John Lescroart - Guilt

'I do know him. He's a killer.'

'You didn't hear him on the phone. He needs help. I've got to help him.'

'Somebody else can help him. Call one of your lawyer friends. Call Glitsky, he'll help him.'

Farrell had to smile at that, though it wasn't much of a light moment. He squeezed her hands. 'Sam, if he needs me, how can I not help him? What kind of man would that make me?'

'A live one.'

Again, he shook his head, rolled his eyes. 'Please.'

'Please yourself, Wes. He's killed three people. Why wouldn't he kill you?'

'Why would he kill me? That's a better question.' He pulled his hands away, looked at his watch. 'I told him I'd be over there at three. I've got to

go-'

'Don't, please. For me.'

He came around the table, put his arm around her shoulders and drew her to him. 'Sam. Don't ask that. This isn't me against you. This is somebody I've known my whole life, reaching out to the only person he trusts, trying to save himself. There's nothing to worry about. I love you. I'll be home in a couple of hours. If I'm going to be late for any reason at all, I'll call. Two hours, max. Four-thirty.'

He tightened his arm around her, but she resisted. 'No. NO!' Standing up, she pulled away, knocking over their table.

He watched her, half running through the bar, through the double doors, and out. Never looking back at him.

When she got home, she let the tears go on for a while. That's why she'd run – damned if she was going to use tears to make her point, to convince him to stay, although a part of her wished she had.

In the kitchen, drying her eyes on a paper towel, she noticed the message light flashing on her answering machine. Pushing the button, she heard Diane Price saying that she'd talked to Christina Carrera. She was in labor.

Since Sam wasn't home and Terri had come in for her shift at the Center, Diane was going to help Christina, maybe drive her to the hospital if she needed it. She'd call back when she had more information.

Sam glared malevolently at the machine. 'Where is she, Diane? Where is she?'

But the machine provided no answer, and neither did Terri when Sam called back to the Center.

Paul Thieu was in a small internal room – no windows – in the Hall of Justice where he'd spent most of the morning on the computer, hoping to find some heretofore unknown reference to Victor Trang or Chas Brown or anyone who'd known either of them. He didn't really know what he was looking for, but this was an unturned stone, and there might be something under it.

But so far – and it had been three hours – nothing.

Deciding to give it a rest for a while, Thieu got out of his program, blanked the screen. As far as he knew, he was the only person in the building who logged off the computer when he was finished using it. It was a small point of pride. He interlaced his fingers behind his head and leaned back, stretching.

Timing.

His Lieutenant, Abe Glitsky – in on a Saturday, pumped up – knocked on the doorsill, pulled up a chair. 'Our plan won't work.'

Glitsky had dreamed it up and run it by Thieu last night after he'd returned from Dooher's. The younger man had liked it.

They'd run a sting. Farrell was a real ally. He could re-establish his contact with Dooher and either wear a wire or, failing that, simply try to provoke him, as Glitsky had when he went to his house. Farrell would get him to say something incriminating. The veneer had begun to crack. They could get him.

But Glitsky didn't think so anymore.

'Why not?'

'Farrell is Dooher's lawyer. Anything they say is privileged.'

Thieu had thought of this and sold himself on a rebuttal to it. 'He won't take a retainer. He'll go to Dooher as a friend. The relationship won't be a professional one.'

Glitsky told him this was wishful thinking. 'Besides, if Farrell denies it, Dooher will say he was the lawyer and Farrell was his client. It won't get past the DA.'

A scowl. 'I hate it when you're right, you know that?'

'I don't blame you. My kids do, too. It's infuriating.' Glitsky had become almost human. 'There is something else we can try, a long shot.'

'Is it legal?'

Glitsky's expression conveyed shock that Thieu could even think such a thing. 'Forget what he says. Try to make him do something.'

'What?'

'What physical evidence did we get with Trang? Clothes, the bayonet, shoes?'

'Nothing.'

'Right. Which means? Tell me.'

Thieu thought a moment. 'I give up.'

'It means he got rid of it. He stabbed the guy and held him close and he got blood on himself. Then he had to get rid of what he wore. No way around it.'

Another bad idea, Thieu was thinking. 'Abe, this was two years ago. Those clothes, all that stuff, is gone. Burned up, disintegrated.'

'Not his Rolex. Not Sheila's jewelry.'

Thieu kept shaking his head. The Lieutenant must be tired. 'You just said it. The Rolex was his wife's murder, the burglary. It isn't Trang. We can't touch it. That stuff's been pawned anyway.'

'I don't think so, Paul. We looked hard when it was fresh. It didn't get fenced. He got rid of it.'

'Which makes it gone, am I right?'

'But maybe not forgotten.'

Farrell righted the table in the Shamrock. He went into the bathroom and got most of the Irish coffee washed off his pants. He hadn't intended for Sam to get so mad, for himself to get so defensive. They were both too hot-headed.

Dooher. The source of every fight they'd ever had.

Disgusted, he came out of the bathroom and pulled up a stool at the bar. He was going to have a long beer and chill out and be late for his appointment

with Mark. Too bad. Let his ex-friend wait for once. He ordered a Bass and put a napkin on his lap, soaking up more of the damp.

The bartender's name was Moses McGuire. He was approaching his sixth decade with a new wife and a young child and seemed determined not to go placidly amid the noise and haste, remembering what peace there may be in silence. His nose had recently been broken for about the fifth time – some unpleasantness about a softball game – and he sported two black eyes and a bandage. During Farrell's blue period, as he called it, he had spent more time here with McGuire than he had at his apartment. With Bart, which had endeared Farrell to McGuire.

The Bass came sliding across the rail and McGuire leaned over, smiling. 'Everything patched up between you lovebirds?'

Farrell sighed. 'She's mad at me.'

'I guessed that. I don't blame her. They're always right, you know. I don't know why we argue with 'em.'

He sipped at his ale. 'I know.'

McGuire got called away on an emergency down by the picture window – Tommy, a fixture, had finished his fourth Millers of the day and was slapping the latest empty on the bar.

There was more truth than Farrell wanted to admit in what McGuire had said. Which of course meant that there was more truth than he'd acknowledged in what Sam was saying.

Mark Dooher was a dangerous man who studied his prey. He knew Trang worked alone and would meet him alone. He'd known Sheila would never refuse a drink – even a mickey – that he put in her hand. He knew Farrell was an idealist who believed in the goodness of man, in confession's healing power, in forgiveness. He also knew he would come when beckoned.

So Dooher had beckoned, and Farrell was going.

Dooher looked wrung out, with bags under his eyes and a deep pallor to his skin under an uncharacteristic stubble.

He wore a Sam Spade overcoat, an old felt hat and a pair of tattered running shoes. A grieving husband, he blew out in frustration. 'Christina's got to call somebody, wouldn't you think? Who would she call?'

'I don't know. Not me.'