"But it could have killed him, Durbin."
Glitsky shook his head. "Not really. Not even probably. Not with empty shells in the shotgun. At the worst, he could have maybe gotten burned."
"Badly burned. And sued the city for a zillion dollars."
"True." He met the chief's eyes. "Entirely possible, but to tell you the truth, I didn't much care about that. And Michael wasn't going to do that anyway. I knew the guy was a justice freak from the Curtlee trial. He'd do what it took and take the consequences. He was all the way on board when he realized about Novio and Janice. Devastated, but on board."
"So," Amanda continued, "to go back to the beginning. What got Novio thinking about this? Ro getting out?"
"Exactly," Glitsky said. "Janice had just told Novio what she was going to do to him. She just didn't make up her mind fast enough to actually expose him. And the hesitation-maybe a couple of days, a week at most-that's what killed her. Because Chuckie boy thinks he's ruined and he's going to jail, and he's probably right. Meanwhile, just at this time, Ro gets out and burns up Felicia Nunez's apartment. Novio knows the connection between Ro and Durbin, and comes up with this great idea. Make it look like Ro did it! And hey, while we're at it, slash the paintings. That would be Ro all over." Glitsky's face went sour. "And I almost helped him get away with it."
Lapeer reached a hand across the table and touched his. "That's a big 'almost,' Abe. I wouldn't get yourself too wrapped up in it. And meanwhile, if this whole thing comes up in shall we say loftier surroundings, which it will, you're comfortable with me saying Michael Durbin got into this because he volunteered?"
Glitsky gave a measured nod, thought a minute, then nodded again. "That would not be inaccurate," he said. Since the slaughter last Friday, the Courier's offices had been in a state of upheaval. Cliff and Theresa Curtlee had been hands-on managers, and without their presence, the ship was rudderless and Marrenas felt it keenly. The office manager was already engaged in a three-way power struggle with the managing editor and the head of sales; the stock had plummeted, and rumors of a hostile takeover by the McClatchy Group had put everyone on edge.
The past four columns by Heinous Marrenas had eulogized the Curtlees and their legacy, such as it was. Beyond that, she'd made as much hay as she could blasting the police department and the district attorney for their unscrupulous persecution of Ro Curtlee, a man who was "guilty of nothing more than coming from a family who had dared to take on the city's entrenched law enforcement establishment while it trotted out every trick in the book in a concerted effort to deny him his civil rights."
With her network of informers at the Hall of Justice, by last Monday morning she'd discovered that Ro Curtlee had in fact not murdered Janice Durbin. And for her it was but a short and seemingly logical extrapolation to conclude that he'd had nothing to do with the other murders either.
Now she was in the middle of her Friday column, in which she was well on the way to characterizing the murderous actions of Linda Salcedo at the Curtlee mansion as the work of a low-intelligence, disgruntled domestic employee. It was shaping up to be the kind of emotional broadside she was best at, and she was wrestling with her prose when suddenly the door to her office opened and a man came in like a blast of angry wind.
Who let this man in? What was going on in the front office that he hadn't been stopped?
Standing up, whirling to face him, her hands went to the phone to call security and her eyes flashed in fury over the invasion of her privacy. "What the hell…" But in the next second, she recognized him. She replaced the phone's headpiece and leaned forward over her desk, her weight on her hands and arms. "You're Michael Durbin."
"That's right." Durbin wore jeans and a windbreaker and carried a large cloth book bag from the San Francisco Mystery Bookstore over his shoulders. "How are you doing this morning?"
"I'm fine," she said, "but as you can see, I'm in the middle of a column. Normally I don't take appointments until my column's done for the day." Heads are going to roll over this, Marrenas was thinking. Whoever let this clown into the building. Forcing on a patient smile, she said, "But since you're already here, I can probably spare a couple of minutes. What can I do for you? Do you want to take a seat?"
"That would be nice, thanks." He pulled around the cafeteria chair from the side of her desk.
When he'd gotten seated, Marrenas sat back down, too. "Well?"
Durbin pursed his lips, took in a breath. "Well, Sheila-do you mind if I call you Sheila?-I noticed that the past few days you've been going out of your way to clear the name of Ro Curtlee, bringing out all the facts of the police investigation and so on."
"Right. That's what I…"
Durbin held up a hand, stopping her. "I'm very familiar with what you do, Sheila, as you know. More familiar than most. What I'm down here for today is to tell you about the damage you do, to let you know how close you came to destroying me and my family, and to let you know that we've come out of it stronger and better."
"Well, I'm glad to see…"
Durbin stopped her again. "Please. You and your poisonous column came a long way toward convincing my boy Jon that his father was capable of murdering his mother."
Marrenas shifted her gaze. "I'm very sorry about that. I was going on the facts as I knew them at the time. For the record, I didn't print anything that was factually wrong, so if you're entertaining a lawsuit, forget about it."
"I'm sure that's how you justify your hatchet jobs to yourself. Select the facts you need for your own purposes, ignore context, and avoid responsibility."
Marrenas huffed in self-righteousness. "I'm not an irresponsible journalist, Mr. Durbin. I'm an investigative reporter." She gestured to the walls around her office, the plaques for her awards and achievements. "They don't give these things out in Cracker Jack boxes, you know."
"No, I'm sure they don't. But let me give you a couple of facts. Feel free to take notes if you want. First, of course, the most important fact-I didn't kill my wife. Second, I love my children. Third, since I didn't kill Janice, the alleged affair that I had with my good friend Liza Sato could not have been the motive for that murder, now, could it? And as for her sticking up for me at our workplace, that was the simple loyalty of a friend, not an example of collusion to help me with a cover-up. Are you getting all this?"
Marrenas gave him a dismissive shrug.
Durbin went on, "Finally, here's some excellent news about my plans for the future. I'm going to take Janice's life insurance and enough from the fire to build a new house. I'm going to resurrect my career as a painter, the career you helped destroy for me ten years ago. How does that sound to you?"
"Good," Marrenas said, her eyes frankly nervous now, flitting back and forth between Durbin and the door behind him. "That sounds good. I'm very glad to see that things will work out for you. But I really have to insist you leave now."
Durbin shifted his weight in his chair. "Fine, but I want you to know that I'll still have enough cash left over so that if I ever see my name in your column again, I'm going to pay someone to hunt you down and kill you like the vermin you are."
Staggered by the verbal assault, she could do nothing but stare at him.
"Unless, of course," Durbin said, "I don't think you're taking me seriously. In which case, maybe I'll just do it myself right now."
Durbin reached into his book bag and brought out a small handgun.
Marrenas's eyes went wide with panic. She put her hands out in front of her. "Oh my God, don't. No, please. Oh God, I just peed my pants. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I was just trying to do the best job I could. Please. Please, don't…"