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:
"I woke up late, about nine fifteen, in the house here. I went down and said hello to my parents, who were just finishing breakfast, and then had some breakfast of my own-served by our lovely Linda."
"We'll corroborate that. Both of us. Would you like to know what we ate, too?"
"That's Cliff Curtlee," Glitsky explained.
"I can follow it," Chomorro said impatiently.
Nevertheless, Glitsky said, "Now Bracco."
"That won't be necessary. And after breakfast?"
Glitsky. "Ro."
"I showered and put on some clothes and at about eleven I was at my doctor's, where he checked the cast on my arm. How's that? Want to go later?"
They fast-forwarded to the critical part of the conversation.
"Hey, though, now that we're talking, how's the food at Tadich's lately? Good as ever?"
"The hell with this. This is never gonna end unless we do something about it. I'll tell you what, Inspector, I'll take a fucking lie detector test. We got to put an end to this. How'd you like that?"
"Ro!"
"No, Tristan, this is just bulls hit! The same shit they been laying on us since all this began. I didn't shoot anybody yesterday or any other day. I finished lunch and me and Ez went to the planetarium…"
"Ro! Shut up! That's enough!"
"What? I'm supposed to just take this? He just accused me again…"
"Don't talk, damn it! Don't say another word! This interview is over. Right now."
"What are you going to take a lie detector about, Ro? I never mentioned anybody getting shot."
"Don't answer that."
"He already did."
"This is absurd."
"He didn't admit a goddamn thing."
"Oh. Okay, then. He's got nothing to worry about."
"I got nothing to worry about anyway, dickhead."
"Ro. Enough. Get out of here, Inspector."
"Sure. I'm gone. Nice chatting with you all."
Glitsky reached out and switched off the recorder.
Chomorro cocked his head to one side, curiosity writ large on his features. "That's it?" he asked. "Falls a little short of a confession, don't you think?"
Glitsky spoke in measured tones. He didn't want to appear to be hard-selling it if it was supposed to be self-explanatory. "Bracco never mentioned what he was talking about, Your Honor," he said, "and Ro went right to the killing yesterday of Matt Lewis. It couldn't have been more obvious."
"Actually, it could have been a lot more obvious, Lieutenant. This man, Ro Curtlee, knows that you both are pulling out all the stops to get him back in jail. In spite of the rulings of two of my colleagues. So your inspector alludes to his whereabouts yesterday afternoon and Ro assumes, correctly I might add, that he is now a suspect in another murder that happened at that time. Do you really think it's that odd that he could predict which murder that was? It's been all over the news. It would have been more surprising if he hadn't known."
"Your Honor," Farrell said. "This man shot one of my investigators…"
" 'Allegedly' shot, Mr. Farrell. As I tried to explain to Chief Lapeer yesterday. The 'allegedly' goes away after you get a conviction."
"Your Honor"-Farrell didn't give in-"with respect, it's a fact. My guy was following him. Look at what's happened since Ro got out of jail. He's…"
But Chomorro, heating up a bit himself, held up a finger. "While we're on that, I got the impression from the first part of that tape we just listened to that Ro was under suspicion for yet another homicide and giving his alibi for that. Isn't that true? Lieutenant?"
"Yes."
"On what evidence in that case?"
"The connection, Your Honor. She was the wife of his jury foreman. Her murder and the burning of her body was the same MO, not only as the killing Ro got convicted on, but as his first victim after he got out, Felicia Nunez."
"Another 'alleged' victim, I'm afraid. Is she not?"
Glitsky couldn't keep the reproach out of his voice. "She's a real enough victim, Your Honor. She's just as dead as can be. As is Janice Durbin."
"And yet," Chomorro said, "on the tape, Ro gives a completely plausible alibi for the time of the Durbin murder, does he not? And his father backs him up. What do you say to that? So is he no longer a suspect there?"
" 'Plausible' doesn't mean true, Your Honor," Glitsky replied.
"It does if it gets enough corroboration."
"His parents and their employees. What do you expect they're going to say? He's lying. They're all lying."
"Maybe, maybe not." Chomorro all but collapsed back into his seat. He took a slow breath, then came back to Glitsky, then over to Farrell. "Gentlemen," he said in a conciliatory tone, "I understand your predicament. I even empathize with you. I know you believe that this man is a danger to the community, and quite possibly, even probably, you are right. If he had said to your inspector, 'Yeah, I killed that inspector. What are you going to do about it?' you'd have your warrant signed by me before you turned off the tape. But what you have isn't enough, not nearly enough."
"Your Honor-" Farrell began.
But Chomorro cut him off, again with a raised finger. "Please. So, the bottom line is we've got to do it by the book. That's the only way it works, and both of you know that. We start arresting people and searching houses without probable cause, we all might as well close up shop, because we're no longer working under the rule of law. And the rule of law is what we do here, do we not? So my answer, and I'm afraid it's a final answer, is no."
"Well," Farrell said. "Thanks anyway for your time, Your Honor."
"If you get anything truly substantial," Chomorro replied, "anything that rises to the level of probable cause, I'll be happy to revisit this anytime. I'm just saying what you've got now isn't enough."
"I thought it was worth a try," Glitsky said.
"It couldn't hurt." Chomorro stood up, announcing that the meeting was over. He shepherded them over to the door, making small talk, and just as they were about to go out, he said, "You know, this kind of thing is more or less what a grand jury is all about. Make your case to them and they might indict."
"Yes, Your Honor," Farrell said. "Thank you. That was and remains our Plan B."
"You still might need more than you've shown me," the judge said.
"We're working on that," Glitsky said.
"But we're also thinking," Farrell went on, "about attaching the first murder, the one he got convicted on, with these latest, which makes it multiple murder, which makes it a special circumstances case. But as I say, it's going to take a couple of weeks to put the thing together. Maybe longer than that."
Chomorro hung by the door, holding it open, perhaps not completely willing to be sending them away with so little result or even encouragement. "I know this seems to have gotten personal to both of you, but if this guy did any or all of this, he's got to have slipped up somewhere and if he did, I'm sure you'll find out where."
"That's what we keep hoping," Farrell said.
"But it's already not soon enough," Glitsky added. Though his office entitled him to, Farrell found that he didn't want to use a driver all the time. For the daytime events that made up such a disproportionately large segment of the job-when he was going out and speaking before civic groups or doing lunch fundraisers-he was happy for the company and sometimes protection afforded by the rotating police inspectors who ferried him around in one of the city's few Lincoln Town Cars. Most days, though, he found that he preferred to drive in on his own, park in his designated spot behind the Hall of Justice, and drive home.
This morning, though, between the sleepless night he'd experienced along with the actual fears for his physical safety, he called in and had the car come pick him up at home. Now, coming out of the Hall in the dark at quarter to six, he was extremely grateful for the perk. Dragging with fatigue, Gert on her leash alongside him, he let her pull him by the coroner's office on the right and then the jail on the left and over to where the car sat waiting.
His most regular driver, with whom he got along very well, was Sergeant Ritz Naygrow. Tonight, Ritz was still on duty behind the wheel, undoubtedly working it for the overtime, and by the time Farrell got to the car, he had come around and opened the door for them. Gert immediately jumped into the backseat and settled down, and Wes climbed in behind her. Ritz closed their door and then went around and got himself arranged behind the wheel.
But though he put the car into gear, he didn't take off driving right away. "So where are we off to on the people's business tonight, sir?" he asked.
Farrell had already closed his eyes and slumped back in his seat. Now, with what felt like Herculean effort, he opened them. "I hope the Chinese Merchants, if my calendar isn't wrong, which it might be. Treya's gone on vacation with no warning and she keeps my book. And I thought my back, too. Or did."
Ritz looked back at him. "You didn't know she had a vacation coming? How'd that happen?"
"She didn't know it, either. She's Glitsky wife, you know that?"
"Sure." It took him a second, then he half turned in his seat. "Oh, the threat. Ro Curtlee."
"She took it pretty seriously."
"I would, too."
"Well, we've got people on him around the clock now. Hope that slows him down some. He is one bad motherfucker. Still, I wish Treya hadn't gone off. I don't know what I'm going to do without her."
"You want," Ritz said, "I'll swing by Ro's place while you're talking to the Chinese Merchants tonight and shoot him dead. Then you can say I was with you the whole time, and we're good. And then you can call Treya and tell her she can come back, the coast is clear."
"Okay," Farrell said. "Let's do that. That's a good idea."
"Long as we got a plan," Ritz said. "So where are we going?"
"The Mandarin Oriental. I think."
"At least it'll be good food."
"Don't kid yourself, Ritz. It might start out good, but by the time it gets to my plate… Let's just say they don't call it the rubber chicken circuit for nothing. Now I'm going to close my eyes."
"The Mandarin's like five minutes away, sir. That's a short nap."
"It's five minutes more sleep than I've had since yesterday." After another few seconds, Farrell opened his eyes and said, "Are we going?"
"One other thing, if you don't mind."
"Sure. What?"
"If you could let dispatch know if you're going to be bringing your dog along to work when you want the car? The thing is, I'm pretty allergic."
"To Gert?"
"To pretty much all dogs, sir. Cats, too. Pollen. You name it."
"I'm sorry about that, Ritz. I didn't know. So, what, you wouldn't take the gig on those days?"
Ritz shrugged. "Other guys could cover. Just to let you know."
"Okay," Farrell said. "I'll try to call and let somebody know. If I can remember. When I'm bringing Gert down."
"Is that likely to be often, you think? Just so I can plan?"
"I don't know, Ritz. Sometimes, I guess. I don't really know." He paused, slumped down farther with his hand over his eyes. "My girlfriend left me, too," he said. "Last night."
Ritz spun his head to look at him. "Are you shittin' me? Sam?"
"Sam."
"Man, first Treya, then Sam."
"Actually the other order. Sam, then Treya, but yeah. Then you, if you want to count people leaving me for one reason or another."
"It's not like I wouldn't stay if you really wanted me."
"It's all right. You do what you have to do."
Ritz took a beat. "Man, you are having some bad week here."
"I know," Farrell said. "I feel like a Haitian with a Prius." Abe Glitsky's father, Nat, was rinsing what few dishes they'd used tonight in the kitchen of the small duplex he shared with Sadie Silverman on Third Avenue just off Clement Street. The kitchen was in the back of the flat, and although its dimensions were only about ten-by-eight feet, they used it for a dining room as well, sitting while they ate on their spindly wooden chairs and eating off one of Sadie's dainty occasional tables from her old house.
Nat wasn't exactly robust anymore, but then again, at eighty-three, he wasn't in the ground, either, so there really wasn't much to complain about. His weight was down from his lifetime high of 180 to about 155 pounds, and most disturbing, he'd lost an inch and a half of his original five foot ten-where had that gone?-but he still had all of his hair, now wispy and white, but still there, thank you very much.
At the table sipping at the thimbleful of port she'd poured herself, Sadie turned the page of her book, sighed, and closed it. "I don't get all these vampires," she said. "This is my third try on one of these books and I just can't get myself to believe them."
"Maybe that's because there are no vampires in real life."
"But there are no Star Wars in real life and I love those. Or hob-bits. Or time travel, either."
Nat turned around at the sink. "When did there stop being time travel?"
"Stop."
Nat turned back to the dishes, ran a sponge over a plate. "If I didn't believe the first two books I read," he said, "I wouldn't have gone to the third."
"That's because you're so impatient. I like to give things a chance."
"Good. Now I know what I'll get you for Valentine's Day. Number four. And I am not impatient. My patience is legendary."
Sadie sighed again. "But everybody's reading these."
"Not me."
"That's because all you read is the Torah."
"That's all I need. You might even like it more than vampires. Besides, you read it enough and you know all the good parts by heart and then you can carry it around inside you."
"And David begat Solomon, and Solomon begat…"
"Hey! You don't have to believe in that stuff, but I do."
"I believe David begat Solomon, maybe. But that whole Moses and the parting of the Red Sea thing…"
Nat turned around, drying his hands. "Miracles, Sadie. They happen every day. You and me, for example."
She couldn't help but smile, pointing a finger up at him. "That's cheating and you know it. Bringing it around to us. We just got lucky."
"Luck schmuck. We're a miracle and you know it."
"All right. I'm not going to fight you about it."
"You'd better not. You might be smitten for ingratitude."
"Smitten, there's a word."
He stepped over and kissed the top of her head. "I'm going to cut a piece of honey cake. You want a bite?"
"Small," she said.
And the doorbell rang. "Your father's right, Abraham. You don't look too good. Are you eating?"
"Sure," Abe admitted.
"Like when?"
"When what?"
"When did you last eat?"
"I'm eating now. This fine homemade honey cake."
"Or sleep?" his father asked.
In the tiny kitchen, on his dainty chair, next to the two older people, Abe could have been a giant. "How 'bout we leave off with the third degree?" He swallowed his bite of cake, sipped from his cup of tea. "Are you following this Ro Curtlee thing at all?"
"Some trouble when you arrested him," his father said. "I read the paper."
"I arrested him for threatening the kids. They gave him bail and let him out again, and Treya decided she couldn't… she had to get the kids out of here."
"To where?" Sadie asked.
"LA. Her brother's place."
Nat's bite of cake stopped halfway to his mouth. "You're saying she's gone?"
Abe nodded. "This afternoon."
"Why'd they let him out?" Sadie asked.
"They're insane. They don't live in the real world."
"Vampires," Nat said.
"Not exactly, Pops, but close enough. Anyway, as you can see, I stayed."
"Is she mad at you?" Sadie asked.
The corner of Abe's mouth went up a quarter inch. "I want to say she understands, but I'm not sure."
"What's not to understand?" Nat asked.
"Me, staying. Why my job is more important than my kids, or maybe even-she thinks-my life." He twirled his eggshell-thin china cup of tea in its saucer. "The thing is, she left her job. She thinks I should have left mine."
"She quit her job?" Sadie asked.
"She's taking vacation days, but it's going to amount to the same thing."
"So what are you going to do?"
"I don't know," Abe said. "Not to complain, but the job's just one frustration after another, I don't have enough manpower to do it, if I go down to LA with Treya, somebody else will just step in and muddle through or, more likely, muck it all up, which is what it feels like I'm doing anyway. But I feel like I've got to stay, there's no other way to explain it. I took it on. I can't hand it off to somebody else. It sounds stupid and outdated, but I feel like it's kind of my duty."
Nat took a moment, then said, "I don't hear any question there."
"No, I know," Abe said. "There really isn't one."