Guilt

But Drysdale was emphatic. 'Not a chance.'

Back out to the window. 'All right, I'm going to give you my decision and you're not going to like it, but here it is. We go for the indictment on killing his wife, but not on Victor Trang. From what you say, we're not going to prove Trang.'

'Well, sir, there is the consistent M.O., with wiping the blade…'

'Forget it. It's not going to happen. So we go with one count, Murder One, no specials.' This meant special circumstances murder-killing a police officer, multiple murders, murder for profit, and other especially heinous crimes.

'But we've got specials at least two ways.'

'No.' Locke was emphatic. 'I am supporting my staff on the one charge that it has any chance of proving. But personally, I must tell you, Art, I am not convinced. It smells funny to me, but I can't not charge it, can I?'

'I don't think so, no.'

'All right. Then go get the indictment, but I want you to ride this case like white on rice – it starts to go sideways, I want to know about it yesterday, all right?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And one other thing. I want you to ask for a quarter million dollars' bail.'

'What?' Drysdale was stunned. This was unheard of. Murder suspects did not get out on bail, or if they did, it was for millions. A quarter million dollars' bail meant that Mark Dooher could put up his ten percent bond on one of his credit cards and be out of jail before he was in. In effect, he would never be arrested.

'You heard me, Art. This particular man is innocent until he's proven guilty, and I want him treated innocent. Do you understand?'

'But this bail, sir. The precedent alone…'

'This is an unprecedented case. If Amanda Jenkins wants it and you think it's a winner, I'll go along because I respect you, Art. But we'll do it my way. And that's the end of it.'

'But-'

He held up a warning hand. 'No buts! That's the end of it!'

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Glitsky liked this woman. The appointment was scheduled for his home at 7:30 and that was the exact moment she rang the doorbell. Glitsky generally believed that cleanliness was next to godliness, but punctuality was next. Rita was starting off on the right foot.

He'd been surprised, at first, by her nationality, since he'd expected Rita Schultz to be somehow vaguely Germanic. But she was a hefty and healthy-looking Hispanic woman. Her great-grandfather, she explained, had come over to Mexico with the Emperor Maximilian's troops, then stayed. She was thirty-three years old and her English was accented but at least as grammatical as most of what Glitsky heard on television.

She had been working for six years for the same couple – the references were glowing. The couple were having their third child, and the woman had decided that she was going to take an extended leave from her job in advertising and stay home with her new baby and the other two, so they wouldn't need a nanny anymore. But it did mean that Rita could not start for Glitsky until after the baby was born. It was due any day.

He thought that for Rita Schultz it would be worth the wait.

The light had faded long ago and Christina was sitting alone in her office at McCabe & Roth. The room was small, stark and utilitarian, with a desk, a computer terminal, a bookshelf, a gun-metal legal file. With her door open, she could look out across the open reception area and catch a glimpse of the Oakland Bay Bridge, but she had no windows of her own. The walls in her office had been bare when she'd moved in, but she'd tacked up a couple of posters to lessen the claustrophobic feel. On her desk she had a picture of her parents smiling at her from the pool deck in Ojai.

She heard a noise somewhere on the floor and glanced up from the brief she was writing. Seeing her parents in the picture, smiling and carefree in the bright sunlight, she felt a pang and looked at her watch.

9:35.

What the hell was she doing with her life?

She stretched and stood, thinking she'd go see what other lunatic was burning the oil the way she was. At her door, she paused – it was Mark's office, the light on now. He hadn't been back into work yet. She crossed the reception area.

The sense of disappointment when it wasn't Mark brought her up short.

She hadn't really been consciously aware that she was waiting to see him, wanting to see him again. She'd been biding her time until he could face coming back into work, and then, thinking it must be him in his office this late at night, her heart had quickened.

But it wasn't him. Another man was standing by the wraparound windows, looking out at the mezmerizing view. She knocked on the open door. 'Wes?'

Farrell turned, smiled weakly. She couldn't help but notice how drawn and tired he seemed.' C 'est moi. I thought everybody would have gone home by now.'

She took a step into the room. 'Can I help you?'

'I don't think so.' He held up a key by way of explanation. 'Mark asked if I'd stop by on my way home and pick up his in-box. He must be thinking about coming back to work.' Wes moved over to Dooher's desk, picked up his briefcase and opened it. 'What are you still doing here?'

Christina shrugged. 'Brownie points, I guess. I wanted to finish my brief by the morning. How is Mark doing?'

Farrell raised his eyes. 'He's lying pretty low. I haven't seen him since the funeral. We've done some phone.' He finished stowing Dooher's papers in his briefcase, snapped shut the lid. 'He'll be all right, Christina. He's pretty tough.'

'I don't know if tough helps at a time like this.'

'Well,' he smiled ruefully, 'it doesn't hurt.' Lifting the briefcase, he came around the desk, over next to Christina. He gestured her out, turned off the lights in Dooher's office, closed the door and locked it.

'Wes, are you worried?'

'About what?'

'Mark. The police. Sam said-'

He turned to her and his shoulders sagged. 'I don't want to talk about Sam. And I don't know what's going on with the police, to tell you the truth. I don't think Mark does either. So far they've left him alone. Maybe that's a good sign.'

'You don't sound very confident.'

'I don't think I am.'

'But if he wasn't there…'

'I know. But if you're predisposed to see something, you'd be amazed how often you'll see it. I think the police got stuck on the Trang murder and suddenly Mark went from being an upstanding businessman to potential suspect. And once you're a potential suspect, well, you know this. It's a lot easier to accuse somebody a second time.'

'But not if he wasn't even there!'

'Maybe. But all they've got to do is have somebody at the driving range say they couldn't swear he stayed there all night, and then they walk around the neighborhood asking everybody if they saw Mark Dooher or somebody who looked like him, or his car, or a car that looked like his car. And somebody will have seen something, or thought they did, and that's all they'll need.

'Even Sam… no. I've got to get going.'

He started toward the elevator.

'What about Sam? Wes!'

He made it another couple of steps before the spring gave out and he stopped.

'What happened with Sam?'

He turned around. 'Actually, Sam is a perfect example of what I'm talking about.'

After he hired Rita and she left, Glitsky was back in his kitchen, rattling around, when his beeper went off. He called the number and learned that Paul Thieu was still working, had beeped him from a pay phone not ten blocks away.

Glitsky had sent him out on what appeared to be another wild-goose chase, and for the second time in two days Thieu had discovered something. Glitsky gave him his home address and told him to come on up.