John Lescroart - Guilt

But he was back on Glitsky, holding the baby against his shoulder, both hands around the tiny body, shaking him up and down. 'I thought you said he wasn't dead.'

'When we found him. I said when we found him he wasn't dead.' Glitsky played the trump. 'We followed you to the lake.'

'From where? Who did? What are you talking about?'

'Give it up, Dooher. It's over. We know where to look. We're going to find everything, aren't we?'

'And then what? You find a bag of wet clothes, big deal. You can't connect them to me.'

'I don't need to. I can connect Farrell to you.'

Dooher shook his head. 'You can't prove anything. Just like with Trang, just like with Sheila. That old proof keeps on fucking with you, doesn't it, Private? So Wes Farrell fell off a cliff. He died. So what?'

Glitsky's scar stretched white through his lips. 'So he didn't die, that's what.'

Dooher took in a breath. He nodded, bitterly amused. 'As if Wes Farrell matters.' He pulled the child closer to him, holding it with one arm, pointing with the other. 'You think Sheila, Victor Trang, Wes Farrell – you think I feel bad for what happened?'

The baby began crying again and he pulled it roughly against him, pressing the infant's face into his body.

'Mark, please! You're hurting him!'

Diane was in slo-mo. She stood up. She lifted the purse from the floor. 'Sit down!' Dooher barked at her.

'No.' She took a step toward him.

Christina, pleading. 'Please, Diane, no. Mark, just let him breathe. Let your son breathe.'

Dooher pointed at his wife. 'I had to have you, don't you understand that? After the trial, I told Wes I was sorry for what I'd put him through. If I'd made life hard for him, I'd make it up to him.'

Christina had her hands out. The baby, the baby. Anything he said, just let her have the baby. 'Okay, Mark, fine. We can talk about that.'

He included Glitsky. 'This nigger can't prove anything. They'll never convict me. We could start again, Christina. I could make it up to you. I could.'

'Dooher!' Glitsky said. 'Let the baby go.'

Diane moved forward.

He glared across at her. 'I told you to stop right there.'

'Give me the baby,' she said.

'Back off!' Dooher slammed a palm against the wall behind him. 'What do you think you're doing?'

The baby got a breath and managed another piercing yell.

Dooher took it in both of his hands. He held it up in front of him.

He kept shaking it. 'Shut up, damn it! Shut up!'

Diane Price dropped her carry-all purse to the floor and lunged forward.

Glitsky started to react, reached inside his jacket.

There was no time.

The gun was a metallic blur in her right hand moving toward Dooher's head. The sharp, flat report.

She let the gun fall. It clattered to the floor.

Diane grabbed for the child as Dooher collapsed.

The room hung for an instant in surreal suspension.

Glitsky smelled the cordite. His hand was still on his own weapon, but there was no need. It was over.

The baby began crying again.

Diane was bringing it over to Christina when the door flew open, a nurse and two attendants rushing in after the noise from the shot. They stopped in the doorway.

Diane laid Christina's son in her arms.

'He was killing the baby,' she said. 'I had to stop him.'

That would be her story, Glitsky knew. It was a good one.

Her eyes pleaded with him. Did he understand what she was saying? 'Guy says he's sorry and thinks that's enough? I don't think so.'

Glitsky nodded at her. He was going to arrest her, but she posed no danger at the moment.

He held out a hand to stop the influx of other staff crowding to the door. He crossed the room and went down to one knee next to the still and crumpled body. Almost as an afterthought, he picked up the small gun.

He felt for a pulse. The throat at the carotid artery twitched once under his fingers. Then he felt nothing. He leaned over, closer.

'It's Lieutenant,' he whispered.

After his fight with Sam, in his heart Farrell had still wanted to believe that Dooher was turning himself in, that the guilt had gotten to him. But the more he considered it, the wiser it seemed to cover his bases, so he'd called Glitsky and the Lieutenant had given him his marching orders.

In the event that Dooher did not confess, if the meeting began to look like an ambush, Farrell was to extricate himself as quickly as he could, remembering to drop the bait – 'Glitsky knows where you hid the stuff.' Thieu would be tailing them, so the threat to Farrell would be minimal.

Minimal. Farrell had liked that.

It was a gamble, but their only chance. If Dooher took the bait, if he went to make sure his hiding place was still secure, Thieu would follow. Dooher would lead them to the evidence. Thieu would call Glitsky when he'd found something.

And that's what had happened.

But not soon enough for Farrell.

They hadn't planned on the fog and they'd underestimated Dooher's dispatch. Always stronger, faster, more determined than Farrell, Dooher had walked up close, concealing his intention, then come at him like an enraged bull. A blow to the solar plexus, then another to the face had driven Farrell backward, and Dooher had kept coming, forcing him off the pavement, on to the steep angle under the trees, all the way to where the land fell off and the air began.

Now, Monday, Thieu and Glitsky were playing lunchtime chess at one of the open tables on Market Street. The sun was bright overhead; the air still. Glitsky was thinking mate in three moves, but his concentration got diverted when a bare-chested man in sandals and shorts stopped to watch the endgame. Carrying an enormous wooden cross, he just stood there looking on with his companion, who was a fashionably dressed businesswoman in her mid-thirties. The cross, Glitsky noticed, had a wheel at its base to facilitate pulling the thing along.

He moved his bishop and the man shook his head. 'Blew it,' he said, and moved on, pulling his cross, chatting with his friend. Daily life in the city.

Studying the board, Glitsky realized the man was right. Thieu made his move – one move! – and tried not to smile. It wasn't a really good try, though.

Glitsky started putting away his pieces. His brow was not clear. Throughout the game, they'd been discussing their sting operation, how it had gone so wrong. 'I still don't understand how you lost Farrell.'

Thieu was holding the bag. 'I didn't lose Farrell. I never had Farrell.'

'You followed him,' Glitsky said.

Thieu explained what had happened. 'Two cars, Abe,' he said. 'We always tail with two cars. You know that. We waited by the lot by the bridge when they pulled in there. When the Lexus pulled out, I followed Dooher down to Merced. There was nothing to call you about until we found the bags. The guys in the second car didn't find Farrell right away and they had better things to do than report to us, like get him out of there, try to keep him alive. What I'm curious about is the Price woman.'

'After this,' Glitsky was laconic, 'odds are she'll get her movie deal.'

'Not precisely what I meant, Abe.'

'I know, Paul. I know what you meant.'

They crossed Market, negotiating a stalled Mini bus spewing out a stream of unhappy campers. When they had forded it, Glitsky told Thieu that the DA hadn't yet decided on the charge for Price. 'My guess is Reston will go with manslaughter, she'll plead and get some community service. Maybe not even that if I have any real influence, which I don't.'

'Community service for killing a guy?'

'Using deadly force, Paul to save a life. The situation called for it. I was there. He was going to kill the baby. That's what I'm going to say. It's what Price's lawyer is going to say. It'll fly.'