He didn't know precisely why he was there. He might have told himself that he was investigating a murder in which a resident of this house, recently released from prison, was already his prime suspect, and this was true as far as it went. But it was also true that everything Wes had told him was probably correct-he had neither evidence nor a warrant to search for it. Ro would have an alibi and would probably refuse to talk to him in any event. The Curtlees were not only wealthy, they were by now experienced in dealing with, and frustrating the efforts of, law enforcement. They would have a lawyer down here the minute Glitsky showed his face, and he would wind up having nothing to show for all of his trouble.
But he didn't care.
He wanted them-the whole family-to know that he knew. And to remind them that in spite of their money and power, he'd won last time, and that he would win again. And that this time-with the Nunez murder rather than the retrial of Ro for murdering Dolores Sandoval-he would get his special circumstances, and maybe even succeed in putting Roland Curtlee on death row, where he belonged.
It was juvenile, undisciplined, visceral, and Glitsky was acutely aware of, even somewhat embarrassed by, all that, but basically, at bottom, he wanted to put this dangerous and irresponsible family on notice that the damage they'd done to his career had not broken him. And that, in fact, he had resurrected himself to the relative eminence he had enjoyed before. In spite of the Curtlees' best efforts to ruin him through slander, libel, and innuendo, he was back at his job in homicide.
He opened his car door, and as the inside light came on, he checked his watch. It was ten fifteen, much later than a San Francisco policeman was authorized to pay a call on a citizen who was not actively involved in a crime or its aftermath either as perpetrator or victim. Glitsky knew that by ringing their doorbell, he was giving the Curtlees ammunition to claim that he was harassing them. But he had a ready response: The circumstances surrounding Felicia Nunez's death, along with the role she had been about to play in Ro's new trial, necessitated a swift, early police interrogation, if for no other reason than to eliminate Ro as a suspect. He could argue that, if anything, he was doing them a favor.
In a cathedral of old-growth cypress, he stepped out of his car and into the hushed and imposing street. The servant who opened the door was new since the last time Glitsky had been to the Curtlees' home. Ten years ago, they hadn't had a formal butler, but now it seemed that had changed. This guy was impressive, with the build of a wrestler. He looked to be in his late forties, with a full head of perfectly groomed salt-and-pepper hair. In a dark gray business suit and black tie, the man exuded a quiet and cold-blooded competence. His frankly Aztec face betrayed neither curiosity nor concern at Glitsky's arrival, his request to talk to the Curtlees if they were home, or the badge he proffered.
He spoke with an exaggerated politeness, in an exceptionally deep, unaccented voice. "Do you have an appointment?"
"No. As I said, I'm with the police department."
"Yes. I understand. Do you have a warrant?"
"No. I hope to get a few words with one of the Curtlees to apprise them of a situation that has come up."
"Can you give me the message?"
"I'd prefer to speak to one of them personally."
The man took a long moment, deciding. "And the name again?"
"Lieutenant Glitsky. San Francisco homicide."
"Yes, sir. One moment, please. I'll see if one of them is available."
Gently but firmly, he closed the door on Glitsky's face.
Glitsky turned around and distracted himself by looking down the driveway to the street beyond. There was no gate. He'd been able to walk unimpeded up to the front door. For the first time, this struck him as unusual, and he wondered what, if anything, it said about this family, about its arrogance and its culture. True, this block didn't get much foot traffic, and what there was of it wasn't particularly threatening in the mold of, say, the Tenderloin district; but every other domicile on this block had its fence and its gate. Maybe the Curtlees figured first that everyone would know who lived here and second that no one would dare disturb them because to do so would be to invite the family's wrath and retribution.
So a fence wasn't necessary; neither was a gate. The psychic barrier was enough.
When he heard footsteps approaching from back inside the mansion, Glitsky turned back and was facing the door when it opened on Ro Curtlee.
The young man had filled out some in the years he'd been away, but with the milky blue eyes and the weak jawline, he still had a bit of the look of a sullen child. His light blond hair had grown out in the weeks that he'd been out on bail. Somewhere he'd acquired a scar that began high on his forehead and disappeared into his hairline. The white tank top he wore tucked into his slacks revealed all of his arms, now with well-defined biceps; he'd clearly spent a lot of time working out in prison.
Seeing Glitsky, he let out a scornful note of laughter, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "Ez said it was you out here disturbing our peace so late on a weekend night, and I told him you knew better than that. So I had to come see for myself, and here you are, in the flesh. You got yourself a giant set of balls, I'll give you that, showing your face around me again. So what the fuck do you want this time?"
"I hoped to try to eliminate you as a suspect in a murder that happened today."
"Sure you did. Who got herself killed?"
Glitsky paused. "Who said it was a female?"
Ro's face went blank for an instant before a cracked smile flittered back. "Oh. Ouch! Got me with a little zinger there right out of the gate. Nice work. I better get my lawyer down here before I incriminate myself. You got your tape recorder going?"
"Nope."
Ro clucked. "That's a shame. You could have used that moment in court."
"I still can."
"Okay, you got me shakin' now, and especially if it turns out it was a woman got killed."
"You want to guess?"
"I don't suppose I do. Especially if I got it right. How would that look? You know what I'm saying?"
"Yeah. You're way too smart for a silly trick like that, Ro. But what I'm really here for, maybe you can tell me where you were this afternoon and who, if anyone, you were with."
"Maybe I don't have to tell you dick."
"That's right, you don't. But you could save us both some trouble if you did."
"That's my goal, Sergeant. Save you some trouble."
"It's lieutenant now. I got promoted."
"No shit! Well, congratulations on that one. I thought I heard your career had kind of gone in the toilet after my trial, arresting the wrong guy and all."
Glitsky's lips turned up a fraction of an inch. "Actually not so much. You getting convicted and all. You know? So?"
"So what?"
"Today. This afternoon. Where were you?"
"Out. Taking a drive."
"Alone?"
"You bet. Enjoying my freedom."
"Where'd you go?"
"Up to Napa, across to Sonoma, back down here by dinnertime."
"You stop anywhere?"
"I got a burger and a milkshake at Taylor's Refresher in Napa. You know that place? Awesome food. None of that fancy shit they serve everyplace else up there."
"Yeah," Glitsky said. "It's a good spot. What kind of milkshake?"
"Chocolate."
"Well, there you go. You think anybody up there, maybe working at Taylor's, would recognize you?"
"I got no idea."
"How about your car?"
"How about it?"
"What were you driving?"
"The Z-Four. The Beemer, you know. Top down."
"What color is it?"
"Purple."
"So it's pretty visible?"
"People notice it, yeah. It's bitchin' wheels. That what you wanted to know?"