Guilt

It didn't take any time at all.

Glitsky and Thieu were talking over the relative merits of a no-warrant arrest – picking up a suspect without a warrant signed by a magistrate – and had pretty much reached the conclusion that in Dooher's case, it wouldn't be a great idea. Dooher wasn't acting like he was going to flee the jurisdiction. He'd committed no new crimes that they knew of. If Glitsky and Thieu just went in and arrested him on their suspicions, they'd open themselves up to charges of false arrest, harassment, police brutality.

On his desk, the telephone sounded. 'Glitsky.'

When he hung up, he told Thieu that it had been the DA. 'Flaherty told Reston he's got no personal knowledge of any crimes committed by Mr Dooher. Emphasis added. If there's evidence he committed a crime, we ought to pursue it vigorously. His words.'

Thieu broke a grin. 'What do you say? Let's do that very thing.'

At 10:18, Sam had her feet up and was reclining in the barco-lounger. She was vastly enjoying the political philosophy of Al Franken, laughing aloud every two minutes. Bart slept under the table and Wes was in a chair at that table perusing the Trang file – there had to be something in it.

The doorbell rang and Bart raised his head and barked. Wes looked a question over at Sam. 'This time of night?'

'We don't want any,' Sam said. 'I know.'

He closed the Trang file and stood up. Crossing the living room, giving an affectionate tug on Sam's toe as he passed her, he got to the stairs and turned on the outside light.

Half of their front door was frosted glass, and a man's silhouette was visible behind it. Farrell paused with a premonition, then spoke to the door. 'Who is it?'

'Mark Dooher.'

He opened the door halfway, but kept a hand on it. The sight of Dooher, on his stoop in the fog, made his mouth go dry.

The damn physical reactions. His heart was turning over. 'What do you want?'

'That's not the friendliest greeting I've ever heard, Wes. How about, "How you been?" or "Long time no see?"' When Farrell made no response, Dooher cut to it. 'I'm trying to find my wife. She here?'

'No, she's not here. Why would she be here?'

'She called you today.' It wasn't a question. 'You saw her. I think you know where she is.'

'I don't have any idea where she is.'

A coldness in the eyes. 'I think she's here.'

Behind him, Wes heard Sam's voice at the top of the stairs. 'Who is it, Wes?'

Dooher's eyes narrowed. He tried to look up the stairs around Farrell. 'Finally getting some, are you? She pretty?'

'Get lost, Mark. I don't know where Christina is. I didn't know she was leaving you, though I don't blame her. She got an earful of the evidence on Victor Trang today. I think it kind of bothered her.' He turned around to Sam. 'It's Mark Dooher.'

'So you did talk to her?'

Damn. Farrell had to stop giving things away. He had to remember who he was talking to. 'How did you know where I live?'

A condescending smile. 'Parkers.'

Lord. Wes was pathetic. When the Parkers Directory – the lawyer's guide to other lawyers – had sent him their update form, he'd filled in his address here on Buena Vista. He hadn't opened his new office yet, hadn't wanted to lose any business. Stupid.

Sam put her hand flat against his back. He hadn't heard her come down the stairs.

Dooher kept up with questions. 'So what did Christina say? What did you talk about?'

'Soybean futures, Mark. Maybe some pork bellies. Famous killers we have known.'

Dooher put his hand on the door. 'You've always been a funny guy, Wes.' He popped the heel of his palm against the frosted pane. 'Where is she?' Another shot with his palm, rattling the window. Loud. 'Where the fuck is she?'

Suddenly Sam was around Wes, slamming the door shut, turning the deadbolt. 'Keep the hell away from here!' she yelled through the door.

Bart set up a racket and Wes leaned over, patting him, holding him by the collar, getting him under control. When he looked back up, the shadow was gone. He slumped against the wall. Sam had her back against the opposite wall. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I just didn't want…'

'No, it's okay. He's gone now. That was a good move.'

She came toward him, into his arms. 'What did he want?'

'Christina's left him. He thought I'd know where she went.'

'I don't want him coming around here.'

'I don't either.' They started up the steps, arms around one another. 'You don't have to worry,' Wes said. 'He's just looking for her.'

'I do worry. He didn't have to come by here. He could have called you at work tomorrow.'

Wes thought about it. 'He's not going to do anything to me. He doesn't perceive me as a danger.'

'This was a threat, him coming by here. He was threatening you.'

'I don't think so. What for?'

'For talking Christina into leaving him.'

'I didn't do that. She did that on her own.'

'She did it on her own after she talked with you at your office. It's a fine distinction.'

Wes shook his head. 'There's no way.'

She stared up into his face. 'You want to promise me one thing? You thought you knew him before. Remember that, would you? Remember that.'

He kissed her. 'Okay, I'll remember.'

Ravenwood Street in the dark.

Slumped behind the wheel of his city car, Glitsky had the lights off but had left the motor running and the heater on. His hands encircled an oversized cardboard cup which had once held hot tea. The driver's side window was down an inch.

Across the street, Dooher's house appeared and disappeared in the shifting fog. Fifteen minutes before, Glitsky had knocked on the front door and returned to his car to wait.

He was thinking about Flaherty, wishing he hadn't come on so aggressively back long ago when he'd interviewed him. But then again, that's who Abe had been back then – a cop with a chip on his shoulder over Flo, over his life. Ready to explode at anybody, even people who might help him. Alienating everyone. Ineffective.

The Lexus pulled into the driveway. Glitsky got out of his car and reached the front door at about the same time a light came on in the back of the house. He pushed the doorbell and listened to the eight tones: Lord we thank thee. We bow our heads.

Another light inside, then overhead on the porch. When Dooher opened the door, Glitsky put a foot against it. 'I thought you'd be interested to hear that we're looking into Mr Trang's murder again. I wanted to give you the opportunity to confess to it now, save us all a lot of time and trouble.'

'Get a life, private.' Dooher moved to close the door, but it wouldn't go.

Glitsky kept talking. 'You've been through one trial. You know the heck it plays with your life. You don't really want to go through that again. And I'm betting you don't get bail this time. Just a hunch, but I'd go with it.'

'What the hell are you doing here?'

'I just told you.'

'You got a warrant? You don't have a warrant, Sergeant, get off my property.'

Glitsky moved his foot. 'I'm going to take that as a "no" on the confession, but you're making a mistake.'

Dooher, disgusted, closed the door and turned out the overhead light. Glitsky, thinking he'd burned up his Friday-night fun quotient, decided to go home. He was almost across the patio when the light came back on. He heard the door open, the commanding voice. 'Glitsky.'

Reaching inside his jacket for his.38 – you never knew – he revolved halfway around. Dooher stepped out on to the porch. 'It was you brought the Trang file over to Farrell's, wasn't it?'

'He asked so nice, I couldn't refuse.'