John Lescroart - Damage

“So what if he wins?” Treya’s voice took on an edge. “It’s not you against him.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“Well, then, all the more reason.” She brought her hands together over his. “If it’s that personal, then you really are in danger. Don’t you see that?”

“I do, okay. But I can’t run just because some psychopath is out to get me. There are protections in place and there’s no reason to think they’re not going to work.”

“There isn’t? Tell that to Mr. Lewis.”

But Glitsky shook his head. “I don’t really think he can touch me or you or the kids. Or that he has any reason to.”

“And you’re willing to bet all of our lives, or any of our lives, on that?”

“Trey,” he said. “That might be a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

She let go of his hands, and now very suddenly Glitsky realized that she’d quickly worked herself into a cold and unaccustomed fury. “I’m willing to take grief for being dramatic when our children’s lives have been threatened, Abe. And in fact I’m kind of outraged you’re not taking it a lot more seriously.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not. You’re thinking of all this in terms of your job , of you versus Ro Curtlee, and who’s going to win, and you’re willing to risk losing all of this, our home”-she gestured at the room around them-“losing Rachel or Zack or you and me…”

“We’re not going to…”

Now, tears of anger and frustration in her eyes, Treya slammed both fists into her lap. “We will if one of us is dead, Abe! Don’t you see that? How close does it have to get? Just like poor Matt Lewis, all the sudden, poof, gone forever. And never even saw it coming.”

“Hey.” Reaching out, he touched her shoulder. “Treya…”

Brushing his hand off, she turned on him. “Don’t touch me! I’m not being hysterical or dramatic. I don’t need to get calmed down. You’re talking logic, but don’t you see that that man can take all this away, on a whim, everything we’ve ever built together and care about? And you’re willing to risk that? Why? Because of your job? Your career in law enforcement? I can’t even believe we’re having this discussion.”

“I told you I don’t think the likelihood…”

“ Fuck likelihood, Abe! Fuck that! ”

The profanity hit Glitsky with a titanic force, snapping his head back. She knew that he had a visceral intolerance for that kind of language, and in all the time they’d been together, she’d never said anything like that around him. He ran his hand over his forehead-his blood was rushing to his head, his stomach roiling-and he stood up and walked over to the front windows, trying to grab a breath.

“I didn’t mean-” he finally got out. “Whatever I said, I didn’t mean it. Of course you can go. Of course, no risk is tolerable. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to criticize you. You are completely right. If you need to go, you need to go. The children need to go.”

“And what about you?”

He turned back to face her, met her eyes, waited, shook his head no.

“How is this possible?” she asked. “How can we have come this far and I don’t even know you?”

“Trey,” he began, “you know me. You know who I am. I’ve been a cop ever since…”

She held up a hand, stopping him. “Oh, spare me,” she said. “Spare me, please.” And standing up, she gathered the blanket around her and spun on her heel around the corner and back to their bedroom, closing the door hard behind her.

At seven forty-five the next morning, a homicide sergeant inspector named Darrel Bracco knocked at the door to Glitsky’s office, which was open, although the lights inside were off. The lieutenant slumped in his chair, nearly reclined in fact, his outstretched arm around a cup of something on the desk. “You wanted to see me, Abe?”

“I did. Come on in.”

“Lights?”

“No. Leave’em, please. Take a chair.”

Obeying orders, Bracco entered the office and sat. Glitsky made no effort to sit up straighter. Even in the dim light, Bracco could see a grayish pallor under the lieutenant’s light brown skin. His body language screamed exhaustion, although when he spoke, the words came out with a clipped precision. “You heard about Matt Lewis.”

It wasn’t really a question. Even if word of the shooting hadn’t permeated as if by osmosis into every inch of the Hall of Justice building itself, the shooting of the DA inspector had been the lead story on all the local network news programs last night, and had made headlines in both the Chronicle and the Courier this morning.

Bracco knew that the whiteboard on the wall behind his head already had his name down as the lead investigator on three active homicides: a no-humans-involved gang-banger shooting in the Lower Mission, a tragic shaken baby case out in the Sunset, and a fiftysomething unmarried insurance broker who’d gotten himself stabbed to death the week before in the alley outside Alfred’s Steak House. These, Bracco felt, put him at about the limit of his capabilities, particularly since he was working solo lately.

But now Glitsky was asking if he’d heard about Matt Lewis, and Bracco said, “Sure. Terrible thing. And I’ll take it if there’s no choice, but if somebody else wants it, my plate’s pretty full.”

“I’m not asking you to take it, Darrel.”

“Sorry. I just thought…” He shrugged. “Go ahead.”

“So what have you heard about it?”

“Lewis? Not much. Out there in the ‘Mo’”-this was department slang for the lower Fillmore-“it could have been anything. Who’s got the case?”

“Nobody. Not yet. I might wind up taking it myself.” Glitsky turned his cup. “So you haven’t heard anything?”

“No.”

“What if I told you he was following Ro Curtlee around?”

Bracco kept his reaction low-key. “That’s not come out.”

“No.”

“Is it true?”

“True enough.”

In all of the news reports, Glitsky had carefully declined to state whether they had a suspect, or even a person of interest, in the shooting. It appeared to be a random, perhaps drug- or gang-related, homicide, but no one yet knew for sure. The investigation was continuing. That was all he could divulge.

“So…” Bracco waited.

“So I need a volunteer to call Curtlee’s lawyer to ask him for an interview, and for obvious reasons that can’t be me. No way is Denardi going to let that happen, but we have to ask. I don’t want the accusation that we never gave him a chance to tell his side of the story.”

“But supposing he says yes, do you want me to talk to him about this Lewis thing?”

“Actually that and one other case. Janice Durbin.”

“Don’t know her.”

“Friday, her house burned down around her. Just like with Felicia Nuñez, who happened to be a witness in Ro’s trial. Also, like Felicia, strangled. And this latest victim, Janice Durbin, was married to the jury foreman in Ro’s trial.”

“I’m seeing a pattern,” Bracco said.

“No flies on you. But the good news is that because of Lewis, and the fact that we know he was following Ro around, you’ve got a reasonable, even plausible excuse to talk to Ro, see what he says he was doing yesterday. And while you’re at it, get his alibi for Janice Durbin, if he’s got one.”

“You think he’ll talk to me?”

“Not a chance in the world. But we’ve got to do the drill.”

Bracco said, “Lewis was really tailing him?”

“What, Darrel, you think I’m making this up?” But then, hearing how brusque he sounded, he held up a hand in apology. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t sleep last night. But yeah, Lewis was tailing Ro, at least until an hour or so before he got shot. That was his last check-in with Amanda Jenkins, outside Tadich’s, where Ro met his lawyer.”