John Lescroart - Damage

Parking in the Novios’ driveway, he checked the time on the dash before he turned off the engine: 1:21. He got out of the car and went back and opened the trunk. There was the shotgun, still, and the box of twelve-gauge ammunition that went with it, so he picked them both up and carried them around to the kitchen door. No point having a weapon, he thought, if you couldn’t get to it in an emergency.

In the living room, one light burned. Michael came through the kitchen, and Chuck looked up from where he sat in his reading chair, one stack of papers lying on his lap, another on the floor next to him.

“You’re still up?” Michael said.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He pointed vaguely. “What are you doing with that thing?”

“Keeping it handy.”

“Is it loaded? I don’t think I’m comfortable with a loaded gun in the house.”

For an answer, Michael broke open the barrel and looked down through it. “Both barrels empty.” Then he held up the small cardboard box. “Ammunition over here.”

“Where are you going to keep it?”

“Near me. Did Kathy tell you the latest?”

“I didn’t see her. She was asleep when I got in. What’s the latest?”

Michael sat down, the shotgun on the coffee table between them, and told him about the slashed paintings.

“All of them?” Chuck now sat all the way forward in his chair.

“Every one.”

“Son of a bitch,” Chuck said. “Why did he do that?”

“Why did he kill Janice? Same reason. To get at me.”

Chuck sat back as though exhausted. He glanced down at the shotgun, up at his brother-in-law. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I can see where you’d be tempted.”

“I’m a lot more than tempted, Chuck. If it wasn’t for the kids…” He broke off, his train of thought derailed. “Speaking of which, have you seen Jon tonight?”

“No, but I didn’t look in on any of them. Why?”

“He wasn’t home by the time I left tonight. He texted Kathy and told her he’d be late. I’d better go look.” And with that, he was up and out of the room.

Chuck came forward in his chair again, reached out and picked up the shotgun, broke it open over his knee, and checked the barrels again. Then closed it up.

Michael appeared back in the doorway. “He’s still not here. Shit.”

“He’s a big boy, Mike. He’ll be all right.”

“I hate this. I hate all of it.” He took a step into the room. “What are you doing with the gun?”

“Making sure it isn’t loaded. You shouldn’t be walking around with a loaded gun, Mike. Jon comes home late, you might shoot him by mistake.”

“I doubt that. Where is he?”

“Staying with friends, I’m sure. Text him, tell him you’re worried.”

Durbin, back at the sofa, sat down heavily. “You’re right. You’re right.”

“And you might think about getting some sleep.”

“You, too.” He paused. “I think Kathy’s been missing you.”

Chuck looked up sharply, a frown etched in place. “Why do you say that?”

“She mentioned a little something about it.”

“That’s none of anybody else’s business.”

“I didn’t say it was. I’m just passing along the information for what it’s worth. From a guy who’s just lost his wife to a guy who’s still got one.”

Chuck stared at Michael with what seemed like true malevolence for a long few seconds, then finally let out a heavy breath. Looking down at the pile of papers on the floor, the smaller stack on his lap, he managed a weak smile. “Sorry, Mike. I think we’re probably both done in. Maybe we ought to call it a day.”

CityTalk

By Jeffrey Elliot

Sources close to the investigation yesterday sat down with this reporter to explain the events of the past few weeks related to Ro Curtlee and the murder of Janice Durbin. San Francisco’s beleaguered head of homicide, Lieutenant Abe Glitsky, has been under fire from both Mayor Leland Crawford and from printed accusations of harassment and police brutality in a rival newspaper.

It is public record that Glitsky and Curtlee have a long history as antagonists, beginning with the former’s arrest of the latter for rape and murder back in 1998, charges for which Mr. Curtlee was convicted and sentenced to twenty-five years to life in prison. Early this year, the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeal overturned that conviction and ordered a retrial, and since that time, Mr. Curtlee has been free on bail. Also, since the time of Mr. Curtlee’s release, three people with connections to his earlier trial have been murdered. These are Felicia Nuñez, a prime witness against Mr. Curtlee; Matt Lewis, an investigator for the district attorney’s office; and Janice Durbin, the wife of the foreman of the jury in the Curtlee trial, Michael Durbin.

And only last week, in a highly publicized sequence of events, Lieutenant Glitsky arrested Mr. Curtlee again on charges ranging from death threats and resisting arrest to attempted murder. During his arrest, Mr. Curtlee fought with police, including Glitsky, and sustained several injuries, including a broken arm. Two of the arresting officers were also injured. And again Ro Curtlee was released on bail.

The common denominator in all of these crimes is Ro Curtlee. Officers sought and obtained an interview with Mr. Curtlee, in the presence of his lawyer, to determine his whereabouts and activities at the time of these latest two murders in an effort to eliminate him as a suspect in either of them. He provided them with alibis for both, and that is where the matter stands at this time.

Despite the hysteria generated by the Courier , a Curtlee-owned newspaper and no friend of the police, there seems no evidence suggesting that these have been other than straightforward murder investigations. Police have named no suspects in the Matt Lewis or Janice Durbin murders.

What has been widely publicized as police harassment in some circles may well instead be seen as a simple attempt by the rich and powerful to use their political and media influence to insulate themselves from investigation for a series of brutal crimes.

Glitsky, at his kitchen table, nodded in a kind of grateful relief as he read these last words. As usual, Jeff Elliot had gotten it right, his tone reasonable. Maybe this, he thought, sipping his tea, would help to lower the temperature a little around all this madness and he could get back to just doing his job.

He folded up the Chronicle and was rinsing out his mug, getting ready to leave the duplex and go to work early, when the telephone rang. It was just after six o’clock, which gave the trained investigator in him a clue as to who it possibly was, he hoped. He took the two steps across the kitchen and picked up before the second ring.

“Hello.”

“Hey.”

“Hey. Everybody okay?”

“Everybody’s fine, except I miss you.”

“You do?”

“I do. Of course I do.”

“I thought you were furious at me.”

“Mad, not furious. Frustrated. Now I’m over it and just miss you.”

“I miss you, too. I can fly down this weekend if you’re going to stay.”

“If I’m going to stay.”

“Are you?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided. It seems so stupid and melodramatic to be down here, but up there it felt real and scary. I just don’t know what he’ll do, Abe.”

“Nobody does. That’s what makes him so scary.”

“I mean, what are the odds he’d really try anything with any of us?”

“If there’re any odds, they’re too great.”

“Now you sound like me.”

“Good. You’re obviously the smart one.” He paused. “You know, on second thought, maybe you ought to think about staying down there a few more days. I can fly down, make it a vacation for the weekend. How’s Sixto holding up with the kids?”