John Lescroart - Damage

“I did remember! I do remember. It just didn’t come to me when it should have.”

“Don’t you hear yourself? That is so fucking lame…”

“It’s what it was, Jon. It’s just what it was.” Afraid that he was losing him again, and maybe for the last time, Michael came forward in his chair. “Listen,” he said, “listen.” Urgently, quietly. “You’re not going to want to hear this, but it wasn’t me having an affair.”

“Are you saying it was Mom?”

“Your mother, yes.”

“Bullshit.”

“No. True. Just so you know somebody else is in the picture.”

“Who?”

“We don’t know. Inspector Glitsky doesn’t know. Maybe one of her patients. But the bad news about that is that with Ro dead, Glitsky’s not going to be looking very hard anymore. He thinks it was Ro.”

“He can’t think that. It’s too damn convenient and beyond that, it doesn’t make any sense.”

“He thinks it does. But the bottom line is we may never know who killed her. And that just kills me , but it might be true.” He reached a hand across and touched his son’s knee. “Come back home, Jon. Please.”

Jon’s mouth stayed tight, his posture rigid, not committing to anything. Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes and overflowed.

“Where have you been staying, anyway?”

“Rich’s.”

“They said you weren’t there.”

“I know.”

Michael’s frustration with Rich’s family forced a breath out of him. “Well, we’re moving out of Chuck and Kathy’s and into a motel on Wednesday. I think it’s time we started trying getting along again as a family. Do you think you could do that?”

Angrily Jon brushed away where his tears had wet his cheeks. “I don’t know, Dad. All I know is I want to kill whoever killed her.”

“I do, too, Jon. I do, too. And I swear to God, that wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. I need you to believe me. Do you think you can do that?”

Jon slumped back and crossed his arms, his face set in a mask. After a few long beats, Michael realized that this was the best he was going to get from his son today, and he stood up, laid a hand gently on his shoulder, and walked out the door.

Darrel Bracco phrased his questions to Linda Salcedo in such a way that she had no idea he was inquiring as to the alibi of Ro Curtlee on the morning of Janice Durbin’s death. He let her believe he was getting general background about daily life in the Curtlee mansion, and she had been unwaveringly certain: Since he’d been released on bail the first time, and except for when he’d been in police custody and on one other morning last week, Ro Curtlee had spent every night in his bedroom, and had never gotten up before nine or nine thirty in the morning. Linda remembered specifically because she herself was up at six thirty, starting her cleaning upstairs before coming down to help with breakfast. She passed directly in front of Ro’s room every morning, knocking quietly, then opening the door a crack to look in and see if he’d gotten up so that she could clean up in that room and make the bed. But no, he’d been in there every day. Definitely. And had appeared downstairs either during or after the Curtlees’ having their breakfast.

This was not the news Glitsky wanted to hear.

After Bracco left his office, Glitsky sat in a blue funk for nearly a half hour. Finally he got up and went around his desk to the whiteboard where he kept his list of active cases and inspector assignments. In the clean white space that only this morning had held the name Felicia Nuñez, he wrote the name Janice Durbin in large block letters, and then across from it in the empty rectangle on the right-GLITSKY.

It was going to be a long, slow haul getting a special master appointed by a judge to go through the patient files in Janice Durbin’s office and try to find evidence of a carnal relationship between the psychiatrist and someone who was seeing her professionally. It could take weeks, even months, and still in the end yield nothing-for the truth remained that there was a whole universe of men and even women who might have been intimately involved with Janice Durbin, and none of them her patients.

And that was if, in fact, it had not been Michael Durbin who’d been having the affair, contracted chlamydia, and killed his wife-perhaps even by accident-when she’d become infected and fought with him over it. Of course, to believe that Michael Durbin had killed his wife, Glitsky would have to believe that he’d also slashed his own works of art, but this was just the sort of almost unfathomable subterfuge he might in fact expect from a desperate killer.

In any event, he’d already let too much time go by because of his insistence upon the guilt of Ro Curtlee. This was the eleventh day after Janice’s death, and to say that the trail had gone cold was a significant understatement.

At 2:40, having spent an hour on his paperwork for a search warrant and special master request, Glitsky found himself in the hallway of the block-long, low-rise stucco professional building about midway between the Stonestown Mall and San Francisco State University where Janice Durbin had had her office. It was a relatively modern building with no apparent frills. Janice had practiced in suite 204, just across from the elevator on the second floor, and Glitsky now stood outside of that suite, in the hallway, peering into it through the half-open gray venetian blinds. Unless he was missing something, and he didn’t think he was, he could see the entire office.

There was no reception area, simply a couple of functional couches, one along the right wall and one under the wide, rectangular window-its blinds, too, half open-that made up most of the back wall. On the left, a low dark wood credenza looked like it probably held her files. Facing the two couches was a large red-leather lounge chair, with a telephone table and a floor lamp next to it. A large purple beanbag chair sat in the far corner. Some framed pictures hung on the walls on either side, but the glare from the outside window kept him from seeing what kind of art she’d hung there.

It wouldn’t matter too much, he thought. The place was clean, uncluttered, basic.

“Can I help you?”

Glitsky straightened and turned to face an attractive, professionally dressed, heavyset black woman who looked to be somewhere in her late twenties. Introducing himself and proffering his badge, he said, “As you may know, Dr. Durbin was murdered a little over a week ago. I was hoping to talk to some of her neighbors in this building, see if somebody might be able to throw some light on the investigation.”

“In what way?”

“In any way, really. We haven’t gotten very far yet. Did you know Dr. Durbin?”

“Not exactly. Just, you know, in the ladies’, or passing in the hallway. I couldn’t believe when we heard what happened. Nobody could. You never think that kind of thing could happen to somebody you know. Or like her.”

“How was she, then?”

“Oh, you know. Polite, sweet, classy, down-to-earth. Just a regular person.”

“Do you know if she had any particular friends here in this building? People she hung out with?”

“Not really, no. Not saying she didn’t, just if she did I didn’t know about it. It’s not like we’re all one big office here, as you probably figured out already. Everybody’s got their own, mostly. I’m with Bayview Security, down at the end there at two-oh-seven. Although Dr. Mitchell downstairs, he’s a dentist actually. He’s got his own big triple suite. But he’s about the biggest. Lots of equipment, you know. Probably the main reason the building needs a security service, although we’re here for everybody.”