Bracco sipped at his own coffee to give himself some time. The silent presence of the Curtlees unnerved him. He looked from the solid, unyielding parents over to Ro Curtlee in his pressed blue jeans and form-hugging black T-shirt and his eight-hundred-dollar cowboy boots. He still wore the cast on his arm from his altercation with Glitsky and his patrolmen; his face, though, had all but cleared up. He'd shaved this morning and his hair was neatly combed.
When he noticed Bracco's eyes on him, Ro smiled dismissively.
Bracco chose his words carefully. "I'm investigating another case and would like to clear your client from suspicion."
"You mean he's under suspicion in another case?"
"Only in the sense that we don't have a suspect yet in this other matter. I am in the process of trying to eliminate possibilities."
"And Mr. Curtlee is among those possibilities?"
"Yes."
A bark of a laugh from Ro, and then he sat back in his upholstered chair. "Unbelievable," he said.
Theresa Curtlee finally got on the boards. "Truly," she said.
Denardi held out a warning palm toward both her and his client. "Ro. Theresa. Please." And then, back to Bracco. "This other case? A homicide, I presume."
"Arson murder, actually."
This brought a tight little turn-up of Denardi's lips. "Of course. And how would Mr. Curtlee be even remotely connected to this hypothetical arson murder?"
"The victim was the wife of the foreman of his jury. Janice Durbin."
Another prim smile from Denardi. "I see. And maybe you could draw me a road map, as it were, of how this poor woman's unfortunate death leads in any way, even remotely, to Mr. Curtlee?"
Bracco kept it simple. "She was strangled, and somebody lit a fire. The same thing happened to Felicia Nunez. And of course Ms. Sandoval was also strangled. There would appear to be something of a coincidence. So if your client will cooperate and we can eliminate him as a suspect, I'd like to do so. I just don't see what your objection could be."
Cliff Curtlee ostentatiously cleared his throat but said nothing.
Denardi took his cue. "Well, on general grounds, Inspector, my objection is that we American citizens have the right to our privacy. Mr. Curtlee doesn't have to tell you or anybody else what he was doing on Friday morning or any other time."
"No. Of course not."
"On the other hand." Denardi turned toward Ro again and some signal must have passed between them. "If you'd give my client and me a couple of minutes alone, Inspector, we might be able to come to some accommodation. If you don't mind." With that, lawyer, client, and his parents all stood and left the conference room.
Bracco sat back, crossed his legs, and leaned back to take in the large canvases of modern art and the leather-bound shelves of books, and photographs of the famous and powerful. He cast his glance out over the city-the chop on the bay far below, the scudding clouds, the Ferry Building and Bay Bridge elegantly sweeping out to Treasure Island.
Then, as though it had been choreographed, and maybe it had been, Denardi, Ro, and the Curtlees came back into the conference room.
"Inspector," Denardi began before they'd even sat down, "it would be wonderful if you could pass a message back to your colleagues in the police department that we are always ready to cooperate with its investigations when the proper procedures are followed. Mr. Curtlee is ready to make a statement about his actions last Friday morning. Do you have a tape recorder to get it down for the record?"
"Sure."
They sat down in their previous seats. "If you don't mind, Ms. Curtlee will be taking notes as well."
"Fine." Bracco pulled out his pocket recorder and placed it on the table. After his standard introduction, he asked Ro Curtlee what he'd done on the previous Friday morning.
"I woke up late, about nine fifteen, in the house here," he said. "I went down and said hello to my parents, who were just finishing breakfast, and then had some breakfast of my own-served by our lovely Linda."
"We'll corroborate that," Cliff Curtlee said, gesturing toward his wife. "Both of us. Would you like to know what we ate, too?"
Bracco kept his composure. "That won't be necessary," he said. Turning back to Ro, he asked, "And after breakfast?"
"I showered and put on some clothes and at about eleven I was at my doctor's where he checked the cast on my arm. How's that? Want to go later?"
"Yes, please." They ran down Curtlee's actions through the whole day until he joined his parents again later for dinner. "That's good," Bracco said when they finished. "Let me ask you a couple more questions about the morning. Is there anybody here who might have seen you in bed before nine fifteen?"
He thought for a moment. "Linda knocked at nine. That's what woke me up. It kind of pissed me off if you want to know."
"So nine, then? And before that?"
Denardi had had enough. "Before that, Inspector," he said, "he was asleep in his bed at his home. Is there anything difficult to understand about that?"
"No."
"Well, then." Denardi clapped his hands. "I believe that's what you came here for. You've got your statement, willingly delivered. Full cooperation. Now if you'll excuse us…"
Bracco made no move to reach for his recorder. Instead, he nodded amicably. "Hey, though," he said, as though he'd just thought of it, "now that we're talking, how's the food at Tadich's lately? Good as ever?"
The furtive look between lawyer and client disappeared almost as quickly as it came, but not so quickly that Bracco didn't see it. And they both knew that he'd seen it.
"The hell with this," Ro Curtlee said to Denardi. "This is never gonna end unless we do something about it. I'll tell you what, Inspector, I'll take a fucking lie detector test. We got to put an end to this. How'd you like that?"
Denardi extended his arm to its full length. "Ro!"
But the young man went on, "No, Tristan, this is just bullshit! The same shit they been laying on us since all this began. I didn't shoot anybody yesterday or any other day. I finished lunch and me and Ez went to the planetarium…"
Denardi actually came out of his seat. "Ro! Shut up! That's enough!"
But Ro couldn't seem to get himself under control. He stood up, too, now pointing at his attorney, his face flushed with anger. "What? I'm supposed to just take this? He just accused me again.. "
"Don't talk, damn it!" Denardi nearly bellowed. "Don't say another word!" Then he turned to stare down at Bracco. "This interview is over," he said. "Right now."
Bracco got his hands on his recorder first thing. Leaving it on, he stood and backed away a couple of steps. "What are you going to take a lie detector about, Ro? I never mentioned anybody getting shot."
"Don't answer that," Denardi said.
"He already did," Bracco said.
"This is absurd." Cliff Curtlee got to his feet.
Denardi reiterated, "He didn't admit a goddamn thing."
"Oh. Okay, then. He's got nothing to worry about."
Ro took a step toward him. "I got nothing to worry about anyway, dickhead."
"Ro. Enough." Denardi moved his bulk around in front of his client. "Get out of here, Inspector."
"Sure," Bracco said, backing away. "I'm gone," he said. "Nice chatting with you all."
22
The only Courier reporter who worked in an office instead of in one of the cubicles on the main floor city room was Sheila Marrenas. She had earned this eminence not only because she was an excellent stylist as a writer, with a distinctive voice, but because her column, "Our Town," was the most widely read and popular recurring feature in the newspaper. She had a great eye for news and especially for conflict disguised as news. It didn't hurt, either, that Marrenas had early on been inculcated with a belief system that coincided with the politics of the newspaper's owners, and that she could and did express these views with the passionate conviction of the true believer.