Again, Glitsky blew out heavily. "What's she say? Marrenas."
"Basically it's the same old. In your zeal to get Ro Curtlee back behind bars, you're ignoring a far better suspect who's right under your nose."
"And who's that?"
"The Durbin husband, who doesn't have an alibi and is also evidently having an affair with one of his employees."
"She printed that?"
"To that effect. And of course then the question is, why aren't you concentrating on him instead of picking on Ro?"
"Maybe because Ro did it. Although, for the record, you should know that I've interviewed the husband at least twice already and plan to do it again because it's such a good time. Meanwhile, you'll notice I haven't arrested anybody yet-Ro or Michael Durbin or anybody else-and that's usually a clue that I don't have a viable suspect."
"Well, if that's the case, it might be in your best interest to prepare some kind of statement to that effect, and I'll do the same."
"It should go without saying."
"Yes, well, that's not how it seems to be playing this time."
"How about just saying we can't comment because the investigation is continuing?"
"How'd that fly last time you tried it? I think we've got to be a little more forthcoming. I'm serious here, Abe. I don't know how long I'm going to be able to keep my own job if this keeps up. I'm on thin enough ice as it is. Let's try a little proactive appeasement, how's that sound? Put on a little show for the home team."
27
Fifty-eight people were in attendance at the crematorium service. Glitsky sat in the back row listening and taking notes as the relatives and acquaintances of Janice Durbin stood up to give their eulogies. A borderline tearful but controlled Michael Durbin got up and extolled his wife as a partner, provider, helpmate, and mother. Kathy Novio, breaking down several times, invited everyone over to her house for the reception afterward, then talked about her sister's childhood, her passion for her family and patients and career, and her belief that the world was a good place, a safe place, and how in spite of what had happened to her, Kathy was sure that Janice would not want anyone to come away from this ceremony with negative feelings or despair. Two other girlfriends, one from college and one from medical school, talked about how much fun she'd been, how dedicated a friend. Her pastor, who appeared to have known her fairly well, talked in a resounding baritone about her volunteer activities with the mentally handicapped, her generosity, and her faith.
It was, Glitsky thought, pretty much the usual stuff. But amid the tributes to Janice Durbin's life, he found himself unable to stop wondering which of the guests here, and he thought it must have been one of them, had given her chlamydia. Or if Janice had spread the disease to someone in this room.
While the last of the talks was winding down, he went out and stood by the back door and let the crowd flow out past him. He didn't know if anyone recognized him, and he certainly didn't pick up any sense of hostility from any of the guests for the way he was screwing up the investigation into Janice's murder.
Glitsky had met all the kids and the Novios the previous Saturday, and now when the families came out, straggling behind the rest of the crowd, he saw that the trauma of the past few days had taken a heavy toll.
Kathy, in stark contrast to her talk inside, was nearly ashen with anger and grief. She held hands with both of her daughters, glistening eyes straight ahead. A couple of steps behind her, her husband walked in a kind of stiff-legged attention. The elder Durbin boy, Jon, his face a cloud of fury, cleared the door and immediately walked away from the general direction of the crowd. Michael Durbin, following, walking next to the middle son, Peter, on one side of him, and his daughter, Allie, holding his hand on the other, called out to him, but Jon half turned and waved a dismissive hand and kept walking away.
Glitsky had come to the service as part of his chief's appeasement strategy, thinking that some reporter from the Courier or the Chronicle or one of the TV stations might be among the audience, and would interpret his presence there as having something to do with his investigation, and not to do with Ro Curtlee. In fact, he had arrived at the ceremony with every intention of pulling Michael Durbin aside and trying to get some clearer information either on his alibi for the time of the murder or on the situation, if any, between him and Liza Sato. He even considered that he might reveal the chlamydia angle and see where that led them.
But seeing the family now so rawly exposed, and with the children around, he simply met Durbin's eye and nodded in apparent sympathy as he walked past and let them all go to their waiting cars. "I think you should call Jeff Elliot back." Chuck was drinking a beer, sitting on the counter in his kitchen, talking to Michael Durbin while the reception continued in full swing in the living room. "Give the guy an interview in the Chronicle, go on the offensive."
"What's the offensive going to get me?" Michael asked. He held a glassful of bourbon and took a drink of it. "It's what Peter said this morning, the more I deny it, the more it sounds like I'm hiding something."
"Mike." Chuck put a hand on his brother-in-law's shoulder. "Listen to me. We know who did this, right? So, you notice anything missing from the Marrenas column? Like all the reasons we know it was Ro. Did she mention that you were the foreman of Ro's jury? No. Or the murder of that other woman, the witness? No. Or any other very good reason Glitsky might have been concentrating on Ro instead of you? That's a lot you could tell Elliot right there that somehow isn't making its way into the conversation, don't you think?"
"I don't know. I don't think anything anymore. I mean, even Jon's starting to have the idea that…"
But Chuck cut him off. "No, he's not. He's just devastated by his mom dying, and who can blame him? He doesn't really believe you had anything to do with it, I promise. Hell, he's eighteen. He's trying to find someplace to put all this emotion he'd rather deny he's feeling, so Marrenas gives him the idea and he takes it out on you."
"He's smarter than that."
"Maybe, but he's all fucked up right now. Just let him work it out."
"What other choice do I have, anyway? I don't know where he's got to."
"He'll be back, don't worry about that. Meanwhile, you call the Chronicle. You know they'll talk to you. Get Ro out there in front of the story where he belongs."
"That son of a bitch. But then what if he comes after me, or the kids?"
And at this, Chuck drew a breath, drank off a slug of beer. "I hadn't thought of that," he said.
"I haven't thought of too much else." He lifted his glass to his mouth and half emptied it. "I know what I should do, I'm not kidding." Lowering his voice, he said, "I ought to go kill the guy myself."
Chuck shook his head. "No. That's a bad idea."
"I've got a fucking shotgun out in my garage. I've had it forever, from back when I used to hunt. They can't trace a shotgun. I go over there to Ro's house some night, knock on the door, start shooting. Then I throw the gun in the bay. And tell Glitsky I was, say, with you the whole time, drinking away my sorrow."
"I've already said that's a bad idea. Now I'll say it again. That's a really bad idea."
"I don't have any other ideas."
"Well, lose that one. It totally sucks. You're not a killer, Michael, you couldn't do that. It would ruin your life."
Durbin tipped up his glass, finishing the drink. "As opposed to what it is now, you mean?" Sheila Marrenas was waiting just outside the door of the outer lobby of the chief's office when Vi Lapeer got back from her lunch meeting. She was talking to one of her chief detectives and didn't notice the reporter until Marrenas stood up and blocked her way. "Excuse me, Chief. I've just got a quick question for you."