John Lescroart - Guilt

'We've been over this,' Thieu said. 'What do you want us to do, Chas? You want another night at the Marriot?' He threw a hopeful glance at Glitsky.

'No, I want… I mean, I told everybody I was going to be in this trial.'

And now, Glitsky thought, even that tiny drop of limelight had evaporated. He imagined it was probably disappointing, but mostly he just wanted Chas to go away. He wasn't needed anymore, and cranked-up 800s in the Hall of Justice were something he could do without.

'And Dooher's going to get off, isn't he?'

'We hope not, Chas. That's why we're having a trial.'

'But they can't hear about the guy he killed over there?'

'No, I'm afraid not.'

'That son of a bitch,' he repeated. 'He never pays for anything, does he?'

In that moment, something shifted for Glitsky. He'd met Brown before, and always he'd been less than completely sober, but never particularly hostile to Dooher. Now, granted, he was cranked up and that could do it, but suddenly there seemed to be a different edge. 'I thought you didn't really have any personal gripe with Dooher,' Glitsky said.

Defiant. 'I don't. Who said I did?'

'You're acting like it, Chas. Nobody said it.'

'I'm not acting like anything. I haven't seen the dude in like ten years.'

This straightened Thieu up. He had interviewed Brown at least five times and had never heard this. 'I thought it had been more like twenty-five, Chas.'

Brown's eyes shined, flashed from Glitsky to Thieu. He backed up a step, put his hands into his jeans pockets. 'Ten, twenty-five, what's the difference?'

'Fifteen years,' Glitsky said.

Brown shrugged. 'So?'

'So which one is it, Chas?' Thieu picked it up. 'Did you see Dooher ten years ago?'

'Maybe. Maybe eleven, I don't know.'

Glitsky. 'What about?'

'I don't know. This same thing.'

The two Inspectors looked at each other. Glitsky nodded and Thieu talked. 'You talked to Mark Dooher about this Saigon murder ten years ago? What about it?'

Brown scratched at his beard, rolled his eyes around, let out a long breath. 'I was having, you know… like I couldn't find much work. I was looking through the paper and saw Dooher at this charity thing, and it said he did a lot of that, so I figured, hey, he's doin' pretty good, maybe he could help out an old buddy.'

'You tried to blackmail him,' Glitsky said.

'First I just asked him if he could spare a little, you know? It wasn't like strong-arm.'

'And what'd he do? Did he pay you?'

Chas was shaking his head. 'He threw me out, the son of a bitch. Said nobody'd believe a low-life like me anyway. He just laughed at me. Didn't give a shit my life was in the toilet.'

'Why didn't you ever mention this before, Chas?' Thieu asked.

'I thought it would make me look bad. I don't know.'

'And you wanted to testify to get back at him?' It made perfect sense to Glitsky. It was all about macho posturing – power and payback.

'Yeah. Show the bastard.' He looked at the faces of the two Inspectors. 'Hey, it don't mean he didn't kill the guy.'

I don't know about you, but I could use a hug.

Dooher kept reliving the moment, savoring the sweetness of it, the smell of her, the press of her breasts up against him, her arms around him inside the coat of his suit.

They'd stood there, holding fast to one another for a long time – perhaps thirty seconds, forty. He'd started to become aroused, and she felt it, making a small noise deep in her throat, leaning into him. Then pulling back, looking up, inviting the kiss that came – tentative and gentle at first, then open-mouthed, consuming.

Then Wes was outside, saying something to someone in the hall. She crossed over to the window and he sat on the desk.

That night – the defense team was all-but living together- they'd all had dinner at a French restaurant on Clement Street. As was their routine, Farrell drove Dooher home. Both of them were beat after the long day in the courtroom. There would be plenty of time to second-guess jury selection.

Christina hadn't called him, and he hadn't called her.

Then, all day today, the sexual tension, and Farrell seemed to take extra care that Mark and Christina were never alone.

At home after another late dinner and another day of jury selection, Dooher changed into a pair of khakis and a black cotton sweater. Then, barefoot, he wandered downstairs into his library and stood at the window.

Christina was coming up the walk, through the gate into the patio. Except for the kitchen lights, the house was dark. Snooping media types might believe that the house was empty. He opened the door. 'Can you see?'

'Fine.'

They got to the kitchen. She wore the hood up on a heavy ski parka. Flipping the parka back, she blew a strand of hair away from her mouth. 'Okay, I'm nervous.'

He stepped forward and gathered her in. When he released her, there was no kiss. He gave her a wistful half-smile, then retreated to the counters. 'Can I get you a cup of coffee? Some wine? You want to take off your coat?'

She said wine would be good and shrugged out of the parka, draping it over one of the stools. Mark busied himself in the refrigerator, getting out the bottle, opening it, taking down the glasses. Coming over to her, he slid a glass before her and pulled up another stool. He held up his glass and she touched it, a ringing chime. 'Just so you understand, Christina,' he began, 'I didn't plan on this. On yesterday.'

'I didn't either. It's not the kind of thing you plan.'

Mark sipped his wine. 'And now I don't know what to do with it. I don't know how you feel. I don't know anything.'

'Do you know how you feel?'

'Not really. Confused, I suppose. Guilty as hell, though in this context that's a poor choice of words. I mean…'

She reached over and covered his hand. 'I know what you mean. You think it's still too soon.'

'I don't know what "too soon" is. But I know what this is, what yesterday was.'

'Me, too.'

He smiled at her. 'I'm not talking about the feeling.'

She squeezed his hand. 'I am.'

He moved his hand away. 'No. It's more than that, and I don't think I can trust it. I don't trust it.'

'What?'

'You and I being thrown together like this, the stress of this situation. You helping to defend me, me dependent on you. It's a false environment.'

'Driving us together through no fault of our own?'

He put his glass down and broke a lopsided grin. 'You're making fun of me.'

She leaned toward him. 'A bit.'

'Okay, but I'm being serious. I think we deserve a better chance than that. Especially, that you do.' He sighed. 'I never thought I would love anybody again, and now here it is and the timing's all wrong. Everything's all wrong.'

'Not everything,' she said.

'Almost.'

She was shaking her head. 'You feel like you love me. And I love you. That's not almost everything wrong – that's almost everything right.'

He twirled his wine glass, tiny circles on the counter. 'And if they find me guilty of murder, I don't get out of prison until you're older than I am now.'

'They won't find you guilty. You didn't do it.'

'I would have said they'd never have gotten me to trial because I didn't do it. But guess what?'

She sipped her wine. 'So what are you saying?'

He looked down, sighed again, raised his eyes. 'I'm trying to tell you I love you,' he said, 'and I've got two temptations. The first is to take you upstairs and not think about what any of it means or where it might go.'

'I choose door one,' she said.

He reached over and touched her face. 'And the second is to pretend it isn't here, none of this, to pretend that yesterday was a moment of weakness. But I don't think it was. I think it was real, so real I'm terrified we're going to threaten it.'