John Lescroart - Guilt

Half of their front door was frosted glass, and a man's silhouette was visible behind it. Farrell paused with a premonition, then spoke to the door. 'Who is it?'

'Mark Dooher.'

He opened the door halfway, but kept a hand on it. The sight of Dooher, on his stoop in the fog, made his mouth go dry.

The damn physical reactions. His heart was turning over. 'What do you want?'

'That's not the friendliest greeting I've ever heard, Wes. How about, "How you been?" or "Long time no see?"' When Farrell made no response, Dooher cut to it. 'I'm trying to find my wife. She here?'

'No, she's not here. Why would she be here?'

'She called you today.' It wasn't a question. 'You saw her. I think you know where she is.'

'I don't have any idea where she is.'

A coldness in the eyes. 'I think she's here.'

Behind him, Wes heard Sam's voice at the top of the stairs. 'Who is it, Wes?'

Dooher's eyes narrowed. He tried to look up the stairs around Farrell. 'Finally getting some, are you? She pretty?'

'Get lost, Mark. I don't know where Christina is. I didn't know she was leaving you, though I don't blame her. She got an earful of the evidence on Victor Trang today. I think it kind of bothered her.' He turned around to Sam. 'It's Mark Dooher.'

'So you did talk to her?'

Damn. Farrell had to stop giving things away. He had to remember who he was talking to. 'How did you know where I live?'

A condescending smile. 'Parkers.'

Lord. Wes was pathetic. When the Parkers Directory – the lawyer's guide to other lawyers – had sent him their update form, he'd filled in his address here on Buena Vista. He hadn't opened his new office yet, hadn't wanted to lose any business. Stupid.

Sam put her hand flat against his back. He hadn't heard her come down the stairs.

Dooher kept up with questions. 'So what did Christina say? What did you talk about?'

'Soybean futures, Mark. Maybe some pork bellies. Famous killers we have known.'

Dooher put his hand on the door. 'You've always been a funny guy, Wes.' He popped the heel of his palm against the frosted pane. 'Where is she?' Another shot with his palm, rattling the window. Loud. 'Where the fuck is she?'

Suddenly Sam was around Wes, slamming the door shut, turning the deadbolt. 'Keep the hell away from here!' she yelled through the door.

Bart set up a racket and Wes leaned over, patting him, holding him by the collar, getting him under control. When he looked back up, the shadow was gone. He slumped against the wall. Sam had her back against the opposite wall. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I just didn't want…'

'No, it's okay. He's gone now. That was a good move.'

She came toward him, into his arms. 'What did he want?'

'Christina's left him. He thought I'd know where she went.'

'I don't want him coming around here.'

'I don't either.' They started up the steps, arms around one another. 'You don't have to worry,' Wes said. 'He's just looking for her.'

'I do worry. He didn't have to come by here. He could have called you at work tomorrow.'

Wes thought about it. 'He's not going to do anything to me. He doesn't perceive me as a danger.'

'This was a threat, him coming by here. He was threatening you.'

'I don't think so. What for?'

'For talking Christina into leaving him.'

'I didn't do that. She did that on her own.'

'She did it on her own after she talked with you at your office. It's a fine distinction.'

Wes shook his head. 'There's no way.'

She stared up into his face. 'You want to promise me one thing? You thought you knew him before. Remember that, would you? Remember that.'

He kissed her. 'Okay, I'll remember.'

Ravenwood Street in the dark.

Slumped behind the wheel of his city car, Glitsky had the lights off but had left the motor running and the heater on. His hands encircled an oversized cardboard cup which had once held hot tea. The driver's side window was down an inch.

Across the street, Dooher's house appeared and disappeared in the shifting fog. Fifteen minutes before, Glitsky had knocked on the front door and returned to his car to wait.

He was thinking about Flaherty, wishing he hadn't come on so aggressively back long ago when he'd interviewed him. But then again, that's who Abe had been back then – a cop with a chip on his shoulder over Flo, over his life. Ready to explode at anybody, even people who might help him. Alienating everyone. Ineffective.

The Lexus pulled into the driveway. Glitsky got out of his car and reached the front door at about the same time a light came on in the back of the house. He pushed the doorbell and listened to the eight tones: Lord we thank thee. We bow our heads.

Another light inside, then overhead on the porch. When Dooher opened the door, Glitsky put a foot against it. 'I thought you'd be interested to hear that we're looking into Mr Trang's murder again. I wanted to give you the opportunity to confess to it now, save us all a lot of time and trouble.'

'Get a life, private.' Dooher moved to close the door, but it wouldn't go.

Glitsky kept talking. 'You've been through one trial. You know the heck it plays with your life. You don't really want to go through that again. And I'm betting you don't get bail this time. Just a hunch, but I'd go with it.'

'What the hell are you doing here?'

'I just told you.'

'You got a warrant? You don't have a warrant, Sergeant, get off my property.'

Glitsky moved his foot. 'I'm going to take that as a "no" on the confession, but you're making a mistake.'

Dooher, disgusted, closed the door and turned out the overhead light. Glitsky, thinking he'd burned up his Friday-night fun quotient, decided to go home. He was almost across the patio when the light came back on. He heard the door open, the commanding voice. 'Glitsky.'

Reaching inside his jacket for his.38 – you never knew – he revolved halfway around. Dooher stepped out on to the porch. 'It was you brought the Trang file over to Farrell's, wasn't it?'

'He asked so nice, I couldn't refuse.'

'And you saw my wife?'

'Here's the thing, Mark. In my business, I generally ask the questions. You want to talk about Victor Trang, I'll listen all night long. But I've got nothing to say about your wife.'

'You saw her at Farrell's. You know where she is now?'

'Another question about your wife.' Glitsky tsked. 'And here I thought I'd made it so clear.' He shrugged. 'Not that it hasn't been a good time, but I've really got to go. I don't have a warrant and I've been ordered off the property. Unless you want to invite me in?'

Dooher seemed almost to enjoy the moment. 'You're nearly as funny as my friend Wes – you know that, Glitsky? And I admire that in a man. Really, I do. But you can't touch me. You should realize that by now. The fact is – you just don't seem to be able to do your job, do you? Though I guess being black and all, that's not much of a problem. You don't actually have to perform, do you? Actually get anything done?'

'Sometimes,' Glitsky said, his scar tight now – he could feel it. 'You might be surprised.'

'Well, you do your best, then, would you? Give it your best shot. Or was that what you did with Sheila? No. That couldn't have been your best shot, could it?' Dooher took a few steps toward him, made his own tsking sound. 'Oh, that's right. You'd lost your own wife back then, didn't you? That must have been a hard time. That would explain why you couldn't touch me then either, why everything you did…' the voice got harsher, rasping '… was such a total fucking waste of time. You were sad, weren't you? Poor guy. That was it. That was why you were so incompetent. See? There's always a reason if you look hard enough for it. I wonder what it will be when you screw this one up.'