Guilt

Wonders did never cease.

Dooher's home was easy. He'd made no phone calls at all on the Monday that Trang had been killed. His office was a little more interesting. He'd called Trang twice – 1:40 and 4:50 – precisely the times noted in the dead man's computer.

Which meant that if Trang had been making up a story to impress his mother and girlfriend, major elements of it were close to the truth. His pulse quickening – the thrill of the chase indeed – Glitsky turned to the last little packet of sheets. There, as promised by Trang, was the third call, from Dooher's cellphone, at 7:25.

And even though Glitsky thought the official policy on miscreants in San Francisco was, 'Three strikes and you're misunderstood,' this time he was getting willing to call Dooher out. He sat back in his chair, feet up on his desk, wondering what, if anything, it meant.

Trang's computer notes might have been cryptic, but they also told a consistent story – Mark Dooher was working on the settlement, not acting as an adviser on a personal injury case as he'd claimed. Glitsky could imagine no reason why Trang would lie to himself in his electronic notebook.

And here was another tantalizing entry -MD from F. 's. The 7:25 call that Glitsky had interpreted to mean that Dooher had called from Flaherty's office. But, in fact, he'd made it from his car. What did that mean? Was it possible that F wasn't Flaherty?

Another thought – did Trang even have any personal injury cases in his files? This, Glitsky thought, was a job for the ever-eager Paul Thieu. And the note? MD message. There might be something the lab could salvage from the tape that had been in Trang's answering machine, even if it had been recorded over. He leaned forward, pulled his yellow pad toward him, and started writing.

He longed to catch Dooher in his lie. In any lie. There had to be one. In a kind of trance, he was lost in his notes. Then staring into the space in front of him, he picked up the telephone and punched some numbers.

'Law Offices.'

'Hello. This is Sergeant Glitsky, San Francisco Homicide. I'd like to talk to Mr Dooher's secretary, please. And I'm sorry, I don't remember her name.'

'Janey.'

'That's it. Thanks.'

'Mr Dooher's office.'

'Janey?'

'Yes.'

Another introduction, a little riff of bureaucratese, then he was saying: 'Janey, I need to confirm a couple of things your boss told me. This is just routine.'

It turned out Janey did remember the call from Trang on the day he had died. He'd called while Dooher was at lunch, left an urgent message that Dooher get back to him.

'This was about the settlement deadline, isn't that right?'

Janey paused, perhaps wondering if she was saying too much. Glitsky didn't want to lose her. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'that was the impression I had.' Let her think he'd gotten it from Dooher.

It worked. Janey continued: 'Mr Trang reminded me to tell Mr Dooher that he needed to hear from him before five, no later, or that he'd have to go ahead and file the amended complaint the next day.'

So Trang's call to Dooher had been about the settlement. Janey had said as much. And that made Dooher a liar.

And if that were true, it dramatically increased the odds that, at the very least, Dooher knew more than he was letting on, and at the most, that he was a killer.

Glitsky was bouncing it off Frank Batiste. The Lieutenant was sitting forward in his chair in his office, arms on his desk, pencil in hand, shaking his head. 'I believe you, although I'd be a little happier if you had any idea why.'

'Wasn't it you who's told us a zillion times that we're not in the motive business, we're in the evidence business?'

'Yep, that was me, and I was right.'

'So?'

'So what? Where's your evidence then?' Batiste continued drumming his pencil. 'Because we agree you don't have a motive.'

But Glitsky didn't want to let the motive go. In his experience, people didn't often get killed – not by someone they knew – for no reason whatever. 'Look, the Archdiocese is Dooher's biggest client. If the case gets filed, he gets fired.'

'Why would that happen?'

'Because he hasn't done his job, which is keep the lawsuit hush hush.'

'And why would that be?'

Glitsky rolled his eyes. 'Because, Frank, it's politically embarrassing to the Archbishop.'

'So to keep it from getting filed, Dooher kills Trang? That's a reach, Abe.'

'I know. But it's all I can think of.'

Batiste straightened up, bopped his pencil a couple more times, stretched out the crick in his neck. 'Are you sure you're not just on Dooher because you haven't got any other suspects?'

'Maybe there aren't any other suspects because he did it, Frank.'

'Maybe that's it.' Batiste didn't want to fight about it. He took a beat. 'Well, that was instructive and a hell of a lot of fun. We should do it again sometime. This was where we started, isn't it? No motive? So let's leave motive. You came in here wanting to talk evidence. Evidence is good. What do you got?'

But there wasn't much. Glitsky had gotten his search warrant for Dooher's phone records by trotting out the old probable cause argument to Judge Arenson, who knew him fairly well and was aware that he didn't abuse the privilege.

Now the question was whether the information in the phone records – the three calls that coincided with Trang's notes – moved things along the probable-cause trail. Glitsky knew that the Judge wasn't about to give him carte blanche on the more invasive search warrants he was going to want to request – Dooher's house, office, car, and so on – unless there was something real, whether or not it was physical evidence, to back up Glitsky's suspicions.

He was hoping the phone calls would be enough, but Batiste wasn't buying that either, and didn't think Arenson would. 'So is this just your day to be difficult, Frank, or what?'

The pencil was tap-tapping again. 'What do they prove, Abe, the calls?'

'Dooher said they were talking about a personal injury case. Trang's notes say it was the settlement.' Even as he said it, Glitsky knew the objection, and it was valid.

'So it's "he said this, but he said that.'"

'But Dooher's secretary, Janey, agrees with Trang.'

'She didn't overhear the last two calls.'

'Why would Trang have written fictitious notes to himself on the calls? That just doesn't make any sense.'

Batiste held up the pencil. 'Abe, even if they talked about the settlement, even if Dooher is lying about it, we got nothing. Maybe Dooher was sleeping with Trang's girlfriend.'

'Or his mother,' Glitsky said. 'Maybe his girlfriend and his mother.'

Batiste liked it. 'Now we're on to something.'

Glitsky's lips were pressed tightly together in frustration, and the scar stood out in relief. 'I need a warrant. I've got to look through the guy's laundry.'

Batiste didn't think so. 'Arenson won't do it, not with what you've got so far. You're going to need more. What about the bayonet?'

'He never brought it home from Viet-' Stopping short.

Batiste broke a smile. 'Says he.'

'Lord, I'm stupid! The wife!'

If she invited him in, he would not need a warrant.

He kept a white shirt and regimental tie in the drawer of his desk for the occasional forgotten court date. He changed in the men's room and traded his flight jacket until tomorrow for Frank Batiste's gray sports coat – a little short in the sleeves, but the chest fit. It would do.

He was on the semi-enclosed front porch, his badge out, introducing himself to Sheila Dooher. There had been sun and a cool breeze at the Hall, but out here, a mile from the ocean, the fog clung and a savage wind dug itself into his bones. He didn't mind, though. At this moment, it was to his advantage.