John Lescroart - Guilt

Sam gestured behind her. 'Wes. He's taking over details for Mark for a while. Even without the police stuff, this whole thing is just so horrible.'

Christina laid a hand on Sam's arm. 'What police stuff?'

'Damn.' Sam's face clouded. 'I'm not supposed to talk about it. Wes doesn't want any rumors going around.' She lowered her voice. 'He's worried that they're going to say Mark did it, killed his wife.'

Christina mouth dropped. The idea was absurd. 'What? He wasn't even here, was he? How could he have-'

'I know, but Wes is afraid they might. I mean, so soon after the Trang thing and all.'

'But they didn't find anything there either.'

'No, but apparently our friend Sergeant Glitsky didn't like being proven wrong. And he's the Inspector on this case.'

'But Mark wasn't even here!'

'Evidently the police can make a case that he was.' Sam held up a hand. 'Wes says if they really want to get you, they can make your life pretty miserable.'

'I guess they didn't really want to get Levon Copes.'

Sam made a face. 'Still a sore subject. But that was Glitsky, too.'

'But what does Glitsky have against Mark?'

'No one knows. Wes isn't sure if there's any reason. And nothing's happened yet. He's just worried. He thinks Glitsky might be overworked and guessing wrong. He did screw up on Levon Copes. And you know about his search warrant on Mark. There's two strikes.'

'You don't think he'd plant evidence, do you? The police don't really do that, do they?'

Sam shrugged. 'I don't know what they'd do.'

Farrell was sitting in a corner of the kitchen with a beer, listening to Mark's two youngest children, Jason and Susan, talking to their friends. He'd known the two kids their whole lives, and they looked very much alike, both very thin with slack blondish hair, waif-like features, and piercing green eyes – Mark's eyes. Susan wore black silk – tunic and pants – and Jason had the baggy pants, an outsized brand-new dress shirt buttoned to the collar, a camouflage jacket.

None of Farrells own kids had made it home for the funeral, which very much disappointed him, especially since Sheila and Mark had been godparents to Michelle, his youngest. But he consoled himself with the fact that neither had Mark's eldest, Mark Jr, the wildcatter sculptor.

Wes had tried to help Dooher out with breaking the brutal news, making the call to Mark Jr, and had been unprepared for the venom he'd heard. His dad never needed him for anything before – he didn't need to see him now. Besides, it was too much of a hassle to come down from Alaska, he said. His mom was already dead anyway. What good was it going to do? And he didn't have the money to spare.

Oh, Dad was offering to pay, to fly him down? No, thanks – one way or another, he'd wind up owing him. He'd have to pay. Even for something like this.

All the young people were drinking beer.

He was comfortable here in the kitchen with them, especially since Lydia was out in the great room, mingling as she did. So he was avoiding her. And he didn't particularly want to introduce her to Sam, either. That kept him in here, too, not that it had been uninteresting up to now. He was learning a lot, listening. Just edit out the 'dudes' and profanity and most of it was English.

Jason, sitting on the counter now, had sat next to his sister in the pew with Mark, but both of them down five feet or more from their father. An eloquent-enough statement. The boy cried at the Mass, but was over that now.

He was enthusing over the snow in Colorado, the winter he'd spent back there, how he was going down to Rosarito from here, surf the summer away, like, starting tomorrow. He had to get out of here. This scene here with his dad was just too weird.

His sister leaned up against the sink, holding hands with another young woman. 'How Mom took it I don't know,' she said.

More Dad-trashing coming up, Wes thought – even a child could do it. Suddenly, stoked by the beers, he stood, deciding to butt in. 'Hey, guys. How about you give the old man a break, would you? He's having a tough enough time.'

Susan nearly snorted. 'Dad doesn't have tough times.'

'I've just been through one with him, dear.'

'I'm sure.' She dropped her girlfriend's hand and walked the four steps over to him – a bit unsteadily. 'You think you know my dad, don't you? You think he's devastated by all this?' She shook her head hopelessly. 'You're a good guy, Wes, I really think you are, but dream fuckin' on,' she repeated.

'Dream on what, Susan? What are you talking about?'

Jason: 'Hey, come on, look around.'

'I'm looking around. What am I supposed to see? I see your dad trying to maintain here. I see he's lost his partner.'

Susan snorted derisively, nodded over at Jason. 'Six months?'

'Tops,' he said.

'What are you guys talking about?'

They were both shaking their heads, but it was Susan who said it. 'You'll find out.'

Finally summoning the nerve, Christina walked out into the backyard. He was standing now in the dappled sunlight under the budding elm, and she thought she had never seen a more magnificent face.

Not the face per se, but that it so clearly reflected the man beneath, that was what was so magnificent. It was all there – the agony he was in, the strength to bear it, the grace, eventually, to rise above it.

He was deep in conversation with a priest who wore a black cassock with a purple lining, but when he saw her, it was as though he bestowed some benediction on her, pulling her forward, to him. Almost physically, she felt her steps grow light. Welcome, even now.

Taking both her hands, he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. 'Thanks for coming.'

'I couldn't not have.'

They were still holding hands. Suddenly, realizing it, he gave a brief squeeze and let go. 'Well…' Remembering, turning back to the priest. 'I don't know if you've met the Archbishop of San Francisco, James Flaherty. Christina Carrera. Christina's one of the firm's future stars, Jim.'

She shook Flaherty's hand, heard him uttering the usual commonplaces, kept her smile in place. But her eyes and mind stayed on Dooher.

He was holding up, his own eyes elsewhere – within – crushed by the weight of his loss. He caught her watching him, then, and tried to smile, an apologetic turn of the lips for having caused her, even briefly, to glimpse the pain he was feeling within. He did not mean to show it, to wear it on his sleeve. He was a man. He would be all right. It wasn't anyone else's problem. He was alone and he would survive.

She thought her heart would break.

Seeing her ex with another woman – of course younger, that's what they all did, wasn't it? – had gotten under Lydia's skin. Not that she was romantically interested in Wes anymore – heaven forbid! – but it skewed her vision of her own importance.

How dare he!

So after Wes and Sam had gone, Lydia decided she deserved a couple of drinks. Then, in the kitchen, she'd gotten to talking with the kids – she was godmother to Susan, 'Aunt Lyd' to Jason – and they traded Sheila stories – laughing, crying, laughing again. Rituals.

The two children left when their father had finally come in from the backyard, after nearly all the other guests had said their goodbyes. The kids' departure wasn't exactly abrupt, but it wasn't leisurely either. After the exodus, Lydia had exchanged one of those 'what-can-you-do' glances with Mark, then picked up the bottle of gin on the counter.

'How about one?'

His shoulders sagged. From Lydia's perspective, Mark had held up like a trooper all day, making the required rounds, having to listen again and again to how sorry everybody was, to the advice and the sympathy and the anecdotes. He had been endlessly patient, as he always appeared, under tight control. That was Mark Dooher, after all.