John Lescroart - Guilt

Dooher put the car into park, but didn't turn off the engine. Under his driving gloves, his hands hurt, but they were not bleeding. He got out and walked to the edge, looking out over the water, then around behind him. It was as it always was. No sign of anyone.

At the edge of the lot, the incline fell off at a good angle for perhaps forty feet of sedge grass dotted with scrub brush. Dooher picked his way down, hands in his pockets, crabwalking. When his head got below the level of the lot, the minimal road noise from Sunset dissipated, and he suddenly heard the lap of the lakewater.

This was where he'd ditched the evidence.

Within twenty minutes, Dooher was in his garage, placing the running shoes into the bottom of the grocery bag, then the gloves, carefully folding the old Sam Spade overcoat so that it fit. He put the bag on to the passenger seat of the Lexus and drove the halfmile to Ocean Avenue, where he left it in the side doorway of the St Vincent de Paul thrift shop.

Back in his kitchen, he realized he'd worked up an appetite, so he poured himself a glass of milk and grabbed a handful of frozen chocolate chip cookies, then went to the phone to call Irene Carrera, see if she'd heard yet from her daughter.

Three generations of Glitskys were at the movies watching James and the Giant Peach when the beeper on Abe's belt began vibrating. He reached over his youngest son and nudged his father's arm, holding up the little black box. 'Back in five,' he said. Nat, caught up in the animation, barely nodded.

In the lobby, he faced the disorientation he'd always experienced when he saw movies in the daytime, even on such dark days as this one. But his eyes adjusted and he checked the readout, walked to the pay phone and punched up the numbers.

'Lieutenant, this is Sam Duncan. Wes Farrell's friend.'

'Sure. Is Wes there?'

'No. That's why I'm calling. I don't know what else to do. Mark Dooher called Wes earlier today and asked him to meet with him.' Glitsky was aware of the muscle that began working in his jaw. 'He convinced Wes he was going to turn himself in.'

'I know.'

'What?'

'I knew that. He paged me and I called him back at some bar. He told me all about it. He's not back yet?'

'You let him go? How could you let him go? Mark Dooher's a murderer, and now-'

'He's probably still at Dooher's. He was meeting him there, right? Have you tried calling there?'

'I just did. There's nobody home, no answer. Wes said he'd be home in two hours. Then he called to say he was going to be later. It's been almost four hours now. That's why I called you. Something's happened. He would have called me again. He knew I was worried. He would have called.'

Glitsky was silent for a long moment.

'Lieutenant?'

'I'm here. I'm thinking. Have you tried his office?'

An exasperated sigh. 'I've tried everywhere, Lieutenant. Dooher called him and he went and-'

Glitsky chewed the side of his mouth another second or two, then made his decision. This time he was moving out before he was certain there had been a crime – if it was before. If it wasn't already too late.

Irene Carrera debated with herself over the right thing to do. The birth of a child was the strongest bonding experience a couple could have together. She was torn.

Distraught, Mark had called her again. Please, as soon as Irene heard anything, he'd implored her, would she call and let him know? He was desperate. He needed her.

And though Christina might not realize it herself, he told Irene, her daughter needed him, too.

It had ripped Irene up having to lie to Mark, not even to tell him that she'd heard from Christina. But what else could she do?

Irene wrestled with it, couldn't get it worked out. She wished Bill were here; they would come to the right decision together. She knew he'd be calling her when he got to San Francisco, but first he had to take the afternoon shuttle from Santa Barbara to LAX, then wait for his evening flight. He wouldn't get there until very late tonight.

Meanwhile, Irene knew that if Christina succeeded in excluding her husband from this moment of birth, there was a far greater chance that they would never be able to patch up whatever had come between them.

On the other hand, if Mark were there, with her – if they went through it together, husband and wife, it might be the very last chance for Christina's happiness. Even though it would be against her daughter's express wishes.

In the pink moment, Irene paced the ridge of her property overlooking the valley, agonizing over the greater good.

Glitsky left Orel with his grandfather at the movies and ran a block and a half to where he'd parked his city-issue car. He made it to Dooher's house by seven o'clock. He should have heard from Paul Thieu long ago. He tried to page him, but there was no response.

What was going on? Where had everything gone wrong? Glitsky didn't much care about probable cause anymore with Mark Dooher. He was going to take the man downtown on some pretext, get him off the streets before he struck again.

The house on Ravenwood Street was dark. Dooher wasn't there.

But Glitsky got out of his car, wanting to make sure. Crossing the front patio, getting to the porch, ringing the bell, waiting.

Empty.

There was no way he could explain away his actions to anyone if he were discovered. He would be reprimanded, perhaps fired.

He was wearing his own pair of gloves, standing inside a suspect's house. He had entered without permission and without a warrant and that was the plain fact of it. He was in the wrong.

The side door by the driveway had been left unlocked. So Dooher hadn't lied about everything during his trial. He'd testified – and standing under the cold and darkened portico Glitsky had remembered – that he tended to leave the side door unlocked when he went out, the alarm de-activated.

Now he stood in the kitchen where so long ago he'd sat and had tea with Sheila Dooher. When he'd come in, he turned on the light in the laundry and the overflow lit the counters dimly.

On the way here, he'd considered pulling over and making a another call to Sam Duncan, bringing her up to date on Farrell. But there was no up-to-date with Farrell. He might be going to die, if he wasn't dead already. What could he tell her that couldn't wait another hour? Until they knew something?

But here, in the kitchen, it gnawed at him again. He remembered the last moments with Flo, where he hadn't been able to do anything, but had sat by the bed, holding her hand. Perhaps she'd felt something, some pressure from him, some love, in the last seconds. Maybe it had made some difference.

Digging in his breast pocket, he fished out the piece of paper on which he'd written Sam's number. He'd at least tell her what he knew.

He crossed the kitchen in a few strides, stood by the telephone, hesitated briefly, then picked it up.

But instead of punching Sam's numbers, he noticed the Redial key and, without really considering, pressed it.

There were eleven quick beeps. Long distance.

'Hello.' A pleasant, cultured female voice.

'Hello. This is Lieutenant Abraham Glitsky, San Francisco Homicide. Who am I speaking with please?'

'Oh my God, Homicide?'

'Yes, ma'am. In San Francisco. Who am I-'

'Is Christina all right? Tell me she's all right.'

'Christina?'

'Christina Carrera, my daughter. Is she all right?'

'I don't know, ma'am. I hope so. Right now I'm trying to locate her husband, Mark Dooher. Do you know where he might be?'

'He said he was going directly to the hospital.'

'The hospital? What hospital? Why was he going to the hospital?'

'To be with Christina. She's at St Mary's, in labor. She's having her baby.'