all the way up, I bet. I’d like to get myself some of that, wouldn’t you, Ez?”

“I would not turn it down.”

“I’m telling you exactly once more, move along.”

“Ooh,” Ro said, leaning in toward the car. “I’m thinking maybe we hit a nerve here, Ez. Maybe the man here’s already had some of that.”

Matt Lewis raised his gun hand a little higher.

Ro, eyes on the gun, began to step back, but Eztli was right behind him, solid as a wall. “So Farrell didn’t assign you,” Eztli said. He did not retreat one single step. “Nice wheels, by the way. Is that the Accord?”

By way of answer, Lewis pointed the gun at him and said, “One.”

Eztli kept his calm. “The officer wants us to back up, Ro,” he said.

“I hear him.”

“Then by all means let us comply.” He backed up and pulled Ro along with him, talking easily as they walked back to the 4Runner, “The city doesn’t use Hondas as city vehicles, so how does he stay in touch without a radio?”

“His cell?” Ro replied.

“Not when he’s driving,” Eztli said. “That would be against the law.” He went around the bumper of the 4Runner, opened his driver door, got in, and started the engine.

Matt Lewis, shaking from adrenaline, put his Glock back into its holster. He turned on the ignition and waited for the 4Runner to back out and drive away.

As they turned back west onto California Street, Ro asked, “What was all that about his car? The Honda?”

Eztli glanced at the rearview mirror. “What’s he doing now?”

Ro turned around to look. Lewis was right behind them. “Just driving.”

“No phone?”

“No. Unless he’s on speaker.”

“Does he appear to be talking?”

“No.”

“I’m thinking not. No Bluetooth on that model. It’s too old.”

“So?”

“So it’s his own car. He doesn’t have a radio. He’s not using the phone.”

“Right.”

“So no one knows where he is or what he’s doing.”

“Somebody knows he’s assigned to tail us.”

“How do they know we didn’t shake him?”

“Okay, but again, so what?”

“So you’ll see.”

They rolled across Van Ness, Franklin, Gough, Eztli’s eyes flitting back and forth between his rearview mirror and the road ahead. As they approached Fillmore, he suddenly flicked on his signal and pulled over into the left-turn lane.