John Lescroart - Damage

“Don’t…,” he began.

She pulled the trigger again and it felt as if someone had ripped his right arm off. In the corner of his eye, he saw his mother stand and as he watched, Linda turned to her and fired once, doubling her over before Theresa went down on her knees.

But Linda wasted no time making sure with his mother as she came walking forward now, the gun extended in front of her, pointing right at his face.

He met her eyes.

Through the shock and pain, Ro’s brain tried to make sense of any of this. What was her problem? What was the big deal? So, she hadn’t been in the mood. He had to fight her a little to finally get it done, but so what? That’s what you did. He couldn’t believe she wasn’t already pretty used to it. She was a big girl. She…

He felt the gun pressed high against his left cheek.

“Adios,” she said. “Fucker!”

Glitsky got the call from Bracco, with one of the arrest teams. The teams had been gathering out in front of the mansion on Vallejo Street when they’d heard the shots from inside the house and rushed to the door.

Glitsky had to pull up and park behind rows of other cars and vans nearly two blocks away. It was raining steadily and it seemed impossible to him that such a crowd-of police personnel, curious neighbors, news vans, politicians, and reporters-had developed in such a short time. But then again, the bare fact of what had apparently happened here seemed impossible as well. All these people braving the inclement weather in coats and umbrellas, pressing in against the yellow police tape line they’d strung along the street and across the property line.

Glitsky picked his way through the mass of people, ducked under the police line, and showed his ID to one of the patrolmen standing guard at the bottom of the steps. Once he was safely inside the perimeter, he turned briefly to look behind him.

He estimated there were fifteen black-and-white patrol cars, each with their red and blue lights strobing the night. Somebody had already set up at least one set of kliegs to brighten the place even more. Glitsky counted four television vans, which must have gotten the word even more quickly than he did. Sheila Marrenas, so far unsuccessfully, was trying to bully her way through the line down at the end of the driveway. Leland Crawford was giving an interview to a small knot of television people over by his limo.

Glitsky jogged up the steps and slowed down at the open door, where Bracco was waiting to meet him. “That was fast,” the inspector said.

Glitsky nodded. “I was motivated. Where’d it go down?”

Bracco pointed and started walking toward the study at the same moment, Glitsky at his heels. “The chief here yet?” he asked.

“Not yet, no.”

“How about CSI?”

“Yep. And we’ve got the suspect in custody back in the kitchen. One of the maids. Linda Salcedo. She’s not giving us any trouble.”

“Let’s hope we can keep it that way. You got the weapon?”

“Tagged and bagged. It was on the floor where she dropped it.”

“She dropped it?”

“Dropped it and answered the doorbell, then showed us where to go. You could still smell the cordite. Craziest thing I’ve ever seen.”

But by then they had reached the arched entrance to a small room, guarded by two other members of what was originally supposed to be the arresting team. Glitsky stopped a half step behind Darrel, and nodded at both of the other men. There was plenty of light from a couple of standing lamps and an overhead chandelier. The study was less than fifteen feet deep, maybe twelve feet wide. It seemed to be filled with bodies.

And even with his vast experience, Glitsky was impressed by the body count in the enclosed place.

The iron smell of blood and, underlying it, something sweet smelling and alcoholic. Glitsky stepped forward so he could take it all in.

The butler lay on his back by the fireplace, his tuxedo coat wide open revealing a shoulder holster with its gun still in it. A red splotch bloomed in a wide circle in the shirt over his heart. Another slug looked like it had taken him in the shoulder, but the one by the heart looked like it had done the job. When Eztli had gone down, he’d knocked over the screen in front of the fireplace, which lay on the floor by his head. On the other side of his head, a bottle of champagne lay on its side. The mirror above the fireplace was shattered, and shards from it littered the floor all around him.

Ro Curtlee sat slumped in an easy chair, literally soaked in blood. He’d taken two or three in the chest and one at really close range high in his left cheek. The force of the shot had canted his head to the right and the entire right side of his shirt was soaked from the exit wound damage, the exit wound annihilation.

The most ghastly image was Cliff Curtlee, who had managed to get up and turn around before he’d been hit, or hit fatally. The shot that had done the most obvious damage had evidently taken him in the side of the throat-his carotid spurting arterial blood over the rug and onto the hardwood of the adjoining dining room floor-but several other rounds had hit him in the side and back, evidently as he tried to get away. From the blood trail, it looked like he kept on crawling through his own blood for a good three or four feet before finally stopping with the shock and trauma of the injuries and bleeding out.

Bracco leaned over Cliff and examined the throat injury with interest. He turned to Glitsky and said, “That’s going to leave a mark.”

Glitsky took in all of this at a glance, then said to no one in particular, “Where’s Mrs. Curtlee?”

One of the crime scene guys looked up from photographing Ro’s body in his chair. “Other room,” he said.

“Dead?”

In a perfect imitation Munchkin voice from The Wizard of Oz , the tech said, “She is not just merely dead, she is really most sincerely dead.”

Glitsky, once again reminded of the wisdom of the rule that reporters were not allowed on crime scenes until the techs had finished, turned and saw Vi Lapeer coming through the front door and he moved to intercept her. “Chief,” he said. “What you’ve probably heard is true. They’re all dead, the Curtlees and their butler. Shot at close range. We have a suspect subdued and in custody in the next room.”

Lapeer slapped her game face on. Taking a steadying breath through her mouth, she set her jaw and started across the dining room toward the archway.

At eleven o’clock, the techs were still working in the study. The bodies had been bagged and taken in the coroner’s van to the medical examiner’s office behind the Hall. Since Bracco spoke excellent Spanish and was already here at the scene, Glitsky assigned the formal investigation of these murders to him, so Bracco had given Linda Salcedo her Miranda warning and a quick preliminary interview and was on his way with her to the detail for a full videotaped statement. Outside, the crowd had eventually mostly dispersed. Neither the mayor nor Sheila Marrenas had ever been admitted to the crime scene, and both had eventually gone away, as had a stoic Vi Lapeer.

Amanda Jenkins had been out at a restaurant with a couple of other assistant DAs and caught the breaking news flash on the television. Now she sat at the dining room table with Glitsky, both of them too wound up to go home.

“So our suspect evidently had heard about the earlier rapes, so she had some type of warning,” Glitsky was saying, “but she didn’t take it seriously enough.”

“You’re saying Ro had already done another one of them? Since he got out?”

“No. One of the other workers here had heard the stories and told her she should be on her guard.”