Damage (28 page)

Marrenas took in a quick breath and let it out in a rush. “That’s not very nice.”

“No. But the point is that the police apparently somehow think, by some tortuous logic, that Ro had something to do with it. In fact, it’s so obscure that I can’t believe anyone really thinks it, but it seems like it’s going to be the next point of attack on Ro. And this in spite of the fact, as Ro told Bracco this morning, and Theresa and I backed him up because it was true, that he was sleeping at home at the time that this murder occurred.” Lowering his voice, Cliff went on, “And here’s the thing, Sheila. He
was
sleeping in his room. This was last Friday. I remember distinctly and so does Theresa. He came down and had breakfast with us at around nine or nine thirty and I promise you on my word of honor that he hadn’t been out killing some woman in the Sunset an hour before, and then setting her house on fire. That just didn’t happen.”

Sheila picked up his thread. “But the cops still came to question him?”

“Right. And you want to hear another one? That DA investigator who got shot yesterday out in the Fillmore?”

“Yes?”

“Evidently that was Ro, too. If you ask Bracco or Glitsky.”

Marrenas nodded admiringly. “Wow. Ro’s been busy.”

“Hasn’t he? Isn’t this just totally outrageous? In fact, he had lunch yesterday with Tristan Denardi at Tadich’s, the two of them talking about their legal strategy, then he and Ez went to the planetarium together. They did not stop and kill a DA investigator on the way.” He let out a deep sigh. “This is long past amusing, I must tell you.”

Marrenas got up, stretched her back, showing off the merchandise, and walked across her office. When she turned around, she asked, “So what do you want to do?”

Cliff came forward to the last few inches of the couch’s seat. “Well, the story itself, the cops suspecting Ro for every murder committed since he’s gotten out of jail, that’s got to get out. But more particularly, there’s got to be another story around this Durbin murder, and one that doesn’t have squat all to do with Ro, since it’s absolutely definite that he didn’t kill her. Or anybody else.

“Now we’ve got public opinion largely on our side, I think, especially after your last couple of brilliant articles on police brutality. It would be interesting to illustrate how badly the police can get off course when they’ve got a preconceived idea and they’re out to get an innocent man. Do you think you could do some looking around and write that story?”

“With my eyes closed, sir. With my eyes closed.”

“Are you and Mommy mad at each other?” Rachel asked.

They had parked at the airport in the hourly lot, and now they were walking out to the terminal. Treya had wanted Abe to just drop them off at the curb by the departures lane, but he had overruled her and said he wanted to be with them all for as long as he could. To which Treya’s response had been silence.

And which, in turn, led to Rachel’s question.

The two of them, father and daughter, were about fifteen feet behind Treya and Zachary, lagging on purpose. Glitsky’s daughter was holding his hand with one of hers, pulling her small pink rolling suitcase with the other one. Her monkey doll, Alice, rode on Rachel’s back, its hands Velcro’d together under her chin.

Glitsky said, “No. We’re having a disagreement, that’s all.”

“But you’re not mad at her.”

“I said no.”

“I know, but I think she’s mad at you.”

“She might be at that.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not going with you.”

“Why aren’t you? Isn’t this a vacation? Mommy said it was like a vacation.”

“I know. But ‘like’ a vacation isn’t the same as a vacation. If it was a real vacation, I’d be going.”

“But why can’t you go on this one?”

“See if you can guess.”

She looked up and over at him. “You’ll get mad.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Okay, then. Work.”

“Correct.”

“It’s always work.”

“Now you do sound like your mother.”

“But do you have to work this time?”

“If I didn’t think I did, don’t you think I’d be going with you?”

“I don’t know. Probably.”

“No. Definitely. And you know why? Because I love you. I love all of you.”

“Even Mommy?”

“Especially Mommy.”

At this moment, Treya and Zachary got to the escalator leading up to the security checkpoint, and Treya turned around, yelling back to them. “C’mon, you two, can’t you try a little harder to keep up?”

Rachel again looked up at her father. “I don’t care what she says, she’s mad.”

“I think you’re right,” Glitsky whispered.

Then they were where the line for security began. In Glitsky’s arms, Zachary wore the modified bicycle helmet he’d been living with for over a year now. The four of them had already done the “sandwich hug” with Rachel holding on to both Abe’s and Treya’s legs. Now Glitsky lowered Zachary down next to Rachel and told them to hold hands and stay together and guard the luggage for just one minute while he and their mother said a little private good-bye.

Glitsky took Treya’s hand, and after only a slight hesitation, she moved off with him a few steps away. He put his arm over her shoulder and drew her around into him. For a moment, she simply stood there, arms at her side, but then he felt and heard her sigh, and she came full around in front of him and brought her arms up against his back.

Pulling her head away, she stretched up and kissed him. “I love you,” she said.

“I love you, too. I’m sorry about ...”

She brought a hand around and put it up against his lips. “Shut up, okay. I’m sorry, too. This is just what I’ve got to do.”

“I get it.”

“And you do what you’ve got to do.”

“Right. Those are the rules. For the record, I’m going to be fine. And careful.”

She put some work into a smile. “Okay. Sure you will.”

“You take care of our guys.”

“I will.”

“And we talk every day. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“And you’re all coming back.”

“There’s no question of that. Really. None.” She stretched up and kissed him again. “I’ve got to go. I love you.”

“Me, too.”

After another fleeting half smile, she turned toward the children and Glitsky waved good-bye to them. He heard them say good-bye and tried to get out a word or some facsimile of a smile, but it was no use, so he waved good-bye one last time, then turned and started walking back toward the parking lot.

When Glitsky got in from the airport, Bracco had been sitting out in the detail waiting for him. After Glitsky had listened to the tape, the two men had discussed it for a while, and then had decided to bring it to Wes Farrell and let him make whatever decision he wanted about it.

Now Farrell’s and Glitsky’s footfalls bounced off the walls as they walked side by side down the internal corridor that ran behind the courtrooms on the second floor. They were both exhausted and neither had the will nor the strength to try to make conversation. It was near to the end of the business day, and most of the courtrooms to their right were empty. On the left were the doors to various judges’ chambers. The corridor itself echoed with the desultory conversation of a couple of shackled groups of defendants in orange jumpsuits and bailiffs who were waiting at the other end of the hall for the elevators that would take them up and then across to the jail behind the building.

Farrell and Glitsky stopped in front of a closed door with an etched panel on the wall next to it that read: THE HONOR ABLE LEO CHOMORRO.

Farrell gave Glitsky a hopeful shrug and hesitated one more second. They heard some continued, muted conversation behind the door, and then Farrell reached out and knocked. He had of course called to make the appointment, and so they were expected.

Behind the door, a chair scraped on a hardwood floor and then they were both shaking hands with Judge Chomorro, still in his robes, whose strong Hispanic presence filled most of the doorway. Standing a few steps behind him, in a business suit, hands clasped easily in front of him, was Judge Sam Baretto, there in Chomorro’s chambers for God knew what reason, and who stepped forward to greet Farrell and Glitsky, and then excused himself and walked out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

After these somewhat stilted salutations, Chomorro invited Farrell and Glitsky to sit around the cherry table that he apparently used as his working desk. The table had a computer on one end and took up a good portion of the middle of the room, which was about as plain a judge’s chambers as Glitsky had ever seen. Aside from Chomorro’s diplomas and awards and four or five photographs with politicians, two of the four walls were bare. Another wall contained law books. A set of golf clubs resided in one corner. Otherwise, the room was basically empty except for the table, the chairs, and a love seat.

After they were all seated, Chomorro cleared his throat. “Well, here we are, Mr. Farrell, at your request. What can I do for you?”

“Your Honor, I realize that this is something about which you’ve already ruled yesterday, but we’ve got new evidence, so I’ll try to keep it short and sweet. This morning, Inspector Bracco of homicide conducted an interview with Ro Curtlee, with whom I know you’re familiar ...”

Chomorro’s visage had gone dark, but he said, “All right, go ahead.”

“Lieutenant Glitsky and I have listened to the tape of this interview and we both believe that it is incriminating on its face, and now we’d like to play it for you.”

“To what end?” Chomorro asked.

“To once again ask you to sign off on a search warrant at the Curtlee home.”

Chomorro’s mouth went tight. No one here kidded themselves that this was a small or casual request. The Ro Curtlee story was already as high profile as they came. Chomorro knew that if he reversed his decision about letting a search proceed at Ro’s house, it would be headline news. To say nothing of what the Curtlees themselves might try to do to scuttle his career. Of course justice was blind and all that, but in fact it was simple prudence not to needlessly antagonize powerful people. Yesterday, Chomorro had turned down the chief of police not so much because she did not have probable cause, which was the standard, albeit a flexible and subjective one, but because given the Curtlees, the actual standard in the real world was
very
probable cause. And he would forget that only at his own peril.

Chomorro dragged in a lungful of air and let it out. “All right, let’s hear what you’ve got,” he said.

Farrell turned his head, said, “Abe,” and Glitsky placed the recorder on the table between them. “The voices,” Glitsky explained, “are Inspector Bracco, Ro Curtlee, and his lawyer, Mr. Denardi. You’ll also hear the Curtlees, Cliff and Theresa, a time or two, but don’t worry about them.” He pressed the play button, and Bracco’s introduction came out of the speaker, then Ro Curtlee’s voice:

“That’s Cliff Curtlee,” Glitsky explained.

“I can follow it,” Chomorro said impatiently.

Nevertheless, Glitsky said, “Now Bracco.”

Glitsky. “Ro.”

They fast-forwarded to the critical part of the conversation.