John Lescroart - Guilt

'But not a million six?'

'No. Not even half that, as I've told you.'

'Did Dooher ever mention to you how he felt about Trang personally?'

'No.'

'Didn't like him or dislike him?'

'He was an adversary. I don't think they saw each other socially, if that's what you mean.' Flaherty sat back. 'You can't honestly think Mark Dooher could have had a hand in any of this, do you?'

Glitsky pointed a finger, toy-gun style, risking a faint smile. 'You're asking questions again, but the answer is I don't have a clue. Trang's death seems to have been good for the Archdiocese…'

Finally, a degree of frustration peeked through. 'Sergeant, we're in constant litigation about one thing or the other. One lawsuit, one scandal, more or less, just isn't going to make too much difference. And that's God's truth.'

Not that Glitsky necessarily bought it, but that direction wasn't taking him anywhere. 'All right, one last question. Do you have an appointments calendar I might glance at? See what you were doing that Monday night?'

This marked the obvious crossing of the Archbishop's threshold into active annoyance. Flaherty nodded curtly, stood up, and went to the door and out. In a moment he returned with a large black book. He carefully placed it open onto Glitsky's lap. 'That the day?'

'Yes, sir.' He looked down. 'Catholic Youth Organization convention. Do you remember that? Did it go on late?'

Flaherty was no longer Glitsky's friend, that was certain. But he answered civilly. 'It was at Asilomar, Sergeant, down in Pacific Grove. You know it? It's a hundred miles south of here.' He picked the book up and closed it firmly. 'And see the line here, to noon the next day. That means I spent the night.'

In one of those amazing coincidences, Glitsky thought, just then there was a knock on the door and the Appointments Secretary opened it, stuck his head in, and told Flaherty that his two o'clock had arrived.

Glitsky looked at his watch, closed his notebook, and stood up. The interview was over. He put out his hand and the Archbishop took it. 'Thank you, sir. You've been a big help.'

Flaherty's grip was a vice and his eyes had gone the color of cold steel. 'You know, Sergeant, I try not to stand upon it, but most people address me, at least, as "Father". Some even say "Your Excellency".'

Glitsky squeezed back. 'Thank you. I'll remember next time.'

But what did it mean?

He'd better begin to consider the possibility that there had been no meeting on Monday night. At least not with Flaherty and Dooher. So why did the two women – Lily Martin and Mrs Trang both – think there had been?

But wait – who said the meeting had been in person in Flaherty's office? Maybe Flaherty hadn't been able to talk to Dooher until later because… but no, that meant Flaherty was at the least just plain lying, and at most implicated in the actual murder. And though Glitsky ran into liars every day – murderers too – he did not really believe the Archbishop was involved here. He'd just not been able to resist the urge to jack him up a little. He'd always had a problem with people who thought they spoke directly to God.

He'd picked up a piroshki and a celery soda and sat having a late lunch in his car just off Market Street, his windows down. It was warmer outside than it had been in Flaherty's office and the air smelled sharply of coffee. One of the nearby restaurants must be roasting its own.

He kept coming back to the meeting, or non-meeting. For now, he was going to believe that the meeting never took place. Further, he didn 't believe Flaherty had even talked to Dooher on that Monday night.

Which did not mean that Dooher hadn't talked to Trang.

Did it?

Glitsky was wrestling with it, trying to piece together some rationale for Trang to have written up messages on his personal computer, purporting to have come from Dooher, if there had been none. It could have been that he was going to extraordinarily great lengths to run a false story past his mother and girlfriend – 'See, I'm just on the cusp of greatness, just about to be rich and successful. It's going to happen any day now. The other side is about to cave in. Look, here are the messages from their attorney to prove it. I'm not a nothing, as you've all believed. I'm going to make it big.'

Was that too much of a stretch? Glitsky wasn't sure. He'd known a lot of people – perennial losers – who'd tried to fool themselves and others in similar ways. Maybe that had been Trang, trying to convince himself as well as the women in his life. And then when the settlement didn't come through after all, he'd fall back into victim mode. It hadn't been his fault. The breaks were against him, the power of the Church, the bigger players had ganged up.

But – Glitsky brought himself up short – the truth was that there had been a substantial offer. Six hundred thousand dollars had been on the table, and Trang had turned it down. Would he have done that if he wasn't fairly sure he was going to get more?

No. He would have taken it.

Which meant – what?

That the penny-ante psychological profile Glitsky had been drawing of Trang-as-loser was not valid. And if that were true, then at the very least, Trang believed something was happening with Dooher and the settlement. He hadn't made it all up. Or possibly any of it.

So Dooher had called him. Twice on that Monday. Maybe three times.

He wondered if he'd admit it. It didn't exactly reek of probable cause, but Glitsky knew he could find a judge to give him a warrant for Dooher's phone records based on the inconsistencies. But if Dooher hadn't called Trang from his home or office, any other call would be nearly impossible to verify – the phone company kept track of the calls you made, but didn't keep records of non-toll calls received.

He chewed the last of his piroshki, tipped back the soda. Well, at least now he had a plausible excuse to go back and talk to Dooher, take another look at the Vietnam photograph while he was at it. Maybe casually bring up some other topics. 'Say, I was doing the crossword this morning and came across a seven-letter word, starts with "b", means infantry knife. What do you think that could be?' Subtlety was the key.

Dooher was going to be in meetings out of the office for most of the rest of the afternoon, but if he checked in for messages, his secretary would tell him the Sergeant had called.

So the rest of Glitsky's Wednesday afternoon was lost in paperwork. He labored over his initial report on the Tastee Burger killing. He checked the transcription of his interviews with three of the witnesses there.

Moving along, he filled out the warrant for Dooher's business and personal phone records. Then there was the application for the Lieutenant's exam.

A final Homicide issue involved re-booking a burglar who'd killed a seventy-year-old man last week. The elderly resident had had the bad luck to wake up and grab his.38 in the middle of the night when he'd heard the noise.

At 5:10, completely fried with the paperwork, as he was putting on his jacket to go home, his telephone rang. 'This is Mark Dooher,' he said to himself. And it was.

Dooher was free now, but maybe if the Sergeant just had a quick question or two, he could answer it on the phone, save him a trip. Glitsky wondered if he really needed to actually see the Vietnam photograph again. It was quitting time. He wanted to go home and be with his family. He'd worked a long day as it was. He wasn't the same cop he had been. He said some questions should do it.

'Sure, I talked to him that day.'

'More than once?'

'I may have. I believe so. Why?'

'When you and I talked last time, you didn't mention it.'

'Did you ask about it? I'm sorry. I don't-'