John Lescroart - Damage

“Then what?”

“Then Ro came out and hopped in his car with his driver.”

“And Lewis took off after them?”

“Said he was going to, anyway. After that we don’t know.”

Bracco considered, then gave a brusque nod. “Close enough for me.”

It was nursery-school day at the DA’s office. Treya came in late, getting on toward nine o’clock, trailing her two children. About fifteen minutes later, Farrell showed up with his dog in tow. Luckily Gert was well-behaved and liked children, so it wasn’t the chaos it could have been. But neither was it exactly a finely tuned, professional office environment.

Now Rachel and Zachary were coloring together on the library table in Farrell’s inner office, while Gert had stretched out under them. Treya and Wes had some important issues to discuss and they had migrated out to the reception area, Treya’s domain, and closed the doors both into Farrell’s office and leading out into the hallway so they could have some privacy.

Farrell was perched on the front of Treya’s desk. “For how long?” he asked her.

“I don’t know. As long as it takes.” Treya stood leaning up against the wall of law books in the outer office. “I’m not leaving the kids with this kind of risk.”

“Do you know where you’re going?”

“I’ve got a brother in LA. We’ll start out down there. And then Abe’s father has a place here in town where we’d be welcome, although that may be too close. I don’t want to be find-able.”

“And what’s Abe going to do?”

Treya’s mouth went a little loose before it tightened up again. “He’s staying on. He says it’s only going to be a couple of weeks, now. Hopefully. I mean, until Ro’s in jail again.”

“If we can get an indictment. And now, with Amanda…” Farrell ran his hand back through his hair. “She was going to be presenting the case, but I don’t know if she’ll be able to pull it together quick enough after this Matt thing.”

“You could do it yourself.”

“I know. I might. But meanwhile”-he spread his hands out in front of him-“what am I supposed to do around here with you gone?”

“I’m sorry about that, sir, I really am. I wish there was some other way, but I don’t see what that would be. I’m sure there’s somebody good here in the building who could cover for me.”

“You are? You got a name for me?”

She crossed her arms and shook her head. “No.”

A silence built up between them.

“This is a real problem, Treya. You realize that? The more I get used to the idea, the more it’s a real problem.”

“Yes, sir, I understand. It’s a real problem at home, too. But what am I supposed to do? I’ve got the vacation time accrued.”

“That’s not the issue.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s my issue. I can’t keep the kids here. I’m afraid of what Ro might do to them. And you know he’s capable of it, whatever it is.”

Farrell digested her answer for a moment, then shook his head in disgust. “Fuck,” he said. “Pardon me.”

“The least of my worries,” Treya said. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you in person, see if I can help you find a replacement.”

“In one day?”

Treya tried to put on a brave face, but it didn’t take. She shrugged. “That’s all I can try for. I’m sorry.”

Wes boosted himself off the desk and looked straight across at her. “You know, Treya,” he said, “if you do this, I don’t know if I can guarantee that I’ll be able to take you back in the same job. That’s not a threat. It’s just reality. I need somebody who’s in here every day.”

“I realize that,” she said. “I couldn’t ask that you take me back.”

“Just so you know.”

“Yes,” she said. “I think that’s clear enough.”

Bracco found out why Denardi had agreed to the interview when he showed up at his downtown office and found Cliff and Theresa Curtlee there, too, along with Ro. Tristan Denardi introduced them both to Bracco, explaining that they were here not only in support of their son, but as representatives of their newspaper. Bracco understood that clearly, no matter what happened, their presence meant that the Courier was going to spin this interview as a further example of police overreaching.

Denardi crossed an ankle over his knee, revealing a flash of argyle sock over his highly polished black brogues. The impeccably dressed elderly attorney took his cup of hot coffee on its saucer and placed it on the low table in front of him in the conference room.

“I’m not sure my client has anything to say to you,” he said to Bracco when they settled down to business. “In fact, I’m fairly certain that he doesn’t. It’s clear that you people have a vested interest in harassing Mr. Curtlee, and I hope we’ve made it equally clear that we’re not about to let such harassment go uncontested. Now you’re here asking about my client’s whereabouts on last Friday morning, and we’re not inclined to provide that information without some sort of explanation as to why anyone should care where he was or what he was doing.”

Bracco sipped at his own coffee to give himself some time. The silent presence of the Curtlees unnerved him. He looked from the solid, unyielding parents over to Ro Curtlee in his pressed blue jeans and form-hugging black T-shirt and his eight-hundred-dollar cowboy boots. He still wore the cast on his arm from his altercation with Glitsky and his patrolmen; his face, though, had all but cleared up. He’d shaved this morning and his hair was neatly combed.

When he noticed Bracco’s eyes on him, Ro smiled dismissively.

Bracco chose his words carefully. “I’m investigating another case and would like to clear your client from suspicion.”

“You mean he’s under suspicion in another case?”

“Only in the sense that we don’t have a suspect yet in this other matter. I am in the process of trying to eliminate possibilities.”

“And Mr. Curtlee is among those possibilities?”

“Yes.”

A bark of a laugh from Ro, and then he sat back in his upholstered chair. “Unbelievable,” he said.

Theresa Curtlee finally got on the boards. “Truly,” she said.

Denardi held out a warning palm toward both her and his client. “Ro. Theresa. Please.” And then, back to Bracco. “This other case? A homicide, I presume.”

“Arson murder, actually.”

This brought a tight little turn-up of Denardi’s lips. “Of course. And how would Mr. Curtlee be even remotely connected to this hypothetical arson murder?”

“The victim was the wife of the foreman of his jury. Janice Durbin.”

Another prim smile from Denardi. “I see. And maybe you could draw me a road map, as it were, of how this poor woman’s unfortunate death leads in any way, even remotely, to Mr. Curtlee?”

Bracco kept it simple. “She was strangled, and somebody lit a fire. The same thing happened to Felicia Nuñez. And of course Ms. Sandoval was also strangled. There would appear to be something of a coincidence. So if your client will cooperate and we can eliminate him as a suspect, I’d like to do so. I just don’t see what your objection could be.”

Cliff Curtlee ostentatiously cleared his throat but said nothing.

Denardi took his cue. “Well, on general grounds, Inspector, my objection is that we American citizens have the right to our privacy. Mr. Curtlee doesn’t have to tell you or anybody else what he was doing on Friday morning or any other time.”

“No. Of course not.”

“On the other hand.” Denardi turned toward Ro again and some signal must have passed between them. “If you’d give my client and me a couple of minutes alone, Inspector, we might be able to come to some accommodation. If you don’t mind.” With that, lawyer, client, and his parents all stood and left the conference room.