John Lescroart - Damage

And the two of them had strolled down to check it out.

Sure enough, there must have been thirty-five or forty people waiting for or drinking their super-tall macchiato or whatever it was, and packing heat. The uniformed cops-now eight of them-were politely but carefully checking to see that none of the guns were loaded. All of the demonstrators were reasonably well dressed and well behaved. Many seemed to be professionals. Most were men, although there were more women than Ro would have guessed, six or eight of them.

By the time Ro entered the store, he was probably the only person left inside besides the employees who were not armed.

They stayed long enough to have their own coffees, still flying on their reefer, and until the crowd had started to disperse. Of course, as they’d expected, the cops did not recognize them. Back at the garage, they waited out on the sidewalk until they saw one of the demonstrators-a paunchy, middle-aged, balding man in casual business attire with what looked like a big semiautomatic with custom-made grips in a holster on his hip-pass them and turn into the entrance.

Eztli had come up quickly and silently behind him and put him down and out with one rabbit punch, and less than five minutes later, Ro was wearing the gun and had the guy’s bullets in his pocket and the two of them roared out of the garage, howling with the good, clean, sheer fun of it all.

Now, at eleven thirty or so, Ro turned off the TV in his room. He wasn’t so much tired as he was bored, and when he was bored, invariably he got horny. And he sure didn’t want to wait around until two o’clock or whenever Tiffany got off. Besides, he didn’t want to start up anything regular with any one chick. Not when there was so much opportunity a lot closer at hand.

Ro’s room was on the third floor, at the other end of the house and one floor up from his parents’ bedroom. Eztli, the cook, and the two cleaning girls had their rooms two floors below his parents, on the basement level. To facilitate communication in the seven-thousand-square-foot home, the Curtlees had installed a sophisticated intercom system between the various floors and rooms.

Starting to get excited by the idea he was developing, Ro got up off his bed and crossed over to his dresser, opening one of the drawers and taking out the gun that he’d scored that afternoon. He hefted it in one hand and then the other, appreciating its weight and appearance. It was a beauty, he thought. Brand-new, or as good as. A big mother with an oversize magazine with a seventeen-round capacity, about a foot long, with a bright satin stainless finish and custom wooden grips. The kind of gun that could get your attention from across the room.

Twenty-year-old Linda Salcedo heard the faint buzz of the intercom through her blankets and for an instant couldn’t place where the sound was coming from. Then, coming fully awake, she waited in the dark of her room to see if she’d imagined it, or if one of the Curtlees in fact needed her for something, even at this time of night. That would be unusual, since her duties keeping the rooms spotless kept her busy throughout the day. By the time she’d helped clean up after dinner, she normally had her nights to herself. But of course, if anyone needed her at any time-to restock toilet paper, get some hair out of a sink, change a lightbulb, anything-she would have to go and take care of it.

And yes, here it was again, the intercom buzzing.

Sighing, throwing the covers off, she padded barefoot over to her door and pushed the reply button. “Sí?”

“Linda. Hi. This is Ro upstairs. Sorry to bother you so late.”

“Is no bother.” No, I was just sitting up here at midnight waiting for something to do, hoping one of you would call.

“Good. Listen, I was getting out of the shower and I knocked over the shampoo bottle and got it all over the floor. I wondered if you could come up and get it cleaned up. I wouldn’t want to get up and slip on it in the middle of the night.”

“Okay,” she said, letting out a frustrated and weary breath. You spilled some shampoo? You wouldn’t want to try cleaning it up yourself, would you? Heaven forbid. “In two minutes, sí ?”

“ Sí ,” he said. “Two minutes is fine. Even three. Take your time.”

“Gracias . ”

“De nada . ”

She had been sleeping in her nightgown, and now she considered taking it off and getting dressed again in her regular uniform, but that seemed a lot of effort to simply go upstairs and clean up a little spill, which would probably take her all of one minute. So she decided she would just put on her bathrobe and her Crocs. She’d be done and be back down here in five minutes and then she could just go back to sleep.

No one else seemed to be awake in the house, but the halls were lit with tiny night lights in the wall sockets, and in the light of these she walked up the three flights to the top floor, then turned left at the top of the stairs and went to Ro’s door, closed, at the far end of the hall. Gently she rapped on it.

“Come on in.”

When she opened the door, she was briefly surprised to see that Ro had turned the lights out in here already. Probably just going to sleep, he had no reason to talk to her again-he’d already told her what she needed to do.

“Would you mind closing the door behind you?” she heard him say from where she knew the bed was.

She did as she was told, and now there was nothing but darkness. She stood stock-still inside the room, waiting for her eyes to adjust so she could go to the bathroom where he’d spilled the shampoo.

“You can turn on the light,” he said.

Again, she did as he requested, half turning away to the switch by the door. When she came back around and looked at him, she did a little half jump backward, accompanied by a frightened little yelp, her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with terror.

Ro was naked on top of the covers, with a full erection. He was holding a gun on her, centered at her heart. With his other hand, the arm in a cast above it, he patted the bed next to him and broke a big smile. “Nobody has to get hurt here if you act smart,” he said. “Just come on over and take that robe off you. And you and me, we’ll lay down and get ourselves comfortable.”

Driving back from Liza’s to Chuck and Kathy’s place, all Michael Durbin knew for sure was that he was a mess.

There was guilt but also, no question, elation over the time he’d just spent with Liza. He told himself that he hadn’t gone over there to go to bed with her, but simply because he felt like he needed someone to talk to whom he could trust and who believed him. But did he know even as he was driving over to Liza’s that they would probably wind up having sex? And even if he did, so what? So soon after Janice’s death, that’s so what, he told himself. And yet, Janice was truly dead, now cremated. He had been faithful, as he’d sworn he would, until death did they part. And he didn’t owe her anything after that.

He didn’t understand so much of what he was going through and he thought that Liza was sensitive and smart enough to help talk him through it all. Janice gone. His paintings now gone. His eldest son thinking he was capable of murder. The beginnings of full-scale mutiny at work. And while he was at it, why not add the facts that he’d slept with a new woman for the first time in twenty years? That, also, he was driving around with his shotgun in the trunk of his car.

He hadn’t seen any need to tell Glitsky the real reason why he’d gone out to his garage earlier in the evening after the memorial had worn down. He had only inadvertently stumbled onto his slashed paintings; he had not come to the garage to do anything with his paintings. He had come to get his shotgun. He wasn’t quite clear on whether he wanted it more for protection or for aggression, but once the idea of having the thing near to hand had taken hold, he found himself powerless to resist it.